been summoned to the palace tomorrow to view it and reconsider our positions.”
“So the pair of you will walk tamely into the palace.”
The human part of Mercado’s face quirked upwards in a smile. “Not tamely, no. I intend to take an honour guard of two hundred arquebusiers, and Rovero will have a hundred marines. It will be public, no chance of a dagger in the back.”
Golophin thumbed leaf into the bowl of his long-stemmed pipe. “It is not my place to preach to you about security,” he conceded. “What will you do if you are satisfied the bull is genuine?”
Mercado paused. He and Rovero looked at one another. “First tell us what you have to say on the matter.”
“Then your minds are not made up?”
“Damn it, Golophin, stop playing games!” Admiral Rovero burst out. “What of Abeleyn? Where is he and how does he fare?”
The old wizard lit his pipe with a spill caught from the flames of the fire. He puffed in silence for a few seconds, filling the room with the scents of Calmar and Ridawan.
“Abeleyn has just fought a battle,” he said calmly at last.
“
“Two squadrons of corsairs ambushed his ships as they were sailing south through the Fimbrian Gulf. He beat them off, but lost three-quarters of his men and two of his own vessels. He had to beach his remaining ship on the coast of Imerdon. He is intending to march overland the rest of the way to Hebrion.”
Rovero was grinding one fist into a palm, striding back and forth restlessly and spitting words out of the corner of his mouth as though he were unwilling to let them go.
“Corsairs that far north. In the gulf! Two squadrons, you say. Now there’s a happy chance, a synchronicity of fate. Someone tried to take the King, that’s clear. But who? Who hired them?”
“Why Admiral,” Golophin said with mild surprise, “you almost sound as though you care about the fate of our heretical ex-monarch.”
Rovero stopped his pacing and glared at Golophin. “Beat them off, eh? Then at least he hasn’t forgotten all I’ve taught him. Ex-monarch, my arse! Assault the person of the King, would they, the Goddamned heathen piratical dastards . . .”
“He sank three of them,” Golophin went on. “They were in galleasses, the older sort with no broadsides, only chasers.”
“How were the King’s vessels armed?” Rovero demanded, his face alight with professional interest.
“Culverins, sakers. But that was only on the carrack. The two
“Abeleyn’s bodyguard?” Mercado asked abruptly.
“Almost all lost. Most were in the
“They were good men,” Mercado murmured. “The best of the Abrusio garrison.”
“Where has he beached? How long will he take to get here?” Admiral Rovero asked, his eyes as narrow as the edge of a blade.
“That I don’t know for sure, alas, and neither did the King when . . . when I communicated with him last. He is in the coastal marshes, close to the border with Imerdon, south-west of the mouth of the Habrir river. That is all I know.”
The admiral and the general were silent, conflicting emotions flitting across their faces. “Is Abeleyn still your liege-lord, gentlemen?” Golophin asked. “He needs you now as he never has before.”
Rovero grimaced as though he had bitten into a lemon. “God forgive me if I do wrong, but I am the King’s man, Golophin. The lad is a fighter, always has been. He is a worthy successor to his father, whatever the Ravens might say.”
Only someone watching Golophin with particular care could have seen the tiny whistle of breath that escaped his lips, the imperceptible sag of relief which relaxed his hitherto rigid shoulder blades.
“General,” he said quietly to Mercado, “it would seem that Admiral Rovero still has a king. What say you in this matter?”
Mercado turned his face from Golophin so that the mage could see only the expressionless metal side.
“Abeleyn is my king too, Golophin, God knows. But can a king rule if his soul is damned? Who would gainsay the word of the Pontiff, the successor to Ramusio? Maybe the Inceptines are right. The Merduk War is God’s punishment. We all have a penance to do before the world can be set to rights.”
“The innocent are burning, Albio,” Golophin said, using the general’s first name. “A heretic sits on the throne of the Pontiff whilst its true occupant is in the east. Macrobius lives, and he is aiding the Torunnans in their battles to maintain the frontier. He helped them save Ormann Dyke when the world thought it irredeemably lost. The faith is with him. He is our spiritual head, not this usurper who sits in Charibon.”
Mercado twisted to meet Golophin’s eyes. “Are you so sure?”
Golophin raised an eyebrow. “I have my ways. How else do you think I stay abreast of Abeleyn’s adventures?”
The fire cracked and spat. A gun began to boom out the evening salute somewhere on the battlements beyond. They would be lighting the ship beacons along the harbours of the city. The men of the ships would be changing watch, half of them trooping into the messes for the evening meal.
Faint and far-off amid the nearer noises, Golophin thought he could hear the cathedral bells tolling Vespers up on Abrusio Hill, nearly two miles away. He knew that if he stepped outside and looked that way he would be able to make out the dying glow of the pyres, finally fading. The dwindling reminder of another day’s genocide. He stifled the bitter fury which always arose when he thought of it.
“We must play for time,” Mercado said at last. “Rovero and I must not see this bull of theirs. We must hold them off as long as we are able, and get Abeleyn into the city safely. Once he is back in Abrusio, the task is simpler.”
Golophin rose and gripped the general’s hand. “Thank you, Albio. You have done the right thing. With you and Rovero behind him, Abeleyn can retake Abrusio with ease.”
Mercado did not seem to share Golophin’s happiness.
“There is something else,” he said. He sounded troubled, almost embarrassed.
“What?”
“I cannot be sure of all my men.”
Golophin was shocked. “What do you mean?”
“I mean that my adjutant, Colonel Jochen Freiss, has been conducting secret negotiations with a member of the council, Sastro di Carrera. I believe he has suborned a significant number of the garrison.”
“Can you not relieve him of his post?” Golophin demanded.
“That would be tipping our hand too soon. I have yet to plumb the depths of his support, but I believe some of the junior officers may have joined him in conspiracy.”
“It will mean war,” Admiral Rovero said ominously. His voice sounded like the rumble of surf on a far-off strand.
“How can you sound out the loyalty of your men?” Golophin asked sharply.
“I have my ways and means, even as you have, Mage,” Mercado retorted. “But I need time. For now we will continue to hold the Lower City. Some of the lesser guilds are on our side, though the Merchants’ Guild is waiting to see which way the wind blows before committing itself.”
“Merchants,” Rovero said with all the contempt of the nobility for those in trade.
“We need the merchants on our side,” Golophin told them. “The council is sitting on the treasury. If we are to finance a war then the merchants are our best source of money. Abeleyn will grant them any concessions they wish, within reason, in return for a regular flow of gold.”
“No doubt the council will be putting the same proposition to them,” Mercado said.
“Then we must be sure it is our proposition they accept!” Golophin snapped. He stared into the ashen bowl of his pipe. “My apologies, gentlemen. I am a little tired.”
“No matter,” Rovero assured him. “My ships may tip the scales. If the worst comes to the worst I can threaten
