And they drank from it one by one like brothers.
T HE reek of the burning hung about Abrusio like a dark fog, stretching for miles out to sea. The great fires had been contained, and were burning themselves out in an area of the city which resembled the visionary’s worst images of hell. Deep in those bright, thundering patches of holocaust some of the sturdier stone buildings still stood, though roofless and gutted, but the poor clay brick of the rest of the dwellings had crumbled at the touch of the fire, and what had once been a series of thriving, densely populated districts was now a wasteland of rubble and ash over which the tides of flame swept back and forth with the wind, seeking something new to feed their hunger even as they began to die down for lack of sustenance.
Fighting within the city had also died down, the protagonists having retreated to their respective quarters with the fire-flattened expanses providing a clear-cut no-man’s-land between them. Many of the King’s troops were engaged in the business of conducting evacuees beyond the walls and yet others were still demolishing swathes of the Lower City, street by street, lest the flames flare up again and seek a new path down to the sea.
“We are holding our own rather nicely,” Sastro di Carrera said with satisfaction. His perch on a balcony high in the Royal palace afforded him a fine view of Lower Abrusio, almost half of which lay in flickering ruin.
“I think we have exhausted the main effort of the enemy,” Presbyter Quirion agreed. “But a part of the fleet, a strong squadron, has not been in sight for days. Rovero may have sent it off somewhere to create some devilment, and the main part of Hebrion’s navy is at anchor beyond the Great Harbour. I fear they may assault the booms soon.”
“Let them,” Sastro said airily. “The mole forts house a score of heavy guns apiece. If Rovero sends in his ships to force the entrance to the harbour they will be cut to pieces by a deadly crossfire. No, I think we have them, Quirion. This is the time to see whether they will consider a negotiated surrender.”
Quirion shook his round, close-cropped head. “They’re in no mood for talking yet, unless I miss my guess. They still have a goodly force left to them, and our own men are thinly stretched. They will make another effort soon, by ship perhaps. We must remain vigilant.”
“As you wish. Now, what of my coronation plans? I trust they are forging ahead?”
Quirion’s face took on a look of twisted incredulity. “We are in the middle of a half-fought war, Lord Carrera. This is hardly the time to begin worrying about pomp and ceremony.”
“The coronation is more than that, my dear Presbyter. Don’t you think that the presence in Abrusio of an anointed king, blessed by the Church, will be a factor in persuading the rebels to lay down their arms?”
Quirion was silent for a moment. From the city below came the odd crack of arquebus fire where pickets were taking potshots at each other, but compared to the hellish chaos of the past days Abrusio seemed almost tranquil.
“There may be something in what you say,” he admitted at last. “But we will not be able to stump up much in the way of pomp for a time yet. My men and yours are too busy fighting to keep what we have.”
“Of course, but I ask you to bear it in mind. The sooner this vacuum is filled the better.”
Quirion nodded and then turned away. He leaned on the balcony rail and stared out over the maimed city.
“They say that fifty thousand of the citizens perished in the fire, quite apart from the thousands who died in the fighting,” he said. “I don’t know about you, Lord Carrera, but for me that is a heavy load for conscience to bear.”
“They were heretics, the scrapings of the sewers. Of no account,” Sastro said scornfully. “Do not let your conscience grow tender on their behalf, Quirion. The state is better off without them.”
“Perhaps.
“Well
“Yes, Lord Carrera,” Quirion said heavily. As he turned away from the balcony, however, he had a moment of agonizing doubt. What had he done here? What kind of creature was he making a king of?
The moment passed, and he followed Sastro into the planning chamber of the palace, where the senior officers of their forces were awaiting them.
T HERE was no beauty in ships for the lady Jemilla. To her they were little more than complicated instruments of torture, set to float on an element which might have been designed specifically to cause her discomfort.
But there were times when she could dimly see some of the reasons why men held them in such awe and reverenced them so. They were impressive, if nothing else.
She was taking a turn about the poop-deck of the
The flagship was a magnificent two-decker mounting some fifty guns, four-masted and with high-built fore- and stern-castles. Seen from aft, with her gold ornament and long galleries hanging over her wake, she looked like nothing so much as some baroque church front. But her decks presented an entirely different aspect. They had already been strewn with sand so that when the time came the gunners and sailors would not slip in their own blood. The guns had been run out, the firetubs set around the mast butts, and the slow-match which would set off the guns already lit and spreading its acrid reek about the ship. They were cleared for action. Abrusio was just over a league away. The admiral had told her they were doing six knots, and would raise the city in less than half an hour. She would be confined when that happened in the dark below-decks, in the murky stench of bilge and close-packed humanity which was the particular hallmark of every warship. So she was making the most of the fresh air, preparing herself for the ordeal ahead.
Abeleyn joined her on the poop. He was in half-armour, black-lacquered steel chased with silver and with a scarlet sash about his middle. He looked every inch the sovereign as he stood there with one hand resting on his sword hilt and the other cradling the open-faced helm which he would wear into battle. Jemilla found herself curtseying to him without conscious volition. He seemed to have grown in stature somehow, and she noticed for the first time the streaks of grey in his curly hair behind the temples.
“I trust you are enjoying your last moments of freedom, lady,” he said, and something in the way he said it made her shiver.
“Yes, sire. I am no sailor, as you know. I would stay up here throughout the battle if I could.”
“I believe you would.” Abeleyn smiled, his regal authority falling from him. He was a young man again. “I have seen seasick marines lift their heads and forget about their malady the moment the guns begin to roar. Human nature is a strange thing. But I will feel better knowing that you are safe below the waterline.”
She bowed slightly. “I am selfish. I think only of myself, and sometimes forget the burden I bear, the King’s child.” She could not resist reminding him, though she knew he disliked her doing it.
Sure enough, his face hardened. The boy disappeared again.
“You had best go below, lady. We will be within range of the city batteries in less than half a glass.”
“As you wish, sire,” she said humbly, but as she started for the companion ladder she paused and set her hand on his. “Be careful, Abeleyn,” she whispered.
He gripped her hand briefly and smiled with his mouth alone. “I will.”
The squadron went about, the sails on every ship flashing in and out as one, obedient to the signal pennants of the flagship. They were around the last headland and could see in the distance Abrusio Hill, the sprawl of the city itself and the fleet which stood ready beyond its harbours.
The sight was a shock for Abeleyn, no matter that he had tried to prepare himself for it. It seemed to him at first glance that his capital was entirely in ruins. Swathes of rubble-strewn wasteland stretched across the city, and fires were burning here and there. Only the western waterfront and the Upper City on the hillside seemed unchanged. But Old Abrusio was destroyed utterly.
As the squadron was sighted, the fleet began its salute, some four hundred vessels suddenly coming alive in
