Ships from the West

Six

The Queen's chambers were a shadowed place. Despite the spring warmth of the air outside, there were fires burning in every massive hearth, and the ornate grilles that flanked each window were shut, letting in only a pale, mangled radiance that could barely compete with the blare of the firelight.

The ladies-in-waiting all had an attractive flushed look, and their low-cut gowns afforded an intriguing glimpse of the perspiration that gleamed in the hollows of their collar bones. Corfe tugged at his own tight-fitting collar and dismissed them as they hovered around, curtseying. 'Go on outside and get some air, for God's sake.'

'Sire, we—'

'Go, ladies; I'll square it with your mistress.'

More curtsies, and they whispered out, white hands flap­ping fan-like at their faces, long skirts hitched up as though they were tiptoeing through puddles. Corfe watched them go appreciatively, then collected himself.

'It's like a Macassian bath house in here!' he called. 'What new fad is this, lady?'

His wife appeared from the inner bedchamber. She had a shawl wrapped about her shoulders and she leaned on an ivory cane.

'Nothing that need concern a loutish peasant up from the provinces for the day,' she retorted, her voice dry and clear.

Corfe took her in his arms as carefully as though she were made of tinsel, and kissed her wrinkled forehead. It was marble-cold.

'Come now. It's Forialon these two sennights past. There are primroses out along the side of the Kingsway. What's with this skulking in front of a fire?'

Odelia turned away. 'So how was your jaunt up the road of memory? I trust Mirren enjoyed it.' She lowered herself into a well-stuffed chair by the fire, her blue-veined hands resting on top of her cane. As she did, a multi- legged, dark, furred ball skittered down the wall, climbed up her arm and nestled in the crook of her neck with a sound like a great cat's purr. A clutch of eyes shone like berries.

'It would do you good to take a jaunt yourself.'

Odelia smiled. Her hair, once shining gold, had thinned and greyed, and her years sat heavily in the lines and folds of her face. Only her eyes seemed unchanged, green as a shallow sea in sunlight, and bright with life.

'I am old, Corfe. Let me be. You cannot fight time as though it were a contending army. I am old, and powerless. What gifts I possessed went into Mirren. I would have made her a boy if I could, but it was beyond me. The male line of Fantyr has come to an end. Mirren will make someone a grand queen one day, but Torunna must have a king to rule, always. We both know that only too well.'

Corfe strode to a shuttered window and pulled back the heavy grilles, letting in the sun, and a cool breeze from off the Kardian in the east. He stared down at the sea of roofs below, the spires of the Papal Palace down by the square. The tower wherein he stood was two hundred feet high, but still he could catch the cacophony of sellers hawking their wares in the marketplace, the rattle of carts moving over cobbles, the bray­ing of mules.

'We made slow going of it for the first few days,' he said lightly. 'It is incredible how quickly nature buries the works of man. The old Western Road has well-nigh disap­peared.'

'A very good point. Our job here is to prevent nature bury­ing our works after we are gone.'

'We've been over this,' he said wearily.

'And will go over it again. Speaking of burying things, my time on this goodly earth is running out. I have months left, not years—'

'Don't talk like that, Odelia.'

'And you must start to think of marrying again. It's all very well making these pilgrimages to the past, but the future bears looking at also. You need a male heir. Lord God, Corfe, look at the way the world is turning. Another conflict ripens at long last to bloody fruition, one whose climax could make the Merduk Wars look like a skirmish. The battles may have already begun, off Hebrion, or even before Gaderion. When you take to the field, all that is needed is one stray bullet to lose this war. Without you, this kingdom would be lost. Do not let what you have achieved turn to dust on your death.'

'Oh, it's my death now. A fine conversation for a spring morning.'

'You have sired no bastards - I know that - but I almost wish you had. Even an illegitimate male heir would be better than none.'

'Mirren could rule this kingdom as well as any man, given time,' Corfe said heatedly. Again, Odelia smiled.

'Corfe, the soldier-king, the iron general. Whose sun rises and sets on his only daughter. Do not let your love blind you, my dear. Can you see Mirren leading armies?'

He had no reply for that. She was right, of course. But the simple thought of remarrying ripped open the scars of old wounds deep in his soul. Aurungzeb, Sultan of Ostrabar, had two children by - by his queen, and several more by various concubines it was said. Nasir, the only boy, was almost seventeen now, and Corfe had met him several times on state visits to Aurungabar. Black-haired, with sea-grey eyes - and the dark complexion of a Merduk. A son to be proud of. The girl was a couple of years younger, though she remained cloistered away in the manner of Merduk ladies.

Their mother, too, rarely left the confines of the harem these days. Corfe had not seen her in over sixteen years, but once upon a time, in a different world it seemed, she had been his wife, the love of his life. Yes, that old scar throbbed still. It would heal only when his heart stopped.

'You have a list, no doubt, of eligible successors.'

'Yes. A short one, it must be said. There is a dearth of princesses at present.'

He laughed, throwing his head back like a boy. 'What does the world come to? So who is head of your list? Some pale Hebrian maiden? Or a dark-eyed matron of Astarac?'

'Her name is Aria. She is young, but of excellent lineage, and her father is someone we must needs bind to us with every tie we can at the present time.'

'Abeleyn? Mark?' Corfe was puzzled.

'Aurungzeb, you fool. Aria is his only daughter by his Ramusian-born queen, sister to his heir, and hence a princess of the Royal blood. Marry her, and you bind Torunna and Ostrabar together irrevocably. Sire children on her and—'

'No.'

'What? I haven't finished. You must—'

'I said no. I will not marry this girl.' He turned from the window and his face was bloodless as chalk. 'Find another.'

'I have already put out diplomatic feelers. Her father ap­proves the match. Your issue would join the Royal houses of Ostrabar and Torunna for all time - our alliance would be rendered unbreakable.'

'You did this without my permission?'

'I am still Torunna's Queen!' she lashed out, some of the old fire flashing from her marvellous eyes. 'I do not need your permission every time I piss in a pot!'

'You need it for this,' he said softly, and his own eyes were winter-cold, hard as flint.

'What is your objection? The girl is young, admittedly, but then I'm not quite dead yet. She is a rare beauty by all accounts, the very image of her mother, and sweet-natured to boot.'

'By God you're well-informed.'

'I make it my business to be.' Her voice softened. 'Corfe, I'm dying. Let me do this last thing for you, for the kingdom. I know I have not been much of a wife to you these last years—'

He strode from the window and knelt on one knee beside her chair. The skin of her face was gossamer thin under his hand. He felt that she might blow away in the breeze from the windows. 'You've been a wife and more than a wife. You've been a friend and counsellor, and a great queen.'

'Then grant me this last wish. Keep Torunna together.

Marrv this girl. Have a son - a whole clutch of sons. You also are mortal.'

'What about Mirren?'