Ships from the West

place. Golophin dropped his gaze first. 'Was there anything else, sire?'

'Yes, yes, there was. I was wondering if - that is to say—' Now it was Corfe who looked down. Quietly, he said, ‘I thought you might call in on the Queen. She is very low, and the physicians can do nothing. Old age, they say, but I believe there is more to it than that, something to do with your . . . realm of expertise.'

'I should be glad to, sire.' And here the wizard's eyes met Corfe's unflinchingly. 'I am flattered that you should trust me in such a grave matter.' He bowed deeply. 'I shall call on her at once, if that is convenient. Now, if you will excuse me sire, I have things to attend to.'

'Your suite is adequate?'

'More than adequate, thank you, sire.' The wizard bowed again, and left, his robes whispering about him.

The man had served kings faithfully and unstintingly for longer than Corfe's lifetime. Formio was merely being a cau­tious Fimbrian, that was all. The King of Torunna rubbed his temples wearily. God, to get clear of the palace, the city, to get back on a horse and sleep under the stars for a while. Some­times he thought that there were so many things contained in his head that one day it would bulge and burst like an over­ripe melon. And yet when he was in the field it was as though his mind were as clear as the tip of an icicle.

1 never should have been King, he thought, as he had thought so often down the years. But I am here now and there is no other.

He collected himself, strode across to the fire where Ensign Baraz stood stiff and forgotten.

'You've met the great Golophin, I see. What do you make of him?'

Baraz seemed startled by the question. 'He asked me about my grandfather,' he blurted out. 'But there was not much I could tell him that is not in the history books. He wrote poetry.'

'Golophin?'

'Shahr Ibim Baraz, sire 'The Terrible Old Man' he was called by his men.'

'Yes. Sometimes we called him that too, and other things besides,' Corfe said wryly. 'Whatever happened to him?'

'No one knows. He left camp and some say he set out for the steppes of his youth, at the very height of his victories.'

'As well for Torunna he did. Baraz, Princess Mirren speaks very highly of you. She seems to think that you are a very gallant young officer and has asked that you accompany her on her daily rides from now on. What would you say to such a proposal?'

Baraz's face was a picture of pleasure and chagrin. ‘I am honoured by the lady's confidence, sir, and I would esteem it a great privilege to be her morning escort.' 'But.'

'But I had hoped to be attached to the field army. I have not yet commanded anything more than a ceremonial guard, and I was hoping to be assigned to a tercio.'

'You think your time spent with the General Staff is wasted then?'

Baraz's dark face flushed darker. 'Not at all sir, but if an officer has never commanded men in the field, what kind of officer is he?'

Corfe nodded approvingly. 'Quite right. I'll make a bargain with you, Baraz, one that you had best not give me cause to regret.'

'Sir?'

'You will remain Princess Mirren's escort for the time being, and will remain attached to the staff as interpreter. In fact I will have need of you in that capacity this very evening. But when the time comes I promise that you will have a combat command. Satisfied?'

Baraz smiled uncertainly. 1 am at your command, of course, sir - I merely follow orders. But thank you, sir.'

'Good. Dismissed.'

Baraz saluted and left. There was a jauntiness to his stride that made Corfe pause. Before Aekir, there had been some­thing of the young officer's eagerness in himself. That urge to make a name for himself, the desire to do the right thing. But in Aekir his soul had been re-tempered in a white-hot crucible, and had made of him someone else.

The face was like that of a bloodless doll, lost in the wasteland of blinding linen that surrounded it. So slight was the wizened form under the coverlet that it might not have been there at all, a mere trick of the lamplight perhaps, a shadow conjured up by the warm flames leaping in the hearth. But then the eyes opened, and life glistened out of them. Bloodshot with pain and exhaustion, they yet retained some of their old fire, and Golophin could well picture the beauty that had once filled the wasted face.

'You are the Hebrian mage, Golophin.' The voice was slight but clear.

'Yes, lady.'

'Karina, Prio, leave us.' This to the two ladies-in-waiting who sat silent as mice in the shadows. They curtseyed, their skirts scraping on the stone floor, and snicked shut the door behind them.

'Come closer, Golophin. I have heard a lot about you.' The wizard approached the bed and as the firelight fell on his ravaged face the Queen's eyes widened slightly. 'Hebrion's fall left its mark on you, I see.' 'It is a light enough burden, compared to some.' 'My husband asked you to come here?' 'Yes, lady.'

'That was thoughtful of him, but useless, as we both know. I would have sent for you in any case. There are so few folk of intelligence I can converse with these days. They all troop in here and look dutifully mournful - even Corfe - and I can get little sense out of them. I am near the end and that is that.' She hesitated, and said in a more ragged tone, 'My familiar is dead. He went before me. I had not imagined there could be such pain, such a loss.'

'They are part of us’ Golophin agreed, 'and with their passing goes something of our own souls.'

'You wizards, you can create them I am told, whereas we Dweomer-poor witches must wait for another to come along. Myself, I shall have no need of another. But I do miss poor Arach.' Then she seemed to collect herself. 'Where are my manners? You may sit and have some wine, if you do not mind drinking from a glass a queen has used before you. I would call a maid, but then there would be an interminable fuss, and I grow impatient with advancing years.'

'As do we all.' Golophin smiled, filling the glass. 'The old have less time to waste than the young.'

She stared at him in silence for a minute and seemed to be testing words in her mouth. Her eyes were bright as fevered jewels.

'What of you now, Master-Mage? Where do you call home?' 'I have none, lady. I am a vagabond.' 'Will Hebrion see you again?' 'I hope so.'

'You would be very welcome here as an advisor at court.'

'A Hebrionese wizard? I think you may exaggerate.'

'We have all manner of foreigners in Torunna these days. Formio is Fimbrian, Comillan a Felimbric tribesman, Admiral Berza a Gabrionese. Our Pontiff, Albrec, is an Almarkan. The flotsam and jetsam of the world end up in Torunna. You know why?'

'Tell me.'

'The King. They are moths to his candle. Even those haughty Fimbrians come trickling over the mountains to join him, year by year. And in his heart he hates it. He would rather be the simple nobody he was before Aekir's fall. I have watched him these seventeen years and seen the joy leech out of him day by day. Only Mirren lifts his heart. Mirren, and the prospect of leading an army into battle.'

Golophin stared at Odelia wonderingly. 'Lady, your can­dour is disarming.'

'Candour be damned. I will be dead within the week. I want you to do something for me.'

'Anything.'

'Stay here with him. Help him. When I go there will be only Formio left for him to confide in. You have spent your life in the service of kings. End it in the service of this one. He is a soldier of genius, Golophin, but he needs someone to guide him through the silken quagmire that is the court. He, also, is less patient than he was, and will brook no opposition to what he sees as right. I would not have such a man end his days a tyrant, hated by all.'

'Surely that is not possible.'

'There is a black hole in his soul, and once he sets his mind to something he will shift earth and heaven to accomplish it, recking nothing of the consequences. In the years he has been King I have tried to make him see the