Ships from the West

'Enter,' he said as the door was knocked so softly as to be barely audible.

A miniature procession entered the room. First came a pair of Merduk maids bearing lighted candles, then came Aria, her black hair unbound, a dark cloak about her shoulders, and finally Haratta bearing another candle. Corfe watched be­mused as the three women stood around Aria as though shielding her. The cloak was dropped by the bedside, and he caught only a candlelit glimpse of a white shape flitting under the covers before Haratta and the maids had turned again. The maids left like women in a trance, not flinching as the wax of their candles dripped down the back of their hands, but Haratta paused.

'We have delivered her intact, my lord, and have fulfilled our duty. We wish you joy of her.' The look in Haratta's eye wished him anything but. 'I shall be outside, if anything is needed.'

'You will not,' Corfe snapped. 'You will return to your quarters at once. Is that clear?' Haratta bowed soundlessly and left the room.

The chamber seemed very dark as the candles were taken away, lit only by the red light of the fire. Corfe threw back the last of his wine. In the huge bed, Aria's face looked like that of a forgotten child's doll. He tugged off his tunic and sat on the side of the bed to haul off his boots, wishing now that he had not had so much wine. Wishing he had drunk more.

The boots were thrown across the room and his breeches followed. Kaile Ormann's circlet was laid with more reverence on the low table by the bed. Corfe rubbed his fingers over his face, wondering at the absurdity of it all, the twists of fate which had brought himself and this girl into the same bed. Better not to dwell on it.

He burrowed under the covers feeling tired and vinous and old. Aria jumped as he brushed against her. She was cold.

'Come here,' he said. 'You're like a blasted icicle.'

He put his arms about her. He was warm from the fire but she was trembling and chilled. She seemed very slim and fragile in his grasp. He nuzzled her hair and the breath caught in his throat. 'That scent you're wearing. Where did you get it?'

'It was a parting gift from my mother.'

He lay still, and could almost have laughed. He had bought that perfume as a young man for his young wife. The Aekir bazaars sold it yet it seemed.

He rolled away from the trembling girl in his arms and stared at the flame light dancing on the tall ceiling.

'My lord, have I offended you?' she asked.

'You're my wife now, Aria. Call me Corfe.' He pulled her close. She had warmed now and lay in the crook of his arm with her head resting on his shoulder. When he did not move further she began to trace a ridge of raised flesh on his collar bone. 'What did this?'

'A Merduk tulwar.'

'And this?'

'That was . . . hell, I don't know.' 'You have many scars, Corfe.' 'I have been all my life a soldier.'

She was silent. Corfe found himself drifting off, his eyes struggling to shut. It was very pleasant lying here like this. He laid a hand on Aria's smooth hip and traced the curve of her thigh. At that, something in him kindled. He rolled easily on top of her, supporting his weight on his elbows, his hands cupping her face. Her mouth was set in an O of surprise.

That face within his hands, the dark hair fanning out from it. It smote him with old memories. He bent his head and kissed her mouth. She responded timidly, but then seemed to catch fire from his own urgency and became eager or, at least, eager to please.

He tried not to hurt her but she uttered a sharp, small cry all the same, and her nails dug into his back. It did not take long. When he was spent he rolled off her and stared at the ceiling once again, thinking it is done. His eyes stung and in the dimness he found himself blinking, as though he faced the pitiless glare of a noon sun.

'Does it always hurt like that?' Aria asked quietly.

'The first time? Yes, no -I suppose so.'

1 must bear you a son. My father told me so,' she went on. She took his hand under the covers. 'It was not as bad as I thought it would be.'

'No?' He smiled wryly. He could not look at her, but was grateful for her warmth and the touch of her hand and her low voice. He tugged her into his arms again, and she was still talking when he drifted off into black, blessed sleep.

A hammering on the door brought him bolt upright in bed, wide awake in an instant. The fire was a volcanic glow in the hearth. The slats of sky beyond the shutters were black as coal; it was not yet dawn.

'Sire,' a voice said beyond the door. 'News from Ostrabar. Tidings of the utmost urgency.' It was Felorin.

'Very well. I'll be a moment.' He pulled on his clothes and boots whilst Aria watched him wide-eyed, the sheets pulled up to her chin. He hesitated, and then kissed her on the lips. 'Go back to sleep. I will return.' He smoothed her hair and found himself smiling at her, then turned away.

The palace was dark yet, with only a few lamps lit in the wall sconces. Felorin bore a candle-lantern and as the two men strode along the echoing passageways it threw their shadows into mocking capers along the walls.

'It is Golophin, sir,' Felorin told Corfe. 'He is in the Blade­hall and refuses to speak to anyone save you. Ensign Baraz brought me word of his return. He has been to Aurungabar, by some magic or other, and something has happened there. I took the liberty of rousing out General Formio also, sir.'

'You did well. Lead on.'

The Bladehall was a vast cavernous darkness save at one end where a fire had been lit in the massive hearth and a table pulled across upon which a single lamp burned. Golophin stood with his back to the fire, his face a scarred mask impossible to read. At the table sat Formio with parchment, quills and ink, and standing in the shadows was Ensign Baraz.

'Golophin!' Corfe barked. Formio stood up at his approach. 'What's this news?'

The wizard looked at Baraz and Felorin questioningly.

'It's all right. Go on.'

Golophin's face did not change; still that terrible mask empty of expression. 'I have been to Aurungabar, never mind how. It would seem that both the Sultan and his Queen were assassinated this morning.'

No one spoke, though even Formio looked stunned. Corfe groped for a chair and sank into it like an old man.

'You're sure?' Baraz blurted.

'Quite sure,' the old mage snapped. 'The city is in an uproar, panicked crowds milling in the streets. They managed to keep it quiet for a couple of hours, but then someone blab­bed and now it is common knowledge.' He faltered, and there was something like disgust in his voice as he added: 'It is all wearily familiar.'

They looked at Corfe, but the King was sitting with his elbows on his knees, his eyes blank and sightless.

'Aruan?' Formio asked at last.

'That would be my guess. He must have wormed an agent into the household.'

She was dead. His Heria was dead. Finally Corfe spoke. 'This morning, you say?'

'Yes, sire. Or yesterday as it is now. Around the third hour before noon.'

Corfe rubbed his chest. The ache had gone, but something worse was settling inexorably in its place. He cleared his throat, trying to clear his mind.

'Nasir,' he said. 'How far along the road is he?'

'My familiar is with him now. He is ten leagues east of Khedi Anwar at the head of fifteen thousand men - the army he was to bring here.'

'He knows?'

'I told him sire, yes. He has already broken camp and is marching back the way he came.'

'We need those men,' Formio said in a low voice. 'Ostrabar needs a sultan,' Golophin replied. 'He's a boy, not yet seventeen.'

'The army is behind him. And he is Aurungzeb's publicly acknowledged heir. There is no other.'

Corfe raised his head. 'Golophin is right. Nasir will need those men to restore order in the capital. We must do