The sentries at the main gate forgot to salute, so outlandish did he appear in his crimson Merduk armour. He turned over the options in his mind and finally pointed his horse’s nose towards the courtyards and towers of the Royal palace. His patron would, perhaps, be able to do something for him. He had passed the first test she had set him, at any rate.
“C OLONEL Corfe Cear-Inaf,” the chamberlain announced, a little wide-eyed.
The Queen Dowager turned from the window. Her hands fluttered up over her face and hair. “Show him in, Chares.”
Her chamber was warm with braziers and blood-coloured tapestries. A pair of maids sat quiet as mice in a corner. At a look from her they rose and left by a concealed door. She awaited him with regal poise, though her heart thumped faster in her breast, and she felt a winged lightness there she had not known in many years. It both cheered and irritated her.
He clumped in. He seemed to love that outlandish armour of his, but at least he had doffed the barbaric helm that went with it. He was a mud-stained, bloody harbinger of war, out of place, uncomfortable- looking. His face had aged ten years in the few weeks since she had seen him last. The light in his eyes actually unnerved her for a moment, she who had faced down kings. There was a strength and violence there she had not noted before, a reined-in savagery.
“So,” she said quietly. “You are back.”
“So it would seem.” Then he collected himself, and went down stiffly on one knee, clods of dirt falling from his boots. “Your majesty.”
“I told you before, I am ‘lady’ to you. Get up. You look tired.”
“Indeed, lady.” He rose as slowly as an old man. There was blood on him, she noted, and he stank of old sweat and horse and burning.
“For God’s sake,” she snapped, “couldn’t you have bathed at least?”
“No,” he said simply. “There was nowhere else to go. We have only just got in.” He swayed as he stood, and she saw the deep bone-weariness in him. Her lips thinned, and she clapped her hands. Chares entered at the main door, bowing. “Your highness?”
“Have a bath brought here at once, a fresh uniform for the Colonel and a couple of valets who know their job.”
“At once, highness.” Chares withdrew hurriedly.
“I haven’t the time,” Corfe said. “My men—”
“What do you need?” she demanded.
He blinked stupidly, as if the question had caught him unawares.
“Quarters for three hundred men, and food. Stabling for nearly eight hundred horses and two hundred mules. Fodder for them, too.”
It was her turn to be taken aback. “Horses?”
The shadow of a smile. “Spoils of war.”
“I’ll see to it. You have been busy, it seems, Colonel.”
“I did what was expected of me, I believe.” Again, that ghost smile. This time she returned it.
His armour was rusted to his back. The buckles had to be cut free by two owl-eyed palace valets while a flurry of others brought in a bronze hip-bath and filled it full of steaming water, kettle upon kettle of it until there was a mist hanging in the room. Others carried in fresh clothing and footwear. The Queen Dowager withdrew behind a screen, stifling a laugh when she heard Corfe curse away the flunkeys who fussed over him. She sat herself at her writing desk and in her swift, stabbing hand drew up the necessary orders, sealing them with her signet. It was the twin of her son the King’s. That much authority she retained. She snapped her fingers for a servant.
“Give this to the Quartermaster-General,” she told him, “and be quick, too.” She raised her voice. “Colonel, where are your men?”
A grunt, the clump of a boot hitting the floor. “By the southern gate, outside the camps. Haptman Andruw Cear-Adurhal commands at the moment. You’ll find them by the smell of roasting mule.”
T HE attendants left at last, and she heard him splashing in the bath beyond the screen. It would be over the palace in minutes, that the Queen Dowager had a muddy colonel of cavalry bathing in her private chambers. It was a signal she sent out quite deliberately. People would tread more warily around her protege as a result. It was his reward for the passing of the first test.
And besides, she liked having him here.
The splashing had stopped. “Corfe?”
She peered round the screen. He was asleep in the bath, arms dangling over its sides, mouth open.
She rose and approached him, silent as a spider in her court shoes. The floor around him was a mess of mud and water. As she crouched by his side it soaked the bottom of her skirts.
Some of the lines faded when he slept. He seemed younger. His forearms were scarred with old wounds, and the bathwater was bloody where a more recent one in his thigh had reopened. She touched the wound, running her hand over him under the water. She closed her eyes and the gash healed under her fingers. The bleeding stopped.
He came awake with a violent start that sent the bathwater spraying. His hand gripped her wrist. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing,” she said softly. “Nothing at all.” She leaned over and kissed his bare shoulder and felt him tremble under her lips.
“You don’t fear scandal much, do you?” he remarked.
“As much as you.”
His hand, calloused from rein and sword-hilt, caressed her cheek gently. For a second he seemed almost a boy. But the second passed. The lines settled in his face again. He hauled himself out of the bath and reached for a towel to cover himself. He seemed almost bewildered.
“I must get back to my men.”
“Not yet,” she told him, her voice becoming harder as she rose with him. “Your men are being looked after. You, I need here for now.”
“For what, payment?”
“Don’t be a fool,” she snapped. “Get dressed. We have much to discuss.”
He held her eyes for a moment, and she was sure her need for him would betray her, spill out of her and plead with him. She turned away. The attendants had left decanters of Gaderian, a joint of venison, apples, cheese, fresh bread. She poured herself some of the blood-red wine whilst he towelled himself dry and pulled on the black Torunnan infantry uniform which had been left for him. As a cavalryman, he should have been in burgundy, and she thought it would suit him, but she knew also that he would prefer black.
“Eat something, for God’s sake,” she ordered. He was standing motionless as though on parade, obviously hating the court version of the uniform, the lace cuffs, tight collar and buckled shoes.
He seemed to experience some kind of inner struggle. It flitted across his face.
“Your men are being fed as we speak,” she said. “Stop playing the noble leader and get something into your own stomach. You look half-starved.”
At last, he unbent. She saw it was all he could do not to wolf down the food like an animal. He made himself chew it slowly, and sipped at the wine. Again, the tiredness in his face making him look so much older. How old was he? Thirty? Not much more, perhaps even less. He took a seat by one of the glowing braziers with a brimming wine glass in one fist and a chunk of bread in the other, taking alternate bites and sips. Finally he paused, conscious of her eyes on him, and said, “Thank you” in a low voice.
She sat down opposite him wishing she’d had time to ready a few rejuvenating spells. She was very aware of the liver spots on the backs of her hands. She hated herself for feeling so absurdly self-conscious.
“You are your own courier, it seems,” she said. “I take it the business in the south was concluded satisfactorily?”
He nodded. “Aras is still down there. I left him the last of the mopping up.”
“Your tribesmen did well.”
“Amazingly well.” For the first time some real warmth came into his voice, and his face became more
