the dozens of thick beeswax candles which stood in clusters everywhere.
Along the walls, scribes sat at little desks prepared to take down every word spoken by the assembled dignitaries, and a trio of brawny servitors manhandled extra chairs to accommodate the unexpected additions to the throng. The seating had been nicely arranged in order of precedence and rank, but the arrival of Isolla and Golophin had thrown these out and things were being hastily rejuggled. The larger throne at the table’s head would remain empty, of course, to represent the absent King and, a princess being as lofty in rank as a duke, Isolla would be sitting opposite Urbino in the next two places. Golophin declared himself happy with a well-padded chair by the fire. He had a decanter and glass brought to him there and sat sipping and watching the crowd with evident enjoyment.
It took an hour for the notables to finish greeting each other, find their places and assume their seats. During that time Jemilla appeared and had another comfortable chair brought in so that she could sit opposite Golophin at the fire. He offered her wine but she demurred graciously, citing her pregnancy. They sat staring into the flames, for all the world like an old married couple, whilst the clamour died around them into an orderly silence.
A grey-clad Friar Mendicant appeared by the empty King’s place, and raised his hands.
“My lords, noble lady, a moment of prayer, if you please, for our poor afflicted King. May he soon recover his senses and rule over us with the justice and compassion that was his wont.”
Those present bowed their heads. Golophin leaned forward and whispered to Jemilla:
“Your idea, I suppose.”
“You won’t object to a prayer for the King’s health, surely, Golophin.”
“Poor and afflicted. I’ll bet you just wish.”
The cleric withdrew. Duke Urbino stood up. For a second he seemed at a loss for words. Then he met Jemilla’s eye, and his spine seemed to stiffen.
“Gentlemen, my worthy cousins, gracious lady, we are gathered here on a mission of paramount importance for the future of the kingdom of Hebrion . . .”
“A good choice,” Golophin told Jemilla. “Respectable, but dense. No doubt you’ve got him close to thinking he’s his own man.”
“Any man who thinks he’s his own man is a fool. Even you, Golophin. You hold fast to Abeleyn although he’s as good as a corpse. Why not give your loyalty to his son? What principles would that compromise? He would wish it so, were he alive.”
“He is alive. He is alive and my King. And he is my friend.”
“If he were dead—truly dead—would you recognize his son as the heir to the throne?”
Golophin was silent a long time whilst the Duke of Imerdon rambled on in his portentous, pompous way and the rest of the assembly listened with grave attention to his platitudes.
“If it were his son,” he said finally.
Jemilla felt a cold hand about her heart. “You need not concern yourself on that score. Abeleyn himself was convinced. Besides, there have been no others in my bed.”
“Palace guards do not count, then.”
“I had to gain my freedom. I used the only tool I had.” It seemed suddenly very warm here by the fire with the old wizard’s bird-bright eye intent upon her.
Golophin’s eye left her as he drank more wine. Jemilla’s face did not show the relief she felt. This man must go, she thought. He is too knowing, too damned shrewd by half. I can fool the rest, but not him—not for ever.
“Do not trouble to talk to me of the King’s heir, lady,” the wizard said, wiping his mouth. “We know who will rule in Hebrion if that prating fool up there is appointed regent, or if your brat is finally brought into the world and survives to his majority. If it is indeed Abeleyn’s child in your belly, then I would be the first to recognize the infant’s claims, but I would sooner stick my head in a she-wolf’s den than let you have any say in the child’s rearing.”
“It is well that we understand each other,” she said.
“Yes. Honesty is often refreshing, don’t you find? Have a taste of this superb wine. You look somewhat peaked, and one glass will not hurt the child any.”
He poured her some, and they both raised their glasses, looked at each other, and clinked the glasses together.
“To the King,” Golophin said.
“To the King. And his heir.”
• • •
W ELL?” Golophin asked Isolla. “What did you make of it?”
They were in the King’s private chambers, sharing a late supper of pheasant stuffed with truffles and basil— one of Golophin’s favourites. The weather had worsened, and hail rattled at the tall windows.
“The Hebrian nobility is even more long-winded than that of Astarac,” Isolla replied. “They must have talked for seven or eight hours, and they barely got beyond introductions.”
“They’re feeling their way. Our presence unsettled them. After Jemilla left I made a point of ostentatiously taking down their names. Let them fear a pogrom. It will concentrate their minds wonderfully.”
“That Jemilla; you were talking to her for a long time. One might have thought you were old friends.”
“Let us say that we understand one another. In many ways she is an admirable woman. She might have made Abeleyn a worthy queen, were she not so . . . ambitious.”
“She’d rather be king.”
Golophin laughed. “There you have hit the nail on the head. But she is not of the calibre of Odelia of Torunna, another scheming and ambitious woman. Jemilla wants to rule, and damn the consequences. She would lay the kingdom waste if it would put her on a throne.”
“Is she that highly born? I was not aware.”
“Oh, no. She is a noblewoman, and she married well, but her blood is not of such a vintage that it would ever enable her to rule constitutionally, even if she had been a man. But she has brains. She will rule through others.”
“Urbino of Imerdon.”
“Quite.”
“How are you going to stop them, Golophin? They’ll begin discussing the regency tomorrow.”
“We can’t stop them, lady,” Golophin said quietly.
Isolla was startled. “So what are we to do?”
The old wizard sat back from the table and laid aside his napkin. “Jemilla has planned well. In the absence of the King, a quorum of the nobility is allowed to make decisions of state. It has precedent, my legal minds tell me. The decrees of the council will have the full force of law.”
“But we have the army and the fleet behind us.”
“What would you have me do, lady? Stage a coup? Rovero and Mercado would never agree to it. The city has suffered enough, and it would make us no better than Jemilla. No. There is another way, though. Only one thing can take the wind out of their sails now.”
“And that is?”
“The King himself.”
“Then we are finished. That’s impossible. Isn’t it, Golophin?”
“I—I’m not entirely sure. I must do some reading on the matter. I will tell you later. Later tonight, perhaps. Could you meet me in the King’s bedchamber by, say, the fifth hour of the night?”
“Of course. Have your powers come back then?”
The old mage grimaced. “They are not a migrating flock, Isolla. They do not fly away and return overnight. There is some recuperation, certainly. Whether it will be enough is another matter.”
“Do you think you could heal him? It would be the answer to everything.”
“Not quite everything, but it would make life. . . better, yes.”
Isolla regarded her companion closely. Although he was still rail-thin, his face did not have quite the skull-like look about it which had so startled her at their first meeting. She wondered what had happened to his eye. She had not asked, and Golophin had ventured no explanation. It wept tears of black blood from under the patch sometimes, and he carried a stained handkerchief to blot them away.
“My thanks for the fowl, lady,” he said. “I must retire to my books for a while.” He rose. There had never been
