“Almark is Himerian,” Rusio pointed out. “And ruled directly by the Himerian Church, I hear.”
“True. The Prelate Marat is regent of the kingdom, but Marat is a practical man—and a powerful one. If we agreed to certain… conditions, he would be willing to send us a host of Almarkan heavy cavalry in our hour of need.”
“What conditions?” Willem asked.
“A recognition that there are grounds for doubting the true identity of the man who claims to be Macrobius.”
Rusio barked with bitter laughter. “Is that all? Not possible, my dear Count. I know. I met Macrobius while he still dwelled in Aekir. The Pontiff we harbour here in Torunn is a travesty of that man, admittedly, but he is Macrobius. The Himerians are looking for a way to get their foot in the door, that’s all. They failed with war and insurrection and now they’ll try diplomacy. Priests! I’d get rid of the whole scheming crew if I had my way.”
Fournier shrugged elegantly. “I merely inform you as to the various options available. I, too, do not wish to see Almarkan troops in Torunna, but the very idea that they could be available is a useful bargaining tool. I shall brief the Queen on the initiative. It is as well for her to be aware of it.” He said nothing of the other, more delicate initiative which had come his way of late. He was still unsure how to handle it himself.
“Do as you please. For myself, I’d sooner we were hauled out of this mess by other Torunnans, not heretical foreigners and plotting clerics.”
“There are not many Torunnans left to do the hauling, Colonel. The once mighty Torunnan armies are a mere shadow of what they once were. If we do not respond in some fashion at least to this overture, then I would not be too sanguine about the safety of our own north-western frontier. Almark might just strike while the Merduks have our attention, and we would have foreign troops on Torunnan soil in any case, except that we would not have invited them.”
“Are you saying we have no choice in the matter?”
“Perhaps. I will see what the Queen thinks. For all that she is a woman, she has as fine a mind as any of us here.”
“We’re getting away from the point of this meeting,” Willem said impatiently.
“No, I don’t think so,” Fournier replied. He steepled his slender fingers and swept the table with hard eyes. “If we are trying to shift this Cear-Inaf from his current eminence it may be best to use many smaller levers instead of one big one. That way the prime movers are more easily kept anonymous. More importantly, Cear-Inaf will find it harder to fight back.”
“He’s not ambitious,” Aras blurted out. “I truly think he fights not for himself but for the country, and for his men.”
“His lack of ambition has taken him far,” Fournier said drily. “Aras, you have met with him more often than any of us. What do you make of him?”
The young colonel hesitated. “He’s—he’s strange. Not like most career soldiers. A bitter man, hard as marble. And yet the troops love him. They say he is John Mogen come again. There is even a rumour that he is Mogen’s bastard son. It started when they saw him wielding Mogen’s sword on the battlefield.”
“Mogen,” Rusio grunted. “Another upstart bedmate of the Queen’s.”
“That’s enough, Colonel,” Fournier snapped. “General Menin, may God be good to his soul, obviously saw something in Cear-Inaf, else he would not have posthumously promoted him.”
“Martin Menin knew his death was near. It clouded his thinking,” Rusio said heavily.
“Perhaps. We will never know. Do we have any inkling of our current commander-in-chief’s plans for the future?”
“It will take time to reorganise and refit the army after the beating it took. The Merduks have withdrawn halfway to the Searil for the moment, so we have a breathing space. There is no word from Berza and the fleet, though. If they succeed in destroying the Merduk supply dumps on the Kardian, we may be left alone until the spring.”
“We have some time to work in then. That’s good. Gentlemen, unless anyone has a further point to raise, I think this meeting is over. Venuzzi, I take it your people are all in place?”
The steward nodded. “You shall know what he has for breakfast before he has it himself.”
“Excellent.” Fournier rose. “Gentlemen, good night. I suggest we do not all depart at once. Such things get noticed.”
In ones and twos they took their leave, until only Aras and Willem were left. The older officer rose and set a hand on Aras’s shoulder. “You have your doubts about our little conspiracy, do you not, Aras?”
“Perhaps. Is it wrong to wish for victory, no matter who leads us to it?”
“No. Not at all. But we are the leaders of our country. We must think beyond the present crisis, look to the future.”
“Then we are becoming politicians rather than soldiers.”
“For the moment. Don’t be too hard on yourself. And do not forget whose side you are on. This Corfe is a shooting star, blazing bright today, forgotten tomorrow. We will be here long after his glory-hunting has taken him to his grave.” Willem slapped the younger man’s shoulder, and left.
Aras remained alone in the empty room, listening to the late-night revellers below, the clatter of carts and waggons in the cobbled streets beyond. He was remembering. Remembering the sight of the Merduk heavy cavalry charging uphill into the maw of cannon, the Fimbrian pikes skewering screaming horses, men shrieking and snarling in a storm of slaughter. That was how the great issues of this world were ultimately decided: in a welter of killing. The man who could impose his own will upon the fuming chaos of battle would ultimately prevail. Before the King’s Battle Aras had thought himself ambitious, a leader of men. He was no longer so sure. The responsibilities of command were too awesome.
“What will it be?” he said aloud to the firelight, the glowing candles.
Either way, he would end up betraying something.
FIVE
H IS wooden heels clicked on the floor like the castanets entertainers danced to. She had tried to make him don shoes, but he seemed fascinated by the sight of his timbre toes tapping on marble. Many times he sagged or slipped and she had to steady him. When she did, the pain speared into her ribs, making her breath come short. He had struck her there with his new knee as she held him down in the midst of Golophin’s magicking. But there was no time for trivialities like that. Hebrion had a king again. With her help he was stalking and staggering up and down the Royal chambers like an unsteady lion pacing its cage.
And I have a husband, the thought came to her unbidden. Or will have. A man half human, and the other half—what?
“Unbelievable,” King Abeleyn of Hebrion muttered. “Golophin has really surpassed himself this time. But why wood? Old Mercado got himself a silver face. Couldn’t I have been given limbs of steel or iron?”
“He was in a hurry,” Isolla told him. “They vote on the regency today. There was nothing else available.”
“Ah, yes. My noble cousins, flapping around me like gore-crows looking for a beakful of the Royal carcase. What a shock it’ll be when I walk in on the dastards! For I will walk in, Isolla. And in full mail too.”
“Don’t overdo things. We don’t want you looking like an apparition.”
Abeleyn grinned, the same grin that had quickened her heart as a girl. He was still boyish when he smiled despite the grey of his hair and the scars on his face. “Golophin may have had to fix my legs, Issy, but the rest of me is still flesh and blood. How do you feel about marrying a carpenter’s bench?”
“I’m not a romantic heroine in some ballad, Abeleyn. Folk with our blood marry out of policy. I’ll wear your ring, and both Astarac and Hebrion will be the better off for it.”
“You haven’t changed. Still the sober little girl with the world on her shoulders. Give us a kiss.”
“Abeleyn!”
He tried to embrace her and pull her face towards his, but his wooden feet slipped on the stone floor and he went down with a clack and crash, pulling her with him. They landed in a billow of her brocade and silks, and Abeleyn roared with laughter. He kept his grip, and kissed her full on the mouth, one hand cradling the hollow of
