last another hundred years. Tell him to think carefully. His decision will alter the very fate of the world for him and all those who come after him. Now you may go.”
Mehr Jirah bowed. He nodded at Albrec, and then turned on his heel and left. Corfe took his seat once more. “Passifal, our next supplicant, if you please.” He had to raise his voice to make himself heard above the surf of talk in the hall.
Odelia leaned over the arm of her throne and whispered fiercely in his ear.
“Are you out of your mind? Have you no notion of diplomacy at all? We had a chance to halt the war, but you are set on starting it again.”
“No. I may be no diplomat, but I have some military insight. He can’t fight on. We’ve beaten him, and he has to be told that. And I didn’t fight Armagedir so that I could place my neck in a Merduk yoke. He thinks he knows what war is; he has no idea. If he is stupid and proud enough to keep fighting, I will show him how war can be waged.”
There was such contained ferocity about Corfe as he spoke that Odelia’s retort died in her throat. At that moment she realised she had overreached herself. She had thought that Corfe, once King, would be content to lead armies and fight wars while she negotiated the treaties and dictated policy. She knew better now. Not only would he rule, and rule in all things, but other rulers would want to deal with him and him alone, not with his ageing Queen. It was he who had won the war, after all. It was he whom the common people mobbed in the streets and cheered at every opportunity. Even her own attendants looked first to him.
She uttered a bitter little laugh that was lost in the next fanfare. All her life she had ruled through men. Now one had come to power through her, and reduced her to a cipher.
A URUNGZEB received Mehr Jirah in silence. In the sumptuous ostentation of his tent he had Corfe’s words relayed to him by the mullah and listened patiently as his officers and aides expressed outrage at the Ramusian’s insolence. His Queen sat beside him, also silent. He took her cold hand, thinking of his son in her belly and what world he might be born into. He had the makings of it here, at this moment. And for the first time in his life he was afraid.
“Batak,” he said at last. “That little beast of yours flits about the Torunnan palace day and night. What say you in this matter?”
The mage pondered a moment. “I think his words, my Sultan, are not empty. This man is not a braggart. He does what he says.”
“We have all realised that, I think,” Aurungzeb said wryly. “Shahr Baraz?”
The old Merduk shrugged. “He’s the best soldier they’ve ever produced. I believe he and my father would have had much in common.”
“Is there no-one around me who can give me some wisdom in their counsell?” Aurungzeb snapped. “I am surrounded by platitude-mouthing old women! Where is Shahr Johor?”
The occupants of the tent looked at one another. Finally Akran, the chamberlain, ventured: “You—ah—you had him executed, Majesty.”
“What? Oh, yes of course. Well, that was inevitable. He should have died with his men at Armagedir. Blood of God, what happened there? How did he do it? We should have won!”
“We did, at least, destroy those accursed red horsemen, Majesty,” Serrim the eunuch offered.
“Yes, those scarlet fiends. And we slew ten thousand more of his army, did we not? He must be as severely crippled as we are! How does he come to be making threats? What manner of maniac is he? Does he know nothing of the niceties of negotiation?”
The gathering of attendants, advisors and officials said nothing. In the quiet they could hear the crowds of Torunn still cheering, less than half a league away. The noise grated on Aurungzeb’s nerves. Why did they cheer him? He had led so many of their sons and fathers to their deaths, and yet they loved him for it. The Torunnans— there was a collective madness about them. They were a people unhinged. How did one deal with that? When Aurungzeb spoke again the petulance in his voice was like that of a child refused its treat.
“I asked him for safe conduct, the reception of an ambassador—
“Undoubtedly, sire. But remember that he is reputed to be nothing more than a common soldier, a peasant. He has no idea of protocol, or the basic courtesies that exist between monarchs. The conventions of diplomacy are beyond him. He speaks the language of the barrack room only.”
“That may be no bad thing,” Shahr Baraz rumbled. “At least if he gives his word, you can be sure he’ll keep it.”
“Don’t prate to me about the virtues of soldiers,” Aurungzeb growled. “They are overrated.”
Once more there was silence in the tent. The members of the court had never seen the Sultan so unsure, so needful of advice. He had always been one to follow his own counsell, even if it meant flying in the face of facts.
“The war must end,” Mehr Jirah said at last. “Of that there is no question. Thirty thousand of our men died at Armagedir. Our army can fight no more.”
“Then neither can his!”
“I think it can, Sultan. The Torunnans are not striving for conquest, but for survival. They will never give up, especially with this man leading them. Armagedir was the last chance we had to win the war at a stroke, and every one of our soldiers knows it. They also know that this is no longer a holy war. The Ramusians are not infidels, but co-believers in the Prophet—”
“You and your damn preachings have done that,” Aurungzeb raged.
“Would you deny the tenets of your own faith?” Mehr Jirah asked, unintimidated.
“No—no, of course not. All right then. It seems I have no choice. We will remain in negotiation. Mehr Jirah, Batak, Shahr Baraz, the three of you will go to Torunn in the morning and offer to broker a treaty. But no backsliding, mind! God knows I have grovelled enough for one day. Ahara, you were once a Ramusian. What say you? Are they right in this thing? Will this new soldier-king fight us to the end?”
Heria did not look at him. She placed a hand on her swollen abdomen. “You will have a son soon, my lord. I would like him to grow up in peace. Yes, this man will never give in. He… Father Albrec told me that he had too much iron in him. But he is a good man at heart. A decent man. He will keep his word, once given.”
“Perhaps,” Aurungzeb grunted. “I must say, I have a perverse hankering to meet him, face to face. Perhaps if we sign a treaty we may pay him a state visit.” And he laughed harshly. “The times are changing, indeed.”
No-one noticed how white Heria’s face had gone. The veil was good for that much at least.
T HE war between the Merduks and the Ramusians had begun so long ago that no-one except the historians was sure in what year the two peoples had first come to blows. But everyone knew when it had ended: in the first year of the reign of King Corfe, the same year the Fantyr dynasty had ceased to be.
And five and a half centuries after the coming of the Blessed Saint who had also been the Prophet, the dual nature of Ramusio was finally recognised and the two great religions he had founded came together and admitted their common origin. All this was written into the Treaty of Armagedir, a document it took soldiers and scholars several weeks to hammer out in a spacious tent which had been erected halfway between the walls of Torunn and the Merduk encampment especially for that purpose.
The Merduks agreed to make the River Searil the border of their new domain. Khedi Anwar, which had once been Ormann Dyke, became the southernmost of their settlements, and Aekir was renamed Aurungabar and designated the Ostrabarian capital. The cathedral of Carcaseon was transformed into the temple of Pir-Sar, and both Merduks and Ramusians were to be allowed to worship there, since it had been made holy by the founder of both their faiths. Those Aekirian refugees who wished to return to their former home were free to do so without fear of molestation, and the monarchs of Torunna and Ostrabar exchanged ambassadors and set up embassies in each other’s capitals.
But much of that was still in the future. For now, the gates of Torunn were thrown open for the treaty- signing ceremonies, and the war-weary city made ready to receive a visit from the man who had tried to conquer it. For Corfe, it had the surreal quality of a dream. He and Aurungzeb had negotiated through intermediaries, the Sultan considering it beneath his dignity to haggle over the clauses of a treaty in person. Today he would see the face of—perhaps even shake the hand of—the man he had striven so long to destroy. And his mysterious
