Ramusian Queen, whose contribution to the winning of the war only Corfe and Albrec knew of. Corfe wondered how the history books would view the event. He had come to realise that the facts and history’s perception of them were two very different things.
He stood in his dressing chamber with the summer sunshine flooding in a glorious stream through the tall windows whilst half a dozen valets stood by, disconsolate. They held in their arms a bewildering array of garments which dripped with gems, gold lace and fur trimmings. Corfe had refused them all, and stood in the plain black of a Torunnan infantryman. He wore no crown, but had been persuaded to place on his head an ancient circlet of silver which at one time Fimbrian marshals had worn at the court of the Electors. Albrec, of all people, had dug it up for him out of some dusty palace coffer. It had once belonged to Kaile Ormann himself, which Corfe thought rather fitting.
Trumpets ringing out down by the city gates, heralding the approach of the Sultan’s cavalcade. It seemed to Corfe he had heard more damned trumpets blown in the past few weeks than he had heard in all his life upon battlefields. Torunn had become one vast carnival of late, the people celebrating victory, peace, a new King—one thing after another. And now this, the last of the state occasions which Corfe intended to preside over for a long time.
He’d like to take Formio and Aras out into the hills and go hunting for a while, sleep under the stars again, stare into a campfire and drink rough army wine. The war had been hellish, but it had possessed its moments of sweetness too. Or perhaps he was merely a damned nostalgic fool, destined to become a dissatisfied old man for whom all glory was in the past. Now there was a concept. The very idea made him smile. But as one of the more courageous of the valets stepped forward for the third time with the ermine-trimmed robe the smile twisted into a frown.
“For the last time, no. Now get out of here, all of you.”
“Sire, the Queen insisted—”
“Bugger off.”
“My lord, that is hardly the language a king is expected to use,” Odelia said, sweeping into the room with a pair of maids behind her.
He limped about to meet her eyes. Despite her ministrations, he suspected that his Armagedir wound had marked him permanently. He would be lame for the rest of his life. Well, many had come out of the war with worse souvenirs.
“I always thought that kings could use what language they chose,” he said lightly. Odelia kissed him on the cheek, then drew back to survey his plain attire with mock despair.
“The Sultan will mistake you for a common soldier, if you’re not careful.”
“He made that mistake before. I doubt he will again.”
Odelia laughed, something she had begun to do more often of late. The bright sunlight was not kind to the lines on her face. Whatever magicks she had once applied to maintain her youthful appearance were still being used on the wounded of the army. Her newfound age still perturbed him sometimes. So he took her hand and kissed it.
“Are they at the walls yet?”
“Just entering the barbican. Perched upon a column of elephants, if you please. It looks like a travelling circus is coming to town.”
“Well then, lady, let us go down and greet the clowns.”
Her hand came up and touched his temple briefly. “You have gone grey, Corfe. I never noticed before.”
“That was Armagedir. It made an old man of me.”
“In that case, you will not mind taking an old woman’s arm. Come. We have a dais set out for us hung with lilies, and they’re beginning to wilt in the sun. Its height has been carefully calculated: just high enough to make Aurungzeb look like a supplicant, yet not so high that he can feel insulted.”
“Ah, the subtleties of diplomacy.”
“And of carpentry.”
The crowd gave a massive roar as they appeared side by side and climbed into a carriage which would transport them to the dais just beyond the palace gates. Once there, Odelia had a final, critical look at the arrangements, and they sat down upon the thrones that awaited them. Behind them Mercadius stood, blinking like an owl in the sunlight and looking half asleep on his feet: he was to interpret the proceedings. A dozen Cathedrallers, their armour freshly painted and shining, stood about the sides of the dais like scarlet statuary.
Corfe found himself looking down a wide avenue from which the crowds were held back by two lines of Torunnan regulars. The noise was deafening and the sun hot. Odelia’s hand was cold as he gripped it, however. It felt as insubstantial as straw within his own strong fingers.
Albrec mounted the dais, his face dark with some unknown worry. He bowed. “Your pardon, Majesties. I would count it an honour if you allowed me to be present at this time. I will stay out of the way.”
Odelia looked as though she was about to refuse, but Corfe waved him closer. “By all means, Father. After all, you’re better acquainted with the Merduk Sultan than we are.” Why did the little monk look so troubled? He was wiping sweat off his face with one sleeve.
“Albrec, are you all right?” Corfe asked him quietly.
“Corfe, I must—”
And here the damnable trumpets began sounding out again. A swaying line of palanquin-bearing elephants approached, painted and draped and bejewelled until they seemed like beasts out of some gaudy legend. Atop the lead animal, which had been painted white, Corfe could make out the broad, turbaned shape of the man who must be Aurungzeb, and beside him under the tasselled canopy the slighter shadow of his Queen.
The play-acting part of it was scheduled to last no more than a few minutes. In the audience hall of the palace two copies of the treaty waited to be signed—that was the real business of the day. Then there would be a banquet, and some entertainments or other which Odelia had dreamt up, and it would be done. Aurungzeb would not be staying in Torunn overnight, treaty or no treaty.
Formio and Aras appeared at the foot of the dais. Corfe had thought it only fair that they be here for this moment. The two had become fast friends despite the odds. The Aras Corfe knew now was a long way from the pompous young man he had first encountered at Staed. What was it Andruw had said? All piss and vinegar—yes, that was it. And Corfe smiled. I hope you can see this, Andruw. You made it happen, you and those damned tribesmen.
So many ghosts.
The lead elephant halted, and then went to its knees as smoothly as a well-trained lap-dog. Silk-clad attendants appeared and helped the Sultan and his Queen out of the high palanquin. A knot of people, as bright as silk butterflies, fussed around the couple. Corfe looked at Odelia. She nodded, and they both rose to their feet to greet their guests.
The Sultan was a tall man, topping Corfe by half a head. The fine breadth of his shoulders was marred somewhat by the paunch that had begun to develop under the sash which belted his middle. He had a huge beard, as broad as a besom, and his snow-white turban was set with a ruby brooch. The eyes under the turban’s brim were alight with intelligence and irritation. Clearly, he did not like the fact that, thanks to the dais, Corfe and Odelia were looking down on him.
Of Aurungzeb’s Queen, Corfe could make out little, except that she was heavily pregnant. She was clad in blue silk, the colour of which Corfe immediately liked. Her face above the veil had been garishly painted, the eye- brows drawn out with stibium, kohl smeared across the lids. She did not look up at the dais, but kept her gaze fixed resolutely on the ground. Directly behind her stood an old Merduk with a formidable face and direct glance. He looked like an over-protective father.
The Sultan’s chamberlain had appeared at one side to announce his master’s appearance, but Aurungzeb did not wait for the diplomatic niceties to begin. Instead he clambered up on to the dais itself, which caused Corfe’s Cathedraller bodyguard to half draw their swords. Corfe held up a hand, and they relaxed.
The Sultan loomed over him. “So you are the man I have been fighting,” he said, his Normannic surprisingly good.
“I am the man.”
They stared at one another in frank, mutual curiosity. Finally Aurungzeb grinned. “I thought you would be taller.”