Merach bared his teeth a second in a spasm of anger. ‘I should speak no more.’
‘You may say what you like — it is why Darios sent you.’
Lord, forgive me.’ He looked down into his cup. ‘Is it the Queen?’
‘Who else?’ Ashurnan smiled again. ‘A marvellous woman, Orsana. She would have made a fine ruler of this empire in her own right, but she must work through her son, who is an inferior instrument.
‘She will tolerate no other. It is something I have become almost reconciled to, Merach. I have shielded Rakhsar this long because I thought there was promise in him, but I know now I cannot gainsay my wife. Kouros will succeed me, if this phoenix from the west leaves him anything to rule. And Orsana will control the empire at last. It may actually be for the best. She is a poisonous bitch, but she is as able as I am, and lacks my streak of absurd sentimentality.’
‘I call it honour,’ Merach said, and the anger was still smouldering in his eyes.
‘Kings cannot afford a sense of honour, my friend.’
‘Then they are not worthy of the name. Lord, this enemy of ours out in the west, this young man who calls himself Corvus; he — ’ Merach hesitated a second. ‘He took in the wounded we left behind us in our flight, and he had his surgeons treat them as though they were his own. He has not ravaged the land as an invading army ought, and his men are under savage discipline.’
‘Ah,’ Ashurnan said. ‘The Macht. They are something to see, in battle, are they not?’
‘They are like some great machine. He has drilled them to perfection, foot and horse alike. They are clad all in scarlet, as their mercenaries once were at Kunaksa. This boy is something remarkable, my lord. In seven years he has taken almost two hundred feuding city-states and made of them a nation.’
‘Indeed. I wonder what his plans for us are.’ Ashurnan emptied his cup and tossed it out of the lamplight, the gesture a flicker of fury. When he turned back to his friend, his eyes glowed like those of a wolf caught in firelight.
‘This empire will endure, Merach. It has stood for so many centuries that men have stopped counting them.
‘It is civilization.
‘The Macht are barbarians, a race which does not belong to this world, an aberration of nature. They will be defeated by me and mine as the founder of my line defeated them in the ancient days. The empire cannot fall. If it does, it will topple us all into a dark age the likes of which history has never seen before.
‘I will take the field — the preparations have already begun. You may begin your journey back to Darios in the morning. Tell him the Great King is coming, and with him shall march the full army of the empire. He will see us at the end of this summer. Until then he must hold at Ashdod. He must hold the passes of the Korash Mountains for me, no matter what the cost.’
Merach nodded, eyes shining.
‘And Merach-’ Ashurnan rose to his feet, a majestic figure, golden-skinned, the diadem a black line across his forehead. ‘I do not care how this invader behaves, or how gently he treats our people. The Macht must be allowed no quarter. We will take no prisoners and show them no mercy. You must make Darios understand this. We are fighting a different kind of war from those we have known before.’ Ashurnan drew his lips back from his teeth as he spoke, like an animal snarling at its enemy.
‘It is no longer enough to defeat them. The Macht must be exterminated.’
FOUR
There was a comfort in the coolness of the stone. Kurun pressed himself into the corner of the cell farthest from the door, curled up like a woodlouse. The floor was sheened with condensation, for it was colder than the air. Kurun wiped his palm across it and tried to use the accumulated moisture to wash himself, to wipe the filth away, but the blood, and other matter, was a caking, slimed mess from his buttocks to his knees. He gave up, pressed his forehead to the kindly stone, and emptied his mind. There was nothing more to think of. If he lived or died it meant nothing now, to himself or to anyone else.
A rattle in the lock brought him upright in a spasm of terror all the same. His feet scrabbled on the floor as he tried to push himself farther into the corner of the cell. Now the stone was his enemy, unyielding, spurning his flesh.
The door swung open, lamplight blinding him. He held up a hand like a man staring into the sun.
‘Can you walk?’
He nodded, crawled up the wall, his fingers hunting for gaps in the blocks. Then his legs left him, and he hit the floor with a slap.
‘Bel’s blood. Banon, you made this mess; go pick it up. We don’t have all night — I’m expected back at the gardens.’
A bulk that blocked out the light. A familiar smell. Kurun came alive, punching and scratching like a frightened cat.
‘Be still, you little bitch.’ A massive fist clouted him on the side of the head, sending lights shooting through his mind, filling his ears with a high-pitched hiss. He was picked up and tucked under one arm by the tall Honai.
‘Bring him — and make sure you clean out that cell after. This is not the undercity.’
‘Yes, sir.’
Kurun was carried into torchlight, head down, like a rabbit brought home for the pot. He saw sandaled feet tramping, wisps of straw on stone. He retched, but there was nothing left to come up. He clenched his eyes shut, wondering what death would be like. It could not be worse than what they had done to him already.
‘Strap him in, and then get back to your post. And Banon, clean yourself up, for pity’s sake. He’s slobbered all over you.’
‘It was worth it, chief.’
Kurun was in some kind of chair. His wrists were buckled to the arms with leather straps. Then his legs were pulled apart. He tried to fight, but the pain was too much. He was strapped at the ankles and knees, his thighs held apart. He opened his swollen eyes.
A small, windowless room, much like the cell he had left. A tall, magnificently dressed Kefre watched him. He knew the face, but the smothering panic blotted out anything else. Sandalwood perhaps, the fragrance dim as a broken spark outside his heart’s thunder.
There was a table by the far wall, and an old hufsan was busy at it, spitting on a stone. Then Kurun heard the steady rhythmic scrape of a knife being sharpened, the rasp of steel on stone which was intimate to him after all his years in the kitchens.
‘Lord, no, please. Kill me if you want. But not that.’ The tears fell from his eyes in silver ribbons.
The Honai said nothing. He seemed preoccupied. He was reading a scrap of parchment. He grunted.
‘Your friend Auroc has disowned you, boy. Says you are quite the little troublemaker.’
‘Auroc? No — Lord, no. I beg you.’
For the first time the Honai’s bright, violet eyes met his own. ‘You have spirit, slave. For a kitchen scullion to spy upon the Great King and his family! I hope you were well paid.’
‘No-one paid me. I was stupid. I did not think.’
‘Maybe.’
The door opened. In came a massive, black-haired Kefre with a heavy face. His eyes were dark with anger. At once, the Honai went to one knee, then straightened. Deference sat deep-planted on the Honai’s countenance. And fear.
‘My Lord Kouros. This is the boy.’
The dark Kefre loomed over Kurun, ignoring the greeting. ‘Did you get anything out of him?’
‘Nothing of use. He holds to his story.’ A pause. ‘My prince, I think it may be the truth.’
‘I am not a spy!’ Kurun screamed.
Kouros knelt until his face was level with Kurun’s. He held out a hand. Without a word, the elderly hufsan in the corner came forward and set the knife within it. Kouros felt the edge, his gaze never leaving Kurun’s face.
‘Was it my brother?’ he asked, softly. ‘Was it Prince Rakhsar?’