“By God, I do not have to listen to this!”
“No, you do not. A fool never likes to listen to wisdom when it crosses his own desires. Think, Lofantyr! Think not of your own pride but of the kingdom! A king who is not master of himself is master of nothing.”
“How can I be master of anything when you are always there in the shadow, spinning your webs, whispering into the ears of my advisors? You have had your day in the sun, mother, now it is my turn. I am the King, damn it all!”
“Then learn to behave like one,” Odelia said. “Your antics are more those of a spoilt child. You surround yourself with creatures whose only goal in life is to tell you what you want to hear. You place your own absurd pride above the good of the country itself, and you refuse to listen to any news which conflicts with your own ideas of how the world should work. The men bleeding on the battlefields are the glue which keeps this kingdom together, Lofantyr, not the fawning office-seekers of the court. Never forget where the true power lies, what the true nature of power is.”
“What is this, a lesson in kingship?”
“By the blood of the Saint, were I a man I’d thrash you until you shrieked. You’re so blinded by protocol and finery you cannot hear the very footfalls of doom come striding across the world.”
“Don’t become apocalyptic on me, mother,” her son told her, scorn in his own voice now. “We all know the witchery you practise—it is common knowledge at court—but it cannot help you predict the future. Your gifts do not lie that way.”
“It does not take a soothsayer to predict the way the world is going.”
“Nor does it take a genius to understand your sudden interest in this upstart colonel from Aekir. Does it help you to forget your age to take a man young enough to be your son to bed?”
They stared at each other.
Finally Odelia said: “Tread carefully, Lofantyr.”
“Or what? It is all over the court—the Queen Dowager bedding the ragged deserter from John Mogen’s vanished army. You talk to me of my behaviour. How do you think yours reflects upon the dignity of the Crown? My own mother, and a ragged-arsed junior officer!”
“I ruled this country when you were a snotty-faced child!” she cried shrilly.
“Aye, and we know how you managed that. Errigal you bedded too. You would prostitute yourself a thousand times over if it would seat you any nearer the throne. Well, I am a grown man, mother, my own man. You are not needed any more.”
“You think so?” Odelia asked. “You really think so?”
They were both standing now, with the hellish radiance of the brazier between them, illuminating their faces from below so that they were transformed into masks of flame and shadow. Above them, the giant spider that was Arach had awoken and its legs were gently tapping the web it clung to, as though readying itself for a spring. Lofantyr peered up at the thing; it was uttering a low keening, something like an anguished cat’s purr.
“Stop meddling in the affairs of state,” Lofantyr said more calmly to the Queen Dowager. “You must give me a chance to rule, mother. You cannot hang on for ever.”
Odelia inclined her head a trifle, as if in gracious agreement. Her eyes were two viridian flickers mingled with the yellow flame-light.
“Release the tribesmen,” she said in a reasonable tone. “Let him have them. It can do no harm.”
“Arm the Felimbri? Is that what you want? And you were the one who cautioned me about hiring the Fimbrians!”
“They will obey him. I know it.”
“They are savages.”
“Maybe if you had given him a command of regulars at the beginning this problem would never have arisen,” she said, her voice cutting.
“Maybe if you had not—” he began, and stopped. “This bickering does neither of us any good.”
“Agreed.”
“All right, I will release them. Your protégé can have his savages. But they will receive no assistance from the military authorities. He is on his own, this Aekirian colonel.”
Odelia bowed her head in acceptance.
“Let us not fight, mother,” Lofantyr said. He moved around the brazier and held out his hands.
“Of course,” his mother said. She took his hands and kissed his cheek.
The king smiled, then turned away. “There are couriers from Martellus on their way in from the gates. I must see them. Will you come with me?”
“No,” she said to his retreating back. “No, see them alone. I have my work to do here.”
He smiled at her, and left the room.
Odelia sat a moment in the quiet he had left behind, her eyes hooded, their fire veiled. Finally she picked up the embroidery board and hurled it across the room. It cracked against the far wall in a tangled mess of snapped wood and fabric and thread. The maid peeped in at the door, saw her mistress’s face, and fled.
T HE black-burnt stone of Admiral’s Tower seemed somehow in keeping with the tone of Abrusio in these times. Jaime Rovero, admiral of Hebrion’s fleets, had his halls and offices near the summit of the fortress. In a tall chamber there he paced by his desk while the smell of seawater and ashes came sidling in from the docks below, and he could hear the gulls screaming madly. A winter fishing yawl must be putting in. All his life he had been a seaman, having risen from master’s mate aboard a caravel to command of his own vessel, then of a squadron, then a fleet, and finally the very pinnacle of his career—First Lord of the Navy. He could go no higher. And yet he would look down on the trefoil of harbours that the city of Abrusio encircled and, seeing the ships there, the hiving life of the port, the hordes of dock hands and mariners, he would sometimes wish he were a mere master’s mate again with hardly two coppers to rub together in his pocket, and the promise of a fresh horizon with the next sunrise.
The door was knocked and he barked: “Enter!” and straightened, blinking away the memories and the absurd regrets. One of his secretaries announced: “Galliardo Ponera, Third Port Captain of the Outer Roads, my lord.”
“Yes, yes. Send him in.”
In came a short, dark-skinned man with an air of the sea about him despite some fine clothes and an over-feathered hat. Ponero made his bow, the feathers describing an arc as he swung his headgear in a gesture he imagined was elegance itself.
“Oh, stow that courtly rubbish,” Rovero grated. “This isn’t the palace. Take a seat, Ponero. I have some questions for you.”
Galliardo was sweating. He sat in front of the massive dark wood of the admiral’s desk and soothed down his ruffled feathers.
Rovero stared at his visitor silently for a second. He had a small sheaf of papers on his desk which bore the Royal seal. Galliardo glimpsed them and swallowed.
“Calm down,” Rovero told him. “You’re not here on corruption charges, if that’s what you’re thinking. Half the port captains in the city turn a blind eye now and again. It’s the grease that turns the wheels. No, Ponero, I want you to have a look at these.” He tossed the papers across the desk at his trembling guest.
“They’re victualling warrants, Royal ones,” Galliardo said after a moment’s perusal.
“Bravo. Now explain.”
“I don’t understand, your excellency.”
“Those two ships, outfitted and victualled at Royal expense and carrying Hebrian military personnel, were readied for sea in your section of the yards. I want to know where they were headed, and why the King sponsored their voyage.”
“Why not ask him?” Galliardo said.
Rovero frowned, an awful sight.
“I beg your pardon, your excellency. The fact is the ships were owned by one Richard Hawkwood, and the leader of the expedition and commander of the soldiers was Lord Murad of Galiapeno.”
Rovero’s frown deepened. “Expedition? Explain.”
Galliardo shrugged. “They were carrying stores for many months, horses for breeding—not geldings, you understand—and sheep, chickens. And there were the passengers, of course . . .”