“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.”
They both laughed, and incredibly Corfe found himself liking the man.
“I see you have your mad little priest here as well-except that he is not mad, of course. Brother Albrec, you have turned our world upside-down. I hope you are pleased with yourself.”
Albrec bowed wordlessly. The Sultan nodded to Odelia. “Lady, I hope you are good… well. Yes, that is the word.” He took Odelia’s hand and kissed it, then scrutinized the nearest Cathedraller, who was watching him warily.
“I thought we had killed them all,” he said affably.
Corfe frowned. “Not all of them.”
“You must be running short of Ferinai armour for them. I can perhaps send you a few hundred sets.”
“There is no need,” Odelia said smoothly. “We captured several hundred more at Armagedir.”
It was the Sultan’s turn to frown. But not for long. “My manners have deserted me. Let me introduce Queen Ahara. Shahr Baraz, help her up here. That’s it.”
The old, severe-looking Merduk helped the Merduk Queen up on the dais. Around the little tableau of figures, the crowds had gone quiet and were watching events unfold as if it were some passion play laid on for their entertainment.
“Ahara was from Aekir,” the Sultan explained. “She will soon give me a son. The next Sultan of Ostrabar will have Ramusian blood in him. For that reason at least, it is good that this long war finally comes to an end.”