There was an angry stir from the assembled Torunnans as Mercadius translated the words, and Aras took a step forward, his hand going to where his sword should have been. But no-one bore arms in the audience chamber save the King alone. Corfe stood up, eyes flashing.
“Mehr Jirah, you are known to some of us here. I have been told you are a man of integrity and honour, and so I ask you to remember that what I say now is not directed at you or the faith you profess—a faith we know to be almost the same as our own. This is to Aurungzeb, your lord.
“Tell him that Torunna will never submit to him, not if he brings ten times the armies he possesses in front of her walls. At Armagedir he tried to destroy us, and we defeated him. If we have to, we will defeat him again. We will never surrender, not if we must fight to the last man hiding in the hills. We will fight him until the world cracks open at doomsday.
“Peace we would have, yes, but only if he takes his beaten armies and leaves Torunna’s soil for ever. If he does not, I swear by my God that I will drive him out. His people will never know a moment of rest while I live. If it takes twenty years, I will throw him back beyond the Ostian river. I will slay every Merduk man, woman and child who falls into my hands. I will burn his cities and salt his soil. I will make of his kingdom a howling wilderness, and wipe the very memory of Ostrabar and its sultan from the face of the world.”
A cheer erupted in the chamber. Mehr Jirah looked shocked for a moment, but quickly regained his dignified poise.
“That is our answer. Take it back to your master, and make it clear to him that there will be no second chance. I am King here now, and I will not hesitate to mobilise every able man in my kingdom to back my words. He no longer fights an army, but an entire people. This is his choice, now and only now—peace, or a war that will 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—I opened negotiations with the bastard! He must give something in return! Isn’t that right, Batak?”
“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—”