'Impeach! Impeach!' said Sarazin. Having made some concessions to his mother already that day, he was in no mood to surrender on this point also. 'Are our lives entire to be ruled by this mythical impeachment?' 'Politics is our life whether we like it or not.'
Tour life, you mean,' said Sarazin. 'You've got the fun of it, the command of secret agents, rights of release and pardon, powers over half the best jobs in Selzirk. You've got-'
'Responsibility,' said Farfalla, cutting him off. 'A responsibility to keep us alive. Both of us, if possible.' 'Then what have I got?'
A rhetorical question. But it earnt itself a straight answer nonetheless:
'You've got your education. Since you won't be fit to join the army for some time yet, concentrate on your studies with Elkin. Also, Thodric Jarl has consented to continue your combat training, so you've that to work on as well.'
The river-fever does no lasting damage – except when it kills – so by late summer in the year Alliance 4325 Sarazin was most definitely once more fighting fit.
The army thinks your enlistment delayed indefinitely by disease,' said Farfalla. 'But you know yourself you've made a perfect recovery. I can see that for myself – as can others. It would be safer for all of us if you joined up now.'
That would upset the army surgeons,' said Sarazin blandly, confident his mother would indulge him in this small matter. Their professional judgment would be called into question.' 'Don't give me that nonsense,' said Farfalla. She spoke so curtly that Sarazin, hurt, felt momentarily tearful. She had terminated his intrigues with Qid. She had cancelled his correspondence with Jaluba. Was he not going to be allowed any freedom whatsoever? He mastered his emotions then said:
'I won't be a soldier. I couldn't stand it. A lifetime of garrison routine with that drunken mob of foul-mouthed oafs? It would kill me.' What do you -want then?' said Farfalla.
To be what I feel I have the ability to be. To make the most of myself. To fulfil the purpose for which I was born.'
His mother would have wanted as much for him, had they lived in a time and a place where ambition did not promise death. As it was…
You were born,' said Farfalla, 'as the natural consequence of an act of lust. That's all there is to it. You understand?'
It hurt her to talk of his birth so coldly. Sarazin, her firstborn. A child conceived in love. Worshipped at birth as something sacred. His hand so small, clutching her finger to tightly! Yet talk harshly she must, to try to make him see sense.
Sarazin did not answer. Farfalla had already betrayed herself to him in an earlier meeting when she had spoken of his foot jammed beneath her rib, of his birth, his first words, his first step, the agony of their parting when he was aged but four. Did she think he had forgotten already? She loved him. Wanted him. Needed him. Valued him above almost anything in the world. Surely he could secure her indulgence. Seeking to do that, he said:
'I believe I can have whatever I want. I can be whatever I want to be. I can win whatever I want to win. All I need is just a little help to tap my true potential.'
'I give up!' said Farfalla. You're as senseless as a teenager. It's Lord Regan's fault. The old fool indulged you in a game of princes. But you're not a prince. You're a farrier's bastard, that's all.'
She hoped to educate through shock where reason had failed. Her vehement outburst shocked herself. But made little impact on Sarazin, who proved as much by saying:
You were consecrated as one of the Favoured Blood. In sacred ceremony, you joined your blood to that of the lineage of the rightful rulers of Argan. As all legend knows-'
'Legend! Legend!' said Farfalla. 'Do you want to be a legend-hero? Very well! Ride forth, my son, and kill yourself a dragon. Or dare the lands beyond Drangsturm and make a name for yourself as explorer. Or win yourself a princess, and make yourself lord of some kingdom through her inheritance.'
Thus raged Farfalla. Sarazin knew she was being sarcastic, but, even so, once he had escaped from her wrath he began considering her suggestions in earnest. Neither dragons nor Drangsturm appealed, but the idea of winning a princess recommended itself to his imagination.
The next day, Lod found Sarazin deep in research amidst heaps of books, scrolls, papers and maps. What are you doing?' said Lod.
'Researching my marriage to a princess,' answered Sarazin. 'Really! Have you found any candidates?'
'One or two. Things may have changed, but some of these reports claim that the kings of both Dybra and Chorst have daughters as yet unmarried. Slerma of Sung is also unmarried. Unfortunately, a traveller's tale alleges that she's slightly overweight. I must say I don't like fat.'
Then you must see my sister Amantha,' said Lod, whose appetite for devilment was unconstrained by any thought of the probable consequences of such. 'She's thin as an eel. And, I'm sure, every bit as slippery when wet.' He winked.
'I don't think you quite understand,' said Sarazin. 'I want a princess who comes with a kingdom. Slerma of Sung, for instance. She sounds nearly ideal. Her father rules from a mighty mountain city rich with the wealth of a thousand mines. Whereas Chenameg – well, it's a nice place, but Tarkal inherits, doesn't he?' There was a pause. Then Lod said: Tarkal is not immortal.' Who… who is next in the line of succession?'
'Amantha, of course. Tarkal was the firstborn. Then there was Amantha. Then me. The succession is from the oldest to youngest, regardless of sex.' 'But Tarkal is young,' insisted Sarazin. 'And, as I said, he is not immortal.' They eyed each other in silence. Then:
'Tell me then,' said Sarazin, choosing his words very, very carefully, 'what exactly do you want for yourself?'
'To live in my homeland, to start with. Only fear of my life sent me running to Selzirk. Tarkal thrice tried to kill me, I'm sure of it. He's three parts mad, I've seen it clear. But my father refuses to believe it.'
'This is all… very interesting,' said Sarazin. 'I'll have to think carefully about this.'
Think quickly,' said Lod. 'For Tarkal and Amantha will both be here some ten days hence. They come as part of an embassy, and will lodge within the walls of your mother's castle. That will be your best chance, perhaps your only chance, if you seek opportunity for romance. Or for… for other things.'
Ten days! Yes, ten days for Sarazin to think things through. What did he have to lose? His life! But then, of course, he had a kingdom to win.
CHAPTER EIGHT Sing me a song of love, my dear. Once more before I perish – Of love, the word that all men know, Of nuzzling lips, of golls which gloat, Of womanheat ready and waiting. Sing me a song, and make it of love: For my money for whores is exhausted. -Saba Yavendar, 'Lust Song'.
Fortune had indulged her with a royal name. She was Amantha of Chenameg, and she came to Selzirk of the Harvest Plains with the embassy which brought her brother Tarkal to the city. At an official reception, she met with Sean Kelebes Sarazin, a young man known to his mother as Sarazin Sky. He would, in the fulness of time, bear the name Watashi – which means, among other things, death.
They met beneath a sky of cerulean blue, when the world was at peace, for both had been born into the final years of the Golden Age. Then, the Swarms were kept safely south of Drangsturm, allowing the lands of Argan North to flourish in peace and prosperity. Sean Sarazin was then twenty-two years old. The fair lady Amantha was the same age, and carried herself with all the grace befitting a princess of the Chenameg Kingdom.
Sarazin fell in love with Amantha immediately. Just as he had expected to. Which was fortunate, since it would scarcely have been proper for him to pursue his princess unless he loved her. It is certain that love rules Sarazin's heart, not lust, for his princess was not made to excite the flesh. She was tall. She was thin. She was pallid. She had buck teeth. Therefore why did he adore her?