'It's the rat, master,' said Lemmy Blawert apologetically. 'He don't like strangers much. But here's the cards for you, master.'
He reached into his clothing and with a flourish scattered cards over the table: emperors, dragons, heroes, soldiers and a single fool. He left them where they fell.
'Dice, anyone? I've two dice to roll for your money with even odds. For me, the one-eyed one, the six-eyed six. A one wins for me, a six wins for me, and any roll where there's one and one or one and six or six and six. Even odds I'll give you. I win if one shows or six shows or both show. Whoever rolls against me has the numbers two, three, four and five. Even odds and fair dice.'
Lemmy Blawert retreated to a corner to roll dice with those prepared to wager with him. Miphon bandaged Garash's finger with a strip torn from a napkin.
'So you're off tomorrow,' said Jeferies.
'Heenmor has stolen a long march on us,' said Elkor Alish. 'We must travel fast.'
Perhaps they would find Heenmor hiding out in the Kikashi Hills, but Phyphor had already suggested that the renegade wizard might be running for Stronghold Handfast. That abandoned castle in the east, deserted by its last owners in days long forgotten by both the written word and the spoken, lay on the Central Plateau within the circle of the Ringwall Mountains. To get there, Heenmor would have to reach the Fleuve River, travel downstream to Ep Pass, cross the Spine Mountains by way of that pass, traverse the Dry Forages then climb the Ringwall Mountains themselves.
'Well then,' said Jeferies. 'If you must travel fast, why not travel a little way with a fast woman before you set out? But first: drink. More drink! Come on you dogs, drink! The night is still young, she may be a whore but she's young enough, so more drink – and minstrel, strike up a song!'
'Yes, master,' said the last minstrel left on his feet; he was very drunk.
He struck up a tune on an old and famous harp; unfortunately, a harp deteriorates with age, and is seldom any good after a century or so. Worse, this instrument had not been tuned; the minstrel fumbled the fingering and seemed to have forgotten half the words of his song.
Prince Jeferies threw a goblet of wine; inebriated, he missed, but wine spattered his harpist, who ceased playing.
'Well,' said Jeferies. 'It seems I can't offer you a song. Still, I can organise a flogging, if that would suit.' 'It would indeed,' said Garash. The minstrel blanched.
'Oh my prince,' said the minstrel. 'Oh honoured born, oh child of the Favoured Blood -' 'Silence!' roared Jeferies. 'Well, who's for a flogging?' Hearst stood.
'There's still time for a song, if you'd rather.'
Jeferies looked around and decided that none of his guards were sober enough to administer a flogging.
'A song, then! What instrument do you play, man of Rovac?'
'On Rovac we favour the drum,' said Hearst.
And Elkor Alish remembered the drums of Rovac on the night the city of Larbreth fell. He remembered Hearst striding down the halls of her palace with his fingers knotted in her hair, the weight of her head swinging free and bloody in the light of flaring torches. He remembered Hearst's face: the smile as creamy as lust. Ah yes, Alish remembered.
'We have no drums here,' said Jeferies.
'My voice will suffice then,' said Hearst.
'Yes,' said Jeferies. 'But remember your mother tongue is gibberish to us.'
'Were we on Rovac to speak in a universal language known to all the world, it would make no difference,' said Hearst. 'For few hear us without their minds being disordered by fear. But this much most men know: Ahyak Rovac!'
His shout echoed through the hall, startling some of the nodding guards.
'The song,' said Comedo impatiently.
'The song, yes,' said Hearst. 'I learnt it in Estar, so I will sing it in Estral – and let none say the Rovac are slow to learn. It is the song of the Victory of the Prince of the Favoured Blood.'
Prince Comedo clapped like a child: and indeed it was in childhood that Saba Yavendar's song of the Victory of the Prince of the Favoured Blood had become his favourite.
'On Rovac we prefer to sing with a foot on a corpse still cooling,' boasted Hearst. He looked Phyphor full in the face, then Garash, then Miphon. 'Is there any here who dares challenge Rovac?'
'None,' said Alish, as nobody else cared to open their mouths with Hearst in a mood like this. So Hearst hammered his fist on the table, once twice thrice, and began the song, which was in the Alacamp manner, half-chanted, half-sung:
By moon we come riding like tide on the flood, The stars for our guide and a prince of the Blood To lead us and speed us while night slips away To give us the blood-sky, the promise of day.
Valarkin knew that once these fighting men got their enthusiasm worked up, they could go on chanting and singing all night, for there was no shortage of battle songs and war epics.
– But it is all absurd, their mindless bull-roaring stupidity. Sweat curses sinew, bone butchers brawn, chopping away till a single hero stands gloating over pools of blood and piles of lopped-off testicles. What's the sense of it? They think they're powerful, but they're not: they're just mindless meat that labours with a sword instead of a spade. Power lies with those who command, not those who spend their lives strengthening their sword-arms.
Valarkin scarcely listened while Hearst went on and on, giving them the pedigree of the prince the song dealt with, the names of the most notable warriors who rode to the battle, and the reasons for the fight: a drunken argument, a broken vow, an insult, a theft, a rape and a kidnapping.
Ride with the whip,
With the spur let us ride,
With the horn to the lip
As steel draws pride.
And the scream! And the Scream!
It is one throat and alclass="underline"
Blood trims the sword as the dawn trims the sky:
Wheel them, heel them, fleet them along:
It is ours! It is ours!
Raise the Banner, the Song!
And hail him, hail now, prince of the blood, Our leader, our hero, our child of the sun, Prince of Dominion, his glory begun.
The horn of the victor echoes the sun,
Victory gained, his Triumph begun.
Rides he with sunlight and rides he with flame, For his is the kingdom, the power it is his, Handmaidens his to give and bestow, Gold is his bounty – Hearst broke off in mid-song. He could not go on, not with Alish watching him like that. Hearst swayed, unsteady on his feet. He picked up a goblet of wine, paused, swayed again. Then drained it and flung it away. It rattled over the stones of the floor and came to rest. He grabbed the edge of the table to steady himself, then all his control over his grief broke, and the words blurted out: 'Alish, Alish, what went wrong? Once we were friends!'
It was long after midnight. All those at the High Table who were still conscious were drunk, even the wizards, but they seemed determined to continue until they dropped. The kitchen servants had drunk themselves legless, so it had fallen to Gorn and Valarkin to prepare further refreshments for the High Table.
Gorn had found a clutch of eggs laid in clay compartments by a wasp; breaking away the mud, he extracted half-paralysed spiders and spread them on a slice of bread and butter. They lay fat, black, helpless; motionless but for an occasional stirring in one or two limbs.
Lemmy Blawert lay with his head on the kitchen table, snoring loudly. His rat, dead drunk, lay in his lap. Valarkin had already explored the secrets of Lemmy Blawert's robes, discovering the sources of the magician's magic: a pack of cards made up of nothing but fools.
Valarkin poured drinks, and to each he added a touch of cauchaumaur. The dose was light, and should prove just enough to tip drunken men into a long, deep sleep.
"What are you doing over there?" said Gorn.
'Just putting something in the drinks,' said Valarkin.