'Do you really want to know all I've learnt since coming to Selzirk?' said Blackwood innocently. 'For a start, I've read an old book of poetry -'
'Spare us,' said Hearst. 'Tell me, when they bring me this wine – do I have to drink it all? Does it say yes or no in those old books and parchments you've become addicted to?' i don't know,' said Blackwood. 'I'll try and find out, quickly. But if it's poison you're worried about -' it is.'
'- then I'll see if Miphon knows of anything which could protect you.'
'Do that,' said Hearst. 'And I'll be grateful.'
'Then,' said Blackwood, 'perhaps you'd give me an advance on your gratitude and reward me by letting me know the real reason why you're so badly upset.' i'm not upset!' roared Hearst.
And, such was the violence in his voice that Blackwood precipitated himself from the room, thinking it unwise to stay longer.
In truth, the reason for Hearst's strange mood probably had something to do with a letter he had received from a secret embassy from Runcorn. The letter, a bitter epistle from Elkor Alish, accused Hearst of being a coward, a traitor, and other terrible things.
Hearst had burnt the letter, but its words were branded indelibly on his mind.
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
Sunlight through stained glass splayed colours across Hearst's hands: orange, green, red. A goblet in front of him still held wine; blood-red wine. He had taken only a sip; Blackwood had told him a sip was enough.
It was done: he was now, for the purposes of the Harvest Plains, one of those of the Favoured Blood. Farfalla's intentions must now be clear to everyone.
The guests laughed, smiled, joked, pleased that the Rovac warrior Morgan Hearst had consented to sample that blood-red wine, that his destiny was settled. Yet the mood in the hall was far from light-hearted. There was something over-eager in the laughter, a hint of savage anticipation in the smiles, a touch of greed in the eyes.
Hearst knew that these people, having tasted victory, had acquired an appetite for more of the same. Perhaps that was why Farfalla now chose to yield leadership to him: because the people, desiring a war-leader, would find one if they were not given one.
Hearst watched.
He was stone-cold sober; apart from that one sip of wine, he had drunk nothing. He toyed with some cold chicken, but had little appetite for it; he had already indulged heavily in an oily, greasy concoction of milk, cream, liver, olive oil, eggs and charcoal which Miphon had prepared for him; this would line Hearst's stomach for the duration of the feast, delaying the absorption of any poisons, and afterwards he could vomit his stomach clean in private.
Hearst bit off some chicken, chewed it and swallowed it down. He felt distinctly queasy, thanks to the oily burden in his stomach, but he suspected if he complained to Miphon he would get no sympathy from the wizard. Hearst took another sip of wine. Just a small sip. Then dared a little more chicken. A harpist was getting to his feet. He called for silence: 'Peace, I beg you, peace. Silence! Not to honour my song, but to honour the one my song praises. Peace, now!'
Farfalla herself stood: 'Silence! You know who we honour. Silence should be our duty, our pleasure.'
There was silence in the hall then, although eating did not stop, and many refilled their glasses. The minstrel struck a chord on his harp, and began. He sang in the Galish Trading Tongue, as a courtesy to Morgan Hearst; most in the Hall of Wine knew that language:
The moon it was riding, but still we had light, The stars for our guide and our fortune foretold, For strength we were gathering in the depths of the night For attack at the daybreak – all strength to the bold!
With the first verse sung, Hearst knew the song was hardly original. It was a pastiche of the song of the Victory of the Prince of the Favoured Blood, which was declaimed in different languages in every kingdom of Argan. Hearst himself had roused out the words of that song, long ago in the High Castle in the land of Trest.
The minstrel told of reinforcements joining Hearst's army under cover of darkness, of Alish's army attacking as day was breaking, of the cavalry of the Harvest Plains shattering that attack, and of Alish's own cavalry meeting destruction when charging the burial mound. And then – distorting history slightly – the minstrel told of the rout of Alish's army:
And the scream! And the Scream! It is one throat and all, Blood greeting sword as the sun greets the sky. Wheel them, heel them, fleet them along: It is ours! It is ours! Raise the Banner, the Song!
There was more: much more. At the end, everyone in the Hall of Wine cheered. Cheered? They screamed: screamed in a blood-heat frenzy. And every voice that was raised was calling for war.
Hearst remembered, vividly, the aftermath of the battle that was rousing such enthusiasm amongst the banquet guests. He recalled the wounded, the crush injuries, the amputations, shocked faces, a brave smile from a mask of blood and bone, the last words of a dying man. He felt a sudden surge of nausea, and stumbled from the hall, leaving by an exit reserved for the most important people.
Outside, he vomited into a capacious vase, bringing up every bit of the noxious mixture which had burdened his stomach. Then he returned.
'Are you sick?" said Farfalla, seeing his pallor.
'I'm fighting fit,' said Hearst, draining his goblet. The wine made him feel better. 'Give me more wine.'
'Of course,' said Farfalla. 'There's going to be another song now.'
Hearst drank deeply. Wine warm as the sun: a healing heat in his belly. A minstrel stood and began to tell of the struggle for control of Androlmarphos. Hearst remembered. Wild rocks in the streets. A man trapped against a wall then mashed. Swords in the sun. A scream hoisted on the point of a spear.
He recharged his cup. He drank.
The minstrel told of the sea battle. And Hearst remembered. Timbers heaved up in the surge of the sea's swell. The grey whales lofted up from the waters: huge humps death-heavy. They drove forward. Rend ing timbers: a mast falling: a man jumping to the drowning sea.
As he drank, wine favoured him with its intimate warmth. Song followed wine; wine followed song. Then a new minstrel rose, and called for silence:
Now silence, silence, for my song Is more than worth the hearing: A hero's deeds, a hero's tale The subject of its praising.
And the minstrel began his version of the legend of how the Rovac warrior Morgan Hearst killed the dragon Zenphos in the lair on the mountain of Maf. Hearst remembered hearing that legend in Skua, the squalid port on the coast of Trest that bore the same name as Ohio's fine ship. Ohio! Dead now, killed by a fall from a horse, killed by Morgan Hearst, killed by Farfalla's treachery, by a lie about an army from the Rice Empire.
Hearst got to his feet. Looked around. Mouths opened, closed. Blood within mouths. Shadows within eyes. Bright-bone teeth glistening with laughter.
Hearst remembered the vision he had seen at Skua: an ocean of fire a thousand years wide. He remembered another vision: Gorn's head, blood on Gorn's lips, death in the sockets of his eyes. At Skua, he had run amok, sword slicing at any and every, his voice raging to madness.
"What are you standing for?' said Farfalla. 'Sit down.' Hearst turned, stared at her. Death was on her hands. And there must be a death to pay for a death. He drew his sword.
He remembered what happened at Larbreth. The woman Ethlite! He had taken her head: his sword slicing away the voice which had dared to speak to Elkor Alish as if to a slave. Now, here was another woman: and this one had much more to answer for.
'What do you want?' said Farfalla. She was afraid.
'What do you think I want?' said Hearst.