He looked out over the Hall of Wine. Everyone was watching him. Reckless, he roared: 'What do you think I want?'
And the answer came back: 'Watashi! Wa – wa – watashi!'
Watashi. Blood. Fear. Death.
They thought he meant to kill Farfalla. And more: they wanted it. They were ready for it. In Morgan Hearst, they saw the promise of power, glory, wealth, an empire that would control all of Argan. They knew it would demand killing: they were ready for the slaughter to begin. Now.
Hearst raked his sword over the table, scattering dishes, plates, bowls, cups, bottles. He threw back his head and screamed. The crowd responded with another roar: 'Wa – wa – Watashi! Wa – wa – Watashi!'
They were as drunk as he was. And as mad. Whatever he commanded, they would do. His word would be law. They were ready to worship him. Yet what was he? Who and what was Morgan Hearst? He was a man who had been the death of those who followed him most faithfully. Who had been fooled by a woman's lies. Who had sickened of slaughter, yet, when tempted, was ready to accept command of an empire which lusted for war and conquest.
Morgan Hearst turned on his heel and stumbled from the room. Farfalla sat at the table, shock on her face, clearly realising how close she had come to losing her head. Blackwood and Miphon rose and followed Hearst at a discreet distance, knowing there was no telling what he might do when he was drunk like this.
Farfalla sat alone in the Hall of Wine, isolated 431 amongst her people. A drunken cavalry officer stood on a table to propose a toast to Morgan Hearst; the toast was taken up with a roar of approval. Since power is based on consent, Hearst now had absolute power: these people would do whatever he said. Farfalla, kingmaker of the Harvest Plains, was ruler now in name only.
This was what she had wanted: to place Morgan Hearst on the throne of the Harvest Plains. To free herself from the burdens of power. What she had not wanted, and had not anticipated, was the enthusiasm she saw in the hall, where people she had once thought rational now raised their voices in an uproar like ghouls baying for blood. She knew the name of this madness: war fever.
She wondered what she had done.
Hearst found his way to the battlements of the original wizard castle round which Selzirk had been built. At first he lurched and staggered a little, but soon his gait steadied to the regular rhythm that would defeat league after league on a long march.
Marching along, he remembered, with a terrible drink-sodden nostalgia, the wars of his youth. He sang, tunelessly, drunken snatches of songs he had learnt by campfires on foreign shores, mountains, tundras. Those early days had been the best: he had been just another soldier in the armies of Rovac, then, with no responsibility except to listen and obey.
He remembered, in particular, the Cold West. Yes! He remembered a battlefield by sunlight, rank upon rank of gleaming armour and glittering weapons. A sudden surge of pride and ego, rising to adrenalin heights. Battle-drums booming, a battle-chant roaring:
Who are we? We are the Rovac!
What do we do? We kill! We kill! We kill! We kill!
Kill! Yes. That was the chant. Those were the days. Battles in the shadow of the Far Wall. The struggle for control of the pass commanding the Valley of Insects. The sack of the Temple of the Thousand Snowflowers. Grand simplicities.
And what now? Questions and confusions. And what was the source of those questions, those confusions? Hearst knew. In the beginning was a lie. After he had crawled down from the mountain of Maf, he had allowed people to believe he had killed the dragon; he had boasted himself to a hero, and all the problems had started.
Alish had known him to be a liar: and their friendship had begun to fail. So what was he to do?
There was only one way out. The trouble had begun with a lie. The trouble had begun when he had pretended to be a hero. Well then, the simple answer was to become a hero. A real hero. Then there would be no lie.
But- Muddled with drink, he remembered, in a blurred, half-hearted way, having doubts about the very ethos of heroism itself. Well, no doubt those doubts were part of the package that went with being a coward. He tried to kick himself for his cowardice, and, as a consequence, fell over.
'Doubt is for women,' muttered Hearst, hauling himself to his feet. 'A hero knows!'
The battlements stretched clear and empty ahead to a tower. The tower of the order of Ebber.
Hearst drew his sword.
He was drunk, but he drew with the grace of a dancer. The blade leapt clean and clear from the scabbard, slicing into the sunlight.
That was fast.
Farfalla had taught him that: had taught him how to be better and faster with his left hand than he had ever been with his right. For Hearst, that was a great gift. A gift of friendship. Yet she had lied, had betrayed him, had caused Ohio's death. What should he do with her?
– A hero will know the answer to that. Strength, man of Rovac, strength. Hastsword, my brother, my brother in blood, destiny waits for us. Strength, Hearst, hero, song-singer, sword-master, leader of men.
Leader of men. Yes. He remembered leading men to their deaths. In Looming Forest, when Heenmor – no, he would not think about it. He would concentrate on the task at hand. The man who pretended to be a hero must become a hero for real.
He had killed a dragon in the wild country deep in the heart of Argan. Wasn't that enough? No: he had been faced with a choice between the dragon or a duel with Elkor Alish. Either might have killed him. Many men go into battle for fear that if they run, their commanders will slay them; we do not call them heroes because one fear overbalances another.
The tower of the order of Ebber was closer now. This was what they were all afraid of. Farfalla was afraid of it. The people of the Harvest Plains were afraid of it. From memories he had inherited from the wizard Phyphor, Hearst knew that even the wizards of the order of Arl feared the order of Ebber.
– But we, Hastsword, my hero, we have no fear. Are you with me, my brother? Are you with me? Who are we? We are the Rovac! The heroes! Strength, man of Rovac, strength.
Hearst glanced round for one last look at the sunlight. He saw Blackwood and Miphon on the battlements. They started to run forward, shouting. At the distance, he could not hear what it was they were trying to tell him. But he was pleased to see them there.
They would witness his deed.
– And now. Now! Do it!
Hearst reached out and touched the substance of the tower of Ebber. It parted before his hand. With the flame of the black-faceted jewel burning at his throat, he walked into the tower of Ebber. The way closed behind him, and he stood in darkness, sword in hand.
Slowly, pale lights like wan and wasted captive stars came to life and illuminated the interior of the tower. Strange devices loomed out of the gloom: towering configurations of burnished metal in which the features of man, bird and insect were blended as if in a nightmare. They were, for the moment, silent. Quiescent. Waiting.
Hearst, bewildered, gaped at them.
The wan starlight grew no stronger. No threat came from the silent metal. Slowly, he dared a footfall forward. Then another. Gaining confidence, he walked forward, stirring up a little dust. He sneezed, vigorously, three times. Nothing and nobody challenged in response.
Ahead, he saw a stairway.
Hearst climbed the stairs. Sword poised to strike, he sidled into the chamber above. It was bare but for a series of stone tubs in which water, lit from below, glittered with an uncanny light. Looking into one, Hearst saw the water seemed to descend for leagues, clear as an ice-bright winter sky. Far below, out of reach, globes spun in that clear water, some white, some orange, some red; one globe – how beautiful! – was all browns and blues, capped top and bottom with irregular markings of winter white.