In amongst this, the animals of the court: ynt, like ankle-high furry waves slinking sinuously across the floor, always sniffing, happily trailing vermilion ribbons; ryre, tiptoeing decorously, usually by walls, thinly knee-high, ever-charmed by their own reflection, watchful, barely tolerating crimson collars; choups, bouncing and skittering on the polished-to-a-gleam wood tiles, bumping into people’s thighs and waists, alarmed at any alienness, proudly sporting little saddles for children, flanks tied-over with red to indicate mourning like full-size mounts throughout the kingdom on this day, all caparisoned in scarlet.
Moving through the crowd in Renneque’s rustlingly red wake, Oramen gave many small smiles to many slightly anxious faces trying to hit on the right combination of regretful grief and encouraging friendliness. Renneque kept her face modestly down, yet seemed to appreciate every glance cast her way and to be energised by the attention. “You have grown, Oramen,” she told him, slipping back to his side. “It seems that only yesterday I could look down on you, but no more. You’re taller than me now, practically a man.”
“I trust I grow rather than you shrink.”
“What? Oh!” Renneque said, and squeezed his hand with every appearance of bashfulness. She glanced up. “So many people, Oramen! All would be your friends now.”
“I did not think I lacked for friends before, but I suppose I must accept I was wrong.”
“Will you go with the army, Oramen, down into the Ninth, to fight the dreadful Deldeyn?”
“I don’t know. It’s not really for me to decide.”
Renneque looked down at her fine red gown being kicked out ahead of her with every step. “Perhaps it should be.”
“Perhaps.”
“I hope the victory is quick! I want to see the great Falls at Hyeng-zhar and the Nameless City.”
“I have heard they are most spectacular.”
“My friend Xidia – she’s older than me, of course, but still – she saw them once, in more peaceful times. Her father was ambassador to the Deldeyn. He took her. She says they are like nothing else. A whole city! Imagine that! I should like to see them.”
“I’m sure you shall.”
They arrived at where Harne, the lady Aelsh, was seated, surrounded by her own ladies, many clutching handkerchiefs and still dabbing at their eyes. Harne herself looked dry-eyed, though grim.
Oramen’s late father had never taken any lady to be his queen, thinking it best to leave that position free in case he needed to use it as a method of securing a troublesome or much-required territory. It was said that King Hausk had come close to marrying several times; certainly the subject had been raised amongst the ambassadors and diplomats of the court often enough, and if you believed every rumour he had been nearly married to almost every eligible princess of the Eighth and at least one from the Ninth. In the event his feats of arms had done all the securing required without recourse to a diplomatic or strategic marriage and instead he had chosen to make a series of more tactical alliances within the nobility of his own kingdom through a judicious choice of honoured concubines.
Oramen’s own mother, Aclyn, the lady Blisk – who had also birthed his elder brother, the late and still sorely lamented Elime – had been banished shortly after Oramen had been born, allegedly at the insistence of Harne, who, being older, it was said had felt threatened. Or perhaps there had been a falling-out between the two women – versions varied according to whom within the palace you listened to. Oramen had no memories of his mother, only of nurses and servants and an occasionally visiting father who somehow contrived to seem more remote than his utterly absent mother. She had been banished to a place called Kheretesuhr, an archipelagic province in the Vilamian Ocean, towards the far side of the world from Pourl. One of Oramen’s goals, now that he was at least approaching the true seat of power, was to secure her return to the court. He had never expressed this desire to anyone, yet he had always felt that somehow Harne must know this.
The final link in this unhappily expansive family had been Vaime, the lady Anaplia. Always frail, she had collapsed when heavily pregnant. The doctors had told the King he could save the mother or the child, but not both. He chose to save the child, expecting a boy. Instead he was presented with a tiny premature dot of a girl. He was so appalled at this disaster that the infant wasn’t even named for a month. Eventually she was called Djan. Over the years, the King had made no secret, least of all towards Djan herself, that had he known her gender before birth, she would have been sacrificed for the good of her mother. His only solace had been that he might marry the girl off one day for diplomatic profit.
The King had lately taken another couple of junior concubines, though these were kept in a smaller palace in another part of the city – again, at the insistence of Harne, according to palace gossip – however, it was Harne that was recognised as his widow in all but name. The two younger concubines had not even been present at the service or internment, nor had they been invited here.
“Madam, good lady,” Oramen said, bowing deeply to Harne. “It is only in you that I feel my sense of loss is matched, even outweighed. I beg you accept my most sincere condolences. If we may take one ray of light from this dark time, let it be that you and I grow closer than we have been; my father’s death, and that of your son, giving birth to a more affectionate relationship between us than that which has existed in the past. The King always sought harmony, even if through initial conflict, and Ferbin was the very soul of sociability. We might honour both their memories by seeking our own concord.”
He’d had this little speech, this careful formed set of words, prepared for some days now. He had meant to say “the King’s death”, but it had come out otherwise; he had no idea why. He felt annoyed at himself.
The lady Aelsh kept her strict expression, but made a small inclination of her head. “Thank you for your words, prince. I’m sure they would both be pleased if all could be in agreement within the court. We might all take pains to celebrate them so.”
And that, Oramen thought – as Renneque fell to Harne’s side and took the older woman’s hands in hers and shook them as she told her how awful was her own grief – will just have to do. It was not outright rejection, but neither was it quite what he’d been hoping for. He caught Harne’s gaze briefly while Renneque talked on. He bowed and turned away.
“How go our preparations, Field Marshal?” Oramen asked the gauntly forbidding form of the army’s newly promoted chief. Werreber was standing, drink in hand, gazing out at the rain falling over the city. He turned and looked down at Oramen.
“Satisfactorily, sir,” he said gravely.
“The rumours say we attack within ten days.”
“I have heard as much myself, sir.”
Oramen smiled. “My father would have loved to have been at the head of our forces.”
“He would indeed, sir.”
“We will not suffer by his lack? I mean, sufficiently for there to be any doubting the outcome.”
“He is a great loss, sir,” Werreber said. “However, he left the army in its best deportment. And there is, of course, an urge amongst the men to avenge his death.”
“Hmm,” Oramen said, frowning. “I heard that the Deldeyn prisoners were slaughtered after his death.”
“There was killing, sir. It was a battle.”
“After the battle, though. When by every other standard and practice of my father, prisoners are meant to be treated as we would want any of our own taken.”
“There was killing then too, sir. It is to be regretted. Doubtless the men were blinded by grief.”
“I have heard it said that my father ordered the slaughter.”
“I am sorry you have heard that, sir.”
“You were there with him when he died, dear Werreber. Do you remember such an order?”
The field marshal drew back and up a little, and appeared positively discomfited. “Prince,” he said, looking down his great long nose at him, “it is sad, but there are times whe
n the less that is said about certain matters the better it is for all. A clean wound’s best left. Only pain comes from poking and prodding at it.”
“Oh, Werreber, I could not be there at my father’s death. I have a need – natural to any son – to know quite how it was. Can you not help fix it in my mind so that, secured, it’s easier to leave it finally alone? Otherwise I must imagine the scene, the words, the actions, and all these things shift because they are not established for me. So it becomes a wound I cannot help but return to.”
The field marshal looked as uncomfortable as Oramen had ever seen him. “I was not present throughout the incident of your father’s dying,” he said. “I was with the Exaltine, on our way having been summoned, or for some long time outside the building, not wishing to make a crowd while efforts to save the King’s life continued. I heard no such order given by your father regarding the prisoners, but that does not mean it was not given. It hardly matters, sir. Done to order or in an excess of grief, the enemy concerned remain dead.”
“So I’d not dispute,” Oramen said. “It was more the reputation of my father I was thinking of.”
“He must have been in great pain and distress, sir. A fever can afflict men in such circumstances. They become other than themselves and say things they would never say otherwise. Even the bravest. It is often not an edifying spectacle. I repeat, sir; it is all best left alone.”
“Are you saying that at the very end he did not die as he had lived? He would think that a severe charge.”
“No, sir, I am not. In any event, I did not see the very end.” Werreber paused, as if unsure quite how to express himself. “Your father was the bravest man I ever knew. I cannot imagine he met death with anything other than the fierce composure with which he faced its threat so many times during life. Also, though, he was never one to dwell excessively on the past. Even having made a mistake, he took what he might learn from it and then dismissed it. We must do as he would have done, and turn our attention to the future. Now, sir, might I be excused? I believe I am needed at Headquarters. There is much still to be planned.”
“Of course, Werreber,” Oramen said, sipping his drink. “I did not mean to detain you, or unduly press on any wound.”
“Sir.” The field marshal bowed and departed.
Oramen counted himself privileged to have got so much from Werreber, who was known as a man of few words. This was a description unsuited to the Exaltine Chasque, the next figure he approached seeking detail of his father’s death. The Exaltine was rotund in body and face and his dark red robes bulked him out still further. He blustered over his own part in the deathbed scene, claiming his eyes had been too full of tears and his ears brimming with the lamentations of all around to recall much clearly.
“And so, do your studies progress, young prince?” the Exaltine asked, as though returning to the more important subject. “Eh? Do you continue to sup at the well of learning? Hmm?”
Oramen smiled. He was used to adults asking about favourite school subjects when they could think of nothing else to talk of or wished to get off an awkward subject, so he replied perfunctorily and made his escape.
“They say the dead look back at us from mirrors, don’t they, Gillews?”
The royal physician turned round with a startled expression on his face, and then staggered and nearly fell over. “Your – that is, Prince Oramen.”
The doctor was a small, tense, nervous-looking man at the best of times. He seemed now positively abuzz with energy. Also, from his continued swaying and the glassy look about his eyes, quite drunk too. He had been staring at his reflection in one of the mirrors that covered half the walls of the drawing room. Oramen had been looking for him, moving amongst the throng, accepting sympathies, dispensing solemn pleasantries and trying to look – and be – grieving, brave, calm and dignified all at once.
“Did you see my father, Gillews?” Oramen asked, nodding to the mirror. “Was he in there, looking down on us?”
“What’s that?” the doctor asked. His breath smelled of wine and some unsluiced foodstuff. Then he seemed to catch up with what was going on and turned, swaying again, to look into the tall mirror. “What? The dead? No, I see no one, saw nobody. Indeed not, prince, no.”
“My father’s death must have affected you deeply, good doctor.”
“How could it not?” the little fellow asked. He wore a doctor’s skullcap, but it had slipped to one side and come forward, too, so that it was starting to droop over his right eye. Wispy white hairs protruded. He looked down into his near-empty glass and said, “How could it not?” again.
“I’m glad I found you, Gillews,” Oramen told him. “I have wanted to talk to you since my father was killed.”
The doctor closed one eye and squinted at him. “Uh?” he said.
Oramen had grown up with adults getting drunk around him. He didn’t really enjoy drinking – the sensation of being dizzy, as though you were about to be sick, seemed an odd state to pursue with such determination – but he quite liked being with drunk people, having learned that they often gave away the true natures they otherwise contrived to hide, or just let slip some item of information or gossip they would not have parted with so casually when sober. He already suspected he had got to Dr Gillews too late, but he’d give it a try anyway. “You were with my father when he died, obviously.”
“It was a most obvious death, sir, true,” the doctor said, and, strangely, attempted a smile. This dissolved quickly into an expression of some despair, then he dropped his head so that his expression was unreadable and started muttering what sounded like, “Well, not obvious, why obvious? Gillews, you idiot . . .”
“Doctor. I’d know how my father was in those last minutes. This is a matter of some importance to me. I feel I can’t put him fully to rest in my mind until I know. Please – can you recall?”
“To rest?” Gillews said. “What rest? What rest is there? Rest is . . . rest is beneficial. Renews the frame, redefines the nerves, resupplies the muscles and allows the mechanical stresses on the greater bodily organs to abate. Yes, that is rest, and crave it we might. Death is not rest, no; death is the end of rest. Death is decay and rotting down, not building up! Don’t talk to me of rest! What rest is there? Tell me that! What rest? Where, when our king lies heavy in his grave? For whom? Eh? I thought not!”
Oramen had taken a step back as the doctor raved at him. He could only wonder at the depths of emotion the poor man must be feeling. How he must have loved his king, and how devastating it must have been for him to lose him, to be unable to save him. The doctor’s two principal assistants moved in on either side to take Gillews’ arms, supporting him. One took his glass and pushed it into a pocket. The other looked at Oramen, smiled nervously and shrugged. He mumbled something apologetic-sounding that ended in “sir”.
“What?” Gillews said, head tipping from side to side as though his neck was half broken, eyes rolling as he tried to focus on the two young men. “My pall-bearers, already? Is it to a council of my peers? An arraignment before the shades of physicians past? Throw me in the mirror. Let me reflect . . .” He pitched his head back and wailed, “Oh, my king, my king!” then slumped in the grip of the two men, weeping.
The assistants took Gillews stumbling away.
“Dear Oramen,” tyl Loesp said, appearing at Oramen’s side. He looked after the departing figures of Gillews and his two helpers. “The doctor may have enjoyed his drink too much.”
“He enjoys nothing else,” Oramen said. “I feel outdone in unkiltered grief.”
“There is appropriate grief, and inappropriate grief, don’t you think?” tyl Loesp said, standing close to Oramen, towering over him, white hair shining in the candlelight. His dark red trous and long jacket contrived to make him look no less massive than he’d looked in full armour, the evening he’d brought the King’s body back from the battlefield. Oramen was growing tired of being polite.
“Did my father die well, in the end, tyl Loesp?” he
asked. “Tell me. Please.”
Tyl Loesp had been bending over Oramen a little. Now he drew himself back and up. “Like a king should, sir. I was never more proud of him, nor held him in greater esteem, as at that moment.”
Oramen put his hand on the tall warrior’s arm. “Thank you, Loesp.”
“It is my pleasure and my duty, young prince. I am but the stake to support a sapling.”
“You have supported me well in this, and I am in your debt.”
“Never so, sir. Never so.” Tyl Loesp smiled at Oramen for a moment or two, then his gaze flicked to somewhere behind the prince and he said, “Here, sir. Look; a more welcome face.”
“My prince,” said a voice behind Oramen.
He turned to find his old friend Tove Lomma standing there, smiling.
“Tove!” Oramen said.
“Equerry Tove, if you’ll have me, Prince Regent.”
“Equerry?” Oramen asked. “To me? Of mine?”
“I’d hope! Nobody else would have me.”
“In fact, a most able young man,” tyl Loesp said, clapping both Lomma and Oramen on the shoulders. “Remember merely that he is meant to keep you out of mischief, not lay a course towards it.” Tyl Loesp smiled at Oramen. “I’ll leave you two to plot much good behaviour.” He bowed shortly and left.
Tove looked rueful. “Not a day for mischief, prince. Not this one. But we must hope there will be many in the future.”
“We’ll share none if you don’t call me by my name, Tove.”
“Tyl Loesp instructed me most strictly that you were the Prince Regent, nothing more familiar,” Tove said, and pretended to frown.
“Consider that order rescinded, by me.”
“Duly agreed, Oramen. Let’s have a drink.”
8. Tower
Matter Page 13