‘Clear the damned table,’ he laughed, struggling with his poorly balanced scrolls. Razi jumped up, shoved the pitchers and beakers aside, and wiped the table clear of crumbs and grease. Alberon threw his papers carelessly on top. Then he gently hoisted the cloth bundle in both arms and, grinning, deposited it into Wynter’s lap.
The bundle moved and Wynter had to prevent herself from leaping to her feet in alarm and dashing it from her. Her first thoughts were that in a fit of his old puckish devilment, Alberon had put a sack full of rats on her knee. But then the bundle sighed with a familiar, haughty impatience and Wynter stilled, her hands up, hardly daring to believe it. The cloth was shrugged aside and a grey-furred head emerged. Wynter’s vision blurred with tears as huge, gold-green eyes blinked up at her.
‘Coriolanus?’ she whispered.
The cat gazed at her for a moment, frowning. Then he rolled his eyes. ‘Oh,’ he said wearily. ‘’Tis but thee. Pfffft. For this, he-who-is-heir drags me from a warm nest.’
‘Coriolanus!’ She grabbed the disgruntled creature under his scrawny shoulders and held him up to the light. He let out a small whine of genuine pain and Wynter saw with dismay how thin he was, how threadbare his once sleek fur had become.
‘Unhand me, girl,’ he hissed, and she lowered him gently onto her lap. He lay panting for a moment, his heaving ribs horribly defined in the flaring light of the fire. Then he slid a glance to Wynter and grimaced. ‘Great Hunter,’ he gasped. ‘I had quite forgot what a grabbish little human thou were.’
‘Sorry,’ she whispered, smiling down at him, her hands poised. She could not believe he was still alive. She had returned from the North to find them all gone – all those sleek, self-possessed friends of her childhood, fallen victim to an inexplicable purge; killed on the murderous order of the King. But here he was, Cori, her favourite, the smoke-coloured companion of her happy youth.
He closed his eyes for a moment to gather himself, then sighed. ‘Thou mayst pet me,’ he said graciously. ‘If thou wishest. I should be quite happy to allow it.’
‘Thank you.’ Gently she ran her hand from his shoulders to his tail, just as he had always liked it.
‘Mmmmmm,’ he purred.
Wynter gazed at Alberon, her eyes quite uncontrollably full of tears as her old cat-friend stretched and stiffly curled himself on her knee. Thank you, Albi. Thank you so much.
Alberon smiled and nodded, his own eyes very, very bright.
Coriolanus sighed again and settled his chin down against his chest. His spine was a well defined serration beneath Wynter’s palm, his poor body a thinly covered collection of bones. ‘Great Hunter, girl,’ he murmured, already almost asleep, ‘what hast thou been doing? Thou smellest most strongly of dog.’ And he drifted off, perfectly content, his rusty purr in warm harmony with the crackling of the fire.
MAPS AND PLANS
‘IS GREYMOTHER here too, Albi?’ asked Wynter, her voice low in deference to the sleeping cat.
Alberon shook his head sadly. He reached and scratched Coriolanus’s head. ‘I tried to get her to come, but she preferred to take the last of the kittens and go into hiding. Cori had already fallen foul of the poison, and he was simply too weak to keep running. When I sent Oliver and his men ahead, I had them take the poor fellow with them. He has survived it all, poor thing, but as you see, he is not terribly well.’
‘Oh, Albi. Why? Why did the King do it?’
Alberon twitched a smile. ‘I was quite relentless in my hunt for his wonderful machine, Wyn. I simply would not back down.’
Wynter traded a startled glance with Razi. Wonderful machine? That could only be a reference to her father’s infamous Bloody Machine. Were they finally to learn what it was?
Alberon, still occupied in gently scratching the top of Coriolanus’s head, went quietly on: ‘The cats knew every inch of the palace, just like the ghosts. I’m afraid to say that I was constantly questioning the poor creatures. They told me nothing of use, but in the end, Father felt he had no choice but to do away with them. I suppose he found it preferable to poisoning me.’
He looked up into her eyes. Your fault! thought Wynter. All your fault! But Alberon’s smile was so sad, his big hand so gentle on Cori’s fragile back, that she couldn’t bring herself to say it.
Razi, apparently lost in thought, was sprawled in his chair, idly flicking the curled edge of the bigger scroll with the tip of one finger. It was a perfectly casual gesture, but Wynter knew that he was trying to see what the parchment contained. Alberon sat back. The wry amusement in his face told Wynter that he knew exactly what his brother was up to.
‘You sent Oliver ahead?’ asked Razi softly. ‘That is an interesting slant to the tale.’ Alberon’s expression hardened and Razi glanced up to meet his gaze. ‘Court gossip has it the other way around. It is said that Oliver is the one who plotted treason, and that you took his lead, following after him when Father condemned him for it.’
The corner of Alberon’s mouth twitched. ‘Oliver is a knight of the realm, brother, and I the heir to the throne. Who follows whom in that ranking?’ Razi tilted his head in acceptance of this point, and Alberon went on. ‘I sent Oliver ahead to set up this camp and to prepare for my negotiations. He has risked everything for me. Risked his title, his lands, his life and those of his men. Because he believes in me – his Royal Prince – and in my plan for this kingdom’s future. Do not mistake him, Razi; he is ever loyal to our father and to this kingdom, and he is ever faithful to his pledge as a knight. I shall hear no word said against him.’
‘You had better be very vocal in defending him on your return home, then, your Highness. Otherwise you have condemned the poor man to slow death as a traitor to the crown.’
‘Oliver knows what it is to risk his life for the throne, Razi. He is a warrior born. Both he and I would gladly lay down our lives for this kingdom.’
Wynter frowned at this, annoyed by the implication that Razi would not be willing to do the same, but Razi himself did not change his expression of careful detachment, and so Wynter kept her peace.
Alberon spread his hands in abrupt dismissal of the topic. ‘Do not fret yourself over it,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘Those who stand with me here will never regret it. I shall make certain of that. Our father himself will one day bless their names, you wait and see. Now . . .’ He took a scroll and spread it on the table. ‘Hold that side,’ he ordered, then slammed the pitcher and beakers down on opposite corners to keep the parchment spread. ‘Look.’
Razi spread his hand on the corner nearest him and looked coolly down at the scroll. Wynter hoisted the sleeping cat to her shoulder and shifted to get a good look. Coriolanus mewed softly in his sleep but did not wake.
To Wynter’s disappointment, it was not one of her father’s intricate plans, but a wonderfully executed map of the Europes, detailed with mountains and rivers and political divisions. The delicate bays and peninsulas of the Moroccos coastline embroidered the lower borders, while the scattered coastline of the Northland territories decorated the top. Beautiful little gold-leaf castles represented the seats of power in the various European kingdoms, and a gold palace icon symbolised the qasabah of the Sultan of the Moroccos in Algiers.
Wynter gazed at the ornately drawn white-topped mountains that ringed Jonathon’s kingdom. She looked at the long, straight ribbon of the port road, stretching a remarkable one hundred and eighty-seven bandit-free, well policed miles. Her gaze followed its natural progress out into the channel of peaceful blue wavelets that stretched between Marseilles and Algiers. The only pirate-free shipping lane in the entire Mediterranean Sea, made possible by the unprecedented combination of Moroccan and Southland fleets working together as one. Once again, Wynter marvelled at Jonathon’s remarkable achievement in preserving this small, unusual land in the midst of the violence and hatred that currently ravaged the kingdoms surrounding it.
We have come very close to losing it, she thought sadly. So very close. This small island
of tolerance. This little flame of hope in the dark.
She ran her finger across one of the many Here Be Wolves legends that dotted the tumultuous Gibraltars, and gazed at the long, dark border of the Haun territories, now once again gnawing at the fragile borders of Italy and the Venetian States. Wynter’s heart squeezed with anxiety. It was all so unstable, all such a threat.
‘Abdallah ash-Shiekh,’ said Alberon, leaning on the table and staring keenly at his brother.
Razi, who had been regarding the map with uncharacteristic wistfulness, glanced up in surprise. ‘The Sultan of the Moroccos?’ he said. ‘What of him?’
‘He is having problems.’
Razi nodded uncertainly. ‘Some,’ he said. ‘Much the same types of trouble Father has been having. The large numbers of dispossessed Musulmen and Jews pouring in from the Northern inquisitions have put a terrible burden on the Moroccan economy. They have nowhere to live, they have little to live on . . . they are angry. The persecutions that they have suffered in the Europes have caused an upsurge in anti-Christian feeling that the Sultan is finding hard to argue against. It is a delicate situation. But Alberon, none of this is news to you, surely? I understand that communications here were very poor, but I diligently sent Father the most detailed reports, and on my return he seemed well aware—’
‘Why did you not inform us of the attempts to depose him?’
Razi frowned, obviously searching his memory. ‘There have been no attempts to depose the Sultan.’
‘The Corsairs, Razi. The Slawi Corsairs in Fez and their allies among the radical imams. I have absolute proof that they are determined to take power! But because you did not mention it, our father chooses not to believe me!’
There was a long moment during which the brothers regarded each other in silence.
‘Are you going to tell me that you did not know about it?’ asked Alberon, his eyes still on Razi. ‘You who has spent the past five years at the heart of the Sultan’s court?’
The implication of Alberon’s words slowly dawned on Wynter. ‘Albi,’ she whispered. ‘You do not think Razi purposely withheld this information from your father?’
‘Perhaps you underestimated how important the information was?’ asked Alberon. ‘Is that it, brother? I must confess, I cannot see how one could come to such a conclusion – but, still, I am prepared to accept that you might have?’
Wynter stared at her old friend, willing him not to make the accusation she knew was poised on his tongue. Her heart clenched when he spoke again.
‘Or perhaps,’ he said, ‘you were persuaded to stay silent?’
‘Alberon Kingsson,’ she hissed, ‘you ignorant pup.’
Alberon did not so much as glance her way.
‘Tell me, brother,’ he insisted, still leaning across the table. ‘I am most interested to hear your explanation. Knowing that the future of our kingdom depends on the support of the Sultan, why is it that you concealed this mortal weakness at the heart of the Moroccan court?’
‘Someone has misled you,’ said Razi very quietly.
‘I think not!’ cried Alberon, slapping his hand down onto the map. ‘According to my sources, the Sultan’s court is hopelessly divided, and it is only a matter of time before our father’s most powerful ally is dragged from his throne and cast aside. Tell me I am wrong, Razi. Sit there now and dare to tell me that I am wrong, when I have documents proving it, and a contingent of ambassadors on their way here ready to attest it.’
‘You are wrong.’
Alberon held Razi’s gaze for a long, intense moment. Then his face softened and he reached across to pat his brother’s hand. ‘All right,’ he whispered. ‘All right, brother. I believe you are honest. You have obviously been misled; but I believe you fully believe that which you have told our father.’
Razi sat back, his face rigid, his eyes full.
‘Alberon . . .’ hissed Wynter, almost speechless with rage.
‘Alberon, I swear it to you . . . I swear it, I will kick your . . .’
Alberon reached across to squeeze her hand, and she tugged it free with a snarl. He chuckled.
‘Do not be angry, Wyn. Razi understands, don’t you, brother? I had to be sure of his integrity. Here,’ he tapped his head, then slid his hand to his heart, ‘as well as here. Tell her, Razi. It is simply what men like us must do.’
Razi averted his eyes. He coughed into his hand. ‘It is . . . it is simply the world we live in,’ he said hoarsely. ‘One can never be certain.’
‘Aye,’ breathed Alberon. ‘One must be certain.’ He shifted the beakers slightly and gazed down at the map of his father’s kingdom. ‘And so,’ he said, ‘one must make strong that which one has discovered to be weak.’
‘There are no weaknesses in the Moroccan court, Alberon. I can assure you, Sultan Abdallah ash-Shiekh is as strong as ever. He has no—’ ‘Hush now,’ murmured Alberon, waving his hand. ‘You will see. Tomorrow, if my informants finally arrive, I shall be able to prove to you that you have been misled.’
‘I assure you, brother—’
Alberon looked up. ‘That’s enough now,’ he snapped. ‘You have proved yourself to me; you do not need to go on.’
Razi blinked. His jaw popped. Wynter saw him push some dark emotion down behind his eyes.
‘The Northlands,’ said Alberon, tapping the huge expanse of land that comprised Shirken’s kingdom, ‘and Princess Marguerite. She is the key.’ He turned to Wynter. ‘What is she like?’ he asked.
‘An unrelenting tyrant,’ she said tightly.
Alberon laughed. ‘I have no doubt you think so. But that is not what I meant. I meant what does she look like, sis? Paintings can only tell one so much, and one wonders, doesn’t one, how such strength would manifest itself in a woman.’ He looked fondly at Wynter. ‘She would have something of your look, I imagine? A certain fierceness about the eyes? That keen watchfulness not usual in a woman?’
‘I am nothing like her,’ hissed Wynter. ‘It appals me that you would suggest it.’
Alberon grinned, amused at her ferocity. ‘Oh, don’t be tiresome, Wyn. In her letters, Marguerite constantly reminds me of you: her directness of speech, her single-mindedness.’
In her letters. Wynter exchanged a glance with Razi.
‘You have been in regular correspondence with the Royal Princess?’ asked Razi.
‘For many months now.’
‘To what purpose?’
Alberon just smiled slyly and reached for Marguerite Shirken’s folder. There was a watchful silence from Razi as the Prince undid the ties and quickly leafed through the sealed parchments.
In the silence that accompanied Alberon’s examination of Marguerite’s letters, Wynter was ashamed to find herself battling wounded feelings. She had to admit, she was stung beyond any political rage by Alberon’s communication with Marguerite Shirken. Over the past five years, Alberon had never once replied to Wynter’s many personal notes and letters, and she had assumed that they had been lost in the upheaval of the insurrection. But this seemed unlikely now, considering his apparently rich communion with the Northland Princess. She cradled the sleeping cat and stroked his brittle shoulders. She told herself to grow up. So Alberon had not answered her letters. So what? She was no court moppet, willing to take offence at every perceived slight. Alberon had been a prince at war. He would have had no time for the frivolous scribblings of his lonely little sister. He had bigger things to consider, she thought.
She looked beyond the firelight. The camp was lost to darkness, the mountains surrounding them invisible in the night. I know my place, Lorcan’s patient voice whispered in her memory. I know my place. Wynter had always thought she understood that, had always thought she knew exactly what it meant to put one’s self second to matters of state. Now she was not sure. She was not certain she had the depths of selfless calm that had allowed her father to accept his lot in political life. Down below, the Merron camp fire winked at her like a knowing orange star. We know what
that’s like, it seemed to say. We know how you feel.
‘For Christ’s sake, sis! Wake up!’
Wynter came back to herself with a start. Razi and Alberon were staring, Razi concerned, Alberon impatient.
‘Tell me of Gunther Shirken,’ Alberon demanded, as if for the third time. ‘I understand he is ill? His mind is unsound?’
‘You are tired, Wyn,’ said Razi softly. ‘Would you like to lie down?’
Alberon regarded her curiously, as if seeing her for the first time. ‘Are you tired?’ he asked. ‘Because . . .’ He gestured to his tent, as if offering her the chance to retire.
She shook her head.
‘It has been a terrible journey, Alberon,’ said Razi. ‘You have no idea. Wynter, perhaps you should consider—’ ‘I am fine.’ Wynter drew herself up, cutting Razi short. ‘King Shirken is an old man, Albi, and my father always claimed that he had a skewed view of this world. But his health is good and he is in firm command of himself. He is in no way of unsound mind. Why do you ask?’
Razi rolled his eyes in defeat and gave up, switching his attention back to the conversation.
Alberon dived straight back into it. ‘Marguerite tells me that her father is more and more unbalanced,’ he said. ‘His legitimate purges have turned to persecutions. His renewed inquisitions are causing unrest. She tells me that the Northlands is on the brink of ruin.’
Wynter hesitated, momentarily overcome with memories of the North. The awful inquisitions, the terrible mass executions. It took her a moment to push these images down. ‘Certainly, Shirken is a rabid cur,’ she said. ‘In truth, I cannot understand how he has survived this long without bringing his country to its knees. While we were there, my father did a tremendous amount of work healing old wounds, but he feared that it was a frail kind of stability. His great worry was that Shirken’s tyranny would push his people into a civil war that would break the Northlands apart.’
The Rebel Prince Page 6