by Hugh Cook
'How did you recognise him?"
'Nobody commands soldiers without developing a good head for faces. I recognised him. You know I told Miphon to make a special point of seeing to him, but Miphon was told he was dead.'
'Of course. He would have seen straight away that the man had only been recently wounded. You'd have known the same if you'd been the one to clean and dress his wound. For our story to work -'
T had to believe he'd spent days on horseback riding all the way from the border. So you told your lie. But why, Farfalla?'
'You were talking of a siege.' said Farfalla. 'How long would that have lasted? Androlmarphos could have been resupplied from the sea. To take the city, you'd have had to storm the walls and light for possession street by street, house by house. The city would have been destroyed, its people with it. I did what I had to.'
'You lied to me,' said Hearst.
'Considered as an instrument of state, a lie, unlike a sword, draws no blood.'
'Ohio died because of your lies.' 'So he died. Someone had to die.' 'He was my friend!'
'And does that make you think you have a monopoly on suffering?' said Farfalla. 'Do you know what I suffer? Do you know what I have to go through?
'I didn't want this. I never wanted this. I grew up in Kelebes, a potter's daughter. Do you know once I was chosen, I could never see my family again? That's the law. To secure the equitable government of the Harvest Plains. To protect against nepotism. Fine phrases, aren't they? Just think for one moment what that law means to the kingmaker.
'My sons are soldiers. Do you think that's what I would have chosen for them? The law decided their destiny, Morgan. I'm the ruler of the greatest nation in Argan, but I'm a prisoner of the law. You've told me how you've suffered, Morgan, but you're not the only one who's suffered.
'You can't imagine the burdens of power - being responsible for the life or death of an entire empire. You can't imagine the difficulties of government when there's so many ready to take advantage of the slightest weakness, the slightest failing. I think -'
'Don't talk to me of the burdens of power,' said Hearst. 'Power is its own reward - the greatest reward known. There's not a single person in your empire who doesn't envy you, not one who doesn't wish they could be you.'
'Do you really believe that?' said Farfalla. 'Yes,' said Hearst.
'So you'd take that power if I offered it to you.' 'Sure, sure,' said Hearst. 'On a slice of the moon garnished with Stardust.' 'I'm serious!'
'Then you're seriously ill. Is it that time of month?' She slapped him. Hard. Three times. 'You dogshit barbarian!' she said.
'I won't deny my nature,' said Hearst, wiping a trickle of blood from his nose. 'I'm clearly not the person to be offered a throne - not even in jest.'
'Morgan, I wasn't joking. And I don't joke now. My land needs a hero. To the north, Runcorn. To the south, Stokos. The enemy's strength is broken. Now is the time to strike. And, while we're about it, to clean up the Rice Empire.'
Hearst, trying to stop the bleeding from his nose, did not answer. So Farfalla continued:
'The people are ready for you, Morgan. We can teach you what you need to know - language, law, manners. Especially manners! I can abdicate in your favour. That would make difficulties, but those difficulties would yield to necessity and popular demand. Will yield! We need a conqueror.'
'I've fought enough wars already.'
'Have you? Aren't you tempted? Morgan, you could conquer all of Argan!'
He was, for a moment, tempted. He had, for a moment, a vision of a future in which he conquered all, and united the nation of Rovac with his empire of conquest. Despite everything he had said to Alish, Hearst was not entirely immune to the appeal of the old dreams, the old stories. But. . .
'Even if that's what I wanted,' said Hearst, T still don't believe that your people would accept me. Not as their ruler.'
'I,' said Farfalla, 'will organise a banquet in your honour. All our most powerful people will be there. You'll see then who will accept you. I won't announce you as ruler unless you decide that's what you want. You'll meet the people. You'll see what they think of you.'
'I'll come to your banquet,' said Hearst.
And, again, he was sorely tempted by the prospect of power. But he reminded himself that he had not really been formally offered anything, yet. And reminded
himself, too, that Farfalla had lied to him before - and might do so again.
He was already regretting the coarse, unpardonable joke he had made about her biology. In a royal court, people could be burnt alive for less. He also had the death-stone to worry about. He thought he had convinced Farfalla that seizing the death-stone would eventually lead to her empire being destroyed in a confrontation with the Confederation of Wizards - but what if he was wrong, and she dared regardless?
He began to seriously consider the possibility that this banquet might prove to be the occasion of his murder rather than his coronation.
* * *
Blackwood entered the Hall of Wine, the largest hall in Farfalla's palace. It was fragrant with flowers: an overflow of lilies, an explosion of roses, and tender bouquets of modest flowers such as larkspur, sea lavender and sweet alyssum.
On the walls were tapestries showing work both urban and rural. At every setting at every table, plain bread and river water were set out for the guests: a ceremonial first course to be consumed before the real feasting began.
Thanks to Miphon's intervention, there had been a break with tradition: the river water had been secretly boiled, thus minimising the risk it posed to the health of aristocrats who usually only drank wine.
No guests had yet arrived; they were attending an opera which was scheduled to end about the middle of the afternoon, after which the feast would begin.
Light for the hall came through stained glass windows showing placid countryside scenes. Nothing anywhere in the hall hinted at violence, warfare or suffering.
'Ah, Blackwood,' said Hearst, emerging from behind one of the ivy-covered trellises concealing doorways through which servants would enter and leave when the
feast was underway.
"Where have you been?' said Blackwood.
'Where you haven't, obviously,' said Hearst, with impeccable logic.
'No, seriously.'
'Why seriously? You have an objection to the comical? Eh? You've got a face about as cheery as a pig's backside. What's the problem, friend?'
'Miphon says
'And is that all he says? The sun says the same, so it's hardly original.'
T haven't yet told you what he says!' said Blackwood, missing the joke entirely.
'You're worried, friend. Why?'
'Miphon says you've got men on call, armed for combat.'
'And so I have,' said Hearst, turning suddenly serious. 'And, if you really must know, I've been checking the kitchen for poisoners.'
'What are you planning?'
T,' said Hearst, with energy, 'Am planning to stay alive. As we all have cause to know, that's hardly the easiest of enterprises.'
'Do you suspect Farfalla of something?'
'I suspect her of many things,' said Hearst. 'Of having two breasts, two hips, and heat between her thighs. Nay, I have proof positive of certain - but no, as a gentleman I must stay my tongue, even if I must not necessarily stay my stallion.'
'You seem,' said Blackwood slowly, 'to be drunk.'
'That's what they said to the dog-sodomist after the blacksmith hit him with a sledgehammer,' said Hearst. 'No, I'm not drunk. I'm just a little giddy from standing on a sword-blade.'
'You mean that you expect someone to try and kill you today?'
T mean,' said Hearst, 'I expect the sky to either stand or fall.'
That was a standard nonsense answer which children on Rovac used on occasion to irritate each other, but to Blackwood it sounded like a random piece of gibberish.
'You,' said Blackwood, slowly, 'are not as bright and cheerful as you seem to be. You ar
e under enormous strain. There are two tides running within you. You are not. . . you are not at all happy.'
'Happy!' roared Hearst. 'Why should I be happy? This damnable death-stone grinding my nerves to the quick and raw. Dead men underfoot in my dreams. That oh so so formidable - unpredictable! inscrutable! - woman Farfalla, who might even now be measuring cloth for my coronation robes or my shroud. I should be happy?!'
Blackwood did not risk an answer.
Hearst paced up and down, as if burning off excess energy. He had dressed so as to intimidate anyone who might be thinking of foul play. Although he did not usually favour ostentation, today he wore a cloak embroidered with dragons. Beneath the cloak, chain mail. At his side, the sword Hast. At his throat, the multi-faceted black gem which was the key to the tower of Ebber, which had been placed in a setting of shining gold which reflected the glow of the dancing flame within.
'Would you be happy if you were in my place?' said Hearst, turning on Blackwood.
The question reminded Blackwood of one Elkor Alish had once asked him: What would you do in my place? If he remembered correctly, his answer on that occasion had been rather impolite. With Hearst, he tried a milder approach.
'You,' said Blackwood, 'are free to be as happy as you like. But there's no need to be so fierce. I've studied Farfalla carefully. I don't think she means murder. I think she really does mean for you to be the ruling power of the Harvest Plains.'
'Perhaps,' said Hearst. 'But there's something mighty 424
strange going on here. Someone's keeping a secret from me! I can tell it by the way they look at me, the way my footsteps kill their conversations.'
'I think,' said Blackwood, 'that today they plan to consecrate you as a member of the family of the Favoured Blood. Haven't you heard of that ceremony?'
'Oh, I've heard that it happens,' said Hearst. 'But Farfalla has said nothing about performing the ritual for me. Least of all today.'
'You know it has to be done if you want to rule the Harvest Plains,' said Blackwood, it's only a ritual to appease the ignorant and the superstitious so they can say their ruler is of the Favoured Blood, but you shouldn't underestimate the importance of it. Most of the people of the Harvest Plains are ignorant and superstitious.'
'But,' said Hearst, 'why didn't Farfalla tell me if I have to go through with this ritual today?'
'The ritual,' said Blackwood, 'consists of an invocation in the language of the Harvest Plains. Not the vernacular, which you've started to learn, but the formal language which they call the Tongue of the Teeth of the Oldest Stone. You wouldn't understand what was being said. At the end of the invocation, they offer you wine. You have to drink. Farfalla might be hoping to get through the ceremony without you understanding what's going on.'
i'd do what's necessary,' said Hearst. 'Doesn't she understand that?'
'Does anyone understand anyone?' said Blackwood.
In Blackwood's judgment, Farfalla truly did want Hearst as a leader for her people, and feared he might take offence if told he first had to be consecrated as one of the Favoured Blood - after all, he was a hero and a conqueror in his own right.
i think,' said Hearst, 'you know a little more than you're telling me.'
'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 remembere
d, 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: