Hawkwood's voyage

FOURTEEN

Autumn in the Malvennor Mountains. Already the snow had begun to block the higher passes, and from the vast peaks streamers and banners of white were being billowed out by the freshening wind.

Abeleyn pulled the fur of his collar tighter around his throat and stared up at the high land to the east and north. The Malvennors were fifteen thousand feet above sea level, and even here, on the snow-pocked hills at their knees, the air was sharp and thin and the guides had warned the party of the dangers of mountain sickness and snow blindness.

He was five weeks out of Abrusio, on his way to the Conclave of Kings at Vol Ephrir in Perigraine. His ship had made a rapid passage across the Fimbrian Gulf, docking at the breakaway Fimbrian city of Narbukir, then he had gone aboard a river boat for the laborious journey up the Arcolm river, taking to horses when the Arcolm was no longer navigable. He could see the river now, a narrow stream running and foaming through the icicle-dripping rocks off to one side. Further up in the mountains it was said that a man might bestride it if he had long legs. Hard to believe that down on the gulf its mouth formed an estuary fully three leagues wide.

The rest of the party were still below, labouring up the steep slopes towards him. He had a tolerably large escort: two hundred Hebrian arquebusiers and swordsmen and eighty heavy cavalry armed with lances and paired matchlock pistols. Then there were the muleteers of the pack-train, the cooks, the grooms, the smiths and the score of other servants who made up his travelling household. All told, some four hundred men accompanied the King of Hebrion across the Malvennor Mountains; a modest enough show. Only a king would ever be allowed to take such a force into a foreign country. It was part and parcel of the dignity of monarchs.

“We’ll camp here, and attempt the pass in the morning,” the King said to his chief steward.

The man bowed in the saddle and then wrenched his horse around to begin the job of setting up camp.

The King sat relaxed in the saddle and watched the ungainly straggling groups of men and animals gradually coalesce on the slope below him. The horses were finding it heavy going. If the snow grew much deeper-and it would-then they would all be afoot, hauling their mounts behind them. The snows had come early this year, and there was a bitter wind winnowing the high peaks. The baking heat of Abrusio seemed like a dream.

“Is it here you hope to meet up with King Mark, sire?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Hereabouts.” The King turned to regard the hooded lady who sat her palfrey behind him. The fine-stepping horse was feeling the cold; it was not the best of mounts for a journey such as this. “I hope you have good walking boots with you, lady. That nag of yours will drop in its tracks ere we’ve put another ten leagues behind us.”

The lady Jemilla threw back her hood. Her dark hair was bound up in circled braids around her head, held in place with pearl-topped pins. Two larger pearls shone like little moons in her earlobes. Her eyes sparkled in the snow-light.

“The walk will do me good. I am putting on weight.”

Abeleyn grinned. If so, he had not noticed. He looked down the hillside. His staff were erecting the huge hide tents, and he could see the dull flicker of a fire. His toes were numb in his furlined boots and his breath was whipped away from his lips, but he did not immediately ride down to the warmth of the fires. Rather he gazed south, along the line of the mountains to where Astarac loomed blue with distance on the southern side of the Arcolm river. If truth be told, they were in Astarac now, for the Arcolm had always been the traditional boundary between Astarac and Fimbria. But up in the mountains such technicalities were irrelevant. Shepherds herded their goats from one kingdom to another without formalities, as they always had. Up here the niceties of borders and diplomacy seemed like a faraway farce to be played out in the palaces of the world.

“When will he arrive, do you think?” Jemilla asked.

She was becoming a little familiar of late. He must watch that.

“Soon I hope, lady, soon. But he will be here no quicker for our watching. Come, let us warm ourselves and give our poor mounts a rest.” He kicked his horse into motion down the icy slope.

Jemilla did not follow him at once. She sat her shivering steed and stared at the King’s retreating back. One gloved hand felt her stomach tentatively, and for a moment her face became as hard as glass. Then she followed her king and lover down to the growing bustle of the camp, and the fires that were burning orange and yellow against the snow.

The wind had blown up into a gale. Abeleyn held his hands out to the glowing brazier-they would be running out of coal soon-and listened to the snowstorm that had come upon them with the swooping in of night. Perhaps he should have taken the sea route, south-east through the Malacar Straits, but then he would have needed a small fleet as escort. To the corsairs, a Hebrian king would have been too tempting a target to let by unmolested, despite-or perhaps because of-the longstanding accommodations they had had with the Hebrian crown.

And besides, he needed this chance to talk openly with King Mark before the intrigue of the conclave swallowed them all.

Something struck the side of the tent, seemingly propelled by the wind. It scrabbled there for a moment, and the steward came in from the adjoining extension. There was the clatter of plates from in there; they were clearing the remains of dinner.

“Was there something, sire? I thought I heard-”

“It was nothing, Cabran. Dismiss the servants, will you? They can finish in the morning.”

The steward bowed, then left for the spacious extension, clapping his hands at the serving maids. Abeleyn rose and let slip the heavy hide curtain that shut out their noise.

“Sire.” It was the bodyguard at the entrance. “We’ve something here. It struck the tent, and you told us to look out for-”

“Yes,” Abeleyn snapped. “Bring it here, and then let no others enter.”

The tent flap was thrown back and a heavily cloaked and armoured man thrust his way in, admitting a gust of snow and chill air. He had something in his hands, which he left on the low cot at a nod from Abeleyn.

“Thank you, Merco. Have you men a decent fire out there?”

“Good enough, sire. We switch round every hour.” The man’s voice was muffled in the folds of cloak he had wrapped round his face.

“Very well. That will be all, then.”

The man bowed and left. The snow he had let in began to melt on the thick hide of the tent’s floor.

“Well, Golophin?” Abeleyn said. He bent over the ice-encrusted gyrfalcon that crouched on the furs of the cot and gently wiped its feathers. The yellow inhuman eyes glared at him. The beak opened, and the voice of the old wizard said:

“Well met, my lord.”

“Is the bird drunk, that he crashes into my tent?”

“The bird is exhausted, lad. This damn snowstorm almost put paid to him for good. You will have a fine time forcing the pass if this keeps up.”

“I know. What word of King Mark?”

“He is only hours away. He travels with a smaller party than you. Perhaps his ideas as to the dignity of kings differ.”

Abeleyn smiled, stroking the bird’s feathers. “Perhaps. Well, old man, what news have you for me this time?”

“Momentous news, my boy. I have had the bird monitor Charibon as you requested. He has just come from there. I thought the flight over the mountains would kill him, but he had the east wind on his tail so he made good time in the end.

“You have to know, I suppose. The Synod convened eight days ago. Our good Himerius has been elected High Pontiff of the Five Kingdoms.”

Abeleyn’s hand went very still on the water-beaded plumage of the savage bird. “So they did it. They actually elected that slaughter-mongering wolf-livered bastard.”

“Guard your words, sire. You speak of the spiritual head of the Ramusian world.”

“By the blood of the Saints! Did no one object, Golophin?”

“Merion did, but he’s an Antillian of low birth, and thus an outsider. I had thought Heyn of Torunna would also, but he must have been bought off somehow. No doubt Himerius is even now doling out rewards to the faithful who voted him into office.”

“And the purges. I take it they will be extended continent-wide.”

“Yes, lad. A Pontifical bull is expected within a few weeks. It is a black day for the Dweomer-folk, and for the west.”

Abeleyn’s face was as white as bone in the scarlet shadow of the tent.

“I will not allow it. The kings will not allow it. I will put it to the conclave that we cannot tolerate this interference in the day-to-day running of the state. These people are our subjects; whether the Church considers them heretics or no.”

“Careful, lad. There is talk of excommunication in the air at Charibon, and Himerius has the power to issue a bull against you. A heretic king has no right to rule in the eyes of the world.”

“Damn them,” Abeleyn said through clenched teeth. “Is there nothing an anointed king can do in his kingdom without these God-cursed Ravens meddling in it?”

“It is the Inceptine game, sire. They have been playing it for centuries.”

“I will speak to Mark of it. He is a moderate like me. We may not sway Lofantyr of Torunna, for he needs the Knights Militant too badly at the moment, or Haukir of Almark-he is too old, too set in his ways. Cadamost of Perigraine, though. He may be open to reason; he has always struck me as an amenable sort of fellow. What news from the dyke, Golophin? Does it hold?”

“Shahr Baraz’s army is finding the passage of the Western Road difficult. The main body has begun to move at last and there is skirmishing at the dyke itself, but so far there has been no major assault. This is old news, sire, gleaned from a colleague of mine. The bird has been too busy in Charibon to have a closer look at the east.”

“Of course.”

“There is a rumour, though, from Ormann Dyke.”

“What? What of it?”

“It is rumoured that Macrobius was not slain in Aekir’s fall, that he is alive. As I say, it is a rumour, no more.”

“Macrobius alive? No, it’s impossible, Golophin! Torunnan wishful thinking.”

“Do you want me to look into it, sire?”

Abeleyn paused. “No. I need your feathered alter ego back at Charibon. I must be up to date with developments there when the conclave is assembled. There is no time to chase will-o’-the-wisps in the east.”

“Very well, sire.”

There was a silence. The gyrfalcon struggled to its taloned feet and shook its wings, spraying water over Abeleyn.

“Will the bird stay here tonight, Golophin?”

“If you please, sire. He needs a rest, and King Mark is on the right route to find you in the morning. I congratulate you on your navigating.”

“I spend my life navigating, Golophin, trying to keep the ship of state from foundering.”

“Then beware of shoals, my King. They are approaching by the score. Have you heard anything from Fimbria?”

Abeleyn rubbed his eyes, suddenly weary. “Yes. Narbukir is sending an envoy to the conclave. He travels with us, though he wants to remain as low-key as possible. From Fimbria proper there has been no reply to my emissary as yet. I do not honestly expect one, Golophin.”

“Do not give up hope, sire. The Fimbrians may yet be the answer to some of our problems. They have never loved the Church; they blame it for their downfall. They would be a powerful ally if the worst happened and Hebrion went its own way.”

“You mean if its king were excommunicated and it became an outlawed kingdom, beyond the pale of the Ramusian monarchies?”

“That is a picture I would not care to regard too closely, sire.”

“Nor I. I am tired, Golophin, and your magnificent bird seems a little the worse for wear. Maybe we’ll both sleep now. I have a perch ready, if it does not object to roosting on the end of a king’s bed.”

“He-and I-would be honoured, sire.”

“My lord King.” It was the steward’s voice, coming from the other side of the hide partition.

“Yes, Cabran, what is it?”

“The lady Jemilla wonders if you would receive her, sire.”

Abeleyn frowned. “No, Cabran. Tell her I am not to be disturbed until morning.”

“Yes, sire.”

“And Cabran-I am to be wakened the moment King Mark’s party is sighted.”

“As you wish, sire. Good night.”

Some kings and princes had body servants to undress them and prepare them for bed, but Abeleyn preferred to perform those functions himself. He reached under the low cot for the chamber-pot and pissed into it gratefully.

“You brought Jemilla, then,” the gyrfalcon said. Odd to hear Golophin’s deep tones issue out of the harsh beak, as though the bird had the lips and lungs of a man.

Abeleyn shoved the steaming pot back under the cot. “Yes. What of it?”

“She has ambitions, that one.”

“She will never be my queen, if that’s what you’re afraid of. She’s much too old, and she was married before.”

“I think she hopes, sire, in the way women do. Be careful of her. I do not think she is the kind of lady to be discarded lightly.”

“I will worry about that, Golophin.”

“And it is high time you were married yourself. You must be the most eligible bachelor in the Five Kingdoms.”

“You sound like a mother goose fussing over her brood, Golophin. You know why I have not married. If I ally myself with one of the other monarchies through a state marriage then I alienate the others-”

“And Hebrion depends on the goodwill of all the kings for the trade that sustains her. I know the arguments, sire, but there is a new one now. You must bind Hebrion to another state if you intend to flout the holy writ of our new Pontiff; you cannot afford to let yourself be isolated. It is something you might bring up with King Mark when you meet.”

“What schemes are you hatching now, Golophin?”

“Think of it, sire. An alliance between Astarac and Hebrion, and in between them the neutral state of Fimbria. That would be a bloc that even the Church would think twice before provoking. If you wish to shake free of the Church’s authority then you should be thinking of the part of the continent that lies west of the Malvennor Mountains. The western states have always had a reputation for going their own way.”

“If certain clerics heard your words, Golophin, you would be a heap of ashes at the foot of a blackened stake.”

“If certain clerics saw this talking bird my end would be the same. I no longer have anything to lose and nor have you, sire. Think about what I have said, and if you have to bend a little to avoid becoming a heretic king, then so be it-but make sure that if you cannot bend far enough Hebrion is not left to stand alone.”

Abeleyn yawned. “All right, I am convinced. Ah, this mountain air! It makes a man sleepy. Your bird looks shattered, Golophin.”

“We both are. The powers of mages are not all they are rumoured to be. This night I feel as old and brittle as a dried leaf. This will be the last you hear from me in a while, Abeleyn. The old man needs his rest.”

“So does the King,” Abeleyn said, yawning again. “I’d best get some ere King Mark turns up on our doorstep.” He lay back on the cot and the falcon flapped and hopped, screaming softly, until it perched on the wooden frame at his feet.

Abeleyn stared at the roof of the heavy tent. The whole structure was swaying and creaking in the wind that was blasting down from the mountains.

“Do you remember the Blithe Spirit, Golophin?”

The bird was silent. Abeleyn smiled, putting his hands behind his head.

“I remember the green depths of the Hebrian Sea, and the master pointing out over the ship’s rail to where the water turned deeper; that colour, as dark as an old wine. The Great Western Ocean that marks the end of the world.

“We were putting about to steer a course for the Fimbrian Gulf, back to the world of men. I remember the loom of the Hebros Mountains, like a thin line at the edge of sight. And the coast of Astarac with the shadows of the Malvennors. I remember the smell, Golophin. There is no other smell on earth like it. The smell of the open ocean, and the ship smells.

“Sometimes I wish I could have been a master mariner, carving my own road upon the surface of the world and leaving nothing but a wake of white water behind me. And nothing but a plank of Gabrionese oak between my soul and eternity. .”

Abeleyn’s eyes were closed. His breathing slowed.

“I wonder if Murad has found his fabled land in the west. .” he murmured. His head tilted to one side.

The King slept.

King Mark of Astarac and his entourage arrived just before dawn, having travelled through the night in the blinding snowstorm. When the Astaran monarch was shown into Abeleyn’s tent his face was grey beneath its mask of ice and frozen snow, and his young man’s beard had been frosted white.

Abeleyn had had to struggle up from a great depth, a lightless pit of slumber, but he shrugged off his tiredness and shouted commands at his retinue. Mark had barely two hundred men in his party, and they were taken into the Hebrian tents to save them the labour of erecting their own in the snow-thick gale that still howled about the peaks of the mountains. Servants ran to and fro like men possessed, lighting extra braziers and heaving around platters of food and drink for the cold-blasted men of Astarac. King Mark’s bodyguards joined Abeleyn’s at the tent entrance, the two groups eyeing each other somewhat askance until some enlightened soul produced a skin of barley spirit and passed it round.

Dressed in dry clothes and seated in front of a glaring brazier, King Mark’s face became slowly human again. There was little ceremony between him and Abeleyn; the two men had spent much time together as boys, skylarking at past conclaves whilst their fathers helped decide the fate of the world. Mark had a white gap in one eyebrow where Abeleyn had split his forehead open with a lead-bladed sword. They had shared wenches and wine and were much of an age. Now they sat in Abeleyn’s tent companionably enough, and sipped mulled ale and listened to the gradually dying hubbub that the arrival of the Astarans had produced in the Hebrian camp.

Mark nodded to the gyrfalcon that perched with closed eyes on the end of Abeleyn’s cot.

“That Golophin’s, is it?”

“Aye. Both he and his master are sleeping. He’ll be full of life later, no doubt.”

Mark grinned, showing strong, even teeth in his square face.

“Saffarac has an owl as his familiar. An owl-I ask you! And of course he has it flying in the daytime with never a thought, and the common folk who see it making the sign of the Saint at the bad omen.”

They laughed together, and Abeleyn poured out more of the steaming ale for them both.

“You and your men seem to be in a degree of haste, cousin,” he said. He and Mark were not related, but kings often used the term, implying that all royalty were somehow akin to each other.

“Indeed, and I’ll tell you why. Do you travel with any clerics in your entourage, Abeleyn?”

Abeleyn sipped his ale, grimacing at the heat of it. “Nary a one. I refused every Raven I was offered.”

“I thought as much. I’d best warn you then that I have one here clinging to my coattails. He was foisted on me by the College of Bishops, who were outraged at the thought of an Astaran king travelling without a priest to shrive him of his sins every so often.”

“An Inceptine?”

“Of course. Just because I was able to get Merion the Antillian elected Prelate doesn’t mean I get my way in all affairs ecclesiastical. No, he’s a spy, no doubt about it. It’s as well that Golophin is not with you, but I wouldn’t let anyone catch you talking to your bird if I were you, cousin. What used to be seen as honest thaumaturgy is being transformed into something entirely different in the eyes of the Church.”

“This doesn’t explain your haste.”

“Doesn’t it? We’ve been pushing as hard as this ever since we left Cartigella; the old crow is near to dropping. With a little luck he’ll lose himself in a snowdrift once we get into the mountains proper, and we’ll be well rid of his prying beak.”

They both roared with laughter.

“Has Saffarac’s owl brought you any word of what is going on in the east?” Abeleyn asked when the mirth had faded. Mark’s face grew sombre.

“Some word, yes. The Merduk army has stalled, it seems, bogged down by the weather, and Martellus has been sending out reconnaissances in force under the old cavalryman, Ranafast. There has been a good deal of skirmishing, but the Torunnans cannot commit themselves to any large-scale action beyond the Searil. They have not the men. Lofantyr has drawn off all but twelve thousand of the dyke’s garrison, the Saints know why.”

“He is afraid for his capital. Are there no generals left in Torunna to advise him?”

“The best one, Mogen, died at Aekir and Martellus commands the dyke. There is no one else at that level left in the country. Torunna is bled almost dry.”

“Aye, they’ve been the bulwark of the west for too long, perhaps. Have you heard anything of a rumour concerning Macrobius?”

“That he is alive? Yes, I’ve heard. My guess is it’s a tale set about by Martellus to put some heart into his men. As far as I know there’s nothing behind it, but I do know that an old blind man has been paraded before the garrison as the High Pontiff. What the worthies in Charibon will make of that I cannot say. Martellus may be running a fine line on one side of excommunication with his holy impostor.”

“Unless-” Abeleyn began.

Mark glanced at him. “No, I cannot believe it. Not one Ramusian of any rank escaped the wreck of Aekir. I cannot conceive that they somehow missed the most important man of all. He would have been the first they would have sought out.”

“Of course, of course. What a blessing it would be for the west, though. .”

“I take it you’re not happy with your fellow Hebrian as High Pontiff.”

“He means to excommunicate me, I think, if he cannot geld me first. This is one of the reasons I have asked you to meet me here, cousin.”

Mark sat back on his camp chair looking satisfied.

“Aha! I wondered when you’d get round to it.”

Abeleyn stared into the steam-wreathed depths of his ale flagon, his dark brows drawn together.

“Golophin’s falcon was giving me the old man’s advice last night, and it concurred with what I was thinking myself. This is a bad time, Mark-like the chaos of the world when the empire of the Fimbrians began to fall apart, or when the Merduks first invaded, or in the Religious Wars when Ramusio’s faith was spread through the west with fire and sword. And I think this time may be the worst of the lot.

“It is not just the Merduks. Theirs is an outside threat, which I believe the west can see off if we cease our squabbling. No, it runs deeper than that. It is the very faith we all believe in, and the men who are the custodians of that faith. They have become princes in their own right, and they are hankering after kingdoms to rule. I tell you-I truly believe, and Golophin does too-that the Inceptines are intent on ruling, and if we let them they will make the monarchs of Normannia into mere ciphers, and they will write their rule in letters of fire and blood clear across the continent.”

King Mark was listening intently, but he had an uneasy expression on his face. Abeleyn continued:

“The Inceptines need their wings clipped, and it must be done now or in the very near future. They have trodden on the authority of the rightful rulers of the kingdoms, and they have reduced the other Ramusian religious orders to the level of servants. With Aekir’s fall, they have become not less powerful but more so, because of the fear the city’s fall has generated in the west. Macrobius was a moderate, Inceptine though he was, but Himerius of Hebrion is a fanatic. He is determined to harness that fear, to be a priest-emperor.”

“Oh come now, Abeleyn-”

But the Hebrian King held up a hand. “The contest has already begun. There are two thousand Knights Militant riding towards Hebrion even as we speak. When they arrive, they will instigate a purge the likes of which the west has not seen for centuries. And they wish to do the same in Astarac, in Perigraine, in Almark, even in besieged Torunna. Himerius’ insanities are now Church policy, and we can either stand back and let the Ravens do as they will in our kingdoms, or we can stop them.

“And how do we stop them? Do you wish to be excommunicated, Abeleyn, Hebrion labelled a heretic kingdom, shunned by the other monarchies of the west?”

“Hebrion may not have to stand alone,” Abeleyn said quietly.

Mark stared at him for a moment, then laughed shortly and stood up. He threw his flagon aside and started pacing up and down on the soft tent floor.

“I know what you are asking, and I tell you I want no part of it.”

“Will you hear me out before you start refusing me?” Abeleyn asked irritably.

“What is it you envisage? Astarac and Hebrion standing alone outside the Ramusian world, cut off from the other kingdoms, ostracized? The rest of the Ramusian lands would have to mount a crusade to bring us back within the fold-and this in the midst of an eastern war which may be the climax to Merduk expansion. You are mad, Abeleyn. Such a plan would rip the west apart. I will have no part of it.”

“For the Saint’s sake, sit down, will you? And listen. Astarac and Hebrion would not be alone.”

Mark sat, still visibly sceptical.

“Think, man. What is to the east of Hebrion and the north of Astarac? Fimbria. Fimbria, whose empire fell largely because of the Ramusian religion and the conversions of the Inceptines. The Fimbrians may be believers in the Saint now, but they have no love for the Church. And no alliance would lightly seek to force an armament through their electorates; it would be the one thing guaranteed to reunite them and have the Fimbrian tercios at war again.”

“So we have Fimbria as a buffer. But there is always the sea route, Abeleyn. You of all people should know that.”

“The four major sea powers of the world are Hebrion, Astarac, Gabrion and the Sea-Merduks.”

“And the Macassian corsairs.”

“True. And none of them has any love for the Church either. A crusading fleet would have to sail through the Malacar Straits, or detour to the south of Gabrion. The Sea-Merduks would attack any Ramusian naval armament in their waters, as would the corsairs. The Gabrionese would not be happy either. And what was left of it after those nations had mauled it could easily be taken care of by our combined navies.”

Mark shook his head. “Ramusian versus Ramusian on a huge scale. I don’t like it. It is not right, especially at this time.”

“It won’t happen, for the reasons I have outlined to you and for others besides.”

“Tell me the others, then,” Mark said wearily.

“I believe that if we can reinforce Torunna sufficiently then we will nullify Lofantyr’s reliance on the Knights Militant. Perigraine may well follow the lead of Torunna and Almark will then be isolated, even if it has the support of Finnmark and the northern duchies. What will the Church do-excommunicate half the monarchs of Normannia? I think not. The power of the Inceptines will be broken, and we can promote another order in their place. The Antillians, perhaps.”

Mark chuckled. “Divide and conquer? But what you are advocating could very well lead to a religious schism of the west. Almark is virtually governed by the Inceptines, and their influence runs deep in Perigraine also. Those bastions will not be easy to reduce.”

Abeleyn flapped a hand casually. “Haukir of Almark is an old man. He will not last for ever. And Cadamost of Perigraine is a lightweight, easily swayed.”

Mark was silent for a moment, then said: “How much of this do you intend to outline to the other kings at the conclave?”

“Very little. But I do want to go to the conclave with one or two weapons in my belt.”

“Such as?” asked Mark, though he already knew.

“Such as a formal alliance between Hebrion and Astarac.”

“And how do you propose to formalize it?”

“By marrying your sister.”

The two kings stared at one another, wary, gauging. Finally a grin broke out on Mark’s broad face.

“So the mighty tree is felled at last. Abeleyn the Bachelor King will finally consent to share his bed with a wife. She is not pretty, my sister.”

“If she brings the friendship of a kingdom with her she can be as plain as a frog for all I care. What say you, Mark?”

The Astaran king shook his head ruefully.

“You are a cunning dog, Abeleyn, to sweeten the bitterness of your pill thus. You know that half the kings in the west seek an alliance with Hebrion for the trade privileges it would bring, and now you throw it in my lap. But at what a cost!”

“I also have a certain influence with the corsairs who infest your southern coast,” Abeleyn remarked.

“Oh, I know! Many’s the Astaran cargo that has ended up on the wharves of Abrusio. You’d help curtail their depredations on your brother-in-law’s ships, then?”

“Perhaps.”

“An alliance. Where would it end, Abeleyn? I can see what you are doing-forming a trading block in the west of the continent that can remain self-supporting even if it becomes outcast from the rest of the Five Kingdoms. Even if it means increased trade with the Sea-Merduks. And you will hold this over the heads of the other kings like a cleaver over the neck of a lamb. Yet it is not lambs we are dealing with, cousin, but wolves.”

“Which is why we must move quickly, and with sufficient might to force the issue. If you and I can go to the conclave already allied and say to the other kings, ‘Look, this is the way things will be,’ they should be startled enough to pay some attention to our ideas. And if you can promise help to Torunna also, why then I think we have them.”

“If I can promise help?”

“Why, yes. You are closer to the dyke than I. You could have the place reinforced within two months by land or half that by sea, if you had a mind to.”

“And if the place is still standing by that time.”

“True. But the gesture is everything. Lofantyr will be grateful, and will not have to be so reliant on the soldiery of the Church. He will be his own man again.”

“You mean he will be our man.”

Abeleyn smiled. “Perhaps,” he said again.

“My sister’s dowry may yet cost me my throne,” Mark muttered.

“Will you agree, then? Think of the opportunities, Mark! Our combined fleets would be irresistible. We might even clear Macassar of the corsairs entirely and make it into Rovenan again, your lost province.”

“Don’t seek to convince me with pipe dreams, Abeleyn. I must think about this.”

“Do not take too long.”

“My advisers will throw themselves into fits when the news gets back to the court.”

“Not necessarily. All they need to know is that you have finally succeeded in wooing Hebrion. There should be no trouble from that quarter so long as they do not know the whole story.”

Mark contemplated Abeleyn’s face. “We have been friends for a long time, you and I, insofar as monarchs can ever be friends. I pray to the Saints that I do not let that friendship cloud my thinking now. I like you, Abeleyn. It is our mutual esteem that has brought an end to the endless raiding and rivalry that plagued our two kingdoms from time immemorial. But I tell you this as Astarac’s king: if you play me false, or if I find that you intend to use Astarac as Hebrion’s workhorse, then I will annul our alliance in the blink of an eye, and I will be in the first rank of those who bay for your blood.”

“I would do likewise, were I Astarac’s king,” Abeleyn said gently.

“So be it.” Mark stood up and held out a brawny hand.

Abeleyn rose also and took it, face grave. Mark topped him by half a head, but he did not feel the smaller man.

“Come,” said Mark. “Let us sniff the air. My head is full of the fumes of ale and coal.”

They slipped out of the tent together, the bodyguards at the entrance snapping to attention as they appeared. Their fire had burned down low and the men were stamping their feet and flapping their arms. Mark and Abeleyn dismissed them and stood alone. As one, they walked out to the edge of the camp where the ground fell away in a gentle curve of white to the lower land below. They trudged through knee-deep snow, bound by some mutual arrangement, until they could hear the tiny rill and trickle of water. The Arcolm river. When they found it, they each stood on one side: one man in Astarac, the other in Narboskan Fimbria.

The sun was beginning to top the mountains so the Malvennors were a huge soundless silhouette of shadow. Behind them the sky was brightening and glowing a delicate lilac, whilst over the highest of the peaks wisps of cloud caught fire from the sun and blazed in a glory of saffron and gold.

“Our path will be a hard one,” Mark said quietly.

“Aye. But men have trod it before, and no doubt will again. And these mountains will see other sunrises, other kings making bargains in their shadow. It is the way of the world.”

“Abeleyn, the Philosopher King,” Mark said with gentle mockery.

Abeleyn grinned, but when he spoke again his voice was serious.

“We have the luck or the misfortune to be part of the forces which shape the fate of the world, Mark. We have a conversation over a flagon of ale and lo! History is changed. Sometimes I think about it.”

He fumbled in his fur-lined robes and produced a small silver flask. He unscrewed the top, which transformed into two tiny, gleaming cups.

“Here. We’ll seal our history shaping with a little wine.”

“I hope it’s good,” Mark said. “We must toast the alliance of Astarac and Hebrion in the finest you possess.”

“Good enough.”

They raised their cups to each other and drank, two kings sealing a bargain, whilst above them the sun broke out over the peaks of the mountains and bathed them both in blood.