The Rebel Prince

TRINKETS AND HONOUR



‘WHAT WE do about them?’

‘Nothing. Like Tabiyb say.’

Sólmundr glanced at Razi and back again to Úlfnaor. ‘We just to roll and show our bellies, this is what you say?’

‘No one is asking you to roll over for the Wolves,’ said Razi. ‘I’m simply asking for time, that’s all.’ His eyes flickered to Christopher, but his friend, hard-faced and silent, did not look up from his dinner. ‘Not everything can be solved with a sword to the back of the head, Sólmundr. Give me time to find a better way.’

‘When we get to talk to the Prince, then?’ asked Sól. ‘When the Merron get to make our case for new life?’ Neither Úlfnaor nor Razi replied, and Sól shook his head in disgust. ‘So,’ he rasped, ‘we pissed on at home. We pissed on here. And now we must to lie down and let Wolves piss on us too.’

‘I told you, Sól. No one is asking you—’

Christopher stood abruptly, left the remains of his meal by the fire and strode away. There was a moment of silence; then Wari took Christopher’s abandoned dinner and began eating it. Hallvor looked at him in amused disapproval and the big man shrugged blandly. After a decent moment, Soma helped herself to a morsel.

‘This not what Embla and Ash give their lifes for,’ hissed Sól, getting to his feet. ‘That we be messengers for tyrants and bitches to Wolves. This not what we is. This not the Merron way.’ He flung his empty bowl to the ground, took Boro by his chain and stalked after Christopher.

Úlfnaor sighed and pressed his fingers to his temples. His warriors watched him from the corners of their eyes, and concentrated on their food. No questions were asked, and Úlfnaor made no effort to translate for them.

‘It not right, Tabiyb,’ he said eventually, ‘that we let those cur wander about after what they do to Coinín. Even if he not have been one of the tribe it would be not right, but Coinín, he Sól’s son now. He wear the bracelets of bear Merron . . . it our duty and our honour to avenge him.’

‘Úlfnaor,’ grated Razi, ‘if you truly wish to attain this new life you keep asking for, you must be willing to try and live it.’

The big man grew silent and thoughtful, and Razi flicked a glance to Wynter. She briefly met his eye but didn’t speak. She had nothing to add to the conversation. Her mind was a numb void, her chest constricted with anger. Sighing, she slammed her bowl on the fire-stones; the food tasted like sawdust and ashes to her anyway. Frangok eyed the uneaten dinner and Wynter nudged the bowl towards her with her foot.

‘Take it,’ she said. ‘I shall vomit if I have more.’

Frangok’s eyebrows shot up in surprise at Wynter’s use of Garmain.

Wynter didn’t acknowledge her, just drew up her knees and laid her head against her crossed arms, watching as Christopher came into view between a gap in the tents. He was striding furiously down the slope towards the river and the horse-lines. Sólmundr quickly caught up with him. Boro wove about ahead of them, pulling at his chain and snuffling in excitement. The men fell into step, their heads down. Wynter followed their progress until they passed from view. She would not be foolish enough to intrude on them. Christopher had made it perfectly clear that he wanted to be left alone.

All through that long day, Wynter had been hoping that Alberon would send a message, if not to Razi then at least to her, as a beginning to reconciliation with his brother. But there had been nothing. Now evening was coming on, and the rhythms of the camp were slowing, the smoke from the fires hanging sweet and hazy in the lowering light. It did not seem likely that a pardon would be granted today.

Wynter was distressed by this, but she could not in honesty say that she was surprised. One did not call a crown prince ‘foolish’ at the negotiation table. At the very least, it would have wounded Alberon’s pride to hear himself described in such terms, particularly when he had gone to such pains to confirm Razi’s status as his right-hand man. Wynter squeezed her eyes shut. God help them, but it had been such a stupid, stupid thing to say. And then to compound it with ‘I shall not let you’! What an absolute and unmistakable assertion of superiority. What a disastrously contemptuous thing for a bastard son to say against his royal brother. In many a court, those words alone would have been enough to see the end of Razi.

‘Jesu,’ she whispered to herself. ‘What are we to do?’

There was a small scuffing of ground as someone sat down beside her. Wynter smelled cook-fire, and the lingering scent of bitter herbs. Hallvor’s smoky voice spoke, low and private: ‘Luichín, you speak Garmain. It’s a shame we didn’t know this sooner, eh?’

Wynter shrugged. She was in no mood for talk.

Hallvor looked across at Razi, who was frowning in their direction, obviously trying to understand.

‘Ah,’ she breathed, ‘but your companions do not speak it. Even had we known this about each other, it would have been wrong for us to converse, a chroí. It is a terrible disrespect to speak above one’s company.’ She smiled down at Wynter, her usual, grave smile, her dark eyes kind. ‘Still, I am glad I know this about you. So glad, that I think I shall now commit a terrible sin against manners and have a conversation with you.’

Oh, God, thought Wynter. Go away. Please. Her eyes drifted to the last place she’d seen Christopher and she pulled her knees in tighter against her chest.

Hallvor followed her gaze. ‘Don’t fret, luichín. Your croíeile will return to you. When a Wolf loves, he loves with everything he is. There is no stronger bond.’

Wynter straightened. ‘There are many Wolves among the Merron?’ she whispered.

Hallvor shrugged. ‘Some. Those who survive their childhood grow to be good strong warriors, loyal and proud – not like those caic that call themselves Loups-Garous and are raised as naught but rabid cur.’

‘Those who survive their childhood?’

Hallvor shrugged again. ‘Not all are lucky enough to have someone like Aidan an Filid Garron to raise them.’ She settled her arms across her own bent knees, looked thoughtfully down towards the river. ‘Wolf children can be very wild,’ she murmured. ‘You know, if he ever gives you trouble like today?’ She tapped her temple. ‘Hit him hard in the head. They can’t keep the Wolf-shape once they’ve been hit in the head.’

‘Hallvor! I would never hit Christopher in the head!’

‘Never say never, girl. A man is a man – especially when he is a Wolf!’ Hallvor slid a wry glance at her, and Wynter was no longer sure if the woman was being serious or simply trying to cheer her up. Hallvor chuckled at her confusion. Her dark eyes switched from Wynter to Razi, who was in desultory conversation with Úlfnaor. ‘I think it is a strange and wonderful thing,’ she said softly, ‘how Tabiyb and Coinín are brothers-of-the-heart. And you with your pale skin and Tabiyb with his black, yet he sees you as his sister.’ She frowned. ‘I had thought it meant good things for us here. This great love between three such different people.’

‘If we can heal the rift between Razi and the Prince there is still hope,’ said Wynter.

Hallvor glanced at her and her wry smile told Wynter that she didn’t hold out much hope of reconciliation between the brothers. The healer squeezed Wynter’s knee and made to rise to her feet. ‘Well,’ she sighed. ‘Ashkr and Embla made Tabiyb our Caora for some reason. If it was not to heal a rift, then it must have been for some other purpose. We shall have to see.’ This casual mention of the sacrificed dead froze Wynter’s heart. On impulse she grabbed Hallvor’s hand, halting her rise to her feet. Have you no guilt? she wanted to cry. Do you feel no shame?

Hallvor sank to her haunches, her face concerned. ‘What is it, luichín?’ she said. ‘Have you more questions about your man? Do you fear for him?’

How can you do it? thought Wynter, still gripping the woman’s hand, staring desperately into her face. I want to know! I want to know how you can have killed like that, then just go on as normal!

She went to ask, but Surtr’s voice cut her off before she could speak.

‘Tá na Haun ag imeacht, a Aoire.

’ Wynter looked around. The red-haired warrior was standing at the corner of the tents, gesturing to the road. Úlfnaor rose to his feet. He thumped Razi on his shoulder. ‘Surtr say the Haun is leaving.’

Razi shrugged listlessly and stayed where he was, but Wynter got to her feet and she and Hallvor went with the men to look.

Once Alberon had shown his hand and the Haun had realised that their plans were come to naught, they had immediately begun packing. It was quite obvious that they could not believe the Prince would be lenient with them and were keen to leave before he changed his mind about sparing their lives. After all, to a Haun, the clearest form of message was often the poor envoy’s severed head returned home in a box. Clearly these men did not trust that Alberon’s methods of communication with their superiors would be anything less than blood-soaked. Wynter could not help but wonder what reception these men would receive at home. Her father had told her the Haun punishments for failure were often savage in the extreme. Being pressed to death under the corpse of your own horse was one she remembered most vividly.

As she rounded the corner of the tents, the older Haun were already urging their horses down the road, their heavily laden little pack mares tottering along behind. Some of the camp had come out to watch them leave, but Wynter was impressed to note that very few of Alberon’s soldiers stood about staring at the fleeing men, and that those who did line up to watch confined their reactions to smirks and a few subdued whistles.

Alberon must have ordered them to behave. Wynter admired that. It showed unexpected refinement and diplomacy towards a confounded enemy.

The youngest Haun was last to get going, and he mounted his horse as if in a daze. He appeared stunned and distracted with confusion. It was apparent that he could not believe this sudden reversal of his hopes and plans. As he urged his mount to catch up on the others, Wynter stepped from between the tents and watched him with the strangest mixture of fear and regret. There was so much this man might be able to tell her about her father and his past; so much that she longed to know. At the same time, she felt almost glad she would never have the chance to ask those things of him.

The young man saw her, and to her surprise he reined to a halt, staring at her. All at once, his bewildered confusion transformed to hatred. Wynter saw his face darken, saw his intentions rise clear in his eyes, and he abruptly burst into action. Kicking his horse to a gallop, he thundered towards her. As he advanced, his hand dropped to his side, and Wynter – fixed like a rabbit under an eagle’s eye – stared in horror as he drew his sword.

Úlfnaor whispered, ‘Frith an Domhain!’ then yelled, ‘Stop! ’ Running forward, he flung himself between Wynter and the charging horse as if his body alone could stop its wild-eyed advance. He was knocked aside. Behind Wynter, Hallvor spun and bellowed in Merron, undoubtedly calling for weapons.

Wynter stayed rooted in place. The young Haun’s eyes were locked with hers. His bitter grin was mesmerising. On the road, someone yelled a warning, and even through her frozen shock Wynter knew it was Oliver. Still she could not move. The Haun swung his sword over his head; his rage, the gleam of his weapon, his thundering horse, filled the world. ‘Tell your father!’ he screamed. ‘Tell your father!’

Tell him what? thought Wynter idiotically, gazing up at him.

The Haun stood in the stirrups, his grin widening. Wynter thought, But I don’t want to die. Then he was gone, and she found herself blinking up at empty sky.

The Haun landed with a thud at her feet, a crossbow bolt sticking from his throat like a scarlet thorn. His horse veered away, passing Úlfnaor, who stood, dazed, in the middle of the road. The alley behind Wynter filled with noisy, shouting warriors. There was pushing and shoving as they streamed past to get to their Aoire. Soldiers filled the road.

In the thoroughfare, the Haun who had fired the bolt lowered his bow and lifted his hands. ‘He die!’ he shouted to Oliver. ‘I kill! He no hurt woman!’

Soldiers ran forward, their swords drawn. Across the road, the Wolves had come to see the show, and a high cackle of laughter signalled Jean’s amusement at the sight of the young man gurgling and twitching in a pool of his own blood.

‘Is not quarrel!’ shouted the older Haun as the soldiers crowded his horse.

Oliver was striding towards him, his face livid. ‘Protector Lady?’ he shouted as he strode by.

Wynter lifted her hand, her attention on the young man at her feet. I’m fine.

‘Is not quarrel!’ repeated the Haun. ‘Borchu-xah dead! I kill! I kill!’

Borchu-xah, thought Wynter, dropping to her knees by the young man’s side. Is that your name? His eyes rolled towards her. He jerked, dark blood pouring from his mouth and oozing from around the arrow in his throat. ‘Get Razi,’ she whispered to no one in particular. Then she yelled it, staring around for whoever would listen. ‘Get Razi!’

The Haun’s arm spasmed outwards and Wynter realised that he was trying to get his sword. She grabbed his hands. ‘Stop it!’ she cried. ‘Stop! You’re dying! Can’t you stop?’ His eyes widened at that, and he clutched her hand. She saw his desire to kill fall away in terror as the truth of his predicament hit him.

‘Borchu-xah?’ she whispered. ‘Is that your name? Borchuxah?’ He hissed a sound, but no words.

‘Shhhh.’ Wynter wiped the dirt and blood from his mouth, and squeezed his hand tighter. ‘Shhhhh. My friend will help you.’

The young man’s eyes filled with tears and he stared desperately into Wynter’s face. He did not want to die. Wynter could see that. He did not want to die. No matter what he had thought just moments before, no matter how determined he had been. This man wanted to live. ‘Be still,’ she whispered. ‘My friend will help you. Just hold tight to my hand and be still.’

All the tension left his body at once, and the terror left his face. Still clinging to Wynter’s hand, his gaze slid past her, and the young man looked up into the sky. His dark eyes overflowed. His lips parted, and he sighed, scarlet bubbles popping on his lips. He slipped away just as Razi dropped to his knees by his side.

‘Good God,’ cried Razi, pressing his fingers to the young man’s bloody neck. ‘What happened?’

‘He tried to kill me,’ she whispered.

‘What?’ He jerked back from the Haun. ‘Why?’

‘He knew my da, Razi. I think he wanted revenge on my da.’

Across the road, the Wolves were regarding them with delight. Jean whistled to get Razi’s attention. ‘Hey,’ he called. ‘I’m no doctor, but I think he has something stuck in his throat!’

Razi gritted his teeth but did not reply. Wynter was ashamed by the tears that suddenly welled up and flowed down her face. She could not seem to release the dead man’s hands.

‘He knew my da, Razi,’ she quavered again. ‘He wanted revenge on my da. Why?’

Razi glanced behind her to where Oliver was in discussion with the Haun. ‘Come away now, darling,’ he said, his eyes scanning the road. ‘Come back to the Merron.’

‘No, listen, it wasn’t those others. It was him. It was just him. He knew Da, Razi. He knew him, I’m certain of it! And he hated him! He called him a butcher of children! Why, Razi? Why? Tell me why anyone would call my father that?’ Wynter’s voice had risen beyond her control and she still clung to the young man’s hands, her eyes blinded with tears. She felt on the dangerous edge of hysteria.

Across the road Jean called, ‘Give the girly a kiss, al-Sayyid! Kiss her all better!’

The Wolves chuckled. Oliver glared across at them, warning clear in his face, and Jean grinned at the knight, spreading his hands. ‘Only jesting,’ he laughed. ‘Lightening the mood is all!’

David Le Garou came up behind his men then, all dark grace and smiles. ‘Shut up, Jean,’ he said, and Jean instantly fell silent. ‘Need help, Sir Knight?’ called Le Garou. ‘We can dispose of something for you, perhaps?’

Oliver curled his lip. Ignoring Le Garou, he strode across to crouch in the dust by Wynter’s side. ‘Protector Lady,’ he said gently, ‘the Haun claim that it was their translator’s lunacy that led him to attack. I have to admit, he struck me always as an unstable man. The Royal Prince was ever wary of him.’

Wynter would not look the knight in his eye. Even in her present state, her anger with him was such that she could not speak to him.

He sighed. ‘Protector Lady,’ he persisted. ‘I will arrest these men and I will make certain that they pay the price for allowing this man to advance upon you. I will endeavour to exact the full extent of whatever vengeance you wish, but I must tell you, the Royal Prince needs at least one of them to make it home. No matter what happens, I’m afraid that I shall have to allow at least one of them to leave here intact.’

Wynter looked down into the Haun’s dead face. She forced herself to release his hands. ‘Let them go,’ she whispered.

Oliver faltered, surprised.

‘Let them go,’ she said again, not looking at him. ‘They were not involved.’

‘Wyn,’ said Razi softly, ‘they might have your answers. They may know the reason for this man’s—’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No. I don’t want to know. Just send them away.’

‘What answers, my Lord?’ asked Oliver.

‘Just send them away!’ yelled Wynter. ‘Just send them away!’

Oliver shot to his feet and strode off. Wynter remained kneeling in the dust, shaking and unable to contain her tears.

Razi reached for her. ‘Get up now, Wyn,’ he said. ‘Come back to the tent.’

She stayed on her knees. Eventually he put his hands on her shoulders and pulled her gently to her feet. On the hill, Alberon was standing in the shelter of his tent, watching from afar. Wynter stared desolately at him until Razi turned her on her heel and guided her away from the busy road. He led her up the alley.

‘If you had been hurt,’ he whispered, ‘you know that Albi would be down here with a sword in his hand and those men would be dead.’

Wynter shook her head.

‘You know he must seem above it all, Wyn,’ insisted Razi. ‘You know he must seem as though every single event has been expected and planned for. This has been dealt with now, and for him it must seem to be over. He cannot be seen to be touched by it. But he will come see you later,’ he assured her. ‘When the time is suitable he will come, I promise he will.’

No, he won’t, she thought numbly. He won’t come. He won’t come at all.



‘Have you no idea of that man’s identity?’ asked Razi, sitting her by the Merron fire and crouching by her side.

Wynter shook her head again. The world felt very detached from her, and Wynter didn’t mind that at all. She would be happy if the whole damned thing just sailed away entirely; just drifted off forever. Then perhaps she could have some peace.

Hallvor handed her a beaker of tea. Wynter held it without drinking until Razi took it and placed it on the firestones. ‘Would you like to lie down?’ he asked, his concerned face floating before her. She did not answer.

The other Merron made a noisy return from the road. Úlfnaor said, ‘They letting the Haun go!’ disbelief clear in his voice. Razi stood and the two men exchanged words that had no meaning for Wynter.

Someone nudged her in the back. She shrugged them off. They nudged again and she turned, dully swatting them away. It was Boro, looming over her with anxious inquiry, filling her face with panting, musty breath.

Christopher came running up from the river. ‘Iseult!’ He slid to a breathless halt on the opposite side of the fire, his eyes wide. ‘Lass!’

Wynter shoved Boro aside, elbowed her way past Razi, and ran to Christopher’s arms. He clutched her to him with every ounce of his amazing strength and she buried her head in his chest, clinging silently to him as he fired questions across the top of her head. Sól ran up behind them. There were anxious exchanges in Merron as the two men learned what had happened.

Oliver’s cultured voice broke through the incompre hensible babble. ‘My Lord Razi?’ he said. ‘Is there anything I can do? Would the Protector Lady like to retire to solitude? I could ask if the Lady Mary would give her shelter in her tent.’

Wynter raised her head to glare at him. He bowed uncertainly to her and she glowered in reply. She stepped free of Christopher’s arms and wiped her eyes, her face hard.

‘Who was he, Sir Knight?’ asked Razi. ‘The Protector Lady thinks he knew her father. Is this possible?’

Oliver shook his head. ‘My Lord,’ he said wearily, ‘I did not even know the fellow’s name. His companions treated him with great wariness. They seemed to distrust him entirely . . . I suspect because of his unhinged nature. He simply translated all that was said, and had no part in the negotiations. But always there was about him . . . I cannot explain, my Lord . . . always a sense of patient malice. It was as though, by just being here, he was exacting a vengeance long sought.’

‘His name was Borchu-xah,’ said Wynter. ‘I’m certain of it.’

‘Borchu,’ whispered Oliver, and Wynter saw a moment of recognition cross his face.

‘You know him!’ she cried. ‘The name means something to you!’

Oliver sighed and seemed to shrug himself free of old memories. ‘I am sorry, Protector Lady, but Borchu is a common name among their kind. ’Tis like asking me would I know a John or a Michael. There were plenty of Borchus and Borchu-xahs running about the land before the late King sent them home.’

‘But he knew my father,’ she insisted. ‘I am certain of it. He knew my father and he hated him. Why?’

Oliver tilted his head with that old paternal sympathy, and Wynter fought the urge to slap his courtly face. ‘All the Haun hate your father, Protector Lady. He is famed for routing their invasion and ridding the kingdom of their threat. But it is unlikely that so young a man would have known Lorcan personally. Your father did have an acquaintance called Borchu, and this is what I recalled when you mentioned the name. Do you recall him, my Lord? The chap who worked with St James? It was the man the late King called that yellow weasel.’

‘I do remember Grandfather using that vile sobriquet,’ frowned Razi, ‘and the fact that my father detested it.’

‘Aye,’ admitted Oliver, blushing. ‘Aye, that’s right. The late King used to delight in taunting the present King with it. I had forgot. But the yel— that fellow was already in his thirties back then and . . .’ Oliver sighed again. He seemed to have run out of energy for the conversation, and it occurred to Wynter just how utterly weary he was. He looked as though he had not slept for days.

‘Forgive me, Protector Lady,’ he said. ‘I am genuinely sorry, but if you had questions, you should have asked me to hold on to those men. If you pardon me for saying so, it is a little late to be asking them now. I cannot give you the answers you seek.’

The sound of silver bells silenced everyone, and an icy stillness settled over the Merron.

The Loups-Garous’ slaves were standing at the mouth of the alley, their posture regal, their faces knowing. They had empty waterskins draped across their shoulders and they looked at Razi in false innocence.

‘Our masters bid us ask, is this the way to the river?’

Wynter frowned at the slaves in momentary confusion. Then she realised that their sleeves were rolled to the shoulder in imitation of the Merron, and that Christopher’s stolen snake bracelets were gleaming against the hard brown muscles of their upper arms.

She jerked forward, suddenly blind with rage, but Christopher, his eyes on the bracelets, looped his arm around her waist and held her in place. ‘No, lass,’ he murmured.

Seeing the bracelets, the Merron cried out and surged forward as one.

‘LEAVE THEM.’ Razi’s roared command stilled all but Sólmundr, who shot around the fire, his intent clear on his face.

Úlfnaor stepped into the warrior’s path, bringing him to a clench-fisted halt. ‘Fan, Sól,’ he said softly. ‘They only do their masters’ bidding.’

The slaves grinned, the brands on their faces puckering in amusement. ‘Oh, I see the river now,’ said one. ‘It is that way.’

‘Get out of my sight,’ hissed Razi. ‘And if you take this route again, I shall send you home to your masters in a hessian sack.’

Smiling, the slaves picked their way through the glowering Merron and walked off with an insolent lack of haste. Úlfnaor watched them go, more pity than anger on his face.

‘Do not feel badly for them, Aoire,’ said Christopher. ‘André Le Garou has convinced them that they will become like him, if they only prove themselves cruel enough and ruthless enough. I have yet to meet one of the Wolves’ Boys who does not believe in this lie. They are vicious and underhanded, and they are undyingly loyal to the Wolves. They would slit your throat without a thought.’

‘Where did they get the second set of bracelets?’ asked Wynter.

Christopher’s hard veneer cracked, and despair showed in his eyes. ‘They are my father’s,’ he said. ‘It is a favourite joke of David’s, to parade them about like that.’

Wynter groaned, squeezing his arm. ‘Oh, no, love,’ she said.

‘Now they have two sets to taunt me with.’

Hallvor glowered inquiringly at Sólmundr. She snapped a question, obviously demanding that he explain. Sólmundr gripped her by the elbow, turned her on her heel and walked her away between the tents.

‘Úlfnaor,’ warned Wynter, her eyes on the departing warriors.

‘Not worry,’ murmured Úlfnaor. ‘Hally, she talk him into sense.’

Wynter was not so certain. Sólmundr was speaking furious and low, his sandy head close to Hallvor’s, and the healer listened intently as they walked. Just before they turned the corner, Hallvor gasped and looked back at Christopher, her eyes wide; then Sól marched her from sight.

Razi and Oliver were watching the slaves walk off. The knight had his hand to his nose, as if to block a bad smell, and Razi was frowning in intense concentration.

‘Oliver,’ he murmured, his voice miles away. ‘I must speak to my brother.’

‘It is not my place to command the Prince, my Lord.’

‘Oliver . . .’

‘He will not be dissuaded,’ cried Oliver.

Wynter bristled at his raised voice, and Razi drew himself up.

Oliver pressed his fingers to his temples and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. ‘Jesu,’ he whispered. Then he stepped closer, his voice low, gazing at Razi as if willing him to understand. ‘I am ever loyal to the King, my Lord. His Highness, the Royal Prince, is ever loyal, but you will not dissuade him from his course. You and your father, my Lord, you are brilliant men – brilliant – but you rely too much on the strength of the Moroccan court.’

‘Oliver,’ sighed Razi. ‘There is no weakness in Abdallah ashShiekh’s court. This plot that David Le Garou has spoken of is doomed to failure. The Corsairs have nothing, they are already destroyed. The Sultan can deal with the Loups-Garous himself, and as for the Haun—’

‘We came this close to losing,’ cried Oliver, his hands held up in despair. ‘This close. Don’t you understand? You say there is no weakness in the Sultan’s court. Well, that may be so now, but what about tomorrow? Or next year? What about when the Sultan dies? Abdallah ash-Shiekh loves your father, my Lord, and rightly so – your father is an extraordinary man. But what about the Sultan’s successors, and the successors of all those kings Jon has so carefully fêted? Will they love him? Will they tolerate him? Your father is a man who bows to no church, while all those others use religion like a whip to keep their people in line. He is a man who refuses to allow slavery, when slavery benefits the economy of all around him. We cannot always rely on the tolerance of these stronger men, my Lord! We cannot! We are small and vulnerable, and your father’s beautiful view of the world makes us a thorn in the side of everyone but God!’ He dropped his hands, his eyes full. ‘And I don’t care what the priests told us when we were young: God lends no hand to the weak in this world, though he may love them in the next. In this world we must make ourselves strong, that we may battle the wicked and protect the good.’

Oliver closed his eyes suddenly. His emotion was such that it moved even those who could not understand him, and the surrounding warriors stood in respectful silence while he gathered himself.

‘I am faithful to your father, Razi,’ he continued softly. ‘I love him. But I am angry that he let things come so close. I will never understand why, having such a wonderful invention to hand, he did not draw out Lorcan’s machine and end the insurrection sooner. Your brother was furious when he found out.’ Oliver smiled fondly. ‘God help us, but the Prince is a remarkable young man. If you could see him at the war table! From the moment your father let him partake in battle, Alberon exhibited such clarity of vision, such understanding of men. He amazes me. Your father calls him his little Alexander.’

‘But he does not need to go this far,’ whispered Razi. ‘He does not need to bring filth like David Le Garou to his table, nor ally himself so irretrievably to a canker like Marguerite Shirken.’

Oliver looked briefly into Razi’s eyes and away again. ‘I . . . perhaps . . . I don’t know.’ He sighed deeply and ran his hand over his weary face. ‘I’m just a soldier, my Lord; these are things I do not understand. The Prince could well have done with your advice on them. But . . .’ He shook his head and looked away into the rapidly gathering twilight. ‘I do not know what to do,’ he whispered.

Razi put his hand on his shoulder. ‘Help me talk to him, Oliver,’ he insisted softly. ‘That is all you need do. Help me talk to him, and I will make this work.’