Century of the Soldier: The Collected Monarchies of God (Volume Two) (73 page)

But much of that was still in the future. For now, the gates of Torunn were thrown open for the Treaty-signing ceremonies, and the war-weary city made ready to receive a visit from the man who had tried to conquer it. For Corfe, it all had the surreal quality of a dream. He and Aurungzeb had negotiated through intermediaries, the Sultan considering it beneath his dignity to haggle over the clauses of a treaty in person. Today he would see the face of - perhaps even shake the hand of - the man he had striven so long to destroy. And his mysterious Ramusian Queen, whose contribution to the winning of the war only Corfe and Albrec knew of. Corfe wondered how the history-books would view the event. He had come to realise that the facts, and history's perception of them, were two very different things.

He stood in his dressing chamber with the spring sunshine flooding in a glorious stream through the tall windows, whilst half a dozen valets stood by, disconsolate. They held in their arms a bewildering array of garments dripping with gems, gold lace and fur trimmings. Corfe had refused them all, and stood in the plain black of a Torunnan infantryman. He wore no crown, but had been persuaded to place on his head an ancient circlet of silver that Fimbrian Marshals had once worn at the court of the Electors. Albrec, of all people, had dug it up for him out of some dusty palace coffer. It had once belonged to Kaile Ormann himself, which Corfe thought rather fitting.

Trumpets ringing out down by the city gates, heralding the approach of the Sultan's cavalcade. It seemed to Corfe he had heard more damned trumpets blown in the past few weeks than he had heard in all his life upon battlefields. Torunn had become one vast carnival of late, the people celebrating victory, peace, a new King - one thing after another. And now this, the last of the state occasions that Corfe intended to preside over for a long time.

He'd like to take Formio and Aras out into the hills and go hunting for a while, sleep out under the stars again, stare into a campfire and drink rough army wine. The past year had been a hellish time, but it had possessed its moments of sweetness too. Or perhaps he was merely a damned nostalgic fool, destined to become a dissatisfied old man for whom all glory was in the past. Now, there was a concept. The very idea made him smile. But as one of the more courageous of the valets stepped forward for the third time with the ermine-trimmed robe the smile twisted into a frown.

"For the last time, no. Now get the hell out of here, all of you."

"Sire, the Queen insisted -"

"Bugger off."

"My lord, that is hardly the language a king is expected to use," Odelia said, sweeping into the room with a pair of maids behind her.

He limped about to meet her eyes. Despite all her ministrations, he suspected that his Armagedir wound had marked him permanently. He would be lame for the rest of his life. Well, many had come out of the war with worse souvenirs.

"I always thought that Kings could use what language they chose," he said lightly. Odelia kissed him on the cheek, then drew back to survey his plain attire with mock despair.

"The Sultan will mistake you for a common soldier, if you're not careful."

"He made that mistake before. I doubt he will again."

Odelia laughed, something she had begun to do more often of late. The bright sunlight was not kind to the lines on her face. Whatever magicks she had once applied to maintain her youthful appearance had all been used up on the wounded of the army. Her newfound age still perturbed him sometimes. So he took her hand and kissed it.

"Are they at the walls yet?"

"Just entering the barbican. Perched upon a column of elephants, if you please. It looks like a travelling circus is coming to town."

"Well then, lady, let us go down and greet the clowns."

Her hand came up and touched his temple briefly. "You have gone grey, Corfe. I never noticed before."

"That was Armagedir. It made an old man of me."

"In that case, you will not mind taking an old woman's arm. Come. We have a dais set out for us all hung with lilies and primroses, and they're beginning to wilt in the sun. It's height has been carefully calculated - just high enough to make Aurungzeb look like a supplicant, yet not so high that he can feel insulted."

"Ah, the subtleties of diplomacy."

"And of carpentry."

The crowd gave a massive roar as they appeared side by side and climbed into a carriage that would transport them to the dais just beyond the palace gates. Once there, Odelia had a final, critical look at the arrangements, and they sat down upon the waiting thrones. Behind them Mercadius stood, blinking like an owl in the sunlight and looking half asleep on his feet: he was to interpret the proceedings. A dozen Cathedrallers, their armour freshly painted and shining, stood about the sides of the dais like scarlet statuary.

Corfe found himself looking down a wide avenue from which the crowds were held back by two lines of Torunnan regulars. The noise was deafening and the sun surprisingly hot. Odelia's hand was cold as he gripped it, however. It felt insubstantial as straw within his own strong fingers.

Albrec mounted the dais, his face dark with some unknown worry. He bowed to his King and Queen. "Your pardon, Majesties. I would count it an honour if you allowed me to be present at this time. I will stay out of the way."

Odelia looked as though she was about to refuse, but Corfe waved him closer. "By all means, Father. After all, you're better acquainted with the Merduk royalty than we are." Why did the little monk look so troubled? He was wiping sweat off his face with one sleeve.

"Albrec, are you all right?" Corfe asked him quietly.

"Corfe, I must -"

And here the damnable trumpets began sounding out again. A swaying line of palanquin-bearing elephants approached, painted and draped and bejewelled until they seemed like beasts out of some gaudy legend. Atop the lead animal, which had been painted white, Corfe could make out the broad, turbaned shape of the man who must be Aurungzeb, and beside him under the tasselled canopy, the slighter shadow of his Queen.

The playacting part of it was scheduled to last no more than a few minutes. In the audience hall of the palace, two copies of the treaty waited to be signed - that was the real business of the day. Then there would be a banquet, and some entertainments or other that Odelia had dreamed up, and it would be done. Aurungzeb would not be staying in Torunn overnight, treaty or no treaty.

Formio and Aras appeared at the foot of the dais. Corfe had thought it only fair that they be here for this moment. The two had become fast friends despite all the odds. The Aras Corfe knew now was a long way from the pompous young man he had first encountered at Staed. What was it Andruw had said?
All piss and vinegar
- yes, that was it. And Corfe smiled.
I hope you can see this, Andruw. You made it happen, you and those damned tribesmen.

So many ghosts.

The lead elephant halted, and then went to its knees as smoothly as a well-trained lap-dog. Silk-clad attendants appeared and helped the Sultan and his Queen out of the high palanquin. A knot of people, as bright as silk butterflies, fussed around the couple. Corfe looked at Odelia. She nodded, and they both rose to their feet to greet their guests.

The Sultan was a tall man, topping Corfe by half a head. The fine breadth of his shoulders was marred somewhat by the paunch that had begin to develop under the sash belting his middle. He had a huge beard, as broad as a besom, and his snow-white turban was set with a ruby brooch. The eyes under the turban's brim were alight with intelligence and irritation. Clearly, he did not like the fact that, thanks to the dais, Corfe and Odelia were looking down on him.

Of Aurungzeb's Queen, Corfe could make out little, except that she was heavily pregnant. She was clad in blue silk, the colour of which Corfe immediately liked. It reminded him of his first wife's eyes. Her face above the veil had been garishly painted, the eyebrows drawn out with stibium, kohl smeared across the lids. She did not look up at the dais, but kept her gaze fixed resolutely on the ground. Directly behind her stood an old Merduk with a formidable face and direct glance. He looked like an over-protective father.

The Sultan's chamberlain had appeared at one side to announce his master's appearance, but Aurungzeb did not wait for the diplomatic niceties to begin. Instead he clambered up onto the dais itself - which caused Corfe's Cathedraller bodyguard to half-draw their swords. Corfe held up a hand, and they relaxed.

The Sultan loomed over him. "So, you are the man I have been fighting," he said, his Normannic surprisingly good.

"I am the man."

They stared at one another in frank, mutual curiosity. Finally Aurungzeb grinned. "I thought you would be taller."

They both laughed, and incredibly, Corfe found himself liking the man.

"I see you have your mad little priest here as well - except that he is not mad, of course. Brother Albrec, you have turned our world upside-down. I hope you are pleased with yourself."

Albrec bowed wordlessly. The Sultan nodded to Odelia. "Lady, I hope you are good - well. Yes, that is the word." He took Odelia's hand and kissed it, then scrutinised the nearest Cathedraller, who was watching him warily.

"I thought we had killed them all," he said affably.

Corfe's face darkened. "Not all of them."

"You must be running short of
Ferinai
armour for them by now. I can perhaps send you a few hundred sets."

"There is no need," Odelia said smoothly. "We captured several hundred more at Armagedir."

It was the Sultan's turn to frown. But not for long. "My manners have deserted me. Let me introduce my Queen. Ahara - Shahr Baraz - help her up here. That's it."

The old, severe-looking Merduk helped the Merduk Queen up on the dais. All around the little tableau of figures, the crowds had gone quiet, and were watching events unfold as if it were some passion play laid on for their entertainment.

"Ahara was from Aekir," the Sultan explained. "Now she will soon give me a son. The next Sultan of Ostrabar will have Ramusian blood in him. For that reason at least, it is good that this long war finally comes to an end."

Albrec laid a hand on Corfe's shoulder, surprising him. The little monk was staring intently at him. Half amused, half puzzled, he took the Merduk Queen's hand to kiss, raised it to his lips. "Lady -"

Her eyes were full of tears. Corfe hesitated, wondering what was wrong, and in that instant, he knew her.

He knew her.

Albrec's grip on his shoulder tightened bruisingly.

"It may be that one day our children will even play together," Aurungzeb went on, oblivious. He seemed to enjoy showing off his command of Normannic. "Imagine how we will be able to improve our respective kingdoms, if there is no war to fight, no frontier to maintain. I forsee a new era with the signing of this treaty. Today is a famous day."

So much, in one terrible moment. A whole host of impulses come roaring at him, only to be beaten back. His life shipwrecked beyond hope or happiness. Albrec's grip on his shoulder anchoring him to reality in a world which had suddenly gone insane.

Her eyes had not changed, despite the paint that had been applied about them. Perhaps there was a wisdom in them now which had not been there before. Her fingers clasped his hand as they hovered below his lips, a gentle pressure, no more.

Something broke, deep within him.

Corfe shut his eyes, and kissed the hand of the woman who had been his wife. He held her fingers one moment more, and then released them, and straightened.

"I hope I see you well, lady," he said, his voice as harsh and thick as a raven's croak.

"I am well enough, my lord," she replied.

One second longer they had looking at one another, and then the madness of the world came flooding back in on them, and the day must be seen through, and the thing they had come here for must be done. Had to be done.

"Are you all right?" Odelia whispered to Corfe as they led the Merduk Royal couple down from the dais to the open carriages that awaited.

He nodded, grey in the face. Albrec had to help him into the carriage; he was unsteady as an old man.

The crowds found their voices at last, and began to cheer their King as the carriages trundled the short distance to the open doors of the great audience hall, where rank after rank of Fimbrian pikemen were drawn up alongside Torunnan regulars and a small, vermilion line of Cathedrallers. Aras and Formio rode alongside the carriage.

"Wave, Corfe," Odelia said to him. "This is supposed to be a glad day. The war is over, remember."

But he did not wave. He stared out at that sea of cheering people, and thought he saw faces he knew in the crowd. Andruw and Marsch. Ebro, Cerne, Ranafast, Martellus. And at the last he saw Heria, the woman who had once been his wife, with that heartbreaking smile of hers, one corner of her mouth quirking upwards.

He closed his eyes. She had joined the faces of the dead at last.