The Heretic Kings (16 page)

Albrec had joined the Antillian Order for many reasons: hatred of the open sea which had been his fisherman father’s daily bread; a love of books; but also a desire for security, for peace. He had found it in Charibon, and had never regretted his thirteen years in the confines of the St. Garaso Library. But now he felt that the earth had shifted from under his feet. His safe world was no longer so tranquil. There was an old saying among the clerics of Charibon that it was but a short step from the pulpit to the pyre. For the first time Albrec appreciated the truth behind the dark humour of it.

He uncovered the document, glancing fearfully at the door as he did so, as though Commodius might leap out with his face a devil’s mask again.

He should destroy it. He should burn it, or lose it somewhere. Let someone else discover it a hundred years hence, perhaps. Why should it be he who must shoulder this burden?

It is my belief,
the narrative went on,
that the Blessed Saint did indeed succeed in crossing the Jafrar. He was a man in the seventh decade of his life, but he was still strong and vigorous, and the missionary flame burned hotly in him. He was like a captain of a ship who can never rest until he has found an uncharted shore, and then another, and another. There was a restlessness to him which I and others believed to be the spirit of God.

As the greatest conquerors can never sit at peace and reflect upon their past victories but must always move on, fighting fresh battles, chancing their lives and their fortunes until the end of their strength, so Ramusio could never be content to cease his proselytizing, his unending work of spreading the truth. His fire was not suited to the administration of an organized church. He inspired men and then moved on, leaving it to his followers to write rules and catechisms, to make into formulas and commandments the tenets of his faith.

He was the gentlest man I have ever known, and yet his will was adamantine. There was a puissance to his determination which was not of this world, and which awed all those who knew him.

I do not doubt that he reached the steppes beyond the mountains, and that he awed the Merduks as he had the men of the west. Ramusio the Blessed Saint became Ahrimuz the Prophet, and the faith which sustains us here in the west is the same as that which inspires the Merduks who have become our mortal enemies. That is the pity of it.

There it was. Once he had read it, Albrec’s world changed irrevocably. He knew the document was genuine, that the author had lived and breathed in the same long-lost world which the Blessed Saint had known, a world five hundred years distant. He spoke of Ramusio as a man, a teacher, and as a friend, and the authenticity of his recollections convinced Albrec of the truth of what he was reading. Ramusio and Ahrimuz were one and the same, and the Church, the kingdoms, the entire edifices of two civilizations which spanned the known world were founded on a misconception. On a lie.

He bent his head and prayed until the cold sweat was rolling down his temples in agonized drops. He prayed for courage, for strength, for some morsel of the determination which had possessed the holy Saint himself.

The last section of the document was missing entirely, the rotted threads which bound the work having given way to time and abuse. He did not know the name of the author or the date of the work, but there was no doubt why it had been hidden away.

He had to find out more. He had to go back to the catacombs.

NINE

C ORFE hated the new clothes, but the tailor had assured him that they were typical court wear for officers of the Torunnan army. There was a narrow ruff which encircled his neck, below which glittered a tiny mock breastplate of silver suspended by a neck chain and engraved with the triple sabres of his rank. The doublet was black embroidered with gold, heavily padded in the shoulders and with voluminous slashed sleeves through which the fine cambric of his shirt fluttered. He wore tight black hose beneath, and buckled shoes. Shoes! He had not worn shoes for years. He felt ridiculous.

“You will do very well,” the Queen Dowager had said to him when she had looked him over, with the tailor bowing and hovering like a blowfly behind him.

“I feel like a dressmaker’s mannequin,” he snapped back.

She smiled at that and, folding her fan, she chucked him under the chin with it.

“Now, now, Colonel. We must remember where we are. The King has expressed a wish to see you in the company of his senior officers. We cannot let you march into their council of war looking like a serf dragged in from the fields. And besides, this becomes you. You have the build for it, even if your legs are a little on the short side. It comes of being a cavalryman, I suppose.”

Corfe did not reply. The Queen Dowager Odelia was gliding round him as though she were admiring a statue, her long skirts whispering on the marble floor.

“But this thing”—her fan rapped against Corfe’s scabbarded sabre—“this is out of place. We must find you a more fitting weapon. Something elegant. This is a butcher’s tool.”

Corfe’s fist tightened on the pommel of the sword. “By your leave, lady, I’d prefer to keep it with me.”

“Why?”

She had glided in front of him. Their eyes met.

“It helps remind me of who I am.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Corfe could sense the tailor’s presence behind him, uneasy and fascinated.

“You must be in the chambers of the war council by the fifth hour,” Odelia said, turning away abruptly. “Do not be late. The King has something for you, I believe.”

She was gone, the end of her skirts trailing round the doorway like the tail of a departing snake.

A S the palace bells sounded the fifth hour, Corfe was ushered into the council chambers by a haughty footman. He was reminded a little of his arrival at Ormann Dyke, when he had walked in on General Pieter Martellus’ council of war. But that had been different. The officers at the dyke had been dressed like soldiers on campaign, and they had been planning for a battle which was already at their door. What Corfe walked into in the palace of Torunn was more like a parody, a game of war.

A crowd of gorgeously dressed officers. Infantry in black, cavalry in burgundy, artillery in deepest blue. Silver and gold gleamed everywhere with the pale accompaniment of lace and the bobbing magnificence of feathers from the caps some of the men retained. King Lofantyr was resplendent in sable and silver slashed hose and the crimson sash of a general. The light from a dozen lamps glittered off silver-buckled shoes, rings, gem-studded badges of rank and chivalric orders. Corfe made his deepest bow. He had refused cavalry burgundy, preferring infantry black though he belonged to the mounted arm. He was glad.

“Ah, Colonel,” the King said, and gestured with one hand. “Come in, come in. It is all informality here. Gentlemen, Colonel Corfe Cear-Inaf, late of John Mogen’s field army and the garrison of Ormann Dyke.”

There was a murmur of greetings. Corfe was subjected to a dozen stares of frank appraisal. His skin crawled.

The other officers turned back to the long table which dominated the room. It was scattered with papers, but what occupied its shining length principally was a large map of Torunna and its environs. Corfe went closer, but his way was blocked. Irritably he looked up and found himself face to face with one of the dandies of the palace audience.

“Ensign Ebro, sir,” the officer said, smiling. “We’ve met, I believe, though one would hardly recognize you out of your fighting gear.”

Corfe nodded coldly. There was an awkward pause, and then Ebro stepped aside. “Pardon me, sir.”

His sabre was unwieldy, harder to handle than the slim rapiers the other officers sported. He found himself peering over shoulders to see the rolled-out map. Figurines of Torunnan pikemen cast in silver had been placed at the four corners to stop the stiff paper from curling up. There were decanters on the table, crystal glasses, a blunt dagger of intricate workmanship which King Lofantyr picked up and used as a pointer.

“This is where they are now,” he said, tapping a point on the map some eighty leagues west of Charibon. “In the Narian Hills.”

“How many, sire?” a voice asked. It was the crusty, mustachioed Colonel Menin, whom Corfe had also encountered the evening of the audience.

“A grand tercio, plus supporting artisans. Five thousand fighting men.”

A series of whispers swept the chamber.

“They will be a great help, of course,” Menin said, but the doubt was audible in his voice.

“Fimbrians on the march again across Normannia,” someone muttered. “Who’d have thought it?”

“Does Martellus know yet, sire?” another officer asked.

“Couriers went off to the dyke yesterday,” King Lofantyr told them. “I am sure that Martellus will be glad of five thousand reinforcements, no matter where they are from. Marshal Barbius and his command are travelling light. They intend to be at the Searil river in six weeks, if all goes well. Plenty of time for his men to settle in before the beginning of the next campaigning season.”

Lofantyr turned aside so that an older man in the livery of a court official could whisper in his ear. He was holding a sheaf of papers.

“We have commanded General Martellus to send out winter scouting patrols to ascertain the state of readiness of the Merduks at all times. At the moment it seems they are secure in their winter camps, and have even detached sizable bodies of men eastwards to improve their supply lines. The elephants and cavalry, also, have been billeted further east where they will be nearer to the supply depots on the Ostian river. There is no reason to fear a winter assault.”

Corfe recognized the papers in the court official’s hands; they were the dispatches he had brought from the dyke.

“What of the Pontifical bull demanding Martellus’s removal, sire?” Menin asked gruffly.

“We will ignore it. We do not recognize the imposter Himerius as Pontiff. Macrobius, rightful head of the Church, resides here in Torunn; you have all seen him. Edicts from Charibon will be ignored.”

“Then what of the south, sire?” an officer with a general’s sash about his middle, but who looked to be in his seventies, asked.

“Ah—these reports we’ve been getting of insurrections in the coastal cities to the south of the kingdom,” Lofantyr said airily. “They are of little account. Ambitious nobles such as the Duke of Rone and the Landgrave of Staed have seen fit to recognize Himerius as Pontiff and our Royal self as a heretic. They will be dealt with.”

The talk went on. Military talk, hard-edged and assured. Councils of war loved to talk, John Mogen had once said. But they hated to fight. Most of the conversations seemed to Corfe to be less about tactics and strategy and more about the winning of personal advantage, the catching of the King’s eye.

He had forgotten how different the Torunnan military of the capital and the home fiefs was from the field armies which defended the frontiers. The difference depressed him. These did not seem to him to be the same kind of men with whom he had fought at Aekir and Ormann Dyke. They were not of the calibre of John Mogen’s command. But perhaps that was just an impression; he had not mixed much with the rank and file of the capital. And besides, he lashed himself, he was not such a great one to judge. He had deserted his regiment in the final stages of Aekir’s agony, and while his comrades had fought and died in a heroic rearguard action on the Western Road, he had been slinking away in the midst of the civilian refugees. He must never forget that.

There was no mention of the refugee problem at this meeting, however, which puzzled Corfe extremely. The camps on the outskirts of the capital were swelling by the day with the despairing survivors of Aekir who had first fled the Holy City itself and had then been moved on from Ormann Dyke in the wake of the battles there. If he were the King, he would be concerned with feeding and housing the hopeless multitudes. It was all very well for them to camp outside the walls by the hundred thousand in winter, but when the weather warmed again there would be the near certainty of disease, that enemy more deadly to an army than any Merduk host.

They were discussing the scattered risings of the nobles in the south of the kingdom again. Apparently Perigraine was giving the disaffected aristocrats surreptitious support, and there were vague tales of Nalbenic galleys landing weapons for the rebels. The risings were localized and isolated as yet, but if they could be welded together by any one leader they would pose a serious threat. Swift and severe action was called for. Some of the officers at the council volunteered to go south and bring back the heads of the rebels on platters and there were many protestations of loyalty to Lofantyr, which the King accepted graciously. Corfe remained silent. He did not like the complacent way the King and his staff regarded the situation at the dyke. They seemed to think that the main effort of the Merduks was past and the danger was over except for some minor skirmishing to come in the spring. But Corfe had been there; he had seen the teeming thousands of the Merduk formations, the massed batteries of their artillery, the living walls of war elephants. He knew that the main assault had yet to come, and it would come in the spring. Five thousand Fimbrians would be a welcome addition to the dyke’s defenders—if they would fight happily alongside their old foes the Torunnans—but they would not be enough. Surely Lofantyr and his advisors realized that?

The talk was wearisome, about people whose names meant nothing to Corfe, towns to the south, far away from the Merduk war. As members of Mogen’s command, Corfe and his comrades had always seen the true danger in the east. The Merduks were the only real foes the west faced. Everything else was a distraction. But it was different here. In Torunn the eastern frontier was only one among a series of other problems and priorities. The knowledge made Corfe impatient. He wanted to get back to the dyke, back to the real battlefields.

“We need an expedition to clamp down on these traitorous bastards in the south, that’s plain,” Colonel Menin rasped. “With your permission, sire, I’d be happy to take a few tercios and teach them some loyalty.”