The Rebel Prince (29 page)

‘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.

‘L
EAVE 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.’

THE MUSIC OF MEMORY

‘W
HERE ARE
you going?’ Christopher caught Wynter by the elbow, stopping her from following Oliver down the alley.

She flicked a glance to Razi. He had drawn Úlfnaor aside and was engaged in a low, secretive conversation. ‘I want to ask Oliver something,’ she whispered. ‘I will only be a moment.’

‘You ain’t going on your own. I’ll come with you.’

‘No, love,’ she said, laying her hand on his chest. ‘The Loups-Garous may still be out there and I do not want you to have to face them. I will be all right.’

He frowned at her in irritated disbelief. ‘Are you
deranged
?’ he snapped. ‘Come on.’

He shooed her up the alley, and they made their way into the noise and waning sunshine of the thoroughfare. By the supply tent, there was a dark patch of ground where the young Haun had died. Already the sharp outline of his blood had been smudged by the passage of feet and the drifting of dust from the busy road. Scuff marks showed where the soldiers had dragged his body away. Wynter came to a halt, staring down at these fading signs of violence, and released a shaky sigh.

Christopher took her hand, his eyes on the bloodstain.

‘Good Frith, lass,’ he breathed, ‘you came so close.’

Wynter squeezed his fingers gently, then let go. ‘Come on,’ she said. They skirted the blood and hurried after Oliver, who was just striding away from his lieutenant, on his way back to Alberon’s tent.

‘Sir Knight!’

He turned, surprise clear on his face. ‘Protector Lady.’

‘Sir Knight.’ She came to a halt before him, gazing up into his face. ‘You
will
do your best to open dialogue between the Prince and Lord Razi?’

He nodded. ‘Aye, Protector Lady. I shall.’

‘It is vital, sir. You understand? You must not play politics with this.’

The knight stayed silent for a moment, reading her face, and Wynter knew that her suspicions had been right. Oliver was still in two minds as to Razi’s usefulness to the Prince and was in no way certain that he would repair communications between the brothers.

In an appeal to their history, Wynter softened the formality of her tone and lowered her voice: ‘Listen to me, Oliver,’ she said. ‘I believe I understand why it is that our fathers wanted the machine forgotten. I suspect they used it before, to end the Haun Invasion.’

Oliver frowned. ‘With respect, Protector Lady. If that were the case, I should know of it, but I had never seen nor heard of these machines before Jon—’

‘
Listen
to me, Oliver. I suspect they also used it . . .’ Wynter hesitated. She looked back at the wide patch of darkness on the ground.

Oliver’s eyes followed hers and he stared in confusion at the bloodstain. ‘Also used it for what?’

‘Where were you when the Haun were defeated?’ she whispered.

‘I was up North. Jon sent me North to fetch his father home.’

‘And when the Lost Hundred were expelled?’

Oliver was silent for a moment. ‘I was still in the North, mopping up the last of the Combermen,’ he said slowly. ‘The late King left me there to help finish things up. I didn’t get home until well after the Hundred were gone.’

Wynter met his eye. He began to understand.

‘Oh no, Lady!’ he said, appalled. ‘The Hundred were just sent east. That is all. They were simply . . .’

His voice trailed away and they gazed at each other. Wynter could see memories falling into place for him, connections being made, things clarifying. His eyes grew wide in horrified comprehension. She reached behind her and took Christopher’s hand. He held gently on.
I am here.

Oliver went to speak and Wynter shook her head, willing him not to articulate what they were both thinking.

‘Lorcan,’ he managed finally. ‘Lorcan was
destroyed
when I got home. I thought it was because of your poor mother . . . I must admit I got very impatient with him after a while. He lay in his bed for months. He spoke to no one. He was . . .’ Oliver moaned in despair and guilt. ‘Sweet Christ,’ he whispered. ‘I was only fourteen. How was I to understand?’

‘And the King?’ asked Wynter. ‘Our present King. How was he?’

‘My God,’ said Oliver, remembering, ‘my God.’