Kitabı oku: «The Court of Broken Knives», sayfa 3

Chapter Four

The Imperial Palace of the Asekemlene Emperor of the Sekemleth Empire of the eternal city of Sorlost the Golden is clad in white porcelain. Its towers are gilt in silver, its great central dome in gold. Its windows are mage glass, shining like sunrise. Its courtyards are hung with yellow satin, its balconies are carved of gems. Its gates are ivory and whalebone and onyx and red pearl. Its walls enclose lush silent gardens of lilac trees where green flightless birds dart and sing. Tall marble columns create cool loggias, opening onto perfumed lakes to form shaded bathing places of pale sand and dark water, purple irises and silver fish. Lawns run down to tangled bushes with flowers that smell like human skin. Apples and apricots and cimma fruit grow in profusion, perfect and uneaten; when the trees are not in season, servants in black turbans hang brightly painted wooden fruits from their boughs. The fruits were jewelled, once, but these were sold or stolen long ago. It is commonly known as the Summer Palace, though there is no Winter Palace and never has been one. Sorlost is a city without seasons: perhaps some ancient incarnation of the Emperor in the youth of empire once thought it fitting of his status to make a differentiation that is not needed and cannot indeed exist. Perhaps a Winter Palace was planned, once, before time passed too quickly and money was borrowed that could not be repaid and building works were delayed and abandoned and forgotten, in the richest empire the world has ever known.

A beautiful building. Sorrow radiates off it, and corruption, and hope. The centre and symbol of an empire of dreaming, where men live in the dry desert and count their meaning only in gold. An absurdity. Of course an absurdity. An Emperor who rules forever, in a palace built on sand. A thing sacred to eternity, dead and rotted, encrusted with dust. A hive of insects crawling to achieve divinity, the sublime pointlessness of absolute rule. No one cares. No one wonders. Time ceases. Dust settles. The Empire and the Emperor and their servants go on.

This is Sorlost, the eternal, the Golden City. The most beautiful, the first, the last. The undying. The unconquered. The unconquerable.

The mummified heart of an empire of dust and desert villages, half forgotten by half the world.

In a small room at the top of one of the silver towers, two men were talking. The room was furnished in green and silver, small round windows giving a view of the whole sprawling city beneath. The pale evening sky already lit with the first stars. In the west the sky would be fading crimson. Such melancholy! And always a perilous time, this borderline between the realms of life and death. The younger of the two men shivered despite the heat. A rational man, but he hated the dusk. A bell tolled, the room sat still and tense, then the bell tolled again. Night comes, he thought. We survive. The room seemed immediately darker. Shadows falling in the corners, twisting on the green-grey walls.

On one wall, a map caught the lamplight, the world picked out in a mosaic of tiny gems. The Sekemleth Empire gold and yellow diamonds. Immish looming over them to the east, its borders shiny bright. Allene to the south smiling peacefully. Chathe and Theme squatting west and north. Immier a sad empty whiteness, Ith in shadow, the Wastes done in floor scrapings, Illyr carefully hidden behind a lamp sconce. The rich terrifying lumps of the White Isles at the far eastern edge glaring over at them all.

The younger man looked at the map. Shivered again. Looked away.

A joke, that this room was where they were meeting. That damned map staring at them.

‘A cup of wine?’ the older man asked him. Without waiting for an answer, he poured pale wine from a crystal bottle into two porcelain cups. He was pale like the wine and dressed in silk. His hair was grey and receding, thin curls clinging to the sides of his head; his eyes pouched and tired, his nose long and broad. His hands were delicate, small in proportion to his wide body, bitten fingertips above several large old rings. His hands shook slightly as he placed the bottle back on the table.

The younger man was dark-skinned and slender, his hair long and black, his eyes brown. He took a small sip from his cup. ‘It’s an excellent wine,’ he said.

‘You think so? I personally find it a little dry. It’s fifty years old, the estate no longer produces, I’m afraid. The cask was originally broached for the Emperor’s birthday, but he didn’t like it. Bad taste, I’d say. But what does one expect from a man brought up by fishmongers?’

‘That his adviser should have corrected his tastes better?’

‘How can they? He knows everything about taste, having such a superb knowledge of all possible varieties of dried fish.’

‘Yes, yes, of course. Very witty. Let’s assume I’ve now made a pointed suggestive response. So can we just come to the point, please, Tam?’

The older man, Tamlath Rhyl, Lord of the Far Waters, Dweller in the House of the Sun in Shadow, Nithque of the Ever Living Emperor and the Undying City, the Emperor’s True Counsellor and Friend, smiled blandly. ‘There’s always a point, Orhan. If you think about it.’ He pushed his cup aside and spread his hands on the table, rings glittering. ‘Very well, then. You are of course quite correct, I did not ask you here simply to compare tasting notes. Or indeed to discuss the failings of the current incarnation of His Eternal Eminence, oenologically or otherwise. Ten years, I’ve held this post. Ten years! And now March Verneth is dripping poison in the Emperor’s ear. We can’t wait, Orhan. We need to make it happen now.’

The younger man, Orhan Emmereth, Lord of the Rising Sun, Dweller in the House of the East, the Emperor’s True Counsellor and Friend, sighed. ‘We’ve been over this, Tam. We can’t make it happen any quicker. It’s not exactly easy as it is.’

‘If March persuades the Emperor to dismiss me—’

‘If March persuades the Emperor to dismiss you, it hardly matters. We’ll just reappoint you afterwards.’

‘March—’

‘March is an irrelevance.’ The younger man, Orhan Emmereth, Lord of the Rising Sun, thought: Your post is an irrelevance. We’re all irrelevant. That’s why we’re doing this. You still don’t see that, do you? He tried to keep his irritation out of his voice. ‘The Immish have raised another troop levy. Another five thousand men. Who gets to hold your titles is of no concern if the city’s burning.’ You haven’t managed to persuade anyone in the palace to do anything except laugh, he thought. Your great power and authority as Nithque! So it hardly matters whether you hold on to your power or not. As I would have thought was obvious. A wise man who’s ignored is about as effective as an idiot who’s listened to.

‘All the more reason to act more quickly, then,’ said Tam waspishly.

‘Quickly, yes. Too quickly, no. The last thing we want is chaos.’

Tam sipped his wine. ‘Sometimes I still wonder whether this is even real, Orhan. Anything more than your mind looking for excitement and a desire for something to interest you since Darath … well … Oh, don’t frown like that! Twenty years, the Long Peace has held. Why would the Immish be looking to cause trouble now? And even if they are, why should it be directed at us?’ His eyes flicked to the map on the wall. ‘Surely one of their northern borders – Theme, say, or Cen Andae.’

Orhan sighed. Because they can. Because they see no reason not to. Because they’ve finally looked at the graveyard of our Empire with open eyes. Because they’re fools and madmen and like the art of war. Because their children go hungry and we piss gold and jewels into the dust.

‘Twenty thousand troops, now, they’ve raised in two years … Don’t you feel it, Tam?’ he said after a moment. ‘A new mood coming? You hear the same things I do. A fight in Grey Square between apprentice boys and Immish caravan guards, four men killed. The Immish were mocking us, the apprentice boys said. Mocking our fidelity to the God. Three of our merchants stoned to death in Alborn, accused of false trade.’

‘And a firewine drunk stood in the centre of the Court of the Fountain yesterday and proclaimed himself the true incarnation of the Emperor, before his drinking companion knifed him in the heart. These things happen, Orhan. You’re oversensitive.’

‘God’s knives, Tam, it’s a bit late to start questioning things now, isn’t it?’

Tam smiled again. ‘Oh, I’m not questioning anything, Orhan. Just suggesting you look at your own motives for what you’re doing, and why.’ He drained his cup. ‘Another drink? As I said, fifty years old and the estate no longer produces. A shame to waste it.’

‘I’m fine, thank you.’

‘You’re sure? Yes? You refuse to move the timetable up, then? Even by a few days?’

Orhan sighed again. ‘A few days. Just a few days. No more.’

‘Now you sound like a fish merchant. Shall we start haggling over the price again?’ Tam refilled both their cups anyway and sipped from his. ‘You always look so morally aggrieved, Orhan. This was your idea, remember, not mine. You only brought me in to hide your own squeamishness. Someone else to blame.’ He bent forward, drawing his head closer to Orhan. Old man smell on his breath beneath the wine. Sour and fat. ‘I’ll tell you something, Orhan. Something I know. Something the Emperor doesn’t. You’re quite right. The Immish are planning something.’ A smile and a wink, the small chewed hands moving. ‘Does that make you feel any better about it all?’

Orhan started. ‘What?’

‘Oh, just March. Irrelevance that he is. He’s had … meetings. With someone who I have it on very good authority is a close agent of the Immish High Council. Money has been exchanged. Promises of aid. He wants more than my role as Nithque, I should think. The Immish want more than to give it to him, I should also think.’

‘What authority? You have proof?’

The small hands moved again. Lamplight flashed on the rings. Thin curls bobbed as the old man’s head shifted. ‘My dear Orhan, I know the man is an agent of the Immish High Council because he’s been paying me for years as such. Ah, don’t look so shocked! He could have been paying you too, if you’d let yourself be open to such things. As you know perfectly well. He’s probably been paying March for years too. But recently he started paying him a lot more.’

Orhan looked at him. Angry. Humiliated. All this dancing around, even though they were on the same side, seeking the same ends. He frowned and drank his wine. ‘A week, then. We’ll bring the timetable forward by one week. No more.’

‘I knew you’d see sense.’

‘If you’d started this conversation telling me that …’

Tam drained his cup and rose. Pale silk swirled around him, making the lamp flicker, as though a moth had flown into its flames. ‘But that wouldn’t have been how we do this, would it, Orhan? You had to decide for yourself, not because I asked you to. It’s your idea, remember, not mine. What I know or don’t know is … irrelevant.’

‘I am aware it’s my idea, Tam, thank you.’ Impossible to forget, indeed. Might as well engrave it in letters of fire over his bed. Orhan sipped his wine. It was too dry, now he’d had a couple of cups of it. Tam could probably have chosen better, if he didn’t believe quite so much in thrift.

‘I’ll be leaving then. You’re going to March’s party, I assume?’

‘It seems a good idea, in the circumstances.’ Though he’d rather not. But he’d better, now. ‘Are you?’

Tam sniffed. ‘I wasn’t invited. March is so pathetically crude one could almost laugh. Watch out for Immish agents and don’t eat anything someone else hasn’t eaten first. Keep alert to things. Signs and portents, since you seem so keen on them. Firewine drunks. Dreams. And do give March my regards.’ He pushed open the door and went out in a rustle of cloth. ‘Enjoy yourself.’

Hot, scented air, spices and lilac flowers. A fluttering of wings as a flock of ferfews darted overhead, flashing brilliant green wings. White stone gleamed in the moonlight. A woman laughing in a tinkle of bells.

Orhan walked quickly, his guards following him with drawn knives. Amlis, red and sandy; Sterne, dark-skinned and tall with vivid blue eyes. Amlis had obviously passed the time at the palace cajoling the kitchen maids: his breath smelled of raw onions and there was a grease stain on his shirt. House Emmereth. Such style. Such sophistication. Such beauty and elegance in a city of dreams.

He should probably change himself, really, put on something a bit more elaborate, wash off the dust. But he really couldn’t be bothered. The streets were full of dust anyway. He’d only get dirty again.

In the Court of the Fountain, two young men were fighting. A handful of spectators leaned against the wide marble bowl of the fountain, cheering on one or the other. A street seller wandered among them, holding out a tray of preserved lemons. Orhan stopped to watch. The spectators seemed to favour the taller of the two men: he was certainly the better looking, his skin smooth black, his hair deep gold, shining in the torchlight. His opponent was his opposite, fair skin and dark hair, shorter and stockier. Both were dressed in fine white silks. They were real street blades, then, not simply bored young men quarrelling. White was the colour men wore when they were serious about fighting. It showed up every scratch of the knife.

The dark-haired man made a powerful lunge and knocked the golden-haired man backwards. Blood gushed up from golden-hair’s right leg and the audience groaned. With a curse, he went down on one knee for a moment, then rallied and lashed out at dark-hair. Dark-hair skittered back out of reach, sending several spectators running. He was the stronger and technically the better fighter. Golden-hair had more grace and flair, a more elegant turn of his body. But golden-hair was more likely to die. Obviously limping now, his face pained.

Dark-hair lunged again and again golden-hair stumbled backwards. He was panting, sweating heavily. Those watching began to mutter. Disappointed. They obviously wanted golden-hair to win. Golden-hair stepped back several paces, trying to give himself room to recover and breathe. Dark-hair pressed forward, sensing his opponent’s weakness and growing fear. Knife blades crashed heavily into each other as the two men closed again. They grappled together for a long moment, then with a cry dark-hair broke backwards as golden-hair somehow managed to twist sideways and strike out hard with his left fist. A cheer rang out from the audience. Golden-hair seemed to rally at the sound and brought his knife down, slicing at dark-hair’s arm. The audience cheered again as dark-hair stumbled. Blood was streaming down from his elbow to his wrist and he struggled to raise his own blade. Grinning, golden-hair struck again. More blood spurted up, not just a scratch wound but brilliant inner blood. Heart blood. Dark-hair muttered something and retreated backwards, then roared desperately and flung himself at golden-hair. The audience shouted and clapped as the two tussled together, grunting, panting. Both filthy with blood and grime. There was blood on the ground, making the stone slippery. If either fell, it would be fatal. Not an elegant fight, now. They were too close even for knife work, they wrestled, trying to break the other’s grip and set him off balance. Their feet scuffled and sent up the dust.

Suddenly there was a roar and dark-hair reeled backwards, his face contorted in pain. Golden-hair leapt on him, his knife flashing, stabbing out and down. The blade bit home into the soft hollow in the throat where the pulse beats. Blood sprayed up. Dark-hair swayed on his feet, his face astonished. Crashed to the ground and lay still.

Golden-hair stood staring, as if he suspected a trick. A pool of blood began oozing out from under dark-hair’s body. Dead. Golden-hair panted deeply. Dropped his knife. It clattered onto the worn stones. He raised his hands in victory, turning to acknowledge the crowds around him. They clapped and cheered again. Golden-hair bowed elegantly, then walked off across the square. Another young man, also black-skinned and golden-haired, bent to retrieve his knife and then followed him.

Muttering. The audience began to disperse. Three men exchanged money between them, obviously settling bets. The sweet-seller jingled his tray enthusiastically; one man bought a bag of preserved lemons with his winnings and wandered off chewing, his lips puckered with the taste. They looked like good lemons. Orhan bought a bag and offered one to Amlis. The salt-and-sour might disguise the smell of onions. The rich golden yellow of their skins made him think of the victor’s hair.

Dark-hair lay in the dust by the fountain in a pool of black blood. Flies were beginning to settle on his body. Without really knowing why he was doing it, Orhan bent down and tucked a silver dhol inside the dead man’s shirt. The traditional reward for whatever scavenger removed the body. A dead man’s clothes and a silver piece, in exchange for digging a decent grave somewhere outside the city walls. Those who wore white out after dusk in the streets of Sorlost had no one left who would care to bury them for any reason beyond a coin.

‘He fought well,’ said Amlis. ‘He deserved to win.’ The bondsman prodded the slumped body with his foot, then swore under his breath as he realized he’d got blood on his shoe. ‘He should have won.’

Sterne shook his head. ‘The crowd was behind the other. He gave up believing he could win. Decided that his opponent was better, despite knowing it not to be true. He lost because the other was better looking.’

That’s absurdly melodramatic, Orhan thought. But the truth. He’d judged dark-hair the superior fighter, but he’d have bet on golden-hair even so.

‘Are we going on, now, then?’ Amlis asked.

Orhan thought for a moment. It was tempting just to return home and go to bed. He’d watched a half-decent fight and bought a bag of excellent preserved lemons. A good night, all told.

‘We’ll go on,’ he said at last. The Verneths did indeed need closer watching. Tam was possibly right. Probably right. And perhaps it would give him some comfort, later, if he could convince himself of it. Amlis shrugged and wiped his shoe clean on dark-hair’s white silk trousers.

They strolled down the wide sweep of Sunfall and crossed the Court of the Broken Knife. A single pale light flickered beneath the great statue in the centre of the square, too small in the dark. A woman sat beside it, weeping quietly. A place where someone was always weeping, the Court of the Broken Knife. We live, Orhan thought, looking at her. We die. For these things, we are grateful. The statue was so old the man it depicted had no name or face, the stone worn by wind and rain to a leprous froth tracing out the ghost of a figure in breastplate and cloak. A king. A soldier. A magelord. An enemy. Even in the old poems, it had no face and no story and no name. Eyeless, it stared up and outward, seeing things that no man living had ever seen. In its right hand the broken knife pointed down, stabbing at nothingness. In its left hand it raised something aloft, in triumph or anger or despair. A woman’s head. A helmet. A bunch of flowers. It was impossible to tell.

A man in white circled the square, looking for an opponent. Folly, or bravado, or ignorance: it was ill luck to fight there. A tall woman in a silver dress made wide eyes at Orhan as he passed her, tossing her black hair. Her legs were hobbled with thin cords, giving her a creeping, sinuous movement like a charmed snake. Orhan shook his head gently. Painfully slowly, she crept back across the square to her waiting place. There was a weary look on her face, as if she had been there a long time.

‘Pretty,’ said Amlis.

‘Probably diseased,’ said Sterne. ‘And look at her face. Keep clear.’

‘Easy for you to say,’ Amlis grunted. Sterne shot him a look like daggers. Orhan almost laughed.

‘Sterne’s right,’ he said. ‘Keep clear.’

‘You’d know, would you? My Lord.’

‘About disease, yes.’

A litter swept past them, shining red silk lit from within by candles. The bearers wore dark clothes and hoods, blurring them into the night so that the body of the litter seemed to float, a glowing red world. Shadows moved and danced on the surface of the silk. Two women, hair loose, one with long trailing sleeves and a headdress that nodded like horses’ plumes as she twisted her head. The shadows they cast were distorted by their movements and by the flickering of the candle flames, making them grotesque, tangles of limbs and hands and huge heads. The woman with trailing sleeves raised her arm for a moment and her long fingernails writhed in the light.

‘I’d assume they’re headed where we’re headed,’ said Amlis.

‘Almost certainly.’

Twelve or fourteen bearers, six feet square of fine silk. A very expensive means of transport. And remarkably impractical, given the width of some of the city’s streets. Lucky for the owner that House Emmereth wasn’t in the habit of throwing parties. They’d have to demolish several buildings to get it down Felling Street.

They followed the litter into the courtyard of the House of Silver. It was not large, as such places went, neat and square, without porticoes or columns but faced and roofed entirely in silver, tarnished and murky, mottled with rainbows, light and reflections shifting. A dream of water in the desert. A dream of heat haze. The blurred vision of dusty light. The blazing red of the litter standing before it cast it in soft crimson, beating like a heart.

‘Lady Amdelle.’ Orhan gave a delicate half bow.

‘Orhan.’ Celyse Amdelle, wife of the Lord of the High West, opened her golden-brown eyes very wide. ‘How lovely. I really hadn’t thought you’d be here. And arriving at just the same time.’

Orhan took his sister’s arm and they walked towards the open doorway. Amlis disappeared into the servants’ quarters; the other woman in the litter, presumably an insignificant Amdelle girl Celyse was trying to marry off, followed them in silence, five paces behind. Celyse walked slowly, her body very erect to support the weight of a headdress of silver wire and tiny mirrors that chimed and glittered as she moved.

‘And how’s your dear wife?’ asked Celyse sweetly. ‘Not accompanying you? She doesn’t seem to go out so much these days. The last time I saw her, she looked horribly tired. Nothing wrong, I trust?’

‘She’s already here. She’s had a bit of a cold, that’s all.’

‘Oh! What a shame for her. I was worried it was something more than that.’

‘She’s neither pregnant nor dying, if that’s what you’re after. I’d tell you if she were.’

‘Of course you would. So unfortunate for you, Orhan. You make a marriage of convenience that’s really anything but.’

Orhan sighed. Poor Bil. ‘Your own marriage, of course, being so much more successful.’

‘Oh, I’d say it probably is.’ Celyse smoothed her dress with long fingers. ‘I get some happiness out of mine, at least.’

Coloured light broke onto them as they entered the inner courtyard of the House of Silver. A fire burned in the centre of the court, enclosed in a great framework of multi-coloured silks that cast shifting patterns of light over the people around it.

‘Ahhh,’ Celyse said with real pleasure, ‘it’s even prettier than my litter.’ The mirrors of her headdress shone and danced, swirling the colours around her like a cloak. Tasteless, but undeniably striking. She must have found out about it in advance and themed her entire outfit accordingly.

‘Something of a fire risk, I’d have thought,’ Orhan muttered.

Celyse laughed. ‘Eloise has hired a mage, of course, to control it.’

Orhan stared at her. ‘She’s hired a magician to stop her party piece burning down?’

‘You make him sound like a cheap conjuror. He works with the craftsman who makes the things, keeping them fire-safe, protecting them. Made my litter: it has bindings in it, to stop it catching if a candle tips. He did a demonstration before I bought it. Eloise is quite charmed by him, she’s thinking of keeping him.’

The things the high families felt the need to waste money on … Orhan gazed around the courtyard, looking out for friends and enemies. Saw Bil almost immediately, sitting on a low bench on the other side of the court, near the firebox, talking to a young woman with fair hair and a pale face. He ought to at least tell her he was there. He wandered over to her, was half surprised to see her look almost pleased to see him.

‘Orhan,’ Bil said with a bright smile. ‘What a surprise. Landra: my husband, Lord Orhan Emmereth, Lord of the Rising Sun. Orhan: Lady Landra Relast. Her father is lord of a small rock somewhere in the far east. She only arrived here two days ago. I’ve promised to show her around a bit.’

The woman nodded her head in greeting and they exchanged pleasantries. No, she’d only been here a few days, not seen much of the city yet. Yes, the Great Temple was indeed beautiful, she’d seen that. No, she had no particular purpose being here. Just come to … nenenthelesal? ‘Get away from things’? Was that the right word?

Ah, indeed, Sorlost the Golden, city of dreaming, the greatest city on the face of the earth, where people came to wander around aimlessly, gawp, point, laugh!

Her Literan was poor, heavily accented with the soft bell chimes of Pernish. She was young, only in her mid-twenties, but had a hard, tired look to her. Sorrowful. Orhan had to admire the tact with which she readjusted her face after involuntarily glancing at Bil and then back to him.

Bil is a lovely creature, he thought sadly. If you look beyond the skin. She is almost beautiful. Almost desirable. The cruelty in people’s eyes, when they look at her and me. Do I love her despite it? Desire her because of it? Did I marry her for money? Were we plighted at birth? The question was so obvious, there in every eye that looked at them together. Should have it carved on her tomb.

She was dressed exquisitely, as always, in a deep blue gown with a mesh of diamonds in her red hair. Her white arms were bare and painted with spiralling patterns of gold flowers; she wore little gold bells on her wrists that tinkled prettily as she moved her hands. Fingernails an inch long, gilded and studded with pearls.

Yes, she was almost beautiful. Apart from the scars. The gold paint swirled over them, like cracking mud or leprosy. Eruptions of skin. Molten wounds.

If she was Lord Rhyl’s wife, the fashion would be for long sleeves and veils and high necks to cover. Or perhaps women would wear false scars, in clay and paint. All the women of Sorlost would copy every detail of the Nithque’s wife’s costume. But Lady Bilale Emmereth’s husband had no power, thus she must be grotesque and pretend she didn’t care.

A girl approached with a tray of cups. Orhan took one. Cold wine, mixed with snow. Very refreshing in the heat of the fire. More entirely pointless magery: it must have cost a fortune to transport and store the snow and keep it from melting even when being served. House Verneth was undeniably trying to prove something to someone tonight. Eloise would be melting down gold thalers in the candle flames by midnight, the way things were going. There was a story about an Imperial banquet where the food had been crushed gemstones, mixed with wine and honey to make a thick paste and shaped to resemble fruit, meat, bread. The Emperor had insisted his guests eat their fill, gorging themselves on rubies and diamonds until their guts ached and their mouths were cut and running with blood. The story embodied Sorlost: the great houses shat gold and pissed gems. In the version of the tale Orhan’s nurse had told him as a child, the night-soil men had scraped clean the sewers and built themselves great palaces of marble and cedar wood.

Bil fluttered away to stand in the coterie of Eloise Verneth. His sister and her grotesque headdress seemed to have disappeared. The sad-eyed young woman sat silent, watching the shifting colours of the fire-box dance. Orhan sat beside her for a while. The silks fluttered and swirled, alive, spelling out secret words. He thought of the knife-fighter, gleaming black skin and golden hair, the way his eyes had stared as he thrust his blade, the panting breath as he watched his opponent die. The colours beat in his vision, red, green, yellow, blue, red, green, yellow, blue, red, green, yellow, blue, red …

‘Mesmeric, isn’t it?’

Orhan turned round, startled. The handsome, hawk-nosed face of Darath Vorley looked down at him.

‘Mind if I join you?’

‘No … no …’ His mouth tasted dry. The wine was mildly dosed with hatha syrup, he realized, to enhance the effect of the fire and the coloured silks. He had no idea how long he’d been sitting gazing at it. The young woman whose father was lord of a small rock had gone.

Lord Vorley, Lord of All that Flowers and Fades, seated himself beside him and stretched out his legs. Coloured light danced on his copper-black skin.

‘Please don’t tell me you’re surprised to see me here,’ Orhan said after a while. ‘It’s getting repetitive. I’m surprised to see myself here, I don’t need constant reminding of it.’

‘Offended might be a better word. I had a party myself a little while ago. To my inconsolable grief, you didn’t attend.’

‘I was busy.’ Coloured light danced in Darath’s gold-black hair.

Darath waved down a passing servant and relieved him of a tray of candied dates. ‘Want one? Lovely and fat and sticky looking.’

‘I’m fine.’ Orhan shook his head, trying to clear it. Really didn’t need this right now. Shouldn’t have come. Really shouldn’t have come.