Hugh Cook - The wizards and the warriors

'Don't talk to me of the burdens of power,' said Hearst. 'Power is its own reward – the greatest reward known. There's not a single person in your empire who doesn't envy you, not one who doesn't wish they could be you.'

'Do you really believe that?' said Farfalla. 'Yes,' said Hearst.

'So you'd take that power if I offered it to you.' 'Sure, sure,' said Hearst. 'On a slice of the moon garnished with Stardust.' 'I'm serious!'

'Then you're seriously ill. Is it that time of month?' She slapped him. Hard. Three times. 'You dogshit barbarian!' she said.

'I won't deny my nature,' said Hearst, wiping a trickle of blood from his nose. 'I'm clearly not the person to be offered a throne – not even in jest.'

'Morgan, I wasn't joking. And I don't joke now. My land needs a hero. To the north, Runcorn. To the south, Stokos. The enemy's strength is broken. Now is the time to strike. And, while we're about it, to clean up the Rice Empire.'

Hearst, trying to stop the bleeding from his nose, did not answer. So Farfalla continued: 'The people are ready for you, Morgan. We can teach you what you need to know – language, law, manners. Especially manners! I can abdicate in your favour. That would make difficulties, but those difficulties would yield to necessity and popular demand. Will yield! We need a conqueror.'

'I've fought enough wars already.'

'Have you? Aren't you tempted? Morgan, you could conquer all of Argan!'

He was, for a moment, tempted. He had, for a moment, a vision of a future in which he conquered all, and united the nation of Rovac with his empire of conquest. Despite everything he had said to Alish, Hearst was not entirely immune to the appeal of the old dreams, the old stories. But…

'Even if that's what I wanted,' said Hearst, T still don't believe that your people would accept me. Not as their ruler.'

'I,' said Farfalla, 'will organise a banquet in your honour. All our most powerful people will be there. You'll see then who will accept you. I won't announce you as ruler unless you decide that's what you want. You'll meet the people. You'll see what they think of you.'

'I'll come to your banquet,' said Hearst.

And, again, he was sorely tempted by the prospect of power. But he reminded himself that he had not really been formally offered anything, yet. And reminded himself, too, that Farfalla had lied to him before – and might do so again.

He was already regretting the coarse, unpardonable joke he had made about her biology. In a royal court, people could be burnt alive for less. He also had the death-stone to worry about. He thought he had convinced Farfalla that seizing the death-stone would eventually lead to her empire being destroyed in a confrontation with the Confederation of Wizards – but what if he was wrong, and she dared regardless?

He began to seriously consider the possibility that this banquet might prove to be the occasion of his murder rather than his coronation.

Blackwood entered the Hall of Wine, the largest hall in Farfalla's palace. It was fragrant with flowers: an overflow of lilies, an explosion of roses, and tender bouquets of modest flowers such as larkspur, sea lavender and sweet alyssum.

On the walls were tapestries showing work both urban and rural. At every setting at every table, plain bread and river water were set out for the guests: a ceremonial first course to be consumed before the real feasting began.

Thanks to Miphon's intervention, there had been a break with tradition: the river water had been secretly boiled, thus minimising the risk it posed to the health of aristocrats who usually only drank wine.

No guests had yet arrived; they were attending an opera which was scheduled to end about the middle of the afternoon, after which the feast would begin.

Light for the hall came through stained glass windows showing placid countryside scenes. Nothing anywhere in the hall hinted at violence, warfare or suffering.

'Ah, Blackwood,' said Hearst, emerging from behind one of the ivy-covered trellises concealing doorways through which servants would enter and leave when the feast was underway.

"Where have you been?' said Blackwood.

'Where you haven't, obviously,' said Hearst, with impeccable logic.

'No, seriously.'

'Why seriously? You have an objection to the comical? Eh? You've got a face about as cheery as a pig's backside. What's the problem, friend?'

'Miphon says 'And is that all he says? The sun says the same, so it's hardly original.'

T haven't yet told you what he says!' said Blackwood, missing the joke entirely.

'You're worried, friend. Why?'

'Miphon says you've got men on call, armed for combat.'

'And so I have,' said Hearst, turning suddenly serious. 'And, if you really must know, I've been checking the kitchen for poisoners.'

'What are you planning?'

T,' said Hearst, with energy, 'Am planning to stay alive. As we all have cause to know, that's hardly the easiest of enterprises.'

'Do you suspect Farfalla of something?'

'I suspect her of many things,' said Hearst. 'Of having two breasts, two hips, and heat between her thighs. Nay, I have proof positive of certain – but no, as a gentleman I must stay my tongue, even if I must not necessarily stay my stallion.'

'You seem,' said Blackwood slowly, 'to be drunk.'

'That's what they said to the dog-sodomist after the blacksmith hit him with a sledgehammer,' said Hearst. 'No, I'm not drunk. I'm just a little giddy from standing on a sword-blade.'

'You mean that you expect someone to try and kill you today?'

T mean,' said Hearst, 'I expect the sky to either stand or fall.'

That was a standard nonsense answer which children on Rovac used on occasion to irritate each other, but to Blackwood it sounded like a random piece of gibberish.

'You,' said Blackwood, slowly, 'are not as bright and cheerful as you seem to be. You are under enormous strain. There are two tides running within you. You are not… you are not at all happy.'

'Happy!' roared Hearst. 'Why should I be happy? This damnable death-stone grinding my nerves to the quick and raw. Dead men underfoot in my dreams. That oh so so formidable – unpredictable! inscrutable! – woman Farfalla, who might even now be measuring cloth for my coronation robes or my shroud. I should be happy?!'

Blackwood did not risk an answer.

Hearst paced up and down, as if burning off excess energy. He had dressed so as to intimidate anyone who might be thinking of foul play. Although he did not usually favour ostentation, today he wore a cloak embroidered with dragons. Beneath the cloak, chain mail. At his side, the sword Hast. At his throat, the multi-faceted black gem which was the key to the tower of Ebber, which had been placed in a setting of shining gold which reflected the glow of the dancing flame within.

'Would you be happy if you were in my place?' said Hearst, turning on Blackwood.

The question reminded Blackwood of one Elkor Alish had once asked him: What would you do in my place? If he remembered correctly, his answer on that occasion had been rather impolite. With Hearst, he tried a milder approach.

'You,' said Blackwood, 'are free to be as happy as you like. But there's no need to be so fierce. I've studied Farfalla carefully. I don't think she means murder. I think she really does mean for you to be the ruling power of the Harvest Plains.'

'Perhaps,' said Hearst. 'But there's something mighty 424 strange going on here. Someone's keeping a secret from me! I can tell it by the way they look at me, the way my footsteps kill their conversations.'

'I think,' said Blackwood, 'that today they plan to consecrate you as a member of the family of the Favoured Blood. Haven't you heard of that ceremony?'

'Oh, I've heard that it happens,' said Hearst. 'But Farfalla has said nothing about performing the ritual for me. Least of all today.'