The Rebel Prince (8 page)

Razi looked up at him, startled, and then down at the beaker. ‘No, I . . . it’s just . . .’

Wynter frowned. ‘Small-beer never did agree with him, Albi,’ she said. ‘Particularly unfiltered. Surely you remember?’

Alberon tutted with sudden impatience and snatched the beaker from Razi’s hand. ‘Bring the Lord Razi some water, Anthony,’ he said. He grimaced disapprovingly at Razi. ‘You’ll not find any cold sherbets here, brother. Let alone a concubine to serve them up to you. You would do well to toughen up.’

‘Alberon!’ cried Wynter.

Razi was silent and motionless for a moment. He nodded his thanks as Anthony poured him some water. ‘I shall try to live up to your Highness’s example,’ he said.

Alberon sighed. ‘Do not get surly now. I do not mean to be short with you. It simply galls me that you would turn your nose up at the same stuff as sustains my men. You are among warriors now, Razi. You must learn to win them over.’

‘Razi is no
court fop
, Alberon. Do not be so—’ Once again Razi placed his hand on Wynter’s and squeezed gently to silence her. ‘How do you mean to strengthen our father’s kingdom, Albi?’

Alberon grinned, his face transformed with sudden delight. ‘Ah, now we get to it!’ he said, shoving back his plate and leaping to his feet. ‘Finish your meal,’ he called, heading for the door. ‘Let Anthony clear the table.’

The tinder in the brazier caught flame and Anthony sat back as the fire roared abruptly to life. At the door to his tent, Alberon paused and looked over at Wynter, his face illuminated in the blaze, his eyes shining with grave delight. ‘I have a lovely surprise for you, Wyn,’ he said gently. ‘You will be so happy.’ He ducked inside and disappeared from view.

Wynter glared after him, angry at his unfathomable attitude towards his brother and thrown by his unpredictable changes of mood. Razi kept his hand on hers, his eyes on the dark rectangle of the door.

‘My Lord?’ Anthony hovered at Razi’s elbow, waiting for his dishes. Razi did not seem to hear him, and Anthony glanced at Wynter. She smiled tightly, ate the few mouthfuls of bread and meat on her plate and nodded for him to clear her place.

‘Razi,’ she murmured. ‘Eat your meal. Let the child finish his work.’

Razi mechanically complied, and the young servant pottered off with the dishes, leaving the pitchers and beakers behind. Wynter shrugged her cloak up around her neck and watched as his little figure disappeared into the dusk.

She waited until he was well out of earshot, then murmured tightly, ‘Alberon has no right to speak to you that way.’

‘He has spent years at war,’ said Razi, his lips barely moving. ‘He does not think that I can understand.’

‘I cannot tolerate it. If he persists—’

‘Hush now, Wyn.’

Razi was intensely focused on the door to Alberon’s tent. Wynter turned her attention there too, tilting her head to catch any noise from within. There was nothing but silence. They waited. The fire popped and crackled as it took hold of the bigger logs, and Wynter found herself glad of the extra heat. The thin mountain air had grown rapidly colder with the loss of the sun.

Soon the weather will turn
, she thought,
and there will be no
hope of feeding even this small number of men. It is perfectly obvious
that his supplies are already starting to fall low. Alberon must surely
know that his time is running short.

If Alberon
was
aware of this – and how could he not be – it certainly didn’t show in his demeanour. He seemed nothing but doggedly determined to succeed. Glancing at Razi’s intent face, it occurred to Wynter that, despite Alberon’s tiresome needling of his half-brother, much of his confidence was rooted in Razi’s ability to sell his plan to their father.

She leaned in, meaning to make this point to Razi, but a low muttering from within the tent silenced her. Alberon’s voice came gentle and low through the canvas, and Wynter met Razi’s eye as they heard him say, ‘Come now, do not be ill-humoured. It is only outside, and I promise . . . you will be pleased.’

Slowly, Razi sat upright, alarm clear in his face. There was someone else in there! Wynter remembered Alberon’s sleeping area – half-obscured by heavy netting, the neat bedding dressed in shadow – and she turned in her seat, her eyes wide. Alberon came to the door of his tent, his face glowing with that mischievous delight so familiar from their youth. Under his left arm, he had Marguerite’s folder and two rolls of bulky parchment; in his right arm, a bundle of cloth.

‘Clear the damned table,’ he laughed, struggling with his poorly balanced scrolls. Razi jumped up, shoved the pitchers and beakers aside, and wiped the table clear of crumbs and grease. Alberon threw his papers carelessly on top. Then he gently hoisted the cloth bundle in both arms and, grinning, deposited it into Wynter’s lap.

The bundle moved and Wynter had to prevent herself from leaping to her feet in alarm and dashing it from her. Her first thoughts were that in a fit of his old puckish devilment, Alberon had put a sack full of rats on her knee. But then the bundle sighed with a familiar, haughty impatience and Wynter stilled, her hands up, hardly daring to believe it. The cloth was shrugged aside and a grey-furred head emerged. Wynter’s vision blurred with tears as huge, gold-green eyes blinked up at her.

‘Coriolanus?’ she whispered.

The cat gazed at her for a moment, frowning. Then he rolled his eyes. ‘Oh,’ he said wearily. ‘’Tis but thee.
Pfffft
. For
this
, he-who-is-heir drags me from a warm nest.’

‘
Coriolanus!
’ She grabbed the disgruntled creature under his scrawny shoulders and held him up to the light. He let out a small whine of genuine pain and Wynter saw with dismay how thin he was, how threadbare his once sleek fur had become.

‘Unhand me, girl,’ he hissed, and she lowered him gently onto her lap. He lay panting for a moment, his heaving ribs horribly defined in the flaring light of the fire. Then he slid a glance to Wynter and grimaced. ‘Great Hunter,’ he gasped. ‘I had quite forgot what a grabbish little human thou were.’

‘Sorry,’ she whispered, smiling down at him, her hands poised. She could not believe he was still alive. She had returned from the North to find them all gone – all those sleek, self-possessed friends of her childhood, fallen victim to an inexplicable purge; killed on the murderous order of the King. But here he was, Cori, her favourite, the smoke-coloured companion of her happy youth.

He closed his eyes for a moment to gather himself, then sighed. ‘Thou mayst pet me,’ he said graciously. ‘If thou wishest. I should be quite happy to allow it.’

‘Thank you.’ Gently she ran her hand from his shoulders to his tail, just as he had always liked it.

‘Mmmmmm,’ he purred.

Wynter gazed at Alberon, her eyes quite uncontrollably full of tears as her old cat-friend stretched and stiffly curled himself on her knee.
Thank you, Albi. Thank you so much.

Alberon smiled and nodded, his own eyes very, very bright.

Coriolanus sighed again and settled his chin down against his chest. His spine was a well defined serration beneath Wynter’s palm, his poor body a thinly covered collection of bones. ‘Great Hunter, girl,’ he murmured, already almost asleep, ‘what hast thou been doing? Thou smellest most strongly of dog.’ And he drifted off, perfectly content, his rusty purr in warm harmony with the crackling of the fire.

MAPS AND PLANS

‘I
S GREYMOTHER
here too, Albi?’ asked Wynter, her voice low in deference to the sleeping cat.

Alberon shook his head sadly. He reached and scratched Coriolanus’s head. ‘I tried to get her to come, but she preferred to take the last of the kittens and go into hiding. Cori had already fallen foul of the poison, and he was simply too weak to keep running. When I sent Oliver and his men ahead, I had them take the poor fellow with them. He has survived it all, poor thing, but as you see, he is not terribly well.’

‘Oh, Albi. Why? Why did the King do it?’

Alberon twitched a smile. ‘I was quite relentless in my hunt for his wonderful machine, Wyn. I simply would not back down.’

Wynter traded a startled glance with Razi. Wonderful machine? That could only be a reference to her father’s infamous Bloody Machine. Were they finally to learn what it was?

Alberon, still occupied in gently scratching the top of Coriolanus’s head, went quietly on: ‘The cats knew every inch of the palace, just like the ghosts. I’m afraid to say that I was constantly questioning the poor creatures. They told me nothing of use, but in the end, Father felt he had no choice but to do away with them. I suppose he found it preferable to poisoning
me
.’

He looked up into her eyes.
Your fault!
thought Wynter.
All your fault!
But Alberon’s smile was so sad, his big hand so gentle on Cori’s fragile back, that she couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Razi, apparently lost in thought, was sprawled in his chair, idly flicking the curled edge of the bigger scroll with the tip of one finger. It was a perfectly casual gesture, but Wynter knew that he was trying to see what the parchment contained. Alberon sat back. The wry amusement in his face told Wynter that he knew exactly what his brother was up to.

‘You
sent
Oliver ahead?’ asked Razi softly. ‘That is an interesting slant to the tale.’ Alberon’s expression hardened and Razi glanced up to meet his gaze. ‘Court gossip has it the other way around. It is said that
Oliver
is the one who plotted treason, and that you took his lead, following after him when Father condemned him for it.’

The corner of Alberon’s mouth twitched. ‘Oliver is a knight of the realm, brother, and I the heir to the throne. Who follows whom in that ranking?’ Razi tilted his head in acceptance of this point, and Alberon went on. ‘I sent Oliver ahead to set up this camp and to prepare for my negotiations. He has risked everything for me. Risked his title, his lands, his life and those of his men. Because he believes in me – his Royal Prince – and in my plan for this kingdom’s future. Do not mistake him, Razi; he is ever loyal to our father and to this kingdom, and he is ever faithful to his pledge as a knight. I shall hear no word said against him.’

‘You had better be very vocal in defending him on your return home, then, your Highness. Otherwise you have condemned the poor man to slow death as a traitor to the crown.’

‘Oliver knows what it is to risk his life for the throne, Razi. He is a warrior born. Both he and I would gladly lay down our lives for this kingdom.’

Wynter frowned at this, annoyed by the implication that Razi would not be willing to do the same, but Razi himself did not change his expression of careful detachment, and so Wynter kept her peace.

Alberon spread his hands in abrupt dismissal of the topic. ‘Do not fret yourself over it,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘Those who stand with me here will never regret it. I shall make certain of that. Our father himself will one day bless their names, you wait and see. Now . . .’ He took a scroll and spread it on the table. ‘Hold that side,’ he ordered, then slammed the pitcher and beakers down on opposite corners to keep the parchment spread. ‘Look.’

Razi spread his hand on the corner nearest him and looked coolly down at the scroll. Wynter hoisted the sleeping cat to her shoulder and shifted to get a good look. Coriolanus mewed softly in his sleep but did not wake.

To Wynter’s disappointment, it was not one of her father’s intricate plans, but a wonderfully executed map of the Europes, detailed with mountains and rivers and political divisions. The delicate bays and peninsulas of the Moroccos coastline embroidered the lower borders, while the scattered coastline of the Northland territories decorated the top. Beautiful little gold-leaf castles represented the seats of power in the various European kingdoms, and a gold palace icon symbolised the qasabah of the Sultan of the Moroccos in Algiers.

Wynter gazed at the ornately drawn white-topped mountains that ringed Jonathon’s kingdom. She looked at the long, straight ribbon of the port road, stretching a remarkable one hundred and eighty-seven bandit-free, well policed miles. Her gaze followed its natural progress out into the channel of peaceful blue wavelets that stretched between Marseilles and Algiers. The only pirate-free shipping lane in the entire Mediterranean Sea, made possible by the unprecedented combination of Moroccan and Southland fleets working together as one. Once again, Wynter marvelled at Jonathon’s remarkable achievement in preserving this small, unusual land in the midst of the violence and hatred that currently ravaged the kingdoms surrounding it.

We have come very close to losing it
, she thought sadly.
So
very close. This small island of tolerance. This little flame of hope
in the dark.

She ran her finger across one of the many
Here Be Wolves
legends that dotted the tumultuous Gibraltars, and gazed at the long, dark border of the Haun territories, now once again gnawing at the fragile borders of Italy and the Venetian States. Wynter’s heart squeezed with anxiety. It was all so unstable, all such a threat.