Queen Abrastal sank back into the heap of cushions. ‘Well, that didn’t take long.’
Krughava’s eyes flashed. ‘If I am too shameful in your eyes, Highness—’
‘Oh be quiet and drink that down. Spax, be ready to pour her another. I was but musing out loud, Mortal Sword, on my sense of the Adjunct’s—’
‘Her? And if it pleases, I am no longer Mortal Sword. No, none of this can be cast at Tavore’s feet—’
‘By all the river gods, woman, sit down and drink – in other words, be quiet! Leave me to do all the talking.’
‘What of me, Firehair?’
‘Should the miraculous moment ever arrive when you can say something of value, Spax of the Gilk, be sure to leap right in. Meanwhile, I return to my point. The Adjunct. I can’t even guess at the manner of it, but clearly she somehow managed to bind you all to her – until the day of the parley, when she went and tore it all apart. Thus, not long – do you see? What she made she then un-made, and I do wonder at her appalling sense of timing.’
Krughava’s eyes were level above the rim of the goblet. ‘Highness, what did you make of her?’
‘Spax, hand me that damned jug if all you can do is stare – no, give it to me. Throw yourself down by the curtain – we might need to wipe our feet by the time the night’s done. Now, the Adjunct. Krughava – I swear, I will have you weeping, or whatever else I can wring from you. To hold it all inside as I see you doing will kill you.’
‘Tavore Paran, Highness.’
Abrastal sighed, watching Spax settle down near the curtain. ‘I miss the Khundryl,’ she muttered. She blinked and then looked away, seemed to study one of the thick tapestries hanging from the tent frame. Spax squinted at it. Some faded coronation scene, figures stiff as statues, the kind of formality that spoke of artistic incompetence or the absurdity of genius. He could never make up his mind over such things. It’s just a stupid circlet of gold and silver and whatnot. It’s just a stupid proclamation of superiority – look at all the bowed heads! Where’s the real message here? Why, it’s with those guards lining the walls, and the swords under their hands .
‘It is difficult,’ Abrastal said, frowning still at the tapestry. ‘Where does loyalty come from? What causes it to be born? What lifts one person above all the others, so that one chooses to follow her, or him? Is it nothing but our own desperation? Is it, as the Khundryl say, that vast crow’s wing stretching over us? Do we yearn for the shelter of competence – real or imagined, true or delusional?’
Spax cleared his throat. ‘In times of crisis, Firehair, even the smallest group of people will turn their heads, finding one among them. When we have no answers, we look to one who might – and that hope is born of qualities observed: of clearest thought, of wisdom or bold courage – all that each of us wishes to reflect.’
Krughava shifted to regard Spax, but said nothing.
‘Reflect, is it?’ Abrastal grunted, drank down a mouthful of wine. ‘Is this queen a mirror? Is that all I am? Is that all you are, Warchief Spax? A mirror for your people?’
‘In many ways, yes. But in looking into that mirror they ever choose, I think, to see only what they want to see.’
‘Sir,’ rumbled Krughava to Spax, ‘you invite an untenable position, for all who would command, who would take the lead, from the smallest band of warriors to the vastest empire.’ She scowled at her goblet and held it out to Abrastal, who leaned forward to refill it. ‘Among the Perish, upon nights overcast and moonless, twenty hunters each would take to rath’avars and row out beyond the fiords. They would light bright lanterns, suspending them on poles out over the black, icy waters, and by that light they would call from the deeps the three-jawed nitals – a terrible fish that in vast numbers hunt the dhenrabi, and are able to strip those leviathan creatures down to the bones in a single sounding. The nitals, you see, hunt by the moon’s glow. And when they rose to the light, the hunters would spear them.’ She fell silent, lids lowering for a time.
Spax scratched at the bristle on his jaw, trying to work out the significance of that tale. He glanced at Abrastal, but the queen seemed fixated on the old tapestry.
‘Those fish would rise to the surface,’ Krughava said in a voice like gravel under a boot heel, ‘and the light would blind them, freeze them. There was no bravery in slaying them – it was nothing but slaughter, and would only end when the arms and shoulders of the hunters burned like fire, when they could no longer lift their harpoons.’
