Last Argument Of Kings: Book Three (The First Law 3)

It seemed a space for great men, for wise men, for epic heroes or mighty villains. A space for giants. Jezal felt a tiny, meagre, stupid fool in it.

‘Your arm, if it please your Majesty,’ murmured one of the tailors, managing to give Jezal orders while remaining crushingly sycophantic.

‘Yes, of course . . . I’m sorry.’ Jezal raised his arm a little higher, inwardly cursing at having apologised yet again. He was a king now, as Bayaz was constantly telling him. If he had shoved one of the tailors out of the window, no apology would have been necessary. The man would probably have thanked him profusely for the attention as he plummeted to the ground. As it was he merely gave a wooden smile, and smoothly unravelled his measuring tape. His colleague was crawling below, doing something similar around Jezal’s knees. The third was punctiliously recording their observations in a marbled ledger.

Jezal took a long breath, and frowned into the mirror. An uncertain-seeming young idiot with a scar on his chin gazed back at him from the glass, draped with swatches of glittering cloth as though he were a tailor’s dummy. He looked, and certainly felt, more like a clown than a king. He looked a joke, and undoubtedly would have laughed, had he not himself been the ridiculous punch-line.

‘Perhaps something after the Osprian fashion, then?’ The Royal Jeweller placed another wooden nonsense carefully on Jezal’s head and examined the results. It was far from an improvement. The damn thing looked like nothing so much as an inverted chandelier.

‘No, no!’ snapped Bayaz, with some irritation. ‘Far too fancy, far too clever, far too big. He will scarcely be able to stand in the damn thing! It needs to be simple, to be honest, to be light. Something a man could fight in!’

The Royal Jeweller blinked. ‘He will be fighting in the crown?’

‘No, dolt! But he must look as if he might!’ Bayaz came up behind Jezal, snatched the wooden contraption from his head and tossed it rattling on the polished floor. Then he seized Jezal by the arms and stared grimly at his reflection from over his shoulder. ‘This is a warrior king in the finest tradition! The natural heir to the Kingdom of Harod the Great! A peerless swordsman, who has dealt wounds and received them, who has led armies to victory, who has killed men by the score!’

‘Score?’ murmured Jezal, uncertainly.

Bayaz ignored him. ‘A man as comfortable with saddle and sword as with throne and sceptre! His crown must go with armour. It must go with weapons. It must go with steel. Now do you understand?’

The Jeweller nodded slowly. ‘I believe so, my Lord.’

‘Good. And one more thing.’

‘My Lord has but to name it.’

‘Give it a big-arsed diamond.’

The Jeweller humbly inclined his head. ‘That goes without saying.’

‘Now out. Out, all of you! His Majesty has affairs of state to attend to.’

The ledger was snapped shut, the tapes were rolled up in a moment, the swatches of cloth were whisked away. The tailors and the Royal Jeweller bowed their way backwards from the room with a range of servile mutterings, whisking the huge, gilt-encrusted doors silently shut. Jezal had to stop himself from leaving with them. He kept forgetting that he was now his Majesty.

‘I have business?’ he asked, turning from the mirror and trying his best to sound offhand and masterful.

Bayaz ushered him out into the great hallway outside, its walls covered in beautifully rendered maps of the Union. ‘You have business with your Closed Council.’

Jezal swallowed. The very name of the institution was daunting. Standing in marble chambers, being measured for new clothes, being called your Majesty, all of this was bemusing, but hardly required a great effort on his part. Now he was expected to sit at the very heart of government. Jezal dan Luthar, once widely celebrated for his towering ignorance, would be sharing a room with the twelve most powerful men in the Union. He would be expected to make decisions that would affect the lives of thousands. To hold his own in the arenas of politics, and law, and diplomacy, when his only areas of true expertise were fencing, drink, and women, and he was forced to concede that, in that last area at least, he did not seem to be quite the expert he had once reckoned himself.

‘The Closed Council?’ His voice shot up to a register more girlish than kingly, and he was forced to clear his throat. ‘Is there some particular matter of importance?’ he growled in an unconvincing bass.

‘Some momentous news arrived from the North earlier today.’

‘It did?’

‘I am afraid that Lord Marshal Burr is dead. The army needs a new commander. Argument on that issue will probably take up a good few hours. Down here, your Majesty.’

‘Hours?’ muttered Jezal, his boot-heels clicking down a set of wide marble steps. Hours in the company of the Closed Council. He rubbed his hands nervously together.

Bayaz seemed to guess his thoughts. ‘There is no need for you to fear those old wolves. You are their master, whatever they may have come to believe. At any time you can replace them, or have them dragged away in irons, for that matter, should you desire. Perhaps they have forgotten it. It might be that we will need to remind them, in due course.’

They stepped through a tall gateway flanked by Knights of the Body, their helmets clasped under their arms but their faces kept so carefully blank they might as well have had their visors down. A wide garden lay beyond, lined on all four sides by a shady colonnade, its white marble pillars carved in the likenesses of trees in leaf. Water splashed from fountains, sparkling in the bright sunlight. A pair of huge orange birds with legs as thin as twigs strutted self-importantly about a perfectly clipped lawn. They stared haughtily at Jezal down their curved beaks as he passed them, evidently in no more doubt than him that he was an utter impostor.

He gazed at the bright flowers, and the shimmering greenery, and the fine statues. He stared up at the ancient walls, coated with red, white, and green creeper. Could it really be that all this belonged to him? All this, and the whole Agriont besides? Was he walking now in the mighty footsteps of the kings of old? Of Harod, and Casamir, and Arnault? It boggled the mind. Jezal had to blink and shake his head, as he had a hundred times already that day, simply to prevent himself from falling over. Was he not the same man as he had been last week? He rubbed at his beard, as if to check, and felt the scar beneath it. The same man who had been soaked out on the wide plain, who had been wounded among the stones, who had eaten half-cooked horsemeat and been glad to get it?

Jezal cleared his throat. ‘I would like very much . . . I don’t know whether it would be possible . . . to speak to my father?’

‘Your father is dead.’

Jezal cursed silently to himself. ‘Of course he is, I meant . . . the man I thought was my father.’

‘What is it that you suppose he would tell you? That he made bad decisions? That he had debts? That he took money from me in return for raising you?’

‘He took money?’ muttered Jezal, feeling more forlorn than ever.

‘Families rarely take in orphans out of good will, even those with a winning manner. The debts were cleared, and more than cleared. I left instructions that you should have fencing lessons as soon as you could hold a steel. That you should have a commission in the King’s Own, and be encouraged to take part in the summer Contest. That you should be well prepared, in case this day should come. He carried out my instructions to the letter. But you can see that a meeting between the two of you would be an extremely awkward scene for you both. One best avoided.’

Jezal gave a ragged sigh. ‘Of course. Best avoided.’ An unpleasant thought crept across his mind. ‘Is . . . is my name even Jezal?’

‘It is now that you have been crowned.’ Bayaz raised an eyebrow. ‘Why, would you prefer another?’

‘No. No, of course not.’ He turned his head away and blinked back the tears. His old life had been a lie. His new one felt still more so. Even his own name was an invention. They walked in silence through the gardens for a moment, their feet crunching in the gravel, so fresh and perfect that Jezal wondered if every stone of it was daily cleaned by hand.

‘Lord Isher will make many representations to your Majesty over the coming weeks and months.’

‘He will?’ Jezal coughed, and sniffed, and put on his bravest face. ‘Why?’

‘I promised him that his two brothers would be made Lords Chamberlain and Chancellor on the Closed Council. That his family would be preferred above all others. That was the price of his support in the vote.’

‘I see. Then I should honour the bargain?’

‘Absolutely not.’

Jezal frowned. ‘I am not sure that I—’

‘Upon achieving power, one should immediately distance oneself from all allies. They will feel they own your victory, and no rewards will ever satisfy them. You should elevate your enemies instead. They will gush over small tokens, knowing they do not deserve them. Heugen, Barezin, Skald, Meed, these are the men you should bring into your circle.’

‘Not Brock?’

‘Never Brock. He came too close to wearing the crown to ever feel himself beneath it. Sooner or later he must be kicked back into his place. But not until you are safe in your position, and have plentiful support.’

‘I see,’ Jezal puffed out his cheeks. Evidently there was more to being king than fine clothes, a haughty manner, and always getting the biggest chair.

‘This way.’ Out of the garden and into a shadowy hallway panelled with black wood and lined with an array of antique arms to boggle the mind. Assorted suits of full armour stood to glittering attention: plate and chain-mail, hauberk and cuirass, all stamped and emblazoned with the golden sun of the Union. Ceremonial greatswords as tall as a man, and halberds considerably taller, were bolted to the wall in an elaborate procession. Under them were mounted an army’s worth of axes, maces, morningstars and blades curved and straight, long and short, thick and thin. Weapons forged in the Union, weapons captured from the Gurkish, weapons stolen from Styrian dead on bloody battlefields. Victories and defeats, commemorated in steel. High above, the flags of forgotten regiments, gloriously slaughtered to a man in the wars of long ago, hung tattered and lifeless from charred pikestaffs.

A heavy double door loomed at the far end of this collection, black and unadorned, as inviting as a scaffold. Knights Herald stood on either side of it, solemn as executioners, winged helmets glittering. Men taxed not only with guarding the centre of government, but with carrying the King’s Orders to whatever corner of the Union was necessary. His orders, Jezal realised with a sudden further lurch of nerves.

‘His Majesty seeks audience with the Closed Council,’ intoned Bayaz. The two men reached out and pulled the heavy doors open. An angry voice surged out into the corridor. ‘There must be further concessions or there will only be further unrest! We cannot simply—’

‘High Justice, I believe we have a visitor.’

The White Chamber was something of a disappointment after the magnificence of the rest of the palace. It was not that large. There was no decoration on the plain white walls. The windows were narrow, almost cell-like, making the place seem gloomy even in the sunshine. There was no draft and the air was uncomfortably close and stale. The only furniture was a long table of dark wood, piled high with papers, and six plain, hard chairs arranged down either side with another at the foot and one more, noticeably higher than the others, at the head. Jezal’s own chair, he supposed.

The Closed Council rose as he ducked reluctantly into the room. As frightening a selection of old men as could ever have been collected in one place, and every man of them staring right at Jezal in expectant silence. He jumped as the door was heaved shut behind him, the latch dropping with an unnerving finality.

‘Your Majesty,’ and Lord Chamberlain Hoff bowed deep, ‘may I and my colleagues first congratulate you on your well-deserved elevation to the throne. We all feel that we have in you a worthy replacement for King Guslav, and look forward to advising you, and carrying out your orders, over the coming months and years.’ He bowed again, and the collection of formidable old men clapped their hands in polite applause.

‘Why, thank you all,’ said Jezal, pleasantly surprised, however little he might feel like a worthy replacement for anything. Perhaps this would not be so painful as he had feared. The old wolves seemed tame enough to him.

‘Please allow me to make the introductions,’ murmured Hoff. ‘Arch Lector Sult, head of your Inquisition.’

‘An honour to serve, your Majesty.’

‘High Justice Marovia, chief Law Lord.’

‘Likewise, your Majesty, an honour.’

‘With Lord Marshal Varuz, I believe you are already well acquainted.’

The old soldier beamed. ‘It was a privilege to train you in the past, your Majesty, and will be a privilege to advise you now.’

So they went on, Jezal smiling and nodding to each man in turn. Halleck, the Lord Chancellor. Torlichorm, the High Consul. Reutzer, Lord Admiral of the Fleet, and so on, and so on. Finally Hoff ushered him to the high chair at the head of the table and Jezal enthroned himself while the Closed Council smiled on. He grinned gormlessly up at them for a moment, and then realised. ‘Oh, please be seated.’

The old men sat, a couple of them with evident winces of pain as old knees crunched and old backs clicked. Bayaz dropped carelessly into the chair at the foot of the table, opposite Jezal, as though he had been occupying it all his life. Robes rustled as old arses shifted on polished wood, and gradually the room went silent as a tomb. One chair was empty at Varuz’ elbow. The chair where Lord Marshal Burr would have sat, had he not been assigned to duty in the North. Had he not been dead. A dozen daunting old men waited politely for Jezal to speak. A dozen old men who he had thought of until recently as occupying the pinnacle of power, all now answerable to him. A situation he could never have imagined in his most self-indulgent daydreams. He cleared his throat.

‘Pray continue, my Lords. I will try and catch up as we go.’

Hoff flashed a humble smile. ‘Of course, your Majesty. If at any time you require explanation, you have but to ask.’

‘Thank you,’ said Jezal, ‘thank—’

Halleck’s grinding voice cut over him. ‘Back to the issue of discipline among the peasantry, therefore.’

‘We have already prepared concessions!’ snapped Sult. ‘Concessions which the peasants were happy to accept.’

‘A shred of bandage to bind a suppurating wound!’ returned Marovia. ‘It is only a matter of time before rebellion comes again. The only way we can avoid it is by giving the common man what he needs. No more than is fair! We must involve him in the process of government.’

‘Involve him!’ sneered Sult.

‘We must transfer the burden of tax to the landowners!’

Halleck’s eyes rolled to the ceiling. ‘Not this nonsense again.’

‘Our current system has stood for centuries,’ barked Sult.

‘It has failed for centuries!’ threw back Marovia.

Jezal cleared his throat and the heads of the old men snapped round to look at him. ‘Could each man not simply be taxed the same proportion of his income, regardless of whether he is a peasant or a nobleman . . . and then, perhaps . . .’ He trailed off. It had seemed a simple enough idea to him, but now all eleven bureaucrats were staring at him, shocked, quite as if a domestic pet had been ill-advisedly allowed into the room, and it had suddenly decided to speak up on the subject of taxation. At the far end of the table, Bayaz silently examined his fingernails. There was no help there.

‘Ah, your Majesty,’ ventured Torlichorm in soothing tones, ‘such a system would be almost impossible to administer.’ And he blinked in a manner that said, ‘How do you manage to dress yourself, given your incredible ignorance?’

Jezal flushed to the lips of his ears. ‘I see.’

‘The subject of taxation,’ droned Halleck, ‘is a stupendously complex one.’ And he gave Jezal a look that said, ‘It is far too complex a subject to fit inside your tiny fragment of a mind.’

‘It would perhaps be better, your Majesty, if you were to leave the tedious details to your humble servants.’ Marovia had an understanding smile that said, ‘It would perhaps be better if you kept your mouth shut and avoided embarrassing the grown-ups.’

‘Of course.’ Jezal retreated shame-facedly into his chair. ‘Of course.’

And so it went on, as the morning ground by, as the strips of light from the windows slunk slowly over the heaps of papers across the wide table. Gradually, Jezal began to work out the rules of this game. Horribly complex, and yet horribly simple. The aging players were split roughly into two teams. Arch Lector Sult and High Justice Marovia were the captains, fighting viciously over every subject, no matter how small, each with three supporters who agreed with their every utterance. Lord Hoff, meanwhile, ineffectually assisted by Lord Marshal Varuz, played the role of referee, and struggled to build bridges across the unbridgeable divide between these two entrenched camps.

Jezal’s mistake had not been to think that he would not know what to say, though of course, he did not. His mistake had been to think that anyone would want him to say anything. All they cared about was continuing their own profitless struggles. They had become used, perhaps, to conducting the affairs of state with a drooling halfwit at the head of the table. Jezal now realised that they saw in him a like-for-like trade. He began to wonder if they were right.

‘If your Majesty could sign here . . . and here . . . and here . . . and there . . .’

The pen scratched against paper after paper, the old voices droned on, and held forth, and bickered one with the other. The grey men smiled, and sighed, and shook their heads indulgently whenever he spoke, and so he spoke less and less. They bullied him with praise and blinded him with explanation. They bound him up in meaningless hours of law, and form, and tradition. He sagged slowly lower and lower into his uncomfortable chair. A servant brought wine, and he drank, and became drunk, and bored, and even more drunk and bored. Minute by stretched-out minute, Jezal began to realise: there was nothing so indescribably dull, once you got down to the nuts and bolts of it, as ultimate power.

‘Now to a sad matter,’ observed Hoff, once the most recent argument had sputtered to a reluctant compromise. ‘Our colleague, Lord Marshal Burr, is dead. His body is on its way back to us from the North, and will be interred with full honours. In the meantime, however, it is our duty to recommend a replacement. The first chair to be filled in this room since the death of the esteemed Chancellor Feekt. Lord Marshal Varuz?’

The old soldier cleared his throat, wincing as though he realised he was about to open a floodgate that might very well drown them all. ‘There are two clear contenders for the post. Both are men of undoubted bravery and experience, whose merits are well known to this council. I have no doubt that either General Poulder or General Kroy would—’

‘There can be not the slightest doubt that Poulder is the better man!’ snarled Sult, and Halleck immediately voiced his assent.

‘On the contrary!’ hissed Marovia, to angry murmurs from his camp, ‘Kroy is transparently the better choice!’

It was an area in which, as an officer of some experience, Jezal felt he might have been of some minuscule value, but not one of the Closed Council seemed even to consider seeking his opinion. He sagged back sulkily into his chair, and took another slurp of wine from his goblet while the old wolves continued to snap viciously at one another.

‘Perhaps we should discuss this matter at greater length later!’ cut in Lord Hoff over the increasingly acrimonious debate. ‘His Majesty is growing fatigued with the fine points of the issue, and there is no particular urgency to the matter!’ Sult and Marovia glared at each other, but did not speak. Hoff gave a sigh of relief. ‘Very well. Our next point of business relates to the supply of our army in Angland. Colonel West writes in his dispatches—’

‘West?’ Jezal sat up sharply, his voice rough with wine. The name was like smelling salts to a fainting girl, a solid and dependable rock to cling to in the midst of all this chaos. If only West had been there now, to help him through, things would have made so much more sense . . . he blinked at the chair that Burr had left behind him, sitting empty at Varuz’ shoulder. Jezal was drunk, perhaps, but he was king. He cleared his wet throat. ‘Colonel West shall be my new Lord Marshal!’

There was a stunned silence. The twelve old men stared. Then Torlichorm chuckled indulgently, in a manner that said, ‘How will we shut him up?’

‘Your Majesty, Colonel West is known to you personally, and a brave man, of course . . .’

The entire Council, it seemed, had finally found one issue on which they could all agree. ‘First through the breach at Ulrioch and so on,’ muttered Varuz, shaking his head, ‘but really—’

‘. . . he is junior, and inexperienced, and . . .’

‘He is a commoner,’ said Hoff, eyebrows raised.

‘An unseemly break with tradition,’ lamented Halleck.

‘Poulder would be far superior!’ snarled Sult at Marovia.

‘Kroy is the man!’ Marovia barked back.

Torlichorm gave a syrupy smile, of the kind a wet-nurse might use while trying to calm a troublesome infant. ‘So you see, your Majesty, we cannot possibly consider Colonel West as—’

Jezal’s empty goblet bounced off Torlichorm’s bald forehead with a loud crack and clattered away into the corner of the room. The old man gave a wail of shock and pain and slid from his chair, blood running from a long gash across his face.

‘Cannot?’ screamed Jezal, on his feet, eyes starting from his head. ‘You dare to give me fucking “cannot”, you old bastard? You belong to me, all of you!’ His finger stabbed furiously at the air. ‘You exist to advise me, not to dictate to me! I rule here! Me!’ He snatched up the ink bottle and hurled it across the room. It burst apart against the wall, spraying a great black stain across the plaster and spattering the arm of Arch Lector Sult’s perfect white coat with black spots. ‘Me! Me! The tradition we need here is one of fucking obedience!’ He grabbed a sheaf of documents and flung them at Marovia, filling the air with fluttering paper. ‘Never again give me “cannot!” Never!’

Eleven sets of dumbstruck eyes stared at Jezal. One set smiled, down at the very end of the table. That made him angrier than ever. ‘Collem West shall be my new Lord Marshal!’ he screeched, and kicked his chair over in a fury. ‘At our next meeting I will be treated with the proper respect, or I’ll have the pack of you in chains! In fucking chains . . . and . . . and . . .’ His head was hurting, now, rather badly. He had thrown everything within easy reach, and was becoming desperately unsure of how to proceed.

Bayaz rose sternly from his chair. ‘My Lords, that will be all for today.’

The Closed Council needed no further encouragement. Papers flapped, robes rustled, chairs squealed as they scrambled to be first out of the room. Hoff made it into the corridor. Marovia followed close behind and Sult swept after him. Varuz helped Torlichorm up from the floor and guided him by his elbow. ‘I apologise,’ he was wheezing as he was hustled, bloody-faced, through the door, ‘your Majesty, I apologise profusely . . .’

Bayaz stood sternly at the end of the table, watching the councillors hurry from the room. Jezal lurked opposite, frozen somewhere between further anger and mortal embarrassment, but increasingly tending towards the latter. It seemed to take an age for the last member of the Closed Council to finally escape from the room, and for the great black doors to be dragged shut.

The First of the Magi turned towards Jezal, and a broad smile broke suddenly out across his face. ‘Richly done, your Majesty, richly done.’

‘What?’ Jezal had been sure that he had made an ass of himself to a degree from which he could never recover.

‘Your advisers will think twice before taking you lightly again, I think. Not a new strategy, but no less effective for that. Harod the Great was himself possessed of a fearsome temper, and made excellent use of it. After one of his tantrums no one would dare to question his decisions for weeks.’ Bayaz chuckled. ‘Though I suspect that even Harod would have balked at dealing a wound to his own High Consul.’

‘That was no tantrum!’ snarled Jezal, his temper flickering up again. If he was beset by horrible old men, then Bayaz was himself the worst culprit by far. ‘If I am a king I will be treated like one! I refuse to be dictated to in my own palace! Not by anyone . . . not by . . . I mean . . .’

Bayaz glared back at him, his green eyes frighteningly hard, and spoke with frosty calm. ‘If your intention is to lose your temper with me, your Majesty, I would strongly advise against it.’

Jezal’s rage had been on the very verge of fading already, and now, under the icy gaze of the Magus, it wilted away entirely. ‘Of course . . . I’m sorry . . . I’m very sorry.’ He closed his eyes and stared numbly down at the polished tabletop. He never used to say sorry for anything. Now that he was a king, and needed to apologise to no man, he found he could not stop. ‘I did not ask for this,’ he muttered weakly, flopping down in his chair. ‘I don’t know how it happened. I did nothing to deserve it.’

‘Of course not.’ Bayaz came slowly around the table. ‘No man can ever deserve the throne. That is why you must strive to be worthy of it now. Every day. Just as your great predecessors did. Casamir. Arnault, Harod himself.’

Jezal took a long breath, and blew it out. ‘You’re right, of course. How can you always be right?’

Bayaz held up a humble hand. ‘Always right? Scarcely. But I have the benefit of long experience, and am here to guide you as best I can. You have made a fine start along a difficult road, and you should be proud, as I am. There are certain steps we cannot delay, however. Chief among them is your wedding.’

Jezal gaped. ‘Wedding?’

‘An unmarried king is like a chair with three legs, your Majesty. Apt to fall. Your rump has only just touched the throne, and it is far from settled there. You need a wife who brings you support, and you need heirs so that your subjects may feel secure. All that delay will bring is opportunities for your enemies to work against you.’

The blows fell so rapidly that Jezal had to grasp his head, hoping to stop it flying apart. ‘My enemies?’ Had he not always tried to get on with everyone?

‘Can you be so naïve? Lord Brock is doubtless already plotting against you. Lord Isher will not be put off indefinitely. Others on the Open Council supported you out of fear, or were paid to do so.’

‘Paid?’ gasped Jezal.

‘Such support does not last forever. You must marry, and your wife must bring you powerful allies.’

‘But I have . . .’ Jezal licked his lips, uncertain of how to broach the subject. ‘Some commitments . . . in that line.’

‘Ardee West?’ Jezal half opened his mouth to ask Bayaz how he knew so much about his romantic entanglements, but quickly thought better of it. The old man seemed to know far more about him than he did himself, after all. ‘I know how it is, Jezal. I have lived a long life. Of course you love her. Of course you would give up anything for her, now. But that feeling, trust me, will not last.’

Jezal shifted his weight uncomfortably. He tried to picture Ardee’s uneven smile, the softness of her hair, the sound of her laugh. The way that had given him such comfort, out on the plain. But it was hard to think of her now without remembering her teeth sinking into his lip, his face tingling from her slap, the sound of the table creaking back and forward underneath them. The shame, and the guilt, and the complexity. Bayaz’ voice continued: mercilessly calm, brutally realistic, ruthlessly reasonable.

‘It is only natural that you made commitments, but your past life is gone, and your commitments have gone with it. You are a king, now, and your people demand that you behave like one. They need something to look up to. Something effortlessly higher than themselves. We are talking of the High Queen of the Union. A mother to kings. A farmer’s daughter with a tendency towards unpredictable behaviour and a penchant for heavy drinking? I think not.’ Jezal flinched to hear Ardee described that way, but he could hardly argue the point.

‘You are a natural son. A wife of unimpeachable breeding would lend your line far greater weight. Far greater respect. There is a world full of eligible women, your Majesty, all born to high station. Dukes’ daughters, and kings’ sisters, beautiful and cultured. A world of princesses to choose from.’

Jezal felt his eyebrows rising. He loved Ardee, of course, but Bayaz made a devastating argument. There was so much more to think of now than his own needs. If the idea of himself as a king was absurd, the idea of Ardee as a queen was triply so. He loved her, of course. In a way. But a world of princesses to choose from? That was a phrase it was decidedly hard to find fault with.

‘You see it!’ The First of the Magi snapped his fingers in triumph. ‘I will send to Duke Orso of Talins, that his daughter Terez should be introduced to you.’ He held up a calming hand. ‘Just to begin with, you understand. Talins would make a powerful ally.’ He smiled, and leaned forward to murmur in Jezal’s ear. ‘But you need not leave everything behind, if you truly are attached to this girl. Kings often keep mistresses, you know.’

And that, of course, decided the matter.