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It helped that surrender wasn't really a possibility. They'd killed the king of Jalona and one of the High Clerics from Ferrieres even before the siege had begun.
That had been ibn Khairan's doing; his last act in Ragosan employ, just before he left them for Cartada.
He'd taken a dozen of the best men in the city and slipped out one moonless night in two small boats, heading east and north along the lake. The Jalonans, enthusiastically burning villages and farms as they came south around Lake Serrana, were too complacent, and it cost them.
Ibn Khairan and his men surprised a raiding party, which had been their intention. It was purest luck—he had always been said to be a lucky man—that the Jalonan party of thirty riders had included King Bermudo and the cleric.
At twilight on a spring evening ibn Khairan's men had come upon them at a fishing village. They'd waited down the beach, hidden by the boats. They'd had to watch villagers burned alive, and hear them scream as they were nailed to wooden beams. When the wine flasks had emerged among the raiding party the mood became wild and the northerners had turned to the women and young girls.
Thirteen men from Ragosa, acting in cold rage and with specific intent, had come up from the beach in the darkness. They were outnumbered but it didn't matter. Ibn Khairan moved through that burning village like a dark streak of lightning, his men said after, killing where he went.
They slew all thirty men in that raiding party.
The king of Jalona had been cut down by one of the Ragosans before his identity was known. They had wanted to throw him onto the nearest of the fires, but ibn Khairan, swearing like a fisherman when he saw who it was, made them carry King Bermudo's body back to the city. He would have been far more useful alive, but there were still things that could be done.
The cleric from Ferrieres was nailed to one of the wooden beams he had been instrumental in having raised. All of Esperana was coming south, it had by then become evident, and the Ferrieres clerics were stridently invoking a holy war. It was not a time for ransoms or the courtesies normally offered pious men.
There had been a brief flickering of hope in Ragosa that the shocking disappearance of their king might lead the enemy to withdraw. It was not to be.
Queen Fruela, who had insisted on accompanying the invading army, took control of the Jalonan forces with her eldest son, Benedo. By the time that army reached the walls of Ragosa, a great many farmers and fisherfolk had been captured on sweeps through the countryside. These had not been killed. Instead, the besieging army set about mutilating them, one by one, within sight of the city, at sunrise and sundown while the Jaddites prayed to their golden god of light.
After four days of this, it was King Badir who made the decision to show the body of King Bermudo from the city walls. It was indicated by a herald that the corpse would be desecrated if the torturing continued outside. Queen Fruela, afire with holy zeal, appeared inclined to continue nonetheless but her young son, the new king of Jalona, prevailed in this matter. The prisoners outside the walls were all killed the next morning, without ceremony. The body of King Bermudo was burned in Ragosa. The Jaddites, watching the smoke of that pyre rise up, took solace in knowing that since he had died in the midst of a war against the infidels, his soul was already dwelling with the god in light.
As a consequence of all this, it was understood from the begi
It had, in fact, been ibn Khairan who foretold this. "If it comes to an ending," he had said to Mazur ben Avren on the spring morning he rode back west with Jehane bet Ishak, "try, any way you can, to surrender to Valledo."
Unexpected words, and both the king and his chancellor saw them as such, but they became rather more explicable after the very different occupations of Fezana and Salos later that summer.
Unfortunately, there seemed no obvious way to negotiate such a surrender, and ibn Khairan himself—the ka'id of Cartada's armies now—was engaged in making life as miserable as he could for the Valledans as they approached Lonza. If King Ramiro had begun this invasion in a tolerant cast of mind, he might well be abandoning that attitude by now, under the deadly, morale-sapping raids of Cartada's brilliant commander, and with autumn and the rains coming on.
King Badir's servant built up the fire again and then deftly refilled the glasses of both men. They could still hear the rain outside. A companionable silence descended.
The chancellor felt his thoughts drifting. He found himself taking note of the trappings of this, the king's most private room. He looked, as if for the first time, at the fireplace with its mantel carved in a pattern of grapes and leaves. He gazed at the wine itself, and the beautifully worked goblets, at the white candles in their gold sconces, the tapestries from Elvira, the carved ivory figures on sideboard and mantelpiece. He smelled the incense imported from Soriyya, burning in a copper dish, observed the etched windows over the garden, the gilt-edged mirror on the opposite wall, the intricately woven carpets ...
In a way, Mazur ben Avren thought, all these delicate things were bulwarks, the i
The Jaddites outside the walls did not understand that. Neither, to an even greater degree, did the veiled ones from the desert—the longed-for saviors of everyone's prayers.
It was too bitter a truth even for irony. These things in Badir's room—these measures of having found the space to strive for and value beauty in the world—were seen by those to north and south as the markers of corruption, decadence, frivolity. Impiety. Dangerous earthly distractions from a properly humble, cringing appeasement of a blazing god of the sun, or a far, cold deity behind the stars.
"The lady Zabira," he said, shifting position to ease his hip, "has offered to present herself as a gift to the young king of Jalona."
Badir looked up. He had been gazing into the fire.
"She believes she might be able to kill him," ben Avren added, by way of explanation.
King Badir shook his head. "No point. A brave offer, but that young man means little to his army. What is he, sixteen? And his mother would have Zabira torn apart before she came anywhere near the boy."
"My thought as well, my lord. I thanked her and declined, on your behalf." He smiled. "I told her she could present herself to you, instead, but that I needed her more with winter coming."
The king returned the smile, briefly.
"Do we make it to the winter?" he asked.
Ben Avren sipped his wine before answering. He had been hoping this would not be asked. "I would rather we didn't have to, to be honest. It will be a near thing. We need an army from the desert to at least land in Al-Rassan, to put the Jalonans on warning that they are at risk of being trapped outside walls and shelter. They might withdraw then."
"They should have taken Fibaz before besieging us."
"Of course they should have. Give thanks to Ashar and I'll offer a libation to the moons."
The king didn't smile this time. "And if the Muwardis don't land?"
Ben Avren shrugged. "What can I say, my lord? No city is ever safe from betrayal. Especially as supplies begin to dwindle. And you do have a principal advisor who is one of the hated, evil Kindath. If the Jalonans ever offer a measure of clemency ... "
"They will not."
"But if they did? If we then had something to offer back to them, in partial redress of their king's death ... ?"