The Heretic Kings

She smiled at that and, folding her fan, she chucked him under the chin with it.

“Now, now, Colonel. We must remember where we are. The King has expressed a wish to see you in the company of his senior officers. We ca

Corfe did not reply. The Queen Dowager Odelia was gliding round him as though she were admiring a statue, her long skirts whispering on the marble floor.

“But this thing”—her fan rapped against Corfe’s scabbarded sabre—“this is out of place. We must find you a more fitting weapon. Something elegant. This is a butcher’s tool.”

Corfe’s fist tightened on the pommel of the sword. “By your leave, lady, I’d prefer to keep it with me.”

“Why?”

She had glided in front of him. Their eyes met.

“It helps remind me of who I am.”

They stared at each other for a long moment. Corfe could sense the tailor’s presence behind him, uneasy and fascinated.

“You must be in the chambers of the war council by the fifth hour,” Odelia said, turning away abruptly. “Do not be late. The King has something for you, I believe.”

She was gone, the end of her skirts trailing round the doorway like the tail of a departing snake.

A S the palace bells sounded the fifth hour, Corfe was ushered into the council chambers by a haughty footman. He was reminded a little of his arrival at Orma

A crowd of gorgeously dressed officers. Infantry in black, cavalry in burgundy, artillery in deepest blue. Silver and gold gleamed everywhere with the pale accompaniment of lace and the bobbing magnificence of feathers from the caps some of the men retained. King Lofantyr was resplendent in sable and silver slashed hose and the crimson sash of a general. The light from a dozen lamps glittered off silver-buckled shoes, rings, gem-studded badges of rank and chivalric orders. Corfe made his deepest bow. He had refused cavalry burgundy, preferring infantry black though he belonged to the mounted arm. He was glad.

“Ah, Colonel,” the King said, and gestured with one hand. “Come in, come in. It is all informality here. Gentlemen, Colonel Corfe Cear-Inaf, late of John Mogen’s field army and the garrison of Orma

There was a murmur of greetings. Corfe was subjected to a dozen stares of frank appraisal. His skin crawled.

The other officers turned back to the long table which dominated the room. It was scattered with papers, but what occupied its shining length principally was a large map of Toru

“Ensign Ebro, sir,” the officer said, smiling. “We’ve met, I believe, though one would hardly recognize you out of your fighting gear.”

Corfe nodded coldly. There was an awkward pause, and then Ebro stepped aside. “Pardon me, sir.”

His sabre was unwieldy, harder to handle than the slim rapiers the other officers sported. He found himself peering over shoulders to see the rolled-out map. Figurines of Toru

“This is where they are now,” he said, tapping a point on the map some eighty leagues west of Charibon. “In the Narian Hills.”

“How many, sire?” a voice asked. It was the crusty, mustachioed Colonel Menin, whom Corfe had also encountered the evening of the audience.

“A grand tercio, plus supporting artisans. Five thousand fighting men.”

A series of whispers swept the chamber.

“They will be a great help, of course,” Menin said, but the doubt was audible in his voice.

“Fimbrians on the march again across Norma

“Does Martellus know yet, sire?” another officer asked.

“Couriers went off to the dyke yesterday,” King Lofantyr told them. “I am sure that Martellus will be glad of five thousand reinforcements, no matter where they are from. Marshal Barbius and his command are travelling light. They intend to be at the Searil river in six weeks, if all goes well. Plenty of time for his men to settle in before the begi

Lofantyr turned aside so that an older man in the livery of a court official could whisper in his ear. He was holding a sheaf of papers.

“We have commanded General Martellus to send out winter scouting patrols to ascertain the state of readiness of the Merduks at all times. At the moment it seems they are secure in their winter camps, and have even detached sizable bodies of men eastwards to improve their supply lines. The elephants and cavalry, also, have been billeted further east where they will be nearer to the supply depots on the Ostian river. There is no reason to fear a winter assault.”

Corfe recognized the papers in the court official’s hands; they were the dispatches he had brought from the dyke.

“What of the Pontifical bull demanding Martellus’s removal, sire?” Menin asked gruffly.

“We will ignore it. We do not recognize the imposter Himerius as Pontiff. Macrobius, rightful head of the Church, resides here in Toru

“Then what of the south, sire?” an officer with a general’s sash about his middle, but who looked to be in his seventies, asked.

“Ah—these reports we’ve been getting of insurrections in the coastal cities to the south of the kingdom,” Lofantyr said airily. “They are of little account. Ambitious nobles such as the Duke of Rone and the Landgrave of Staed have seen fit to recognize Himerius as Pontiff and our Royal self as a heretic. They will be dealt with.”

The talk went on. Military talk, hard-edged and assured. Councils of war loved to talk, John Mogen had once said. But they hated to fight. Most of the conversations seemed to Corfe to be less about tactics and strategy and more about the wi

He had forgotten how different the Toru

There was no mention of the refugee problem at this meeting, however, which puzzled Corfe extremely. The camps on the outskirts of the capital were swelling by the day with the despairing survivors of Aekir who had first fled the Holy City itself and had then been moved on from Orma