When one alighted from the litter, there were the Steps to endure. These had been constructed so that horses could walk up them in swift, dignified strides, but for those with two feet they were a wearying experience, Added to this, on one’s left as the ascent continued, there were carved upon the wall and inlaid in brilliant colour the spectacle of two hundred successive Kefren Kings of the line of Asur, subjugating their enemies in an unending series of sieges and battles. The Steps had been counted, and were something over two thousand. No one save the Great King might mount them on anything save their own two feet. Thus were the mighty made breathless who came to pay court on the Ruler of the Empire. But to Vorus now they were an irritating necessity that did nothing more than squeeze the sweat from his back. He passed more sedate supplicants on their way to the Audience Hall, striding upward and remembering mountains—real mountains—as he felt the strain in his thighs. There were quicker paths to the face of the Great King, of course, but he, as a hired foreigner, was no longer privy to them, never mind the fact that he had served the court for decades. And bled for it, and for the father of this Kufr he now had to meet.
“General Vorus of the Macht,” he was announced. Always, of the Macht. It was that epithet that made heads swivel in the Court, that silenced the bullshit tapestries of conversation weaving their delicate ways about the King’s ears. Vorus knew this Great King to speak to, but his father he had known better. Anurman had been a soldier, a hunter, a gardener. He had loved everything which nature had created, had planted bulbs with his bare hands, and with his bare hands had slain several assassins who had hoped to end his line. A plain Kufr, one of courage and honesty and humour, Vorus had learned generalship at his side. At first a novelty— the Macht renegade—he had progressed to errand-runner, and thence to warleader. But first, foremost, and forever, he had been a friend.
That was the pity of it—that Anurman’s heirs were wood from some different tree. But Vorus served the son because of love for the dead father. It was why he was here now, sweating under the undulating air stirred by half a thousand fan-bearers. Because he owed it to the man he had known.
“You may advance,” the outer chamberlain said with the great stately patronising chill of his caste. “Keep your eyes down, and always—”
“I know this dance,” Vorus said and strode forward, scarlet cloak wrapped about his left arm, black cuirass sucking light from the hall.
The usual crowds, a long, useless length of them clad in the raiment that ten thousand villages toiled every year to produce. The Great King had entire towns devoted to the production of his slippers. One might laugh and disbelieve, until one saw it. Half a world given over to the luxuries of a few thousand; it was monstrous, until you realised that they were well paid and lived in peace. That was a good thing, was it not? To live in peace, even if that peace were servitude, and at the whim of the next high-caste Kefren higher in the preening order.
A phalanx of court officials stood on either side of the throne, and two Honai in full armour but for their shields. Vorus halted, and then went to his knees. He lowered himself further, until his forehead kissed the cool marble of the floor, then regained his feet with a swiftness that belied his years. The prostration was performed by those not kin to the King, or outside his favour. In the old days Vorus had performed a bow, no more, and then Anurman would stride forward and take him by the hand and look him in the eye.
“Great King, here stands General Vorus of the Macht, commander of the city garrison, who served under your blessed father and won high renown at the battles of Carchanis and Qafdir.” The High Chamberlain rolled out the words with a fine, ringing relish, so that all in the hall could hear them. He met Vorus’s eye as he spoke, and the two shared an imperceptible nod. Old Xarnes had been Anurman’s High Chamberlain too, and had a fine sense of loyalty.
“He seeks an audience.”
“I know who he is. He may speak, Xarnes.”
Vorus raised his head. “My lord, I have received a message from the west. It might be better if its content were divulged in a more private setting.”
“We are among our kin here, General, and our friends. You may speak freely.” Ashurnan leaned one elbow on his throne and sat forward with a smile on his face. Taller and paler than his father had been, he had the gold skin of the highest castes, the violet eyes of the nobility. And his father’s smile and easy manner. Vorus stepped forward a pace and lowered his voice.
“Your brother Arkamenes has raised the standard of rebellion against you. He has suborned Governor Gushrun of Artaka, raised an army of Macht, and is leading them east. He left Tanis the better part of a month ago; they will be in Jutha by now. If he is not hindered, he will be before the walls of this city in six weeks. He means to take the throne.”