‘What about our pay?’ a voice shouts. ‘Never mind bloody poetry. We’re two months’ pay in arrears, Lord King!’
There is something in that voice he has not heard for a long time. ‘Prince Ruin. Gods, you stink.’ ‘You’re disgusting, Marith, look at the state of you, how can you do this to me? To your father? Look what you’re doing to him.’
‘What about our pay? Yes!’
A great roar, like the waves when the tide is high and the storm wind is blowing, wave crashing against wave: ‘What about our pay, you cheap bastard? Pay us!’ ‘You can’t abandon us! You are our king! Don’t abandon us!’ ‘Pay us, you cheap bastard shit!’ A voice shouts, ‘Pension us off, will you? Who made you all this, eh? Who made you king?’ ‘You’ve got a fucking palace!’ a voice shouts. ‘What have we got?’ ‘You can’t abandon us,’ a voice shouts. ‘You owe us. We made you king.’
He looks down on his army who have conquered three kingdoms for him, and a great fear takes him.
‘You will have all that you are owed. Those who wish to remain here in Illyr will have land to farm. Those who wish to go home to their families I will provide with passage.’ His voice is shaking. His hand goes to the hilt of his sword. ‘You are dismissed.’ A few of them still jeer. Dogs’ faces, snarling at him. Many of them stand openly weeping. Frozen. The tears on their faces look like snowflakes. ‘You are dismissed,’ he shouts at them. He walks down from the dais away from them into his palace. His back is turned to them inviting a sword blade between his shoulders. He can almost, almost feel one of them stabbing a sword blade into him. No one dares to go near him: they see his eyes, they see the shadows around him, they hear the shadows scream in triumph. If he had dismissed them after he took Malth Tyrenae. After he took Malth Elelane. If they had never crowned him king … They howl and moan behind him, prayers, entreaties, curses, ‘Amrath,’ they beg him, ‘Amrath. You cannot do this to us.’ ‘They are dismissed,’ he shouts to Osen Fiolt and Alis Nymen. ‘Dismissed.’
Thalia looks at him with sorrow. ‘They don’t mean it, Marith. They have shed their blood for you. Of course they are upset.’ She says, ‘They will be glad enough soon, when they have got back home safe to their families.’ She is pregnant, soon he will have a family. ‘We marched all across the Wastes with them,’ she says, putting her arms around him as she will soon put her arms around their son. ‘They suffered for us. They shared in our glory, crowned us, celebrated victory with us. I feel sad myself,’ she says, ‘to see this ending, to be dismissing them after everything they have done for us. But we will be glad of it,’ she says, ‘and they will be. When we have our son and they have their homes and their families around them.’
Yes: he thinks of his own father King Illyn, running with him in the gardens of Malth Elelane, his father’s stern face creased up with laughing. ‘Catch me, Daddy!’ ‘Caught you, Marith! Caught you!’ He walks up and down in his chambers, trying to block out the sound of their voices, cursing them.
‘Leave them,’ Thalia says, ‘Marith. Look,’ her face changes, ‘look, Marith,’ she says suddenly, ‘they are beginning to disperse.’
‘They are?’ He comes to the window to join her. It is coming on to evening, growing colder, the smell of their evening meal cooking hangs warm in the air. It is true, they are beginning to drift away, more and more of them. Their shouts are fading. The courtyard cannot be more than half full.
‘I told you they would,’ Thalia says. Her voice too is almost regretful. ‘They suffered so much for us,’ she says. ‘Pay them double, Marith, when you send them off.’
‘I can’t afford to pay them double. I can’t afford to pay them anything. You wouldn’t happen to have two months’ pay arrears in your jewellery box?’ Already, he thinks. Already. I thought they might stay there calling on me a little longer. As Thalia says, they suffered for me, they were victorious with me, they shed their blood for me. And yet this is so very easy. I have my kingdom, my palace, my queen, soon I will have a son. Sweet golden dreams of peace. In the courtyard only a very few of the soldiers are left now. Outraged shouts turn to muttered grumbles. Grumbles to knowing complaints. ‘Oh well,’ they say to one another, ‘oh well, we knew it would be coming. If he packs us off soon at least we’ll be home for the spring.’ ‘Got my wife a diamond necklace when we sacked Tyrenae. Was looking forward to giving it to her. Lost it to a whore one night when I was hammered. If the bastard pays us off, maybe I’ll buy her another one.’ ‘A farm, yeah? Never been outside Morr Town’s walls before we started marching. A farm might be nice.’ ‘Bastard. Throwing us over. But that’s kings, yeah? What else did we expect?’
That night the city of Ethalden is filled with whispers. Some of the soldiers drink to celebrate their return to homes and families. Some sit in lonely silence, weeping. Some shout their anger to the night sky and the sea. Marith walks the walls of his fortress, paces the corridors and halls. Seabirds scream in the darkness. Something that might be a hawk screams. It cannot be this easy. In the grey light of dawn he comes back into his chambers. In the bedchamber Thalia lies asleep, her face crumpled and strained.
‘The day when we were crowned King and Queen of Illyr, Thalia. Do you remember that?’ Little more than a month ago. He cannot remember it properly now. Too bright. Too unreal. Too wonderful. They stood in the great golden feasting hall, silver trumpets rang out like birdsong, every living soul in Illyr acclaimed them, the air itself seemed to blaze with gold. ‘The most perfect moment in any human lifetime.’ Grief overwhelms him. Self-pity and shame.
There are reports the next morning that there has been fighting in the city, groups of soldiers fighting each other, a mob of soldiers has been looting houses and shops. A small group of soldiers returns to the great courtyard to entreat him. Alis Nyman and Yanis Stansel go out to them, pay them off with silver pennies. They are grateful. Cheer their king. File away. Marith and Thalia, Osen and his wife Matrina, Kiana Sabryya and Alleen Durith go out for a day’s hunting. Blackthorn is budding in all the hedgerows. There are snowdrops in bloom by the roadside and faint traceries of frost on the north slopes. In the distance the great central spire of his fortress flashes out silver and pearl, hung with red banners that dance in the morning wind.
‘Are you growing a beard, Osen?’ Thalia asks.
Osen strokes the stubble on his chin, grins at Marith. ‘Possibly.’ He seems to be wearing a very ugly new brown coat as well, loose and badly fitting.
Thalia looks very hard at Marith’s chin.
They ride past a stream where the willow trees are furzed yellow with catkins. In the fields, they are ploughing the soil for the summer wheat. Thalia says, ‘I might well have two months’ pay arrears in my jewel box.’ The air smells so nearly of spring. When they get back to Ethalden there are petitioners waiting to ask the king’s judgement. A dispute needs to be settled concerning an Ithish lord’s inheritance rights. A messenger has come from Malth Tyrenae to report on the work rebuilding the city. The tax official on Third Isle has been dismissed for embezzlement, the king must approve his replacement. There is a letter from Malth Elelane reporting the financial situation on the White Isles, so that the king can be advised and take action. There is a letter from Malth Elelane reporting that a lord’s son on Seneth Isle has run off with another lord’s wife, the lord’s son’s mother is asking the king to do something.
That evening a group of soldiers gathers before the closed gates of the fortress, shout demands to see the king. But in many taverns the soldiers are drinking happily, raising a cup to their king who will soon send them home.
He goes to bed early. Thalia is tired out after hunting. He lies in bed listening to her breathing, and he cannot sleep. He goes up to the window, throws open the shutters, Thalia makes a moaning sound in her sleep. The night is clear and cold. He thinks of riding down to the sea, standing in the dark to listen to the waves beating