The Lions of Al-Rassan by Guy Gavriel Kay
Zabira of Cartada was, in a sense, her own ceremony. She was an exquisite supplicant in a crimson-dyed, black-bordered gown over a golden undergown. She had jewelry at wrist and throat and on her fingers, and there were rubies set in the soft, night-black silken cap she wore. They gleamed in the sunlight. With only one man to guard her, it appeared that she had carried an extraordinary treasure through the mountains. She was reckless then, or desperate. She was also dazzling. Fashions, thought Jehane, were about to change in Ragosa if this woman stayed for long.
Zabira moved forward with effortless, trained grace, betraying no wonder at all in this place, and then sank down in full obeisance to Badir. This was not, evidently, a woman for whom a garden or courtyard, even one such as this, held the power to awe. She wouldn’t even blink at the stream running through the banquet room, Jehane decided, just before something took her thoughts in another direction entirely.
Most of the court was staring at Zabira in frank admiration. King Badir had ceased doing so, however, in the moment she lowered herself to the ground before the arched bridge leading to his isle. So, too, even before the king, had his chancellor.
A high cloud slid briefly across the sun, changing the light, lending a swift chill to the air, a reminder that it was autumn. At this moment the newest physician in Ragosa, following the king’s narrowed glance past the kneeling woman, encountered a difficulty with her breathing.
Nor, as it happened, was Zabira of Cartada continuing to hold the attention of the newest and most prominent of the mercenary captains at King Badir’s court.
Rodrigo Belmonte admired beauty and poise in a woman and evidence of courage; he had been married for almost sixteen years to a woman with these qualities. But he, too, was looking beyond Zabira now, gazing instead at the figure approaching the bridge and the isle, two dutiful steps behind her, preserving a palpable fiction for one more moment.
The sun came out, bathing them all in light. Zabira of Cartada remained on the ground, an embodiment of beauty and grace amid the falling leaves. She hardly mattered now.
The woman’s companion, her sole companion, the man who had been announced as her steward, was Ammar ibn Khairan.
For a handful of extremely subtle people in that garden further elements of the death of King Almalik were now explained. And for them, although the woman might be the most celebrated beauty in Al-Rassan, clever and gifted in herself and the mother of two enormously important children, the man was who he was, and had done—twice now, it seemed—what he had done.
He was undisguised, the signature pearl gleaming in his right ear, and Rodrigo knew him by the report of that. The black steward’s robe only accentuated his natural composure. He was smiling—not very deferentially, not very much like a steward—as he scanned the assembled court of King Badir. Rodrigo saw him nod at a poet.
Ibn Khairan bowed to the king of Ragosa. When he straightened, his gaze met the chancellor’s briefly, moved to Jehane bet Ishak—as the smile returned—and then he appeared to become aware that one of the Jaddite mercenaries was staring at him, and he turned to the man and knew him.
And so did Ser Rodrigo Belmonte, the Captain of Valledo, and the lord Ammar ibn Khairan of Aljais stand in the Courtyard of the Streams of Ragosa on a bright morning in autumn and look upon each other for the first time.
Jehane, caught in the whirlwind of her own emotions, was there to see that first look exchanged. She turned from one man to the other and then she shivered, without knowing why.
Alvar de Pellino, just then entering through a door at the far end of the arcaded walkway—sanctioned by his link to both the Captain and Jehane and a hasty lie about a message for Rodrigo—was in time to see that exchange of glances as well, and though he had not the least idea who the black-robed Cartadan steward with the earring was, he knew when Rodrigo was roused to intensity, and he could see it then.
Narrowing his eyes against the sun’s brightness, he looked for and found Jehane and saw her looking back and forth from one man to the other. Alvar did the same, struggling to understand what was happening here. And then he, too, felt himself shiver, though it wasn’t really cold and the sun was high.
Back home, on their farm in the remotest part of Valledo, the kitchen women and the serving women, most of whom had been still half pagan, so far in the wild north, used to say that such a shiver meant only one thing: an emissary of death had just crossed into the realms of mortal men and women from the god’s own lost world of Fiñar.
In silence, unaccountably disturbed, Alvar slipped through the crowd in the garden and took his place among the mercenaries on the near bank of the stream before the island.
Rodrigo and the black-clad Cartadan steward still had not taken their eyes from each other.
Others began to notice this now—there was something in the quality of the stillness possessing both of them. Out of the corner of his eye Alvar saw Mazur ben Avren turn to look at Rodrigo and then back to the steward.
Still trying to take his bearings, Alvar looked for anger in those two faces, for hatred, respect, irony, appraisal. He saw none of these things clearly, and yet elements of all of them. Hesitantly he decided, in the moment before the king of Ragosa spoke, that what he was seeing was a kind of recognition. Not just of each other, though there had to be that, but something harder to name. He thought, still minded of the night tales told at home, that it might even be a kind of foreknowing.
Alvar, a grown man now, a soldier, amid a gathering of people on a very bright morning, suddenly felt fear, the way he used to feel it as a child at night after hearing the women’s stories, lying in his bed, listening to the north wind rattling at the windows of the house.
“You are most welcome to Ragosa, lady,” the king of Ragosa murmured.
If he had sensed any of this growing tension, he did not betray it. There was genuine appreciation in his voice and manner. King Badir was a connoisseur of beauty in all shapes and guises. Alvar, struggling with his sudden dark mood and protected by the simple fact of love, thought the Cartadan lady fetching but overly adorned. She was flawless in her manner, however. Only after Badir spoke did she rise gracefully from the walkway and stand before the king’s isle.
“Is this a mother’s visit?” Badir went on. “Have you come to judge our royal care of your children?”
The king knew it was more than that, Alvar realized, having learned a great deal himself in three months. This was a gambit, an opening.
“There is that, Magnificence,” said Zabira of Cartada, “though I have no fears regarding your attentiveness to my little ones. I am here, though, with more import to my visit than a mother’s fond doting.” Her voice was low but clear, a musician’s, trained.
She said, “I have come to tell a tale of murder. A son’s murder of his father, and the consequences of that.”
There was near silence in the garden again; only the one bird still singing overhead, the breeze in the leaves of the trees, the steady lapping of the two streams around the isle.
In that quiet, Zabira said, “By the holy teachings of Ashar it is given to us as law that a murderer of his father is eternally unclean, to be shunned while alive, to be executed or driven from all gatherings of men, accursed of the god and the stars. I ask the king of Ragosa: shall such a man reign in Cartada?”
“Does he?” King Badir was a sensualist, known to be self-indulgent, but no one had ever impugned the quality of his mind.
“He does. A fortnight ago the Lion of Cartada was foully slain, and his murdering son now bears the scepter and the glass, and styles himself Almalik II, Lion of Cartada, Defender of Al-Rassan.” There was a sound in the garden then, for all the details were news: she had crossed the mountains faster than messengers. Zabira drew herself up straight and raised her voice with deliberate intent. “I am come here, my lord king, to beg you to free the people of my dear city from this father-killer and regicide. To send your armies west, fulfilling the precepts of holy Ashar, to destroy this evil man
Another ripple of sound, like the breeze through the leaves.
“And who then shall reign in glorious Cartada?” Badir’s expression gave away nothing at all.
For the first time the woman hesitated. “The city is in peril. We have learned that the usurper’s brother Hazem is away to the south across the straits. He is a zealot, and seeks aid and alliance from the tribes in the Majriti deserts. He has been in open defiance of his father and was formally disinherited years ago.”
“That last we know,” Badir said softly. “That much all men know. But who then should reign in Cartada?” he asked again. By now even Alvar could see where this was going.
The woman had courage, there was no denying it. “You are guardian here in Ragosa of the only two loyal children of King Almalik,” she said, with no hesitation now. “It is my formal petition that you take that city in the god’s name and place there as king his son, Abadi ibn Almalik. And that you lend to him all such aid and support as you may during the time of his minority.”
It was said, then. Openly. An invitation to take Cartada, and the cloak of right under which to do it.
Jehane, listening with fierce attention, looked beyond the woman in crimson and black and saw that Alvar had managed to obtain admittance here. She turned again to the king.
But it was the chancellor who now spoke, for the first time, the deep voice measured and grave. “I would know, if I might, is this also the thought and desire of the steward you bring with you?”
Looking quickly back to Zabira, Jehane realized that the woman did not know the answer to that question; that she had played a card of her own, and was waiting on what would follow.
She played the next, necessary card. “He is not my steward,” Zabira said. “You will know, I believe, who this man is. He has been gracious enough to escort me here, a woman without defenders or any recourse at home. I will not dare presume to speak for Ammar ibn Khairan, my lord chancellor, my lord king. No one alive would do that.”
“Then perhaps the man who appears before us in the false garb of a steward might presume to speak for himself?” King Badir betrayed the slightest tension in his voice now. It wasn’t surprising, Jehane thought. The woman had raised the stakes of the game extraordinarily high.
Ammar ibn Khairan, whom she had kissed—amazingly—in her father’s study, turned his gaze to the king of Ragosa. There was a measure of respect to be seen in him, but no real deference. For the first time Jehane realized just how difficult a man this one could be, if he chose. He had also, she reminded herself again, killed a khalif and now a king.
He said, “Most gracious king, I find myself in a troubling circumstance. I have just heard words of open treason to my own kingdom of Cartada. My course ought to be clear, but I am doubly constrained.”
“Why? And why doubly?” King Badir asked, sounding vexed.
Ibn Khairan shrugged gracefully. And waited. As if the issue was a test, not for him, but for the assembled court of Ragosa in that garden.
And it was Mazur the chancellor who said, “He ought to kill her, but will not attack a woman, and he may not draw a weapon in your presence.” There was irritation in his voice. “In fact you ought not to even have a weapon here.”
“This is true,” ibn Khairan said mildly. “Your guards were . . . courteous. Perhaps too much so.”
“Perhaps they saw no reason to fear a man of your . . . repute,” the chancellor murmured silkily.
A dagger of sorts there, Jehane thought, chasing nuances as quickly as she could. Ibn Khairan’s reputation encompassed many things, and it included a new dimension as of this morning’s news. He could not, on the face of things, be said to be a harmless man. Perhaps especially not for kings.
Ammar smiled, as if savoring the innuendo. “It has been long,” he said, with apparent inconsequentiality, “since I have had the privilege of exchanging words with the estimable chancellor of Ragosa. Whatever our jealous wadjis might say, he remains a credit to his people and the great king he serves. In my most humble view.”
At which point the king mentioned appeared to lose patience. “You were asked a question,” Badir said bluntly, and those assembled in that garden were made sharply aware that whatever poise or subtlety might be here on display, only one man ruled. “You have not answered it.”
“Ah. Yes,” said Ammar ibn Khairan. “That question.” He clasped his hands loosely before him. Alvar de Pellino, watching closely, found himself wondering where the hidden weapon was. If there was one. Ibn Khairan said, “The lady Zabira, I will confess, has surprised me. Not for the first time, mind you.” Alvar saw the woman glance away at the flowing water.
“I was of the impression, innocently, that she wished to be escorted here to see her children,” said the man garbed as her steward, “and because there was no haven for her in Cartada. Being of a regrettably short-sighted nature I thought no further on these matters.”
“These are games,” said the king of Ragosa. “We may or may not have time for them later. You are the least short-sighted man in this peninsula.”
“I am honored by your words, my lord king. Unworthy as I am, I can only repeat that I did not expect to hear what I heard just now. At the moment my position is delicate. You must appreciate that. I am still sworn to allegiance to the kingdom of Cartada.” His blue eyes flashed. “If I speak with some care, perhaps that might be indulged by a king as august and wise as Badir of Ragosa.”
It occurred to Jehane just about then that ibn Khairan might easily be killed here today. There was a silence. The king glared, and shifted impatiently on his bench.
“I see. You have already been exiled by the new king of Cartada. Immediately after you did his killing for him. How extremely clever of the young man.” It was Mazur again, and not a question.
Badir glanced at his chancellor and then back to ibn Khairan; his expression had changed.
Of course, Jehane thought. That had to be it. Why else was the prince’s advisor and confidant here with Zabira instead of controlling the transfer of power in Cartada? She felt like a fool for missing the point. She hadn’t been alone, though. Throughout the garden Jehane saw men—and the handful of women—nodding their heads.
“Alas, the chancellor in his wisdom speaks the sad truth. I am exiled, yes. For my many vices.” Ibn Khairan’s voice was calm. “There appears some hope of my being pardoned, after I purge myself of sundry unspeakable iniquities.” He smiled, and a moment later, quite unexpectedly, one man’s laughter was heard, the sound startling amid the tension of the garden.
The king and his chancellor and Ammar ibn Khairan all turned to stare at Rodrigo Belmonte, who was still laughing.
“The king of Ragosa,” Rodrigo said, greatly amused, “had best be careful, or every exile in the peninsula will be beating a path to his palace doors.” Ibn Khairan, Jehane noticed, was no longer smiling as he looked at him.
Rodrigo chuckled again, highly amused. “If I may be forgiven, perhaps a soldier may help cut a path through the difficulty here?” He waited for the king to nod, before going on. “The lord ibn Khairan appears in a situation oddly akin to my own. He stands here exiled but with no offered allegiance to supersede the one he owes Cartada. In the absence of such an offer, he cannot possibly endorse or even honorably be asked to comment upon what the lady Zabira has suggested. Indeed, he ought properly to kill her with the blade taped to the inside of his left arm. Make him,” said Rodrigo Belmonte, “an offer.”
A rigid stillness followed this. The day seemed almost too bright now, as if the sunlight were at odds with the gravity of what was happening here below.
“Shall I become a mercenary?” Ibn Khairan was still gazing at the Jaddite captain, as if oblivious to those on the isle now. Again Jehane felt that odd, uncanny chill.
“We are a lowly folk, I concede. But there are lower sorts.” Rodrigo was still amused, or he appeared to be.
Ibn Khairan was not. He said carefully, “I had nothing to do with th
“Of course you didn’t,” said Rodrigo Belmonte. “That’s why you killed the king.”
“That’s why I had to kill the king,” said ibn Khairan, grave in his black robe. Another murmur of sound rose and fell away.
It was the chancellor’s turn to sound irritated. Deliberately breaking the mood, Mazur said, “And are we to offer a position here to a man who slays whenever his pride is wounded?”
Jehane realized, with an unexpected flicker of amusement, that he was irked because Rodrigo had pieced together this part of the puzzle first. On the subject of wounded pride, she thought . . .
“Not whenever,” said ibn Khairan quietly. “Once in my life, and with regret, and for something very large.”
“Ah!” said the chancellor sardonically, “with regret. Well, that changes everything.”
For the first time Jehane saw ibn Khairan betray an unguarded reaction. She watched his blue gaze go cold before he lowered his eyes from ben Avren’s face. Drawing a breath, he unclasped his hands and let them fall to his sides. She saw that he wasn’t wearing his rings. He looked up again at the chancellor, saying nothing, waiting. Very much, Jehane thought, like someone braced for what further blows might be leveled against him.
No blows fell, verbal or otherwise. Instead, it was the king who spoke again, his equanimity restored. “If we should agree with our Valledan friend, what could you offer us?”
Zabira of Cartada, nearly forgotten in all this, turned and looked back at the man who had come here as her steward. Her dark, carefully accentuated eyes were quite unreadable. Another fringe of cloud trailed past the sun and then away, taking the light and giving it back.
“Myself,” said Ammar ibn Khairan.
In that exquisite garden no one’s gaze was anywhere but upon him. The arrogance was dazzling, but the man had been known, for fifteen years and more, not only as a diplomat and a strategist, but as a military commander and the purest swordsman in Al-Rassan.