She was alone in the room. For a blest moment she was alone. No gossiping maids or spying eunuchs. No gaggle of concubines intriguing endlessly and bitching about petty slights and imagined neglects. She could stand at the window and look at what had once been her own country, and feel herself free. Her name was Heria Cear-Inaf and she was no queen, only the lowly daughter of a silk merchant, and her heart was still her own to bestow where she pleased.

“Beard of the Prophet, what does this mean? Are you here alone? God’s teeth, this will not do! Where is that scoundrel Baraz? I’ll have him flogged.”

The Sultan of Ostrabar strode into the chamber like a gale, accompanied by a knot of his staff officers. He was dripping with jewells and gold once more, and a rich, fur-lined cloak whirled about him like a cloud. Silver tassels winked on the pointed toes of his boots.

Heria refastened her veil hurriedly.

“Shahr Baraz is off running an errand for me, my lord. Do not blame him. I wanted to see if he were truly mine to command.”

Aurungzeb boomed with laughter. He bristled a kiss through her thin veil that bruised her lips. “Well done, wife! That family needs humbling. They take too much of the world’s troubles upon themselves. Have you tumbled to my jest, then? The officers’ quarters are buzzing with it. A Baraz as a lady’s maid! Keep him on the tips of his toes—it will do him good. But you are still in your bridal gown! Get those ancient rags off your back. Tradition is all well and fine, but we cannot have my First Wife looking like a beggar off the steppe. Where are your attendants? I’ll kick Serrim’s fat arse next time I see him.”

“They are preparing my wardrobe,” Heria lied. “I sent them all off to do it. They are so slow.”

“Yes, yes, you must be firm with them, you know. Have a few of them flogged, and they’ll start to jump right smartly.” Aurungzeb embraced her. The top of her head came barely to his chin, though she was tall for a woman.

“Ah, those beautiful bones! I do not know how I shall keep myself from them till the babe is born.” He nuzzled her hair, beaming. “I must be off, my Queen. Shahr Johor, hunt out those damn maids. My wife is here alone like a mourner. And get the furniture sent up—the things from Aekir we had shipped.” Aurungzeb looked around the room. It had been part of Pieter Martellus’s chambers in the days when the dyke had been Torunnan, and was as bare as a barracks.

“Poor surroundings for a woman, though it’s better than a tent out in the field. We’ll have to prettify the place a little. I may just let this tower stand, as a monument. I must be off. We are to dine together later, Ahara. I have invited the ambassadors. We are having lobsters sent up from the coast. Have you ever tasted a lobster? Ah, here is Shahr Baraz. What do you mean by leaving the Queen alone?”

Shahr Baraz stood in the doorway. His face was expressionless. “My apologies, Sultan. It will not happen again.”

“That’s all right, Baraz. She’s been playing with you I think, my western doe.” And in an aside to Heria: “He looks so much like his terrible old father, and he’s just as stiff-necked. Keep him on the hop, my love, that’s the way. Well, I must be off. Wear the blue today, the stuff the Nalbeni sent us. It sets off your eyes.” And he was gone, striding out of the room with his aides struggling to keep up, his voice booming down the corridor beyond.

B Y the time Albrec had been brought to the new Queen’s chambers she had cast aside her sombre marriage garments and was swathed from head to toe in sky-blue silk, a circlet of silver sat upon her veiled head and her eyes were as striking as paint could make them. She reclined on a low divan whilst around her half a dozen maids perched on cushions. A tall Merduk of advanced years whom Albrec had never seen at the court before stood straight as a spear by the door. The room’s austere stone walls had been hung with embroidered curtains and bright tapestries. Incense smouldered in a golden burner and several braziers gave off a comfortable warmth, the charcoal within their filigreed sides bright red. Three little girls kept the coals glowing with discreet wheezes of their tiny bellows. The contrast between the delicate sumptuousness of the chamber and the disfigured poverty of the little monk could not have been greater.

Albrec bowed at a nudge from Serrim, the eunuch.

“Your Majesty, I believe I am to congratulate you on your wedding.”

The Merduk Queen took a moment to respond.

“Be seated, Father. Rokzanne, some wine for our guest.”

Albrec was brought a footstool to perch himself upon and a silver goblet of the thin, acrid liquid the Merduks chose to call wine. He did not take his eyes from the Queen’s veiled face.

“I would have received you with less ceremony,” Heria said lightly, “but Serrim here insisted that I begin to comport myself as befitting my newly exalted rank.”

Albrec cast his eyes about the chamber, a cross between a barracks and a brothel. “Admirable,” he muttered.

“Yes. Come, let me show you the view from the balcony.” Heria rose and extended a hand to the little monk. He rose awkwardly off his low stool and took her fingers in what remained of his own hand. The women in the chamber whispered and murmured.

She led him out on to the balcony and they stood there with the fresh wind in their faces, looking down upon the ruin of the fortress. Already the Long Walls were demolished, and thousands of soldiers were working to dismantle their remnants and float the cyclopean granite blocks on flatboats across the Searil. The foundations for another fortress were being laid there on the east bank of the river. The tower in which Heria and Albrec stood would soon be all that remained of Kaile Ormann’s great work. Even the dyke itself was to be dammed up and filled in through the labour of thousands of Torunnan slaves. The minor fortifications on the island would be rebuilt, and where the Long Walls had stood would be a barbican. Aurungzeb was constructing a mirror-image of the ancient fortress, to face west instead of east.

“Tell me about him, Father,” Heria murmured. “Tell me everything you know. Quickly.”

The maids and eunuchs were watching them. Albrec kept his voice so low the wind rendered it almost inaudible.

“I have heard it said that he is John Mogen come again. He sits high in the favour of the Torunnan Queen—it was no doubt she who made him commander-in-chief. This happened after I left the capital. He fought here, at the dyke, and in the south. Even the Fimbrians obey him.”

“Tell me how he looks now, Father.”

Albrec studied her face. It was white and set above the veil, like carved ivory. With the heavy paint on her eyelids she looked as though she were wearing a mask.

“Heria, do not torment yourself.”

“Tell me.”

Albrec thought back to that brief encounter on the road to Torunn. It seemed a very long time ago. “He has pain written on his face and in his eyes. There is a hardness about him.” He is a killer, Albrec thought. One of those men who find they have an aptitude for it, as others can sculpt statues or make music. But he said nothing of this to Heria.

The Merduk Queen remained very still, the cold wind lifting her veil up like smoke. “Thank you, Father.”

“Will you not come in from the balcony now, lady?” the eunuch’s high-pitched voice piped behind them. “It becomes cold.”

“Yes, Serrim. We will come in. I was just showing Father Albrec the beginnings of our Sultan’s new fortress. He expressed a wish to see it.” And to Albrec in a quick, hunted aside: “I must get you out of here, back to Torunn. We must help him win this war. But you must never tell him what I have become. His wife is dead. Do you hear me? She is dead.”

Albrec nodded dumbly, and followed her back into the scented warmth of the room behind.