Gorben smiled. ‘One day you will call me, “great Lord” or “my Emperor”. I live for that day, Mushran.’
The old man chuckled. ‘Other men can bestow upon you these titles. They can fall to the ground before you and bounce their brows from the stone. But when I look upon you, my boy, I see the child that was before the man, and the babe who was before the child. I prepared your food and I wiped your arse. And I am too old to crash my poor head to the stones every time you walk into a room. Besides, you are changing the subject. You need more rest.’
‘Has it escaped your notice that we have been under siege for a month? I must show myself to the men; they must see me fight, or they will lose heart. And there are supplies to be organised, rations set – a hundred different duties. Find me some more hours in a day and I will rest, I promise you.’
‘You don’t need more hours,’ snapped the old man, lifting the razor and wiping oil and stubble from the blade. ‘You need better men. Nebuchad is a good boy – but he’s slow-witted. And Jasua. . .’ Mushran raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘A wonderful killer, but his brain is lodged just above his . . .’
‘Enough of that!’ said Gorben amiably. ‘If my officers knew how you spoke of them, they’d have you waylaid in an alley and beaten to death. Anyway, what about Bodasen?’
‘The best of them – but let’s be fair, that isn’t saying much.’
Gorben’s reply was cut off as the razor descended to his throat and he felt the keen blade gliding up over his jawline and across to the edge of his mouth. ‘There!’ said Mushran proudly. ‘At least you look like an Emperor now.’
Gorben stood and wandered to the window. The fourth attack was under way; it would be repulsed, he knew, but even from here he could see the huge siege-towers being dragged into place for tomorrow. He pictured the hundreds of men pulling them into position, saw in his mind’s eye the massive attack ramps crashing down on to the battlements, and heard the war-cries of the Naashanite warriors as they clambered up the steps, along the ramp, and hurled themselves on to the defenders. Naashanites? He laughed bitterly. Two-thirds of the enemy soldiers were Ventrians, followers of Shabag, one of the renegade Satraps. Ventrians killing Ventrians! It was obscene. And for what? How much richer could Shabag become? How many palaces could a man occupy at one time? Gorben’s father had been a weak man, and a poor judge of character, but for all that he had been an Emperor who cared for his people. Every city boasted a university, built from funds supplied by the Royal treasury. There were colleges where the brightest students could learn the arts of medicine, listen to lectures from Ventria’s finest herbalists. There were schools, hospitals, and a road system second to none on the continent. But his greatest achievement had been the forming of the Royal Riders, who could carry a message from one end of the Empire to another in less than twelve weeks. Such swift communication meant that if any satrapy suffered a natural disaster – plague, famine, flood – then help could be sent almost immediately.
Now the cities were either conquered or besieged, the death toll was climbing towards a mountainous total, the universities were closed, and the chaos of war was destroying everything his father had built. With great effort he forced down the heat of anger, and concentrated coolly on the problem facing him at Capalis.
Tomorrow would be a pivotal day in the siege. If his warriors held, then dismay would spread among the enemy. If not. . . He smiled grimly. If not we are finished, he thought. Shabag would have him dragged before the Naashanite Emperor. Gorben sighed.
‘Never let despair enter your mind,’ said Mushran. ‘There is no profit in it.’
‘You read minds better than any seer.’
‘Not minds, faces. So wipe that expression clear and I’ll fetch Bodasen.’