an interesting slant to the tale.’ Alberon’s expression hardened and Razi glanced up to meet his gaze. ‘Court gossip has it the other way around. It is said that Oliver is the one who plotted treason, and that you took his lead, following after him when Father condemned him for it.’
The corner of Alberon’s mouth twitched. ‘Oliver is a knight of the realm, brother, and I the heir to the throne. Who follows whom in that ranking?’ Razi tilted his head in acceptance of this point, and Alberon went on. ‘I sent Oliver ahead to set up this camp and to prepare for my negotiations. He has risked everything for me. Risked his title, his lands, his life and those of his men. Because he believes in me – his Royal Prince – and in my plan for this kingdom’s future. Do not mistake him, Razi; he is ever loyal to our father and to this kingdom, and he is ever faithful to his pledge as a knight. I shall hear no word said against him.’
‘You had better be very vocal in defending him on your return home, then, your Highness. Otherwise you have condemned the poor man to slow death as a traitor to the crown.’
‘Oliver knows what it is to risk his life for the throne, Razi. He is a warrior born. Both he and I would gladly lay down our lives for this kingdom.’
Wynter frowned at this, annoyed by the implication that Razi would not be willing to do the same, but Razi himself did not change his expression of careful detachment, and so Wynter kept her peace.
Alberon spread his hands in abrupt dismissal of the topic. ‘Do not fret yourself over it,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘Those who stand with me here will never regret it. I shall make certain of that. Our father himself will one day bless their names, you wait and see. Now . . .’ He took a scroll and spread it on the table. ‘Hold that side,’ he ordered, then slammed the pitcher and beakers down on opposite corners to keep the parchment spread. ‘Look.’
Razi spread his hand on the corner nearest him and looked coolly down at the scroll. Wynter hoisted the sleeping cat to her shoulder and shifted to get a good look. Coriolanus mewed softly in his sleep but did not wake.
To Wynter’s disappointment, it was not one of her father’s intricate plans, but a wonderfully executed map of the Europes, detailed with mountains and rivers and political divisions. The delicate bays and peninsulas of the Moroccos coastline embroidered the lower borders, while the scattered coastline of the Northland territories decorated the top. Beautiful little gold-leaf castles represented the seats of power in the various European kingdoms, and a gold palace icon symbolised the qasabah of the Sultan of the Moroccos in Algiers.
Wynter gazed at the ornately drawn white-topped mountains that ringed Jonathon’s kingdom. She looked at the long, straight ribbon of the port road, stretching a remarkable one hundred and eighty-seven bandit-free, well policed miles. Her gaze followed its natural progress out into the channel of peaceful blue wavelets that stretched between Marseilles and Algiers. The only pirate-free shipping lane in the entire Mediterranean Sea, made possible by the unprecedented combination of Moroccan and Southland fleets working together as one. Once again, Wynter marvelled at Jonathon’s remarkable achievement in preserving this small, unusual land in the midst of the violence and hatred that currently ravaged the kingdoms surrounding it.
We have come very close to losing it, she thought sadly. So very close. This small island of tolerance. This little flame of hope in the dark.
She ran her finger across one of the many Here Be Wolves legends that dotted the tumultuous Gibraltars, and gazed at the long, dark border of the Haun territories, now once again gnawing at the fragile borders of Italy and the Venetian States. Wynter’s heart squeezed with anxiety. It was all so unstable, all such a threat.
‘Abdallah ash-Shiekh,’ said Alberon, leaning on the table and staring keenly at his brother.
Razi, who had been regarding the map with uncharacteristic wistfulness, glanced up in surprise. ‘The Sultan of the Moroccos?’ he said. ‘What of him?’
‘He is having problems.’
Razi nodded uncertainly. ‘Some,’ he said. ‘Much the same types of trouble Father has been having. The large numbers of dispossessed Musulmen and Jews pouring in from the Northern inquisitions have put a terrible burden on the Moroccan economy. They have nowhere to live, they have