ggk.thelionsofal-rassan-第31部分

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　　〃Time　and　the　stars　and　the　will　of　Ashar　determine　such　things；〃　the　young　king　says　with　determined；　formal　piety。　〃We　have　。。。　honored　you；　and　are　grateful　for　your　past　services。　This　punishment　。。。　es　not　easily　to　us。〃
　　He　pauses；　his　voice　alters。　〃Nevertheless；　it　is　necessary。　You　have　until　first　starlight　to　be　gone　from　Cartada　and　seven　nights　to　quit　our　lands；　failing　which　any　man　who　sees　you　is　free　to　take　your　life　and　is　manded　to　do　so　as　an　agent　of　the　king。〃　The　words　are　crisp；　precise；　not　at　all　those　of　a　young　man　who　is　anxious　and　unsure　of　himself。
　　〃Hunted？　Not　again！〃　says　Ammar　ibn　Khairan；　his　sardonic　tones　restored。　〃But；　really；　I'm　so　tired　of　wearing　a　saffron　head…cloth。〃
　　The　tic　in　the　king's　eye　is　quite　distracting；　really。　〃You　had　best　be　gone；〃　young　Almalik　says　sternly。　〃What　we　have　now　to　say　are　words　for　our　loyal　subjects。　We　shall　pray　that　Ashar　guides　you　towards　virtue　and　enlightenment。〃
　　No　wavering；　the　possibly　loyal　subjects　in　the　room　note。　Even　faced　with　mockery　and　what　could　be　seen　as　a　threat　from　the　subtlest　man　in　the　kingdom；　the　young　king　is　standing　his　ground。　He　is　doing　more　than　that；　they　now　realize。　With　a　slight　gesture　the　king　motions　the　two　Muwardis　by　the　double　doors　at　the　far　end　of　the　chamber　to　e　forward。
　　They　do　so；　swords　drawn；　until　they　stand　on　either　side　of　ibn　Khairan。　He　spares　them　only　a　brief；　amused　glance。
　　〃I　should　have　remained　a　poet；〃　he　says；　shaking　his　head　ruefully。　〃Affairs　such　as　this　are　beyond　my　depth。　Farewell；　Magnificence。　I　shall　live　a　sad；　dark；　quiet　life　of　contemplation；　awaiting　a　summons　back　to　the　brightness　of　your　side。〃
　　Flawlessly　he　makes　the　four　obeisances　again；　then　rises。　He　stands　a　moment；　as　if　about　to　add　something　more。　The　young　king　looks　at　him；　waiting；　his　eyelid　twitching。　But　Ammar　ibn　Khairan　only　smiles　again　and　shakes　his　head。　He　leaves　the　room；　walking　between　the　graceful　columns；　across　the　mosaic　tiles；　beneath　the　last　arch　and　out　the　doors。　Not　a　man　there　believes　his　final　words。
　　What　the　one　woman　is　thinking；　watching　all　of　this　from　where　she　still　stands　beside　the　body　of　the　dead　king；　her　lover；　the　father　of　her　children；　no　one　can　tell。　The　face　of　the　slain　monarch　is　already　turning　grey；　a　known　effect　of　fijana　poisoning。　His　mouth　is　still　open　in　that　last；　soundless　contortion。　The　oranges　remain　in　their　basket　where　it　was　set　down　by　ibn　Khairan；　directly　before　the　dais。
　　*　*　*
　　It　had　been；　he　realized；　one　of　those　miscalculations　for　which　a　younger　man　might　never　have　forgiven　himself。　He　was　no　longer　a　young　man；　and　his　amusement　was　nearly　genuine；　his　mockery　almost　all　directed　inward。
　　There　were　other　elements　in　play　here；　though；　and　gradually；　as　he　rode　east　from　Cartada　late　in　the　day；　Ammar　ibn　Khairan　could　feel　his　sardonic　detachment　beginning　to　slip。　By　the　time　he　reached　his　country　estate　an　afternoon's　easy　ride　from　the　city　walls　a　panion　might　have　seen　a　grave　expression　on　his　face。　He　had　no　panions。　The　two　servants　following　on　mules　some　distance　behind　him；　carrying　a　variety　of　goods…clothing　and　jewelry　and　manuscripts；　mostly…were　not；　of　course；　privy　to　his　thoughts　and　could　not　have　seen　his　countenance。　Ibn　Khairan　was　not　a　confiding　man。
　　There　was　a　safe　interval　yet　before　first　starlight　when　he　reached　his　home。　It　would　have　been　undignified　to　hasten　from　Cartada　in　the　morning　after　Almalik's　decree；　but　equally　it　would　have　been　showy　and　provocative　to　linger　to　the　edge　of　dusk…there　were　those　in　the　city　who　might　have　been　willing　to　kill　him　and　then　claim　they'd　seen　a　star　some　time　before　the　first　one　actually　appeared。　He　was　a　man　with　his　share　of　enemies。
　　When　he　reached　his　estate　two　grooms　came　running　to　take　his　horse。　Servants　appeared　in　the　doorway　and　others　could　be　seen　scurrying　about　within；　lighting　lanterns　and　candles；　preparing　rooms　for　the　master。　He　had　not　been　here　since　the　spring。　No　one　had　known　where　he　was。
　　His　steward　was　dead。　He　had　learned　that　from　the　prince　some　time　ago：　one　of　the　closely　questioned　figures　the　ka'id　had　mentioned　this　morning。
　　They　ought　to　have　known　better；　he　thought。　They　probably　had；　actually：　no　one；　not　even　the　Muwardis；　could　really　have　imagined　he'd　have　told　the　steward　who　managed　his　country　home　where　he　was　hiding。　Ibn　Ruhala　had　needed　dead　bodies；　though；　evidence　of　zeal　in　his　search。　It　occurred　to　him　that；　ironically；　the　ka'id　was　someone　who　probably　owed　him　his　life　now；　with　the　death　of　the　king。　Another　possible　source　of　amusement。　He　really　couldn't　seem　to　summon　up　his　usual　manner　today；　however。
　　It　wasn't　the　unexpected　exile；　the　prince's　turning　upon　him。　There　were　reasons　for　that。　He'd　have　been　happier　had　he　been　the　one　to　plan　and　implement　this　twist；　as　he'd　planned　all　the　others；　but　truth　was；　however　he　felt　about　it；　the　new　king　was　not　about　to　be　a　puppet；　for　Ammar　ibn　Khairan　or　anyone　else。　Probably　a　good　thing；　he　thought；　dismounting　in　the　courtyard。　A　tribute　to　my　own　training；　that　I'm　banished　from　the　country　by　the　man　I've　just　made　king。
　　That　ought　to　have　been　diverting；　too。　The　problem　was；　he　finally　acknowledged；　looking　about　the　forecourt　of　the　home　he　most　loved；　diversion　and　amusement　were　going　to　be　a　little　hard　to　e　by　for　the　next　while。　Memories；　and　the　associations　they　brought；　were　rather　too　insistent　just　now。
　　Fifteen　years　ago　he　had　killed　the　last　khalif　of　Al…Rassan　for　the　man　he'd　killed　today。
　　Wasn't　it　the　Jarainids　of　the　farthest　east；　beyond　the　homelands；　who　believed　that　a　man's　life　was　an　endlessly　repeating　circle　of　the　same　acts　and　deeds？　It　wasn't　a　philosophy　that　mended　itself　to　him；　but　he　was　aware　that　after　this　morning　his　own　life　might　fairly　be　held　up　as　an　illustration　of　their　creed。　He　didn't　much　like　the　idea　of　being　a　ready　example　of　anything。　It　was　too　uninspired　a　role；　and　he　considered　himself　a　poet　before　anything　else。
　　Though　that；　too；　was　a　half…truth；　at　best。　He　walked　into　the　low；　sprawling　house　he'd　built　with　the　generous　ine　Almalik　had　always　allowed　him。　Never　leave　a　man　without　an　alternative；　he'd　said　carefully　in　the　audience　chamber　this　morning；　to　make　certain　the　cleverest　among　those　assembled　would　begin　to　spell　out　the　tale　as　he　wanted　it　told。
　　But　there　had　been　alternatives。　There　almost　always　were。　Almalik　had　indeed　administered　a　stringent；　deeply　humiliating　rebuke　to　his　son's　independence　and　ibn　Khairan's　pride　on　the　Day　of　the　Moat。　The　prince　had　been　rendered　a　hapless　observer　of　butchery；　no　more　than　a　symbol　of　his　father's　watchfulness；　and　Ammar　。。。　？
　　Ammar　ibn　Khairan；　who；　on　behalf　of　the　ambitious　governor　of　Cartada　fifteen　years　ago；　had　not　scrupled　to　murder　a　man　named　Khalif　in　the　holy　succession　of　Ashar…and　who　had　been　branded　by　that　deed　ever　since…had　been　defined　anew　for　the　peninsula　and　the　world　as　the　coarse；　blood…sodden　architect　of　an　ugly　slaughter。
　　What　he　had　seen　in　that　Fezanan　castle　courtyard　in　the　broiling　heat　of　summer　had　sickened　him…and　he　was　a　man　who　had　seen　and　decreed　death　in　a　great　many　guises　in　the　service　of　Cartada。　He　detested　excess　though；　and　the　degree　of　it　in　that　courtyard　was　appalling。
　　Over　and　above　all　this；　of　course；　there　was　pride。　There　was　always　pride。　He　might　loathe　what　had　been　done　to　the　citizens　of　Fezana　but　he　loathed；　just　as　much；　what　had　been　done　to　his　own　name；　to　his　image　and　place　in　the　world。　He　knew　he　was　the　servant　of　a　king；　however　lofty　his　titles。　Kings　could　rebuke　their　servants；　they　could　strip　them　of　their　worldly　goods；　kill　them；　exile　them。　They　could　not　take　a　man…if　the　man　was　Ammar　ibn　Khairan…and　present　him　to　the　whole　of　Al…Rassan　and　the　world　beyond　mountain　and　sea　as　an　agent　of　。。。　ugliness。
　　No　alternative？
　　Of　course　there　had　been　alternatives；　had　he　wanted　them　badly　enough。　He　could　have　left　the　world　of　power　and　its　atrocities。　He　could　even　have　left　this　beloved；　diminished　land　of　Al…Rassan　and　its　puffed…up　petty…kings。　He　could　have　gone　straight　from　Fezana　to　Ferrieres　across　the　mountains；　or　to　any　of　the　great　cities　of　Batiara。　There　were　cultivated；　princely　courts　there　where　an　Asharite　poet　would　be　made　wele　as　a　glittering　enhancement。　He　could　have　written　for　the　rest　of　his　days　in　luxury　among　the　most　civilized　of　the　Jaddites。
　　He　could　even　have　gone　farther　east；　taking　ship　all　the　way　back　to　Soriyya；　to　visit　the　stone　tombs　of　his　ancestors；　which　he　had　never　seen；　perhaps　even　rediscover　his　faith　at　Ashar's　Rock；　make　a　vigil　under　the　god's　stars　in　the　desert；　finish　his　life　far　from　Al…Rassan。
　　Of　course　there　had　been　alternatives。
　　Instead　he　had　taken　revenge。　Had　disguised　himself　and　e　back　to　Cartada。　Made　himself　known　to　the　prince　and　then　bribed　a　palace　steward　to　admit　him　into　the　retinue　of　the　court　as　a　slave。　The　largest　single　bribe　he　had　ever　given　in　his　life。　And　he　had　killed　the　king　today；　with　fijana　smeared　on　a　muslin　cloth。
　　Twice　now；　then。　Twice　in　fifteen　years　he　had　murdered　the　most　powerful　monarch　in　the　land。　A　khalif　and　a　king。
　　I　am　increasingly　unlikely　to　be　best　remembered；　ibn　Khairan　decided　ruefully；　entering　his　home；　for　my　poetry。
　　〃You　have　a　visitor；　Excellence；〃　the　under…steward　said；　hovering　inside　the　doorway。　Ibn　Khairan　sat　on　the　low　bench　by　the　door　and　the　man　knelt　to　help　remove　his　boots　and　replace　them　with　jewelled　slippers。
　　〃You　had　someone　admitted　without　my　presence？〃
　　The　man　was　now　the　steward；　actually。　New　to　his　duties　in　a　terrible　time；　he　looked　down　at　the　ground。　〃I　may　have　erred；　Excellence。　But　she　was　insistent　that　you　would　see　her。〃
　　〃She？〃
　　But　he　already　knew　who　this　had　to　be。　Amusement　briefly　resurfaced　before　being　succeeded　by　something　else。　〃Where　have　you　put　her？〃
　　〃She　awaits　you　on　the　terrace。　I　hope　I　acted　rightly；　Excellence？〃
　　He　rose　and　the　steward　did　the　same。　〃Only；　ever；　admit　a　woman