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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 this way。 Have dinner prepared for two and a room readied for a guest。 You and I will speak later； there is much to be done。 I am leaving Cartada for a time； by the king's decree。〃
〃Yes； Excellence；〃 the man said expressionlessly。
Ammar turned to go within。 He paused。 〃The new king。 The old king is dead；〃 he added。 〃This morning。〃
〃Alas；〃 said his steward； with no evident sign of surprise。
A petent man； ibn Khairan decided。 Dropping his riding gloves on a marble table； he walked a sequence of corridors to the wide terrace he'd had built on the west side of the house where his own chambers were。 He had always preferred sunset to sunrise。 The view overlooked red hills and the blue curve of the river to the south。 Cartada was invisible； just beyond the hills。
The woman； his visitor； was standing with her back to him； admiring that view。 She was barefoot on the cool flagstones。
〃The architect didn't want to build this for me；〃 he said； ing to stand beside her。 '〃Open spaces go inside a house；' he kept telling me。〃
She glanced up at him。 She would have been veiled for the ride here； but the veil was lifted now。 Her dark； accented eyes held his a moment and then she turned away。
〃It does feel exposed；〃 she said quietly。
〃But see where we are。 From what am I hiding here in the country； I asked my architect and myself。〃
〃And what did you answer yourself？〃 she asked； looking at the terraced slopes towards the river and the setting sun。 〃And your architect？〃 She was extremely beautiful； in profile。 He remembered the day he had first seen her。
〃Not this；〃 he said； after a moment； gesturing at the land stretching before them。 She was clever； he would do well to remember that。 〃I will admit I am surprised； Zabira。 I am seldom surprised； but this is unexpected。〃
The foremost lady of King Almalik's court； the courtesan who was the mother of his two youngest children； effectively the queen of Cartada for the past eight years； looked back at him again and smiled； her sma