Kings of Morning by Paul Kearney Page B

with a vine-shaded loggia. Leaving Barka with the steaming horses, Kouros sat himself there. He dropped his komis from his face and slapped the dust from his clothes with his riding-gauntlets. Slowly, as the local drinkers, farmers and ne’er-do-wells watched, the colours emerged from his garments. Kingfisher blue, imperial purple, and the silver embroidered horse heads of the royal house. The loggia cleared around him, and he smiled again, clicking his fingers for service.
    ‘Wine, and cold water,’ he said without looking up.
    ‘At once, my lord.’
    He did not seem surprised when he was joined at his table by another traveller, who sat down beside him without ceremony and reached for the communal olive-bowl, wetting his fingers on the oil and then applying it to sunburnt patches on his nose. With the same hand the newcomer dropped the folds of his own komis, and sighed. He was a broad-faced Kefre with a cropped head and eyes as bright as cornflowers. His skin and his clothes were all the colour of the dust that puffed in pale zephyrs around the little square. When the water arrived he drank straight from the jug, and, wiping his mouth, he left on his face a smear of clean skin the colour of new wood.
    ‘Straight from the well, none better. My thanks to your honour.’
    Kouros sipped his wine, grimaced, then swallowed half the cup. ‘Tell me you have news, Kuthra.’
    ‘I have. Maybe not the type you’d like to hear, but useful nonetheless.’ The dusty Kefre stared at Kouros expectantly, and with a sliver of mockery folded into his smile. ‘You’ve put on weight, brother.’
    ‘The hazards of palace living.’
    ‘Ah, of course. It’s been so long I had forgotten. How long has it been, Kouros, since I shared the heights with you?’
    Kouros shifted in his chair, though his gaze never left the other’s face, and there was a strange glimmer in his eyes. ‘I am here for information, not to reminisce.’
    ‘Indulge me. We see each other so rarely, these days.’
    Kouros reached into his blue robes and brought forth a doeskin purse, a beautifully made thing which looked to have been chosen with some care. As it settled on the table it clinked heavily. Kuthra did not once look at it, but continued to study Kouros’s face.
    At last, Kouros said, ‘It is seventeen years.’
    ‘Seventeen years! How fast they have flown. Do you remember how we used to meet in the darkest corners of the gardens to lie under the trees and talk of all the great things we would do when we were grown? You would be King and I would be at your side. I would look out for you, and keep the jackals from your back. I wanted nothing more.’
    Quietly, Kouros said, ‘Neither did I.’
    Deliberately, Kuthra raised his right arm and set it on the table. The folds of his travelling gear fell back to reveal a stump at the wrist, an old wound long seamed shut in a swirl of flesh.
    ‘Such a pity your mother did not agree.’
    The two men looked at one another. Finally they both leaned close in the same second and embraced, burying their faces in each other’s shoulders.
    Kouros took Kuthra’s face in his hands. There were tears in his eyes. They brimmed, and spilled over onto his cheeks. ‘It was the price for your life.’
    ‘I know. She should not have made you watch, though. She knew you would blame yourself for it, when it was her doing alone.’ Kuthra wiped the tears from Kouros’s face with his only hand.
    ‘She has mellowed since then.’ They both began to laugh. Kuthra thumped the table with his stump. ‘More wine here! Are you all asleep? Landlord, step quick now!’
    ‘Don’t draw attention to us,’ Kouros hissed urgently. ‘This is risky enough as it is.’
    ‘We sit face to face once every four or five years, if we are lucky. The rest of the time it is letters and notes and whispers in the dark. Let me drink with my brother Kouros – let us raise our cups together for a little while at least, like normal folk.’
    ‘If