The Fickle Winds of Autumn
29. The Fragrant Taste of Roasted Goat

Ilgar chewed on the fragrant saffron-roasted goat. The tender meat dissolved to an unctuous flavoursome mouthful.

The soft cushions of the throne supported his weight regally - far better than the hard saddle of a camel or a horse.

He swallowed and reached for the dark wine.

He could certainly become accustomed to such a life.

No more bitter half-rations, stolen on the march; no more bothersome complaints of weary troops questioning when the next mouthful of water would come.

Just give the orders and it is done.

“But are you sure this is wise, Lord?” Eram asked. “We were told to keep him alive, and you yourself pointed out how useful he may yet prove to be.”

“I am the King of this land now - the right is mine by conquest - I will rule as I see fit, I will not be dictated to by a mere outsider.”

The soft sweet wine warmed his throat; he flexed the placated muscles of his arms and chest.

“His death could prove troublesome to us,” Eram continued doubtfully. “It would look suspicious and could still be used to spark a rebellion by the tribes in the west - some of them still hold deep grievances against you.”

“I am aware of my great popularity across our most blessed and favoured land, my old friend!” Ilgar laughed. “I am no fool! We will not do it openly - make contact with the Fraternity of Assassins - tell them to send their best - and make sure that it cannot be traced back to us.”

The warm evening air wafted the heady, drowsy curls of incense across the tent - even the gods who commanded the movement of the great dunes seemed to smile on his decision.

“If need be, we can blame the Diderio tribes. Everyone knows of their hatred for the Izani. But see that the assassin removes his head completely.”

“You believe the tales of the magikants, lord?”

“I do not fear the night-stories of frightened children - but it would be unwise if we did not make sure the job was done properly - and with his head removed, even a magikant can not rise to trouble us again. Besides, the whimpering puppy does not deserve the glory of a true Izani death - our steel would be wasted on his scrawny flesh.”

“And his remains, my lord?”

“Lose them somewhere in the desert - let the hungry jackals feed on the last of his blood-line and the scorpions pick his bones white.”

“And if the outsider makes enquiries about him?”

“Tell them he is travelling to visit his cousin in the oasis at Pharmud: tell them he is dead: it matters little - they are too far away to ever bother us - and besides, the last of the gold was delivered this morning - the outsiders and the young prince have already outlived their purpose.”

Ilgar lent back into the billowing cushions; the servants carried in an ornate tray laden with rich spiced meats and dried golden fruits.

His powerful frame relaxed, contented.

The conquest was complete.

His troubles were over.

“More wine!” he shouted.