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hands, my son,’ said Shirvan of Bassania, King of Kings, Sword of Perun. ‘Take it in your bare hands again.’
    Very slowly the prince turned to the bed. The vizier had risen now and was watching him closely.
    ‘I do not understand. You believe I handled this arrow?’ Prince Murash said.
    ‘The smell remains on your hands, my son,’ said Shirvan gravely. Rustem cautiously took a step towards the king. The prince turned—outwardly perplexed, no more than that—and looked at his hands and then at Rustem. ‘But then I will have poisoned the doctor, too,’ he said.
    Shirvan moved his head to look at Rustem. Dark beard above pale linen bandages, the eyes black and cold. Act accordingly, he had said. Rustem cleared his throat. ‘You will have tried,’ he said. His heart was pounding. ‘If you handled the arrow when you shot the king then the kaaba has passed through your skin and is within you by now. There is no menace to your touch, Prince Murash. Not any more.’
    He believed this was true. He had been taught that this was so. He had never seen it put to the test. He felt oddly light-headed, as though the room were rocking slightly, like a child’s cradle.
    He saw the prince’s eyes go black then—much like his father’s, in fact. Murash reached to his belt, whipped out a knife, turned towards the bed.
    The vizier cried out. Rustem stumbled forward, unarmed.
    Vinaszh, commander of the garrison at Kerakek, killed Prince Murash, third of the nine sons of Shirvan the Great, with his own dagger, flung from near the doorway.
    The prince, a blade in his throat, dropped his weapon from lifeless fingers and slowly toppled across the bed, his face to his father’s knees, his blood staining the pale sheets red.
    Shirvan did not move. Neither did anyone else.
    After a long, frozen moment the king turned from gazing down at his dead son to look over at Vinaszh and then at Rustem. He nodded his head slowly, to each of them.
    ‘Physician, your father’s name was . . . ?’ A tone of detached, mildly curious interrogation.
    Rustem blinked. ‘Zorah, great lord.’
    ‘A warrior-caste name.’
    ‘Yes, lord. He was a soldier.’
    ‘You chose a different life?’
    The conversation was so implausible it was eerie. Rustem felt dizzied by it. There was a dead man—a son— sprawled across the body of the man with whom he was speaking thus. ‘I war against disease and wounds, my lord.’ What he always said.
    The king nodded again, thoughtfully, as if satisfied by something. ‘You know one must be of the priestly caste to become a royal physician, of course.’
    Of course. The world knocking at his door, after all.
    Rustem lowered his head. Said nothing.
    ‘It will be arranged at the next Accession Ritual before the Sacred Flame in midsummer.’
    Rustem swallowed hard. He seemed to have been doing so all night. He cleared his throat. ‘One of my wives is of the commoners’ caste, Great King.’
    ‘She will be generously dealt with. Is there a child?’
    ‘A girl, yes, my lord.’
    The king shrugged. ‘A kindly husband will be found. Mazendar, see it is done.’
    Jarita. Whose name meant desert pool. Black eyes, black hair, light step entering a room, leaving it, as if loath to trouble the air within. Lightest touch in the world. And Inissa, the baby they called Issa. Rustem closed his eyes.
    ‘Your other wife is of the warrior caste?’
    Rustem nodded. ‘Yes, my lord. And my son.’
    ‘They may be elevated with you in the ceremony. And come to Kabadh. If you desire a second wife there it shall be arranged.’
    Again Rustem closed his eyes.
    The world, hammering and hammering at his door, after all, entering like the wind.
    ‘This cannot take place until midsummer, of course. I wish to make use of you before that. You appear a competent man. There are never enough of them. Youwill treat me here, physician. Then you will undertake a winter journey for me. You are observant, it seems. Can serve your king even before