That his father knew was inevitable.
Rabadash had long since stopped wondering how his almost immobile, terrifyingly powerful father could know so much, without ever leaving the palace precinct. Straightening from his bow on entering, he had caught the shrewd, assessing look in his father's seemingly sleepy eyes, and knew that it was all known—the inept command of battle, the hook, the jeering, the transformation—all of it. He felt the old familiar chill run through him at the prospect of facing his father's anger—or worse, disgust.
But his father merely shifted a little in his cushions, opened half-closed eyes and surveyed him in silence, in the manner, the Prince thought, of a Tarkheena whose pet monkey had misbehaved to the discomfort of a friend—with some disgust, yes, but with some lurking malicious pleasure, too. When he spoke, it was not, or not directly, to Rabadash.
"Neither dead, nor victorious, Grand Vizier." The first words came in the bored tones of one who has endured too long the inanities of a disposable inferior. "Tell me, has such ever come about before today, in all the history of Calormen, that the Prince and Heir has returned from battle, not victorious?"
Was this for show? A veiled threat? Ahoshta, on hands and knees, murmured obsequious nothings, ignored by both Tisroc and Heir.
"Ah, Rabadash. Rabadash—he has been ever my favourite among my sons…"
Not true, or if true, such favour had been well concealed. But certainly his father seemed rather pleased than otherwise at his failure—seemed even amused. So one layer of his father's mind was clear, at least—that given to the pleasurable contemplation of his son's humiliation. But equally of course, there would be more; his father's mind had always been many-folded, mind behind mind, impossible to perceive in full.
"My favoured son and heir—so long my favourite, only to have found such deep dishonour." The last words were said with lingering relish; the Tisroc closed his eyes, and smiled.
Rabadash waited.
The sting came soon enough. The heavy eyes snapped open, deadly-sharp; the words that came were directly to the Prince.
"Blunderer! How shall we.." clean up the monkey's mess? Rabadash thought. "…restore Calormen to its peace, once-favoured Rabadash?"
"Calormen's peace, O my Father?"
"Ignorant, self-regarding boy! Does a Prince's person and a Prince's reputation concern the Prince alone? Short-lived were the Princes who have thought so!"
Rabadash was silent, unsure how best to manoeuvre; once-favoured still hung ominously in the air. And—short-lived?
"Speak, Grand Vizier! Enlighten this untutored Prince!"
"It is written that The renown of the ruler is peace for his people; where a Prince is despised, there is turmoil and woe," Ahoshta quoted—so glibly that it was clear that he had foreseen the demand. "Further, is it not also said that as troubled waters erode the containing dyke, so trouble in a people erodes the ruler's rule."
How much of this interview had been planned between the two, Grand Vizier and Tisroc, Rabadash wondered. Was his deposition as heir already agreed? Or his death?
"A despised Prince… " The Tisroc nodded thoughtfully. "But none is permitted to threaten my rule, rash boy, not were it even my once—most—favoured—child." The words fell with a slow, cold inevitability.
"Therefore, my son, since it is known that you have been seen in the form of an A…"
"Of a Stallion!" Rabadash broke in, furiously. If he must die, then let it not be with that word ringing in his ears. "I took the form of a great Stallion! A war-stallion, a…"
"Even so?" This time, for once, he had surprised his father—surprise which showed in a puff of half-laughter. "You were seen to be a great war stallion? Oh, very good, my son. But I have heard otherwise."
"Father! So spoke the Acclaim! Was it not so, crawling mumbler?"
He nudged Ahoshta with his foot, urgently. The Grand Vizier risked a glance up to assess what best to reply. The Tisroc waved one hand—tell on.
"Indeed, it seemed so, Sire. The Subjugated, as it may be inspired by Tash himself, broke forth when the Heir set foot inside the Great Colonnades, saluting him under the title of the Stallion of Power, who tramples his enemies into dust."
The Tisroc sat back, looking at Rabadash as if weighing his worth—or his possible worth. Slowly, his lips curled in a smile which was at once sardonic and closely calculating.
"Well done, my son! You entertain me! There is cleverness here which I little suspected in you, to so devise a salve for your bruise. But greatly though I delight in the easing of your pain, it is not enough. Understand me—it is not possible that no word of these happenings should leak out. The tale will be told, and therefore..."
"O my father!" Rabadash interrupted, desperate to avert the unknown doom, "if all know that certain and horrible death will fall on any who should utter…"
"Ahhh… " The smile shifted; the amusement was tinged now with complacent condescension. Rabadash began to feel hope.
"You have not yet the full wisdom of a ruler, my son. Know this… the fear of death subdues, but certain death feeds rebellion. Those who know of a certainty that death awaits them will strain every nerve to make their last breath worth the losing of their lives. We govern best when men do not know on whom the blow will fall, or when.
"To kill thus, even to kill all, will not serve us in this matter. Even if all those who rode with you had been killed instantly, even if, as some counsellors suggested, that ship on which you have returned had been sunk and all aboard drowned, still the tale would have been told."
Rabadash guessed easily which counsellor had so advised; he kicked the Grand Vizier thrice, sharply, in the ribs.
The Tisroc's smile broadened. "Is it not an honour, Vizier, to feel in your own person the strength of this my son, who may yet live?" he enquired softly. "How great is our fortune that he has returned to us, escaping both the sorceries of the north, and the furious seas!"
"It is a great and glorious honour to be so favoured," gasped Ahoshta.
"Therefore… turn your mind, wily Vizier, to devising the way to save both his renown in the ears of our people, and the peace of our empire. This foolish boy's tale of a stallion will not serve… "
"It was the truth!" The Subjugated had so greeted him, and…. it probably was true, anyway, that he had seemed, to those who looked on, to be in the form of a war-horse. He had felt differently, yes… but that was doubtless due to going on unaccustomed hooves, and…
The Tisroc lifted lazy, amused, eyebrows.
"The day of your return is a day of great interest, my son. Let this tale of a Stallion be true, then, and let any other tale be known to be a Narnian lie. So I decree.
"But tell me: how shall it be if lies should spread? What if the people, doubtless dazzled by your glory, my son, should think they saw… an Ass?"
Rabadash winced. But though his father's taunt stung, it was indubitable now that he had somehow managed to escape being the immediate target of his wrath. The Grand Vizier had plainly come to the same conclusion; Rabadash saw with interest that even the back of the man's neck had paled.
"How say you,Vizier? How shall the Narnian lie be wiped from the minds of my people, and turmoil in the empire—is it not the case that there have been murmurings in Zalindreh of late?—be averted?"
The Grand Vizier gulped audibly. "In the markets of far Zalindreh, yes. If the Narnian lie should gain hold, and if Zalindreh should venture to hold Calormen in despite, there may be…"
"The lie will not take hold, Grand Vizier,' said the Tisroc, "since you will now, on pain of painful death, devise its utter vanquishing."
"Great Tisroc," moaned Ahoshta, "it must… it must… Oh!" He jolted, visibly, with the impact of sudden thought. "Great Tisroc! Is it not truly said that gutter-water is lost, when it meets the river, and again, that the dung-fire is lost when the forest burns? Therefore, what better to drive the Narnian lie from currency than to make known to all people, swiftly and powerfully, our own more glorious tale!"
"Say on…" said the Tisroc.
"Let one account fight another!" Ahoshta was warming to his scheme. "Do not your subjects include those skilled in the telling of tales? Then let it be decreed, Great Tisroc, that this story of how our Prince fought and dared not spears and swords only, but dark sorceries, be told across Calormen! Let the people hear, and tremble at the shadows he faced; let them rise to acclaim his valour! Let them see through this story that Calormen's reach extends even beyond the mortal realm! Who then would dare even to think of rebellion? Thus we will have two thongs to our lash—our story will both divert from the lie and overawe the…"
"Enough! It is decreed. Bring it to pass. Go."
There was short silence as the Grand Vizier scrabbled backwards to the doorway, then, as he reached it, the Tisroc spoke again.
"This will begin tonight, Vizier, with a story-telling in high and fitting manner, at the feast to welcome home this…," he paused, and the ironic, cruel amusement once again glinted in his eyes. "this Rabadash, my most favoured child."
