The great marble mausoleum sat in the west side of the garden, surrounded by a high hedge that obscured it from view. It was here that family members and prized retainers were buried. Morish walked the gravel track to its doors, quelling his superstitious fears as the busts of his master's ancestors glowered down at him from the stonework. Taking the key hung around his neck he unlocked the heavy stone door, slowly edged it open and made into the cold interior. Once inside he carefully closed the door behind him and strode across the stone slabs to the tomb containing Sath's great grandfather, Noshaan, who had brought the family to prominence. There was a secret door behind that tomb, nearly invisible to even the eye that knew its exact location and searched for it keenly. Morish stood in front of it and placed his hands upon it, gliding them over the surface to detect the change of texture that would mark the small hatch that would contain the key hole. After some minutes of searching he found it, prized open the hatch with a knife and placed the key in the lock. Then he turned the key gently and pushed upon the door. It swung open to reveal a comfortable but austere room with divans, cabinets, cupboards and a large table in the centre. Stood next to the table was his master, the Tarkaan Sath.

'Greetings, Captain Morish, I pray the night finds you well,' spoke the venerable man, his black beard torn with white streaks. He had a hawk nose and keen eyes that smouldered. Aside from that, he looked surprisingly unimposing for a Tarkaan.

'The night brings me no ill nor fear as long as my master remains in health and cheer, my lord,' replied Morish bowing deeply. Code and counter code delivered. They could speak freely.

'Come to me, Morish, my trusted,' said Sath, 'I have a letter I wish to bring to your attention.' Sath smiled grimly and held up an elegant scroll. Morish came to his side and took it from him reverently.

'The Tisroc's seal, (may he live forever), my lord,' whispered Morish, darting a concerned look into Sath's eyes.

'The Tisroc's seal,' replied Sath, closing his eyes and turning away.

Morish swallowed at the unexpected blasphemy and opened the document. He read it quickly and hastily rolled it up and handed it back to Sath. Even the Tisroc's signature made him nervous.

'A joke, surely,' smiled Morish weakly.

'Have you ever known him to joke?' Sath shot back. 'If you ever hear humour pass from his lips then check your neck, you may find something amiss.'

'He is not old enough! This is a grotesque affront!' cried Morish. 'The Tisroc cannot expect...'

'May he live forever,' interrupted Sath with a grim smile.

'Platitudes and formalities be damned! Not even Tarkaan Horaan was imposed upon so...'

Sath closed his eyes wearily and scratched the bridge of his nose. 'Last year we increased trade revenue by four hundred thousand crescents. The ranks of my guard swelled by two hundred men and forty horses. He has finally noticed the good city of Maricc.'

'He fears you, my lord,' whispered Morish.

'Not yet,' replied Sath smiling, 'Or we would never have awoken at dawn. But he has begun to realise that Maricc now is at the heart of the shifting trade routes. He has become aware of the fact that Maricc now outstrips the production quotas of two thirds of the cities of the empire. I tried to keep it secret, investing our resources in public projects; hospitals, schools, monuments and gardens. Trivial things that would escape the Tisroc's practical mind. Clearly he found out. Perhaps the revenue books were copied and brought to him by a spy. Perhaps one of those infrequent envoys was less the babbling fool than he seemed. No matter, the fact remains. He knows. He wants Maricc within the family. Too dangerous for some far removed Tarkaan like myself to govern. I might get ideas ill befitting my station.' Sath spoke wryly and with little trace of bitterness. Clearly he had been expecting something like this for some time.

'He will attack? Take us by force? Call you to Tashbaan and have you executed on trumped up charges, my lord?' ventured Maricc.

'Not such a fool. He may be Tisroc but he cannot be so transparent. If the Tisroc placed the heads of the Tarken on the chopping block solely to grasp at their wealth and estate, the good Tisroc would soon find an impertinent and rather well armed alliance knocking at his door. It is a carefully balanced power structure. The Tisroc can only push so far.'

'And so the marriage...' began Morish grimly.

'Precisely. My son, married to one of his daughters. He would tie us to his family and all the wealth and land we carried with us. First I would meet my tragic accident. Then my son. His daughter would inherit, being the only surviving kin. I have met the Tarkheena, I do not think I shall readily forget her. Grasping and cruel she is, with limitless ambition. If I were Tisroc and she my son, I could never sleep easily at night.'

'And myself, my lord?' said Morish grinning, hoping to lift the unbearable tension and thus the old man's spirits.

'You? My dear Morish? Oh, you would die long before my poor self or my son! No, the Tisroc could never sleep soundly knowing that you stood in the way of his plans. He'd probably throttle you himself. Long has he feared you. I have heard him declare you his nemesis,' smiled Sath, enjoying the banter.

'It is always good to know someone recognises my talents, my lord.'

Sath grinned and made to look at the letter again. His heart sank. The wording was inescapable. It was not a marriage proposal but a command, no matter how courteously it was worded. Sath remembered the Tarkheena. Her name was Zabina and she was in her mid twenties. She was as beautiful, as cold and as treacherous as the lake Mezreel in the dead of a winter's night.

'What should we do, my lord?' asked Morish.

His lord stood silent in thought for a while and then spoke slowly, weighing his words for wisdom as they fell upon the air. 'We play for time,' he began, 'We cannot refuse, but we can stall. Sey must be kept free until he can fend for himself. Then he must flee this place. Flee Calormen. I will not have him marry a lady thirteen years his senior, not one so vile as her! He would be made a mockery! I have heard of the lovers below her tower, drawing up timetables! She would be faithless until the end, which would come too soon in the form of the subtle poison or the slow knife. No, even to save my name and house, I would not subject him to such a fate!'

'Had you spoken with any less passion or love, I would have felt that the Tarkaan I loved as my own life would have been as despairing and false as a mirage in the great desert. But your words put a light within me that beats back the shadows of despair around me! But where can he run? For is not the Tisroc's arm so long and terrible, that he can pluck the very sun from the sky?' Such was the bond between the two men, that though such talk could have cut the thread of Morish's life, he trusted in his Tarkaan to take it in the spirit it was meant. He never for a moment believed that he would be disappointed by his lord.

'Well spoken, my good Morish. Had I felt any different I would not only be undeserving of the title of Tarkaan, but of the title of father. But do not give in to despair! There is a refuge for him, no matter how unlikely! The land of Narnia will protect him. They are good and honest people and are held in neither awe nor fear of the Tarkaan. Indeed they despise and mistrust him! I believe that the good Kings and Queens of Narnia will keep him from harm. I have to believe.'

'I have heard tales of Narnia, my lord. Is it safe?'

'Safe? Do you not listen to what the poets and storytellers tell you? Of course it is not safe. But it is a good place. It is the only place for him now, I tell you. The evil enchantress is dead and I hear that the terrible lion is most infrequent in his visits, so with some luck Sey could have a tolerable time there.'

Morish grimaced, 'I suppose we have no choice. When should he make the move?'

'This letter likely precedes the entourage by mere days. The Tisroc would not like to give us time to gather our wits about us. Fortunate then that I have been planning for this eventuality for some time. For has not a poet said that the dead man in the face of danger pours sand in his eyes and ears, weeping of his fate? But the wise man whose heart still beats sees all, hears all and waits for the moment to throw that sand in death's eyes?'

'I thought that it was that the wise man uses the sand for cement and builds a wall around him?' asked Morish in puzzlement.

'Hmm. Whatever it was, I do not remember he was a very good poet. So ignore the meaningless maxim if you will. My point is that I have been preparing for this for some time. You have asked why I have let my son roam free. I told you it was to ensure he grew to be a man unfettered by the chains of avarice, sloth or ignorance. That had informed my decision. But more importantly I wanted him to have an independence of spirit, to be able to relate to the common man and... most importantly... to be able to blend into the crowd when in danger. You and I have occasionally chided him over the mannerisms and speech he has picked up off of the street urchins, but he will need to employ them to escape unnoticed. When the Tarkheena and her entourage arrive, we must make false with her. We must appear willing to give our son up. But we must also stall her with interminable and obscure customs, that we shall possibly invent tomorrow over hot mulled wine. In the meantime you will train him to fight with the knife, to ride a horse and to survive in the wild. Then, when the time has come when the Tarkheena insists upon his return with her, we tell her that he is conducting a final ceremony deep in the desert and that he will return at noon the following day. The day after when she asks for him again we cry in surprise and concern that he has not returned. We shall send out a search party. Hopefully they will believe that he has been swallowed by shifting sands, but I doubt it. I fear it will be the end of me and my name. But it seems to be that fate has already dealt me those cards, and that I will merely be leaving early and by my own hand. For I would rather cut my wrists now than live to have some base assassin strike me down, or to be dragged into the great square of Tashbaan to feel the light kiss of the executioner's axe. But I must live until I have bought all the time possible for my son.'

'You would find me dead beside you as your knife met flesh, my lord,' said Morish, with an expressionless voice that indicated that it was as natural an action to him in thought as drinking and breathing, bereft of faithful heroism.

'No doubt, my good Morish, no doubt,' smiled Seth. But there was an odd look in his eyes that Morish did not see, that told that Seth had other plans for his faithful servant.