Getting all that out in one breath was hard, thirsty work; when the messenger had finished, he took a long pull at the wine, then let out an even longer-and happier-sigh. Then he drank again.
Ever courteous, Godarz waited till he was comfortable before asking, "When will the armament of the King of Kings-may his years be many and his realm increase-reach the river Degird, pray?"
In effect, he was asking when it would reach the stronghold, which lay only a couple of days' journey south of the frontier. He was also asking-with perfect discretion-how serious the King of Kings was about going on campaign: the slower he and his army traveled, the less they were likely to accomplish.
The messenger answered, "Peroz King of Kings began mustering his forces the day news of the plainsmen's insolence reached him. The red banner began its journey through the land that same day. The army should reach this neighborhood inside the month."
Abivard blinked to hear that. Godarz didn't, but he might as well have. "He is serious," the dihqan murmured. "Serious."
The word ran through the courtyard. Men's heads-swarthy, long-faced, bearded: basically cut from the same cloth as Godarz and Abivard-solemnly bobbed up and down. The King of Kings of Makuran had great power, and most often wielded it with ponderousness to match.
"Peroz King of Kings does want to punish the steppe nomads," Abivard said. He got more nods for that, from his father among others. Excitement blazed in him. He'd been a boy the last time the King of Kings-it had been Valash then, Peroz's father-campaigned against the Khamorth. He still remembered the glorious look of the army as it had fared north, bright with banners. Godarz had gone with it and come back with a bloody flux, recalling that took some shine off the remembered glory.