Abivard son of Godarz stared through sea mist to the east over the strait called the Cattle Crossing toward Videssos the city. The sun gleamed off the gilded globes the Videssians had set on spires atop the countless temples they had built to honor Phos, their false god. Abivard's left hand twisted in the gesture Makuraners used to invoke the God, the only one they reverenced.

«Narseh, Gimillu, the lady Shivini, Fraortish eldest of all, let that city fall into my hands,» he murmured. He'd lost track of how many times he'd beseeched the Prophets Four to intercede with the God on his behalf, on behalf of Makuran, on behalf of Sharbaraz King of Kings. As yet his prayers remained unanswered.

Beside him Roshnani, his wife, said, «It seems close enough to reach out and pluck, like a ripe fig from a tree.»

«Scarcely the third part of a farsang from one side of that water to the other,» he agreed, setting a hand on her shoulder. «Were it land, a man could walk thrice so far in an hour's time. Were it land-»

«It is not land,» Roshnani said. «No point wasting time thinking what you might do if it were».

«I know,» he answered. They smiled at each other. Physically they were very different: she short, round-faced, inclined to plumpness; he lean and angular, with brooding eyes beneath bristling brows. But they shared a commonsense practicality unusual both in their own folk-for Makuraners were given to extravagant melodramatics-and in the devious, treacherous Videssians. After a decade and more of marriage no one knew Abivard's mind better man Roshnani, himself often included.

The sun beat down on his head. It was not nearly so fierce as the summer sun that blazed down on Vek Rud domain, where he'd grown to manhood. Still, he felt its heat: he'd lost the hair at the back of his crown. Godarz had boasted a full head to his dying day, but the men of his mother, Burzoe's, family, those who lived long enough, went bald. He would rather not have followed in their footsteps, but the choice did not seem to be his.