Poor Shandie. Poor Gathmor. Poor Inos.
Gathmor, why did I not make you stay by the sea?
About this time yesterday, Rap and Darad had delivered the sailor to his last rites. It had been a very private service, but each of the sequential set had come in turn to pay his respects. Even Andor had been almost sorry. Sagorn had spouted philosophy and Thinal had wept, but Jalon had sung a soul-melting seamen’s lament that would echo in Rap’s heart until the day he …
Don’t think about that.
Don’t think about Inos, either.
“Grandfather?” Shandie whispered, with a sidelong glance at Rap.
“Uh?” the imperor said, scowling at his teeth in a mirror held for him by a trembling valet.
“Grandfather … Fauns are all right, aren’t they?”
“Oh, yes. I suppose that will have to do — bring my sandals. What? Fauns? Of course they’re all right. Why wouldn’t they be?”
“Well … I mean, I know imps are all right, but Moms says that jotnar are murderous brutes, and gnomes are dirty, and goblins are cruel. Thorog says elves are all right. And fauns are all right, too, aren’t they?”
His grandfather twisted around and frowned. “Who’s Thorog? Never mind. I think your mother has been filling your head with some odd ideas. Master Rap, tell him about fauns.”
Shandie turned a worried gaze on Rap.
“I don’t know much about fauns,” Rap said with a shrug. “I’ve hardly met any. My mother was a faun. My father was a jotunn.”
“Oh. I’m sorry! I mean I’m sorry I said —”
“That’s all right. I’ve met some really horrible jotnar, like that Kalkor I killed today. Killing is bad, but he deserved it. I know some good jotnar, too. And one of the best men I know is a gnome. He smells horrible, but he’s a loving father to his children and a very powerful sorcerer. Ythbane is an imp, isn’t he?”
“Er … yes.” Shandie meant sort of, so he knew, somehow. How?
“There are good imps and bad imps, Shandie. There are good jotnar and bad jotnar. Same with all of us. Some of us increase the Good and some of us, I’m afraid, seem to increase the Evil. We just try to do our best, most of us.”
Shandie nodded solemnly. Rap thought again of last year’s herdboy, and what his reaction would have been had he been asked to deliver a lecture on ethics for the heir to the Imperial throne.
By the time Emshandar demanded wine brought and lamps lit, and dismissed his valets, Shandie had laid down his head and fallen asleep, tiny as a doll on the great bed.
Emshandar struggled to his feet and hobbled toward a comfortable chair near Rap. It was only a few paces away, but he swayed and grabbed at a bedpost to steady himself.
“Son of a gnome! Leave me alone, will you?” he shouted, feeling Rap’s occult touch on him. Then his anger faded to shame. “My pardon. Sorcerer. I know you meant well.” He stood for a moment, studying the sleeping boy, his skull-like features melting into a worried smile. “Were it not for him, I believe I would ask you to put me back as I was before! But I should like to deliver his inheritance to him, if that be possible.” He bared his teeth like an aging watchdog, too stiff to fight, too proud not to try.
He lurched over to the chair and sank into it, gasping with weakness. He poured wine with a trembling hand.
“I am sure your Majesty will feel stronger in a few days.”
“We don’t have a few days! Now you will take wine with me. I have questions.”
Already the miserable day was drawing to a close, rain still dribbling over the great windows. Rap accepted a crystal chalice, changed its contents to water, and sat back to be cross-examined.
“How long have you been a sorcerer?” the imperor asked brusquely.
“Since dawn this morning, Sire.”
“Burning turds!” The haggard old man stared, then sipped wine thoughtfully. “So we could claim that you were ignorant of the Protocol?”
“Not a chance, your Majesty. I’ve met Bright Water several times, and Zinixo, and Lith’rian, too.”
The old man grunted, raising his white brows in astonishment. “Have you indeed? So they know of you, and you knew the risk. Then I suppose my next question is, why did you do what you did today? No mundane in all Pandemia has more power than an imperor, yet I can offer no reward a sorcerer would need. Why did you heal my sickness?” He pursed his lips over teeth that seemed much too large for the sunken face.
Rap applied a quick magic to smother a blush. “I lost my temper, Sire.”
“Gods’ bottoms!” The old man began to laugh, a great braying fit of laughter quite out of keeping with his emaciated appearance. “Well, you are an honest man, if not a wise one.” Still chuckling, he refilled the goblets. Rap began to talk. He outlined the story as briefly as he could, leaving out only the dread fate he had seen waiting for him in Hub.
The windows were dark when he had finished, and Emshandar was staring at him blearily. Rap wondered if he should have detoxified his wine, also.
“There are no precedents!” the imperor muttered. “We’ll have to meet the wardens, and tonight, if the dwarf really predicted the meeting. But I can’t deny that you are in grave danger.”
Before Rap could bring himself to mention that other awful danger, the old man sighed and went on.
“It is very rare for the Four to appear in public. Decades may go by without even the imperor meeting them all together. For many centuries my predecessors have kept a secret journal of their dealings with the wardens, to guide their heirs. There are shelves and shelves full of these great tomes, and no one ever has time to read them all. I read over the last couple of dynasties and gave up. I’ll introduce Shandie to them when he’s older, if I’m spared. But I can’t recall anyone ever using power on an imperor or his family. That’s about the only provision in the Protocol that absolutely everybody is aware of!”
Rap was about to say that it would not matter —
“Of course I’m grateful!” the old man snapped, and yet his face was saying that he hated being indebted to anyone. “What you did may have been foolish, but it was a wondrous thing for me and my grandson. I will do anything in my power to save you.”
“That is very —”
“But I may not have any power!”
“Sire?”
The old man scowled at the goblet he held. “If the Senate and the Assembly and the Four all ratified Ythbane as regent … I wonder how the sly-handed twister did it, though?”
“A joint resolution,” Shandie said sleepily, “based on an Act of Succession passed in the reign of Uggrota III.”
The two men turned to look at him in surprise. He was awake, but barely. He smiled without opening his eyes.
His grandfather beamed proudly. “Clever boy! What else has been going on while I was sick?”
“Oh … Lots of things. Thane Kalkor came. And there is going to be a campaign against the perverts in Zark in the spring, and the dwarves have agro — abro — broken the Dark River Treaty.” Shandie yawned, and then yawned again. “Drought in East Ambel, good harvest in Shimlundok. The goblins are still killing our soldiers. The XIXth Legion won the pennant again, but the IIIrd came second. Marshal Ithy won a lot of money on that, he said. Riots in Pithmot because of the new tax bill.”
“Well done, soldier! Good report! You go back to sleep now.” Emshandar’s fond smile faded away as he turned back to Rap — he had been shaken by the news, especially the war talk. “Ithy?” he murmured. “Olybino?”
He shook his head angrily and swallowed more wine. “That’s politics for you, Master Rap!”
“Sire?”
“Ythbane needed support. War? New taxes? He bought it dearly, I fear.” For a moment he brooded, then glanced around to see if Shandie was listening. He was, but didn’t seem to be. The old man dropped his voice. “I appointed that half-breed consul just before Emthoro died. Afterward —” He gestured in Shandie’s direction. “— I could see there would have to be a regen
t appointed. I hoped it would be my daughter, although she isn’t cut out for ruling. I decided Ythbane was smart enough to keep the great families in line and would promote her interests, meaning to manipulate her himself. I did not consider him strong enough to take power personally. Seems I was wrong! He went after … ” He stopped with a shrug before mentioning Shandie’s mother by name, but Rap understood.
The imperor’s face was a gray desert, scoured by the ages, but when he looked up, his eyes gleamed like sunlight striking rock-girt pools, “So why am I telling all this to a coachman?”
“Because you don’t know who rules the Impire tonight, Sire.”
Emshandar nodded bitterly and drained his glass. It clattered as he laid it down with a shaky hand. “Oh, they obeyed me today, but that was mere courtesy. The imperor must be mundane, the Protocol says, and that toad Ythbane stole the throne with bribery and threats and a sure way with women. No sorcery.”
“While I used sorcery to bring you back.”
How would the wardens judge? But they remained unmentioned.
The old man sighed. “Whom can I trust?” he whispered. “The Assembly goes to the highest bidder. The Senate? The pompous do not easily reverse themselves. Coalitions and compacts and corruption! The army? Ithy?”
“The marshal was a worried man, Sire. I think he will be true to his duty.”
“But his duty is to the law! What is the law? That is the question! Well, even my grandson is not worth a civil war. Sorcerer, this is hard for me to say, but I am asking for your help.” When Rap would have spoken, he raised a hand like a bundle of dry twigs. “Let me finish! By rights you should have already fled from Hub, hoping to evade the wardens’ wrath. That may be possible, if you can evermore resist the temptation to use your powers and remain one more mundane among millions. But without your continued aid, I fear that the recovery you have granted me will be short-lived indeed. If you do nothing but warn me who is lying and who is true … that would not be a serious breach of the Protocol, I think.”
Was ever pride so humbled? A coachman, a stableboy!
“I shall do anything I can to help, Sire, but my time is very short. Something terrible happens to me today. Tonight.”
Rap explained, and the old man looked shocked — and also bewildered.
“You are sure of this foresight?”
Rap shuddered. “Yes.”
“It does not sound like the wardens. Their usual punishment for illicit sorcery is to enslave the culprit. If I remember rightly, it is South’s turn to get the words. The sinner is merely a container, to be discarded when no longer needed. You know that the words can only be extracted by straight mundane torture?” Emshandar reached for the decanter and frowned at it for being empty. “I can see no need for immolation!”
Perhaps the white glare was not the worst possible future, though.
“I shall do what I can to help, Sire,” Rap repeated. Emshandar’s problems were his fault. He who wakes the dog must bear the bite, his mother had always said. Besides, he could promise anything now.
“I am grateful!” the old man insisted. It was true, but he hated it. “Is there anything … I mean, if I should survive and you do not … This Inosolan? What do you want for her?”
“Happiness.”
A cynical smile crept over the thin lips and into the hollow eyes, like sunlight trekking a landscape on a cloudy day. “Happiness is rarely within the gift of imperors, Master Rap. Misery is our favored coin. But I promise you I shall try, if I am spared.”
He sighed, an old man, and a very weary one. He needed a few weeks to recuperate and he wasn’t going to get them. “I told those dolts to wait on me in the Emerald Hall long since. To keep them waiting much longer would be unwise. And after that, I fear, we must adjourn to the Rotunda and meet with the wardens; or some of us must.”
Premonition began to prickle along Rap’s arms as if the room had suddenly chilled. “Which way is the Emerald Hall?”
He scanned in the direction the old man pointed, but even a sorcerer needed time to explore the great sprawling collection of buildings that was the Opal Palace. “Eight sided, green carpets?”
“That’s the place.” The imperor was looking at him oddly.
A few people were patiently waiting in the Emerald Hall, but not as many as there should have been. The tingling grew urgent as Rap flashed his farsight around and sought out Emine’s Rotunda. He could find that one easily enough, because Shandie had pointed it out to him. It was unmistakable anyway, on the crest of the hill.
“They’re starting without you, Sire.”
Most of the great dome was filled with night — a menacing sooty evil to Rap’s premonition — but a score or more tall candelabra spilled a dappled puddle of light in the center. Within this brightness, twenty or so courtiers were standing in small groups, talking in low voices. Three were in uniform, the rest wore the same sort of foolish wrapping as the imperor wore, most white, a few bright red. Kids in bedsheets, playing at being wraiths! Azak was there, easily identified by his height. Absurd! If his own court could see him now, he would be laughed at all the way to Nordland. The women looked good, though, in loose, many-pleated gowns. Inos at her husband’s side …
The five thrones were all empty.
“I don’t see Ythbane,” Rap said. It was hard to make out faces at that range without starting to use real power — enough power to make him conspicuous to the wardens. The Opal Palace was a dead spot within Hub’s occult bustle, an oasis of silence like a city garden. Almost any use of magic here was going to ring out in trumpet fanfares. “What color?”
“A consul’s toga has a purple border, but I suppose he may have grown too big for that now.”
“He wears the purple,” Shandie murmured sleepily.
“Then he isn’t there yet,” Rap said. “But it can’t be long.”
Even a mundane could have seen the pain on the old imperor’s face as he gripped the arms of his chair and tried to rise. He sank back, helpless. He bared his teeth, gathered himself, and tried again, with no more success. Sweat shone on his forehead, his breath was harsh. Then he glanced miserably at Rap in a wordless appeal for aid. The will was there, but the body had been starved and immobile for too long.
“I can give you strength. Sire, but I fear there may be a price to pay later. I have no experience at this.”
“I will pay the price!”
Rap poured energy into him, and watched in fascination as color suffused the pale cheeks and the bodily fires blazed up to match the burning will.
“Aha!” he shouted. “Thank you, Sorcerer! The old warhorse will tread a measure yet!” He lurched to his feet.
Premonition! Rap rose, also, aware that every hair on his body seemed to want to stand up — also — on its own. His fate was waiting for him in the Rotunda.
There he would meet whatever it was that had burned out his foresight in white flame. He would have been shaking like a terrified child had he not been using his powers to calm himself. At least he thought he was — at that level it was hard to know what was occult and what was just wishing. But he wasn’t going to let the old man see his fear, not after promising he would help. Running away would solve nothing. Back wounds hurt twice, Sergeant Thosolin had liked to say.
“Shandie, my boy? Wake up, soldier!”
“Grandfather?” Shandie seemed to smile in his sleep. He rolled over and sat up. The grin became a yawn, and he stretched his broomstick arms.
Emshandar had paused before a full-length mirror to inspect his appearance. “My shroud has slipped,” he muttered disgustedly. “I suppose you could make me look … no, never mind.” He turned to his grandson. “Come along, lad. We’ve got to go and meet the wardens.”
Already scrambling crabwise toward the edge of the bed, Shandie froze, and his eyes fixed on his grandfather in horror. Suddenly his happiness had vanished and he was petrified. Rap found that curious.
“Hurry!” the imperor said.
“Do you really think he need come, Sire?” Rap said.
He provoked an Imperial glare that could have razed a city. Obviously a chance to see the Four in action would be an important part of the heir’s education. Equally obviously, Shandie was a vital element in the cloacal ferment of Imperial politics and should not be left around unguarded at this important moment. Most obvious of all, his grandfather had not noticed the boy’s freezing dread.
“Come, soldier! On your feet! Pity we haven’t got time to dress you properly.”
With a gasp of relief, Shandie came back to life. He slid down off the bed. Now he was beaming again. “All the wardens coming tonight, Grandfather?”
What was going on inside that maltreated little mind? Somehow the question seemed important to Rap’s battered premonition, despite that talent’s present hysterically overworked condition.
“I could make a toga for him, Sire, if that’s what you mean.”
Emshandar said, “Of course!” approvingly, but Shandie quailed as if his nightmare had engulfed him again, gazing up at Rap accusingly. Why should togas bother him so? Could his fear be in some way related to the savage beating he had received the previous night?
The imperor had still not noticed. “Excellent! Pray do that, Sorcerer.”
“What color?” Then Rap wondered if he was just trying to delay the inevitable a little longer. He did not look at the Rotunda.
“Plain white,” the imperor said. “Quick!”
“Easy,” Rap said. “Stand up straight, tribune,”
The boy’s fright was as intense as it was inexplicable, but he was trying very hard not to show it to either his grandfather or his new sorcerer friend. Yet he was shaking.
“Do you want a roll of thunder, or just a quiet sort of sorcery?”
“No thunder please, Rap.” The big eyes stayed locked on the sorcerer. Rap’s humor had not stopped his chin quivering.
“Very well. White toga … ” Rap ensorceled the boy’s garments to a replica of his grandfather’s tunic and toga, in white. He added gold sandals and ran an invisible comb over the short wavy hair. “That looks not bad at all!” he said admiringly, mostly to himself. “If anyone tries to beat you, I’ll turn him into a walrus!” he promised.
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