by Judith Tarr
A man, or even the beginning of a Lion’s cub, would have stiffened at that and remembered his pride. This son of slaves dung himself weeping into Estarion’s arms. “They made me! They said I’d die if I didn’t do it!”
Estarion had hardly expected this armful of wriggling, howling child. He pushed the boy away, not roughly, not particularly gently. The boy stopped sobbing, raised great tear-stained eyes.
“‘They’?” Estarion pressed him.
“The others,” the boy said, hiccoughing. “They bought me and they taught me. They told me what to say. They said— they said—I could be—I could—”
Estarion held his burning hand under the boy’s nose. “Would you want that?”
The boy shuddered and shrank away. It was not artifice, not the sleight of the courtesan. Estarion was sure of it.
“That is what they thought to give you,” Estarion said. “Can you clasp the sun in your hand? Can you bear empires on your shoulders? Can you, little slave, sway the hearts of kings?”
“They told me,” the boy said. “I would die if I refused them.”
“You will die because you obeyed them.”
“No,” the boy said, weeping again. “Please, no.”
The recitation of the charges had died away some time since. The boy locked arms about Estarion’s waist and clung, burying his face in Estarion’s cloak.
Estarion sighed and let him be. The rest of the prisoners watched, slack-jawed or frozen-faced. Guilt was as sharp as a stench, and hate with it, and fear.
“You,” he said. The dreamer spat, aiming for Estarion’s face, but the spittle flew wide. Estarion smiled, sweet and terrible. “I might forgive you your sedition, but this I do not forgive. A man will do anything at all, who stoops to the corruption of children.”
“Such an innocent,” the dreamer drawled. His patois was broad, his inflection an insult. “They say a king can be an idiot where you come from. Who set the coins in your eyes? The were-bear who follows you about?”
“No,” said Estarion. “My father. And his father before him. And before them all, the Lion’s cub, the Golden Emperor. I’m of his blood.”
“Traitor’s blood,” the dreamer said. “No Lion’s get, you, but liar’s. Barbarian, outlander, stealer of thrones: you should have stayed in your own country.”
“This is my own country,” Estarion said. He gripped the chain that locked the dreamer’s collar, and hauled him up. “You are a fool and a teller of lies. Your dreams are the smoke’s children. You know nothing of your own.”
“And what are you?” the dreamer mocked him. “Not even a mage, and barely a king.”
Estarion dropped him. He fell in a clatter of chains. Estarion faced the lord of Ansavaar and swept his arm around the huddle of prisoners. “Take these,” he said. “Lock them in prison. In the morning, flog them. Then set them free.”
“Majesty?” Shurichan frowned. “Majesty . . . free them?”
“They do not deserve death,” Estarion said. “Death is for the great; for renegades, for traitors, for destroyers of thrones.”
“And these are not traitors?” Shurichan demanded.
“These are fools and children. I will not ennoble them with death, or make them martyrs.”
Shurichan blinked. He did not understand. His way was more direct: and there was irony in Asanion. Treason won death. Life in disgrace—that, Estarion thought, he had never heard of.
“That is . . . very cruel,” Shurichan said at last, dubiously, as if he thought that he should approve, but could not bring himself to it.
“I call it justice,” said Estarion.
“And that?” Shurichan asked.
Estarion looked down at the child who clung still, convulsively. “Him we keep. He’s too great a temptation, with those big eyes of his. Ready a room for him. We’ll keep him in comfort.”
“But—”
That was great daring, to protest even so much. Estarion smiled at it. “Look at him, Shurichan. What can he do but seduce his guards? He won’t want to be free. He’ll welcome the safety of prison. No one forces him there; no one threatens him with thrones.”
Shurichan bowed, veiling his eyes.
Estarion pried the boy loose and gave him over to the Olenyai. He shrieked at sight of them, and struggled, till Estarion laid a hand on his head. “Hush, child. They won’t hurt you, or let you be hurt. Go with them, let them protect you.”
“I want to stay with you!” the boy wailed.
It was great pleasure to see the faces of the men who would have made this child their puppet: to know how perfectly they were nonplussed. “The next time you make an emperor,” Estarion advised them, “choose a woolbeast in fleece. It will serve you better, and cover your backsides, too.”
o0o
The prisoners were guarded as the emperor himself was, by both Varyani and Olenyai. Korusan did not find it difficult to take a turn of the watch, the one which happened to coincide with the nightmeal, nor did his companion object when he took charge of the feeding. That gained him the key to the cells, which he omitted to return.
Sentry-go with a Varyani could be interesting if the foreigner was hostile, or if he was inclined to chatter. Often he was both.
This one, as luck would have it, was silent for one of his kind. He did not seem to object to the existence of Asanians, nor did he shy from Olenyai veils. He accepted the place of outer ward, granting Korusan the inner duty, which was to pace slowly along the passage, glancing at intervals into the cells.
The prisoners were kept apart lest they conspire to escape, and there were mage-bonds on them: Korusan’s own wards itched in response. After several revolutions he glanced toward the corridor’s end.
The Varyani, a plainsman with a suggestion of Gileni red in his dark hair, stood facing outward, still as a stone. He glanced back when he heard the scrape of the key in a lock, but Korusan ignored him. Boldness, he had been taught, could be better concealment than stealth.
The plainsman did not protest as Korusan opened the door and slipped within. Nor did he leave his post.
Korusan stood in the dimness of the cell, waiting for his heart to cease hammering. The only light came from the cresset without, slanting through the bars onto the recumbent figure of the prisoner.
The man was asleep, twitching in the fashion of one too long forbidden dreamsmoke. He snapped awake as Korusan knelt by him. His eyes were bloodshot, blinking rapidly until he gained control of himself.
“You know me,” said Korusan, soft and cold.
For once the dreamer was not smiling. He looked greener even than his condition might account for, as he stumbled up and then flung himself flat.
“Why did you lie?” Korusan asked him.
He raised his head, but kept his eyes fixed on the floor. He seemed to swell as he crouched there, gaining color and force. “For you, my lord. For you I did it.”
“What? Found a slave’s brat and called him emperor? Set him up to supplant me?”
“No!” the dreamer cried, but softly, as if he had sense enough not to rouse the Varyani’s suspicions. “No, my lord, it wasn’t like that at all! We needed a diversion, you see. A feint. A target for them to strike at, and be complacent, and think that that was all we had.”
“None of them guessed,” said Korusan, more to himself than to the fool on the floor.
The fool heard him nonetheless, and answered him. “They didn’t, did they? I’m a good liar. I should be: I was a player before I became your servant.”
Korusan curled his lip at the thought of this man as his servant. “You could have been the worst liar living, and still the mages would have shielded you. They would not wish their plots known to their enemies.”
“But I lie well,” the dreamer insisted. “I do. They said so. They hardly needed to put a magic on me. Just to keep me safe, they said. To free me to be your sacrifice.”
Korusan recoiled. “I do not want a sacrifice.”
“Why, bless you, my
prince, of course you don’t. But you shall have one. It’s needed. The people will follow you all the more gladly once they’ve seen how we were willing to die for you.”
This creature was unbearable. He actually shone, he was so full of his own glory.
“You are all idiots,” Korusan said fiercely. “If you die, and I come to my throne, I will repudiate you. You lied in my name. You turned my honor to dust.”
There was no quelling the dreamer. “Oh, yes, you have to deny me. I can’t besmirch your brightness. But I die happy, knowing that my death helped to make you emperor.”
“You are not going to die,” snapped Korusan. “He will flog you and let you go. Fool, I thought him. Now I know him wise.”
“I’ll die,” the dreamer said. “I’ll make sure of it. Wait, my lord, and see.”
Korusan restrained an urge to thrust him down and set foot on his neck. He would have welcomed the humiliation, and worshipped the one who did it to him. Korusan left him instead, shut and locked the door with taut-strung care, returned to his post and his silent companion.
To whom he said, “I thought I might get sense from him, once the drug had worn off. He utters nothing but lies and lunacy.”
“His brain’s well rotted,” the Varyani agreed, “and the rest are witlings. It’s a piss-poor excuse for a conspiracy, this one.”
“But it suffices,” said Korusan.
“It does, at that,” the Varyani said. “And tomorrow we put an end to it.”
Tomorrow, thought Korusan, it would hardly have begun.
42
“Full of yourself, aren’t you?”
Estarion paused. He was clean, warm, and about to be fed; he had rid himself of servants and won a few moments’ solitude. The rebels’ puppet was asleep, with one of Iburan’s mages seeing to it that he stayed so. The rebels were in much less comfort, and under strong guard.
Sidani nudged a squalling ul-cub toward its mother. Ulyai, having laid claim to his lordship’s bed, was amply content to nurse her young ones in it. She blinked lazily at Sidani, yawned, set to washing the he-cub’s ears.
Sidani leaned against the doorframe, eyebrows cocked. “You think you did well in milord’s court.”
“I think I had no choice but to do what I did.” Estarion scowled at the robes laid out for him, and looked longingly toward his baggage. The coat, maybe, embroidered with gold. Or—
“You should have killed them, and done it then. Not dragged it out till tomorrow.”
“What, and made martyrs, but taught no lasting lesson?”
“Lessons are best taught quickly.”
“Maybe.” He pulled the coat from its wrappings and shook it out, and sighed. No. Not for this. He must be as Asanian as he could manage, however it galled him.
“Where’s your shadow?” Sidani asked.
“Resting.” Estarion dropped the robe he had been wrapped in and reached for the first of the ten.
“Are you sure of that?”
He whipped about, plait lashing his flanks. “What are you saying?”
She shrugged. “I wonder if you ever noticed whose face he wears.”
“What, the Lion’s mask? Yes, he has it. I’d be astonished if he weren’t a cub of that litter.”
“And it doesn’t concern you that he might have ambitions?”
“Korusan?” Estarion laughed. “Korusan’s ambition is to reach his twentieth year. If he manages that, he’ll go for Master of Olenyai.”
“Not emperor?”
Estarion went still. “He loves me.”
“Do you love him?”
“Is that any affair of yours?”
“Do you?”
He thought of driving her out. But Sidani was not a tamed creature, nor one to yield to mere proprieties. He set his teeth and answered her. “If anyone holds my heart, it is one who does not want it. My Goldeneyes . . . have you ever been the half of a thing, and known that there was another, and it was nothing that you ever expected?”
Sidani’s eyes closed. Her face was stark. “Yes,” she whispered. “Yes.”
Estarion stopped, drew a breath. He had not looked for that of all answers. “You don’t call that anything as simple as love. It has no name. It is.”
Her eyes snapped open. “You have no right to understand so much.”
“Why? Because I’m young and a fool?”
“Because he isn’t dead yet. You haven’t had to live without him.”
“I hope I never may.”
“Then you’ll be dead within the year.”
Estarion shivered. He was naked and the room, though heated with braziers, was chill. “Are you prophesying?”
“I hope not.” She moved toward one of the braziers and stood over it, warming her hands. “Go carefully, young emperor. Watch every shadow. There’s death here, surer than ever it was in Kundri’j.”
“Yes,” he said. He put on the first of the robes. It was silk, and cold, till it warmed to his body. When he reached for the second, he found her hands on it, and her eyes behind that, daring him to refuse.
She helped him to dress, unplaited his hair and combed it and netted it in gold. Somewhere she had been a bodyservant, maybe, to have learned such lightness of hand. When the tenth robe was laid atop the rest, she turned him to face her.
Her grim mood was gone. She smiled her old, wild smile. “Oh, you’re a beauty, you are. If I weren’t five times your age, I’d have you on the cushions in a heartbeat.”
He was as reckless as she, when it came to it. He swept her backward and kissed her thoroughly, and set her on her feet again.
She looked wonderfully startled. He left her so, walking lightly to the ordeal of the banquet, trailing robes and gold.
o0o
There were robes for Estarion again in the morning, and gold, but of Sidani there was no sign. Estarion wondered if he had frightened her into flight. That would hardly be like her; but who ever knew what she would do?
The night had been quiet. Korusan came in as Estarion readied for sleep, looking bruised about the eyes but protesting that he had slept.
Estarion forbore to press him. It was not true, what Sidani had suggested. This was Olenyas only, whatever his face, and he lived to serve his lord.
And if that was love, to see him so, and love was blind, then so be it. Estarion could not be other than he was; he could not learn to start at every shadow.
Korusan was in one of his muted moods, when he wanted rather to fold himself in Estarion’s warmth than to dance the battle-dance that always ended in another dance altogether. Estarion was content to hold and to be held. He fell asleep so, though he thought that Korusan lay awake. The golden eyes were open, the last he remembered; and when he woke they had not changed, nor did the boy seem to have moved nightlong.
o0o
They went out together, man and shadow, in a swelling crowd of attendants. The cold was less this morning but still keen enough to cut, the square of the palaces as crowded as it had been before, but its center, by the fountain, stood open. Lord Shurichan’s men had raised a platform there and set the whipping-posts upon it, and ringed it with guards.
For Estarion there was a throne on the steps of the palace. The high ones waited there, muffled against the cold. He knew his mother’s slender height in a cloak of ice-white fur, Iburan’s massive solidity, the thickset golden-armored bulk of Lord Shurichan, the liveries of guards: Ansavaar’s black and bronze, Keruvarion’s scarlet and gold, plain Olenyai black.
When he came into the sun with Ulyai and her cubs at heel, all that throng bowed down like grain before a gale. All but his Varyani. He grinned at them. None of them smiled. The strain of dwelling in Asanion was taking its toll.
He sat in the tall chair. Ulyai stretched at his feet; her she-cubs, unwontedly subdued, crouched in the hollow of her side. The he-cub snarled at the press of people and sprang into Estarion’s lap, where he settled, tensed as if on guard. Estarion rubbed his ears until he eased a little, but he wo
uld not relax his vigilance.
Merian came to stand beside and a little behind him. He slanted a glance at her. “Trouble?” he said.
“Possibly.” She rested her hand on his shoulder. It would be a pretty picture: mother and son, empress and emperor, her white cloak and his scarlet against the gold of the throne. “Are you speaking to me again?” she inquired.
“Did I ever stop?”
“Often.” She sounded more amused than not. “You could have forbidden me my pleasures.”
“And made them sweeter? Pity I didn’t think of that.”
She laughed softly. She looked young this morning and beautiful in white and green, with gold in her hair. It was impossible to hold a grudge against her, however great her transgression. And what had she done but love a man worth loving?
She should have told me, whined the small mean thing that laired in Estarion’s heart. But her laughter was too sweet, and she too much beloved, for all the sparks they struck from one another. He reached impulsively, caught her hand, set a kiss in the palm.
She smiled. “I think that you quarrel simply for the pleasure of forgiving me after.”
His heart was too full, almost, for speech. But he found his famous insouciance and put it on. “What’s life without a good fight?”
She leaned lightly against him, arm about his shoulders. He knew better than to think that any of it was uncalculated. She guarded him so, and claimed him for her own. But there was love in it, and pleasure in his nearness; a pleasure that warmed him even in the bitter wind.
A stirring on the crowd’s edges marked the coming of the prisoners. The banners over them were Estarion’s, and Shurichan’s flying lower, as was fitting.
Guards with spears opened the way before and behind. Of the captives there was little to see: a bobbing of bared heads, a pause and a flurry as one of them stumbled.
The people were deathly silent. In Keruvarion they would have been roaring, surging like the sea. Here they were still. Watching. Almost, Estarion thought, like an ul-cat poised to spring.
Shurichan’s troops were scattered through them, and his own who were not needed to guard his person, and on the roofs waited a line of archers with bows strung. If any in that throng either rose in revolt or sought to free the prisoners, he would meet with the point of a spear, or fall to an arrow from above.
