The Memory came again that night. Phoran waited impatiently for it to finish. At last the cold tongue licked the puncture wounds clean and the Memory gave him the usual offer.
“Were you a Traveler held by the Secret Path?” Phoran asked.
“Yes,” it said and was gone with its usual abruptness.
Pale and a little dizzy, the Emperor went to his closet and pulled on a robe. With only a little caution—because the Path’s rooms were in an obscure corner of the palace—Phoran made it back to the bard’s cell with little trouble. He found Tier’s door unlocked, but when he went in, Tier lay unmoving on his bed and nothing Phoran could do would awaken him.
Phoran took up a seat on the end of the bed and stared at Tier’s face—but other than being a little pale, he seemed healthy enough. At last Phoran arose unhappily and returned to his suite.
When Tier awoke, he knew they’d come for him again, though his last memory was of settling in to play a bit of music after leaving the party in the Eyrie. He moved and the lute tucked beside him dug into his ribs.
He sat up with sudden anxiety and inspected it for any damage it might have taken. He found something that could have been a new scratch on the finish, but nothing that would impair its use. He settled back against the wall with a sigh of relief. His head throbbed, his body ached, and his mouth was uncomfortably dry—but the lute could not heal itself.
He hugged the lute against his body.
What was it that they did to him?
Someone knocked on the door. Tier gathered himself together and stood up.
“It’s dinnertime, sir,” Myrceria explained after he’d opened the door to her. “I can have food brought to you, or you can eat in the Eyrie with the Passerines.” She hesitated, then said, “You might have noticed that your movements have been restricted unless you have an escort. I was told to inform you that you now can move freely around most of the rooms used by the Passerines. If you’d like to wait and go alone, you may do that also. Food will be provided at any time upon your request.”
He stood up slowly, but the movement seemed to help some of his aches and pains. “By all means,” he said with as much charm as he could muster over his fading headache. “Let us go to the Eyrie.”
The room was almost full to bursting. When Tier stepped inside, the dull roar quieted as the young men all watched him. Like a duck who had the ill luck to drop to earth in the midst of a pack of wolves, Tier thought with amusement.
Food of every description was spread out on the bar for the taking. Tier, following Myrceria’s example, took a wooden platter and began filling it. When she led the way to an unoccupied table he followed her.
He ate without seeming to look up, but his peripheral vision was very good. He saw the boys’ cautious approach.
The first to arrive and sit at Tier’s table was a tall boy, too thin for his height. Before he opened his mouth, Tier knew a few things about him. The first was that he was a loner. The Passerines, he noticed, tended to travel in packs, and there was no one moving with this boy. The pads of his fingers were calloused from instrument strings and in one of those calloused hands was a large case.
He sat down beside Myrceria and put the case on their table in the place of the food dishes that an efficient servant had just whisked away.
“You said last night that a Bard could play any instrument,” he said. “Try this one.”
“What’s your name?” asked Tier. He ignored the shuffle as a number of young men pulled up stools and benches to listen in on their conversation; instead, he kept his eyes on the case as he undid the various hooks that kept it closed.
“Collarn,” said the boy. “I am an assistant at the Imperial College of Music. What do you think?”
The challenge in Collarn’s voice was such that Tier wasn’t surprised to discover that the case held an instrument he’d never seen before. He coaxed the thing out of its close-fitting case and scooted his stool back so that he could rest it on his lap for a closer look.
It looked somewhat like a lute, he decided, but it was squarer and deeper-bodied. There were tuning pegs, but the strings were hidden inside the body. Below the pegs it had two rows of buttons on the side.
On the side was a—“A handle?” Tier said, and turned it. At once an odd, penetrating, grinding sound issued from the bowels of the instrument. He grinned in delight.
Tier tilted his head and closed his eyes, turning the handle again. “It’s like a violin,” he said. “Or pipes. What do you call it, Collarn of the College of Music?”
“It’s a symphonia. There’s a wheel-bow inside that turns with the handle.”
Collarn had obviously come to flummox the Bard—probably for usurping his place as the Passerine’s musical entertainment, but he shared Tier’s love of music too deeply not to fall into a discussion with someone willing to explore the possibilities of his obscure instrument.
Tier hid his smile—he liked Collarn, and the boy obviously took himself too seriously to enjoy a laugh at his own expense. After trying several positions, Tier shifted the symphonia until he could turn the handle with his right hand and touch the buttons on the side with his left.
After a moment he managed a simple melody—but he heard the possibilities of much greater things. The instrument was louder than his lute, making it a good choice for performing outdoors or before a large audience. A pair of strings played the same note continuously like a bagpipe’s drones, lending a sonorously eerie accompaniment to the rest of the notes that changed at the touch of his fingers on the buttons.
Tier stood up and handed the instrument to Collarn. “Would you play something for me?” he asked. “I’d like to hear it played by someone who knows what it can do.”
The boy was talented—though his grandfather’s old friend Ciro could have taught him something about softening the straight rhythm Collarn held to when the song wanted to fly.
Finished, the boy looked up, his face a little bright. “That’s the only song I know on it. We have no music written directly for it. The masters at the college don’t think much of the instrument—it’s an odd thing someone brought to the college a dozen years ago.”
“May I try it again?” asked Tier, and the boy handed the symphonia over.
“The piece you played”—Tier played a bit, deliberately more hesitant than Collarn had played so that he didn’t rob the boy of his performance—“is something written for violin. It’s a good choice, and plays to the instrument’s strengths.”
“I can do it better on a violin,” said Collarn. “There’s no dynamic range to the symphonia.” He grinned and the sweetness of the unexpected expression reminded Tier of Jes. “It just doesn’t do quiet.”
“Bagpipes are like that,” said Tier. “You might try piping music.”
He fell silent and searched the instrument for range and effect. When he turned the handle at just the right speed and the instrument added a buzz to its already odd sound, Tier stopped and laughed outright.
“I can see why your college masters have a problem. It’s just a bit brash, eh? A little boldness isn’t necessarily a bad thing.” He hummed a little tune under his breath. “Let me try this…”
He knew he had it right when the toes of the boys nearest him started moving. When Collarn took a small silver penny-whistle out of his pocket and added a few runs, it made Tier think of playing with the old men in the afternoons at the tavern in Redern. He played through the song twice—the second time his fingers found their own way as he looked around the room at all the young faces.
He’d come here this afternoon to gather information, and instead he’d gained a friend. Speculatively, Tier’s eyes fell on a promising young man who was using the haft of his knife to tap out a rhythm on a tabletop.
Tier knew about recruiting young men.
Phoran was deliberately late going to the Council chambers. He wanted them to gossip, to fret. If Avar had done as he asked, they would be more annoyed than worried.
&nb
sp; The Emperor stopped before the door, took a deep breath, and nodded to the chamberlain to announce him.
“Rise for the Emperor Phoran, may his reign never cease!”
If it doesn’t ever begin, thought Phoran, can it ever cease?
Silence fell in the room and Phoran strode leisurely through the doorway, followed by the young page he’d chosen for his small size to make the stack of parchment the page carried look even larger than it was.
Phoran himself was in his most glittering, gaudy clothes—clothes that had caused his valet to mutter about street whores. Phoran had started out to wear a more conservative outfit—but he’d decided that would send the wrong message. He didn’t want to announce, Look! I’ve changed for you. He wanted to force them to acknowledge him emperor on his own terms.
His hair was curled, and his face was powdered paler than any court dandy. A small blue star painted beside his eye matched the glittering blue and silver stars embroidered on purple velvet portions of his costume.
He didn’t hurry, forcing himself to keep his appearance languid while the impatience of the Septs grew almost palpable. At last he reached the place reserved for the Emperor. A thin coat of dust covered the inlayed surface of his podium, where he gestured for the boy to set the parchment before waving him off in the general direction of Douver, the council secretary.
The page relayed the message he’d been given and the secretary looked up at Phoran incredulously. Phoran stared back, doing his best to look neither nervous nor smug as his page rejoined him.
Douver cleared his throat. “Septs of the Empire. I call a general roll so that His Glory the Emperor shall know who attends this meeting. Each Sept will call out as I read his name.” He took up a paper and Phoran made a show of removing the top sheet of parchment, which was a copy of the clerk’s.
In the end, twenty-four Septs were absent. Phoran was careful to mark each of their names with a stylus while the council watched. Everyone in the room knew that at least eighteen of those named were in the palace.
“Thank you,” said Phoran graciously, and without a speech or any further delay, he picked up the first of the proposed laws. “The matter of the trade agreement between the Septs of Isslaw and Blackwater is declared to be Imperial Law.”
He set the first parchment to one side and picked up the next. By the tenth parchment the Septs began shifting uncomfortably in their seats—except for Avar, who sat in his chair with arms folded across his chest, and stared at Phoran thoughtfully as Phoran continued his show.
Phoran took the fifteenth parchment and read, “For his services to the Empire, the Sept of Jenne is to be awarded the land from Iscar Rock to the eastern field of Kersay Holm in a path no more than ten miles wide.”
He looked up and found the Sept of Jenne in his usual place in the council. “So, what service did you perform for the Empire, Jenne?”
The man he’d addressed stood up. A contemporary of Phoran’s father, he was in his late middle years, with iron-grey hair and a short beard. He bowed. “If it please Your Imperial Majesty, it was in the matter of the trouble the Weavers’ Guild had last year. I found myself in the position of being able to perform some little service in the matter of raising funds for the displaced merchants.”
“Ah,” said Phoran. “We had wondered. In any case, this proposal is denied. You may reseat yourself, Jenne.” He set it to his left, away from the neat stack of signed documents.
He’d picked up the next proposal when the paralysis wore off and the Sept of Gorrish jumped to his feet followed by a fair number of his followers.
“I protest!” he said, and that was the last thing that anyone heard clearly for several minutes as the Council of Septs roared its displeasure with the Emperor.
Phoran set the parchment he’d picked up back where he’d gotten it and waited for the uproar to die down with as cool a manner as he could force over his pounding heart. His instincts told him that if he were not able to take control of the Septs at this meeting, he never would.
He watched the flushed faces of the men who protested, seeing the hidden satisfaction on Telleridge’s countenance at the strength of the Septs’ outrage, though Telleridge said nothing. Avar caught Phoran’s gaze and raised an eyebrow, then he made a subtle gesture toward himself as if to ask, “May I?”
Avar thought he could do something about this? Phoran raised his own eyebrows (he had never learned the trick of raising only one) and nodded his head.
Avar stood up, jumped the waist-high barrier and landed on the council floor, six feet or so below the seating area. His action caught the attention of the Septs, buying him a momentary lull in the noise.
“Gentlemen,” he bellowed. “Any man who is still standing and talking after a count of five, I shall personally challenge to armed deadly combat. Even if I have to fight each of you. His Imperial Majesty will then have a much more pleasant time with your heirs. One. Two. Three.”
Avar could do it, too; Phoran knew. Could defeat each and every one of the Septs. That they agreed with Phoran’s assessment was demonstrated by the fact that they were seated and silent before Avar reached “four.”
Avar scanned the seats to make certain they were occupied, then with that easy athleticism that Phoran envied so, he jumped up, caught the bottom railing and scaled the barrier to resume his own seat.
“We give thanks to the Sept of Leheigh for his service to the Empire,” said Phoran with more aplomb than he felt. Avar’s audacious and effective ploy to silence the Septs had left Phoran the opportunity for a bit of cleverness—or stupidity depending upon how it turned out.
Phoran turned his head to the council leader. “So, Ombre, Sept of Gorrish—you object to my rejection of this proposed law?” He picked up the offending document and appeared to look at it more closely.
“Permission to speak, please?” Gorrish ground out between clenched teeth.
“Oh, of course,” said Phoran in surprised tones. “We are always glad to hear your concerns, Gorrish.”
The council leader dropped his eyes and took a deep breath. “This is a matter that was already put forth and approved by the council.”
“For me to consider putting into law,” agreed Phoran lightly. “I decided that it was ill-considered.” He reached for the next parchment again.
“Please, Your Majesty, hear me out,” said Gorrish. “The particulars of the case were made known to the council at the time the lands were granted. There were no objections at all.”
Phoran raised his eyebrows again in surprise. “What, none?” He looked around the room. “Avar?”
“Yes, Imperial Majesty?” Avar stood.
“Did you not just put your life at risk in Our Service?” questioned Phoran.
To Phoran’s delight, Avar looked at the Septs around him and shook his head slightly. “I suppose someone might have gotten in a lucky blow, Your Majesty, but I did not feel imperiled.”
“Nonetheless,” said Phoran, “there was risk and you did not hesitate to serve me. Is this not a greater deed than raising funds to help a few merchants? A matter, I understand, of some two hundred and thirty-five gold pieces?”
The air went still as the more observant Septs began to realize that Phoran knew more about the affair than he’d appeared to at first.
“Perhaps, Your Majesty,” agreed Avar with seeming reluctance.
“Avar, Sept of Leheigh, please enlighten those here with the amount that you spent on that magnificent mare you purchased yesterday.”
Avar cleared his throat. “Ah, two hundred and forty gold pieces, Your Majesty.”
“We believe that the life of a Sept is of more value than a horse,” said Phoran firmly. “Therefore Avar, Sept of Leheigh, I put it before the council that I intend to gift you with a piece of land from Tisl to Riesling of a width not more than three miles—”
“But—” Servish, the hotheaded young Sept of Allyn, surged to his feet. Servish, though, was loyal to a fault and he caught his tongue and beg
an to sink down.
“But what, Allyn?” invited Phoran gently. He had picked Servish especially for this role.
Servish swallowed and straightened up. “I am, always, your loyal servant, Majesty.”
Phoran nodded. “Please,” he said. “What was it you were going to say?”
Servish flushed and took a deep breath. “The land you spoke of is within my Sept, Majesty.”
Phoran smiled at him and then looked at Avar, who had remained standing. “Avar, I am afraid that I cannot grant you lands that belong to a loyal Sept. It would not be right.”
“No,” agreed Avar.
“What say you, my lords?” Phoran looked to the Septs. “Those who would grant me or any other such powers, stand and say, ‘Aye’ now.” The room was silent.
“Nor, Gorrish, can I take lands away from any loyal Sept just to grant them to someone who performed some small service to the Empire. The Sept of Gerant has never shown me anything but loyalty. It would be a poor emperor who took lands away from Septs who have committed no offense. You may all take your seats.”
He could feel it happen, Phoran thought. He could feel the reins of the Empire slip into his hands. He kept his face clear of triumph and picked up another piece of parchment.
“In the matter of the border dispute…” And the Septs all sat silently in their seats as Phoran read through every last one of the documents.
“What is your purpose?” Phoran asked, his hands only a little shaky as he pulled down his sleeve. The triumph of this afternoon was such that even the Memory’s bite wasn’t enough to sour his mood. If he could control the Septs, then surely he could rid himself of this curse.
“To destroy the Masters of the Secret Path,” it said.
“Ah,” said Phoran.
He’d known the answer, but he hadn’t thought of a better question. He had to steady himself when he stood up. “I’m going to see if our friend in the Path’s dungeons is any better. You may join me if you’d like.”
Truthfully, he was tempted just to go to bed. He had been tired before the Memory showed up, and losing more blood hadn’t helped any. But the memory of Tier’s unnaturally deep sleep had been with him all day. The Memory, for whatever reason, followed him to Tier’s cell.
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