by Dave Duncan
Lots of women to ogle, not many girls. The conversations were starting up again, but Ylo was acutely aware of being watched. He wandered a tactful distance away from that potent doorway and Hardgraa paced at his side. Bystanders drifted out of their path.
Comprehension came like a dagger stroke. He was an Yllipo, the only Yllipo. All the two hundred or so courtiers present were politicos to their painted toenails. They all knew his background and who he was, every one of them. They would not dare address him until they knew how things stood between him and the imperor. Shandie was not cock of the roost yet.
Awkward minutes dragged by. Courtiers learned patience above all else. They might stand here until midnight.
Ylo noted an incongruous pair wandering in through the great main door—a fat man and a small, birdlike man, Umpily and Acopulo, who had followed the military procession in a carriage. They separated, joyfully greeting old friends.
Then a guardsman came striding through the crowd, heading for Ylo like an arrow. His centurion’s breastplate shone as bright as all the jewels and glitter of the courtiers and his plume floated higher than most of the hussars’, even.
Well, well! Sweeter yet.
The Praetorian stamped to a halt and saluted. Ylo responded. Technically their relative rank was something of a military mystery, but there was no doubt who was the effective superior now.
The man’s face was rigid. He was taking a risk and he knew it—but he was also covering his flanks and they both knew that. “I came to offer my congratulations, Signifer.” He had always been a gentleman.
“Very kind of you. Centurion.” For the life of him, Ylo could not recall the man’s name. One of the Hathinos. It would come, when he needed it.
“Just wanted you to know, er, Signifer… That was the most unpleasant job I ever had to do.”
“I did not enjoy it, either.”
“No. Well, we must all obey orders. Nothing personal?”
“Nothing personal,” Ylo agreed, noticing a hint of relief that the disciplined mask could not quite conceal.
He watched in satisfaction as his former superior marched away again. The audience was whispering. Nothing personal—but one day he would make that man lick his sandal, just on principle. Hithi, that was his name. Remember it!
“An old friend?” Hardgraa inquired dryly.
“Not exactly.” He smiled as he threw me to the sharks.
“Well, try not to kill him in public,” Hardgraa remarked cheerfully. Then he added, with the air of a man being deliberately relaxed, “Er, Signifer?”
“Yes, Centurion?”
“Don’t look now, but one of the pictures on the eastern wall is of some interest.”
Since when had that human battering ram ever cared for art? Ylo raised his eyebrows to convey his surprise and then slowly surveyed the entire room. “Oh, well done!” he said when he had finished. “Bravely done!”
The works of art in the Throne Room would have ransomed a fair city: sculptures, tapestries, paintings. The picture Hardgraa had spotted did not seem noteworthy in itself, at least not at this distance, but its subject was. Sunlit green waves in the foreground blew spume, and a majestic galleon heeled under full canvas. In the distance, balancing the composition, a conical rock bore a town on its slopes and a spiky castle at its peak. It was exactly as Shandie had described his vision in the preflecting pool.
For the last year and a half, Ylo had been anticipating the prince’s every want. He could sense them now before Shandie was even aware of them himself. Hardgraa had the trained observation of a bodyguard, but he lacked the courtly guile to proceed from here. To march over to that painting and read its inscription, if it had one, would alert the entire court. The next step was up to Ylo.
He glanced around and located a footman hovering by the wall. He was no callow youth, either, but an old retainer, who should be well versed in palace lore. A flick of an eye brought the man to him, in a deft, unhurried glide. He bowed with the respect proper to Ylo’s rank—which was giddily high at the moment—and he waited cautiously to hear what this enigma wanted.
What was the correct question? The palace art collection would doubtless be the responsibility of some ineffectual noble. There would be an underling to run things, but he would be a professional bureaucrat who spent most of his time playing palace politics. The real work would be done by his staff.
Ylo made a stab at the appropriate title. “The Assistant Deputy Curator of the Royal Paintings,” he said loftily, and watched the flunky twitch with astonishment. “I want to see him. Now.”
It worked like a sword through the heart. The man bowed and withdrew. This sort of authority could easily become addictive!
Hardgraa had drifted away and was deep in conversation with a tribune of the VIIth, apparently an old friend. The room was gradually filling up as latecomers arrived to view the excitement. Here and there Ylo recognized a familiar face—notable political figures, friends of his parents. Still he stood in isolation, the untrusted Yllipo.
And what of the Yllipo’s revenge? For a year and a half he had served the prince imperial with all his strength, served him loyally and well. He had not stuck a knife in his ribs, although the opportunities had been legion.
So now what? The old man must die soon. Until then there would be nothing to do but wait. Shandie would be generous—Ylo had no doubts of that, because he knew that generosity to one aide bought loyalty from all the others. When Emshandar V was proclaimed imperor and sat secure on the Opal Throne, then his former signifer would receive advancement. A seat in the Assembly to start with, likely. A title, then a few sinecure offices to pad his pockets, then a praetorship to make him rich. In a few years, perhaps a consulship.
And meanwhile, just wait. Wait and woo the women of Hub, the beauties of the Impire. His eyes had been scanning the talent without waiting for orders. One or two were not bad, but most were much too old for his taste. It was their daughters he was after.
Not one of them would compare to the goddess he had seen in the pool. The image had bewitched him. He had thought of little else for two days. Perfection! He suspected no other woman would ever quite satisfy him again. As soon as he had gotten her clothes off her, he would be comparing her with that vision, the goddess of the pool—and she would not compare.
He eyed the tables of refreshments. He had not eaten for hours and he might wait here many hours yet, but he decided to wait a while and let them all stare. He stared back, unconcerned.
Then a dark, slim man came strolling toward him. His doublet sparkled with the jeweled stars and the sash of the Order of Agraine, his hose were of the finest silk. His arrogance would have provoked a conclave of bishops to murder. Ylo ought to know him, obviously. Every eye in the room was on the two of them. The hall fell silent.
“Signifer Ylo?”
Ylo saluted the sash, to be on the safe side. “My Lord?”
“Prince Emthoro of Leesoft.”
Execration! Shandie’s cousin! Third in line.
“Your Royal Highness! I beg pardon. I should have —“
The prince shrugged off the gaffe. “No matter. Your predecessor was my brother.”
“Yes, Highness.”
“You were present when he died.” Emthoro displayed surprise, as if the question need not be asked. “I would hear the story.”
“I hardly saw, sir. There was much confusion…”
Shandie’s heir was a babe in arms. This man must inevitably be his chief opposition. Whatever their personal relationship, politics would dictate a rivalry. Careful! He was lean and quick and dangerous. His eyes held some of the fire that burned in Shandie’s… curiously slanted eyes, almost elvish.
Ylo’s voice was narrating the story of Ralpnie’s death at Karthin, mostly from hearsay. Suddenly it dried up.
There she was!
“Signifer?” the prince prompted.
She had just arrived, with a couple of attendants. People were bowing as she advanced from
the door. She wore a simple gown of sea blue. She floated rather than walked, acknowledging the onlookers with barely perceptible nods. Cold, slim, and regal, the ultimate in womanhood, carved from a block of diamond. Her miracle black hair was adorned with a simple coronet of rubies. Her features were as perfect as the Gods could achieve in fashioning beauty.
“Who is that?” Ylo demanded breathlessly.
“Who?” the prince inquired in a languid tone, and turned to look. “The one in blue?”
Danger! People were bowing to her! Idiot!
“Of course not!” Ylo croaked, sweat bursting from every pore. “The woman in peach.”
“One of the Ullithini girls, I think.” Emthoro regarded him with sinister curiosity. “I thought you meant Princess Eshiala.”
Aghast, Ylo could only shake his head.
She was gorgeous. Shandie had called her the most beautiful woman in the world, and he had been flattering all others when he said so. Her features were perfection. Ylo had seen her naked body in the preflecting pool’s vision.
He had thought of little else for the last two days.
He had concluded that no other woman would ever satisfy him again. And there she was, in the flesh.
His face must be red as a strawberry.
She was heading his way.
“Confine your attentions to the Ullithini woman, Signifer,” Prince Emthoro said with a faint sneer. “It would be safer.”
He turned and strolled off to meet the princess. Of course it was he she had been approaching. She did not know Ylo existed.
God of Fools!
Shandie’s wife! He had been shown a vision of Shandie’s wife!
A cough at his elbow dragged him back from the volcano. He turned to find himself being studied by a pair of huge opalescent eyes, glittering in rose and viridian. They looked very puzzled.
“You wish to see me, Signifer?”
Of course the Assistant Deputy Curator of the Royal Pictures would be an elf. Every elf was a born artist, and by comparison imps knew nothing of things artistic. This one looked like a boy of sixteen, but he might be a grandfather. His clothes were a blaze of silver and ultramarine; although they were beautifully made, they would not have purchased one lace cravat on anyone else in the room. He was shivering with anxiety at being summoned to this chamber.
Ylo thumped his thoughts into shape like a baker kneading dough.
“Ah, yes. I note that there are several landscapes included in the pictures here. I want to know about them.”
The kid’s golden jaw dropped. Ylo was not acting as impish soldiers were supposed to act.
“The places they represent… and the artists… and when they were acquired.” That ought to do it. He could tell Shandie to expect the report in a day or two.
The assistant deputy curator gulped. “Of course, Signifer. The mountain scene to the left of that door is a view of the Mosweeps from Jedmuse, painted in oil on canvas by Jio’sys and acquired by confiscation of the estate of Duke Yllipo in 2995. The one to the left…”
Elves were fanatics at performing duties, and this one proceeded to reel off information like a human cyclopedia. Grudgingly impressed, Ylo listened as the catalog unrolled. Barely pausing for breath, the curator continued until he reached the only one that held any interest at all for his audience.
“The seascape is a fanciful rendition of the royal vessel Golden Swan in tempera, depicted by the artist Jalon, commissioned by Emthar II in the year 2936 —“
“The place!” Ylo said. “That castle? Where is it?”
The elf stuttered. “I think it is just a fantasy background, Signifer. The catalog gives no detail on that.”
“No inscription on the frame, or the picture?”
“No, Signifer.”
“Ah. Excuse my interruption. Pray continue.”
The trail had ended. The rocky island was not a fantasy—any more than Princess Eshiala was a fantasy—but the only way to identify it would be to ask the artist. The painting had been acquired sixty years ago. The artist must be long in his grave by now.
The deputy curator was waxing enthusiastic about the Ambel farm scene when a voice intruded.
“Ylo!”
Ylo swung around. The door had opened and the prince himself was standing there. His dark eyes blazed with a fury such as Ylo had seldom seen in them. Ylo strode forward at once. Behind him, the court stood aghast at the sight of the prince imperial acting as his own footman… And ignoring the wife he had not seen for more than two years.
6
They crossed a small hallway and entered another room, bright and large and cluttered. Ylo took in no detail but one—a gangling old man sprawled forward on a table, his face on his arms. The back of his head was smooth as a skull, splotched with brown patches like lichen on an ancient rock, fringed with straggles of white hair. His rope-thin neck protruded from a collar far too large. Without question, it was the imperor himself, and he was apparently sobbing.
Shandie slammed the door behind him and headed straight to the side of his chair. “Grandsire, I have the honor to present —“
“No!” howled a broken, ragged voice. “No, no! Take him away. I won’t look!” He twisted his head to the side and raised his arms as a fence to hide behind. The sleeves of his doublet fell back to reveal wrists like yellow twigs.
Shandie turned his furious gaze on Ylo again. “His Majesty has accepted that certain injustices have been done. He acknowledges that there was absolutely no evidence against yourself in the matter and that… that certain others may not have been granted a fair trial.”
Ylo gasped aloud and his world reeled. Not revenge, but retribution?
“The titles, of course, can be restored,” Shandie said, his voice hard and very loud, “and purged of ignominy. Some of the estates have been sold; some consolidated with other properties. The Dukedom of Rivermead itself is available and others can be added—including any that have particular sentimental value to you, of course. You will be granted an honorable discharge, with the rank of legate. You will be one of the largest landowners in the Impire.” He paused, studying Ylo’s reaction. “As liege of Rivermead, you will hold in gift five or six seats in the People’s Assembly and may appoint yourself to one of them, if you wish. Dukes are automatically appointed to the Senate, but senatorship is normally restricted to persons who have reached the age of thirty. The Senate would doubtless consider this a special case, if so requested.”
He meant ordered, of course. Ordered by the imperor.
Emshandar whimpered, but he had twisted away in his chair and did not look around.
Restitution? Vast wealth… Ylo would own personally much of what had previously been shared by many.
Retribution! By signing the warrants, Emshandar would be publicly acknowledging his injustice. Small wonder the old monster was sniveling like a whipped child! Utter humiliation!
Shandie was waiting.
Ylo knew the man as he knew his own fingernails. There was more to come.
“Or?”
A hint of something else dulled the anger for a moment, perhaps a flicker of admiration for Ylo’s perception. “Look at this,” the prince said, dropping his voice. He stalked over to the far side of the room and Ylo staggered after him, shaking as if he had been clubbed. Wealth! Power! Women galore!
Shandie gestured at a table. There, clearly, was the real cause of his rage. It was heaped head-high with books and scrolls. Baskets and boxes full of papers filled the space below it and flanked it on either side. Dozens lay loose on the rug also. Thousands of them, in all, a mountain.
“Look at it! Just look at it!” The prince’s voice was soft, yet bitter as lye. “And this is only the priority stuff! Many of his staff have died and never been replaced. The rest are all as old as he is and they’re so terrified of him now that they won’t sharpen a quill without his say-so. It must have been piling up for months. Half the army is waiting for its pay… judgments to be approved, promotions, laws
awaiting signatures… Gods! I don’t know what all may be in here.”
Then he looked at Ylo, who did not know what to say, or what was expected of him.
He was appalled by the pile of documents. It would be a nightmare to sort out. Everything would have to be catalogued, because one half would contradict or supersede the other half. Even if they could be approved and issued, there would not be enough couriers in the Impire to deliver them.
“I have lived too long!” wailed the ancient invalid at the far end of the room. “Let me die!”
Shandie raised his voice again. “I told his Majesty that I only knew one man in the realm who could ever straighten out a mess such as this.”
And his eyes threw the challenge right at his signifer.
“I… I can’t do both!”
“No, you certainly can’t do both!”
It was obvious. Even if a duke could be a clerk—which he couldn’t—to take over a property like Rivermead and perhaps others would be a full-time task. Ylo would be busy for years to come just running his own estates, no matter how many managers he might hire. He could not do both.
And Rivermead was a long way from Hub.
At times Shandie was totally incomprehensible. Why offer a man the world and then expect him to take on a mind-crippling ordeal instead? He must think that Ylo was crazy.
“I don’t understand! I’m still a soldier. If you want me to clean up this stable, then you can order me to do it!”
A strange look came over the prince’s face. “Yes, I could.”
Duke Yllipo! Duke of Rivermead! One of the largest landowners in the Impire. An old and honored name.
It was not fair!
In the background, the imperor howled. “Give his pigswill dukedom and get him out of here!”
Shandie shrugged, turning away restlessly. “You need time to think about it.”
“No, sir,” Ylo said hoarsely. “The Senate can wait.”
The prince’s face lit up with disbelief. “You’ll do it? You’ll try? The Powers know it’s a hellish awful job…” He glanced at the monstrous pile. “I don’t even know where you can start.”
