“Only a glass of wine, your crown, to settle me.”
Elad walked to a nearby table, opened a decanter, and himself poured Bumathis a cupful.
“Calm yourself,” he told that man. “I owe you, perhaps, my life. I had hoped that one honest man would come forward. You are the man, and for your bravery, you will get what you deserve.”
“Highness.” Bumathis bowed, stood, and placed his right fist over his heart, then to his forehead—an ancient gesture of fealty.
“Do you wish the Khamars to escort you home?”
“I wish only my coat and hat and staff, and then an alley out of the way to get me home and beyond all ears.”
“Go, then.”
Bumathis dressed himself again, took one more sip of wine, bowed deeply to Elad, and allowed the Khamars to walk him out.
When he was gone, Elad knocked his fist three times on a table, and Abgarthis stepped out of a nearby closet.
Elad faced him. “As you said would happen. Does he speak the truth?”
“Yes. He is as honest as we can reasonably expect a man to be, and he is the spokesman because he and the others drew lots. Bumathis is not a leader. He and the others were cowed by Umothet when your father was king, but Evarris kept them on a chain. Now they seek to break the chain.”
“Something will be broken,” Elad promised the elder. “I’ll order Umothet taken now.”
“No, wait,” Abgarthis advised him. “Give him a day or two. I surmise that they will embolden themselves as they see you busy yourself with trivial lists and distractions. Let out the chain sufficiently to wrap them in it securely when they suspect it least.”
“Thank you. This is why I need you.”
“You will learn,” Abgarthis told him, “the gods willing. Your father learned.”
“There is much to learn.”
“Always,” Abgarthis said to him.
* * * *
There was an obvious attitude of relief among the councilors that morning when Elad assured them that his decision to banish Prince Cyrodian was final and irrevocable. The young king insisted that his decision in no way reflected a leniency of the throne toward criminals, nor did it mean that hereafter justice could be bought or sold by threats, importunities, or bargaining of any sort. Elad emphasized that, because many viewed the events of the past week as a prelude to crisis or disaster, he had taken his action solely to keep the ship of state upright in a bad storm and on a straight course.
A spontaneous round of applause, led by the effusive Lord Umothet, greeted the proclamation. And then the council set to business.
Umothet was the first to raise the question of who would mastermind the banishment of Cyrodian; security was uppermost in his mind, he claimed. Elad replied that measures had been taken to ensure that Cyrodian’s escort to the border of the kingdom (in which direction, he did not say) would be handled secretly and strictly by a squadron of men handpicked by himself. This statement naturally segued into a discussion of the many insincere persons who, it was known, dallied daily in the halls of the palace. These ministers of misfortune, Umothet opined, sought to sow seeds of discord even as Elad struggled to lay the foundation for his new government.
“My lord,” Umothet offered, holding out a scroll he had brought with him. “I have taken the liberty of drawing up a list of names for your benefit. I think—”
A chorus of enraged voices erupted.
Elad leaned forward. “Do you think this wise, Umothet?”
“My lord?”
“If it is your honest intention to help me weed my garden, this is fine. But I think you seek to make me a lackey to your own ambitions. Those names are—”
“Not so, King Elad!” the councilor protested self-righteously. “I would never do such a thing! If I gain favor from you for performing a service—well, this is my duty, is it not? But these names I culled from a memory of long experience in the affairs of this court!”
“Long experience?”
“I have served seven years in this chamber.”
Subdued laughter lifted from some seats; there were men in that room who had held their positions since before Umothet’s birth.
“I believe you attempt to do me, and members of my royal staff, a disservice, Lord Umothet. A disservice and an injustice,” Elad reprimanded him.
“I did not mean to.” Umothet sincerely sounded hurt.
Abgarthis, watching him, fought to hold back a grin.
“My king, believe me when I say—” But Umothet cut himself short then and, in a dramatic gesture, applied one end of his scroll to an oil lamp that was burning near him on the table. The flames quickly ate at the paper, but Umothet held onto it, as if daring the fire to bite him, displaying his discipline to all in the chamber.
Finally someone grunted in alarm, and only then did Umothet cast the scroll of flames from him. He dropped it onto the stone floor, where the last of it burned into black fragments.
“Do you believe me now?” he demanded of Elad. “I curry no favor that anyone else would not, and I have not forced this list upon you. But let this suffice to indicate how dire I feel the emergency is, that you…weed your garden of backstabbers and sycophants.”
Elad was amused by this show, but he reminded those in the chamber that he himself would draw up his own list in purging his government. He glanced quickly at Bumathis as he said this, glanced at him as he surveyed the room, and then told his ministers and councilors, “I would adjourn this chamber for several days. I wish to review the current state of what my father has left me. My hope is that you good men will retire, as well, to reflect upon what might be the best course for the empire, now that I am the throne. We will convene here once more in seven days. Kale Athadis im Porvo!”
May Athadia live forever. The sentiment was repeated by forty-two voices in that room and continued to echo as the powerful councilors made their way outside.
Elad watched them. Abgarthis watched them. Both saw that certain men moved to Umothet’s side as they went, saw that Umothet greeted them with smiles, and saw Umothet proudly display to them his burned hand as they left to conduct their own private affairs.
* * * *
That evening was the first time in many evenings that Abgarthis saw his young king smile as he sat at his supper. They dined together, as Elad had requested, and Abgarthis commented on Elad’s favorable mood.
“Well,” he said, “I am spending long days drawing up the lists of my purge, am I not?”
“Long lists, indeed,” Abgarthis replied. “How many on our long list? Ten? Eleven?”
“No more than that if what your ears and tongues in these halls and on the street tell you is the truth.” He sighed and wiped his mouth with a napkin. “I want to see Umothet and his troublemakers put down,” Elad admitted. “I have done many wrongs, adviser. Perhaps I can begin to do good by doing this. Let them think indeed that my list is a very long one.”
* * * *
“What does it mean?” Orain wondered aloud when she heard of what had happened in the council chamber.
She was with Adred in the eastern gardens outside the palace. It was early in the evening, and Orain was not hungry, so she had decided to stroll among the blossoms and the trees. Adred, relaxing after his own early supper, had found her there.
His attitude was as grim and perplexed as hers. “It means,” he conjectured, “that Elad is determined to be the king and not simply act the king. But if he means to purge his offices of troublemakers, he’ll have more work to do than he can manage. I wonder how Abgarthis is reacting to all of this.”
Orain shook her head. “I haven’t spoken to him in days. He may still consider Elad a criminal. They talk, I know that.”
“It doesn’t feel safe to me,” Adred confided to her. “I had hoped—” He paused.
She looked at him. “What, Adred?”
“Orain—I’m going back to Sulos. To see Mantho, my friend. To clear my mind and put things in perspective.”
<
br /> “I understand. That would be a good thing, yes.”
“I wish you’d come with me.”
She was surprised at his offer.
“You and Galvus,” he urged her. “We can stay a month at Mantho’s villa—spend two months if we want to. Just for the change. When things have settled themselves here, we’ll return. It might help us.”
“And my husband still lives,” Orain continued, staring at the brick walkway. “I saw him today. They took him—chained to his horse—to banish him.…”
Adred said nothing.
“And I’m still married to him, aren’t I?”
“Only if you believe so. Otherwise, none think that. Not after this.”
She considered it. “You may be right.” She reflected on it in the falling dusk. “Adred!” She almost laughed, then. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
“No, what?”
“You’re exactly right! I’ve had this picture of myself moping around here, just walking around, feeling useless. But you’re right. It would be good. I haven’t been to the Uplands in years.”
“It’d be good for Galvus, too.”
“Yes, yes.” She stood and looked down at him, still holding his hand. “You’re a good friend.”
He smiled.
“Give me another few days—all right?” Orain suggested. “To arrange some things—just to get ready.”
“Of course.”
“No wonder—” she gripped his hand strongly “—no wonder Dursoris thought so highly of you.”
“Did he?”
“He missed you—missed all the good times you two had together, before he started studying the law and you began traipsing around the world.”
“Traipsing? I traipse?” The image amused him.
“Maybe he was jealous.” Orain grinned at Adred. “He used to say that you had some sweet young blossom in every port from Sulos to Pylar.”
Adred acted shocked. “Not true! Besides—” looking at Orain in the last golden light of the day “—I can’t imagine Dursoris being jealous of me.”
He said it, and then realized what he’d said as he did so. It embarrassed Orain slightly, and she let her hand slip from his. “Anyway,” she mumbled. “In a few days.…”
“Yes,” he nodded. “In a few days.…”
* * * *
A few days.…
The assassination galley had traveled fleet upon the waters, lent speed by its slim design and its limited crew—twenty seamen and a squad of hired murderers, soldiers loyal to one badge and one officer only: Prince General Cyrodian. Hrux.
As the sun died, melting like boiling metal upon the distant rim of the world, the killers sighted Lady Yta’s bireme ahead of them, flying the golden pennant of the lion and the crown. The galley closed in, making no pretense about its intention to overhaul the merchanter and draw close to it. As night finally covered the ocean with a starlit blanket, the death ship came close enough for voices to be exchanged.
“Name yourself!” called the commander of the Khamars on board Yta’s bireme.
“News from the capital!” came the reply. “News from King Elad, concerning Prince Cyrodian! Word for Lady Yta!”
The Khamars were suspicious, but Yta herself ordered them to furl their sails and pull about into boarding position.
The death galley lifted oars and rolled close.
As it drew up beside Lady Yta’s bireme, grappling lines were thrown out and launches lowered. The pilot of the killer ship held his wheel solid as the vengeful soldiers crossed the black waves to the merchanter and clambered up its sides.
“What word?” asked the chief of the Khamars, disgruntled to see such a sizable company of swords intruding upon his decks.
They lined up, two deep, on the boards, against the gunwales. Their leader announced to Yta and the gathered guard, “Word from the capital for our lady.”
Yta nodded to him. “What word, commander?”
He produced from beneath his short cape a long scroll. “Word from Prince Cyrodian, Lady Yta.”
Her brows deepened. In the moonlight, her eyes betrayed her concern. “Word…of death?” she asked doubtfully.
“Aye,” answered the soldier. “Of death.”
He lunged forward with the scroll, plunging one end of it into Yta’s bosom. The parchment tore free, revealing the silver blade of a sword. Yta gasped, fell away, and held her chest.
The Khamars howled furiously and reached for their weapons, but Cyrodian’s loyal killers were upon them before many could move in their own defense. The guards found themselves outnumbered, and the crew of the bireme were unarmed—a precaution ordered by Yta herself, in view of her destination. The Holy Isle was not a place for the indiscriminate display of weapons.
The lady dropped to the deck, and points of sharp metal sank into her.
Screams and cries of anguish lifted into the night, and blood flowed—more blood.…
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
Elad sat at a table in his apartment. Books were open before him, but he was thinking of ripples in a pool of water. Raising his head, he glanced at a marble bust of his father on a pedestal by the balcony.
A servant tapped on the outer door, and when Elad commanded him to enter, the young man led Abgarthis in, then retired.
Abgarthis bowed slightly and placed a roll of papers on the table beside Elad. “Prepared for your signature and seal.”
“Thank you.” But Elad did not immediately open the papers to review them. “I have been looking at my father,” he said, and nodded across the room.
“And?” Abgarthis said.
“Thinking of him and his court. Abgarthis, you have spent all your years in service to kings and aristocrats and landed lords, yet you have never to me seemed eager for power. You feel the moon and the sun suffice, I know, but you have never sought to usurp control even of a kitchen, let alone a throne hall. I am feeling my own power, I think, and I’m glad I can trust you, but I wonder why.”
“Do you, truly?”
“Yes, certainly.”
“It is because, King Elad, I have seen what power does. I have seen the two sharp edges to every sword. I have seen how power controls men and how it attains its ends as if it had a life of its own. And it struck me long ago that what comes from the use or misuse of power would have come just as well from any other means or by another method, and would have come by those ways better. But because the world is made as it is, and we as we are, there is indeed power, and there are pretenders to the seats of power. You are the outward symbol of power, and the world sees it; yet I ask you this: Do you think I am unpowerful? Why should I rule the kitchen when I have access to it every day, whether I rule it or not? I am still a man in the kitchen, and more easily able to digest my food, it seems to me, when I can enter the kitchen without being lord of it.”
Elad pondered the words and countered with the only argument to this that had ever haunted Abgarthis. “But what if, councilor, your access to the kitchen were taken from you?”
Abgarthis nodded carefully. “That,” he said, “is why we have law.”
“That, my friend, is why I am lord of the kitchen. That is why I intend to have and maintain power. I am lord of the kitchen and of my country. But here is a troubling thought, Abgarthis. What is a country without its king?”
“It is still a country, Elad. But what is a king without his country? Is he still a king, and a power?”
Elad pondered the words. And later in the evening, as others in the palace settled in to listen to music, or went to worship at the temples, or began to bet money on cards or games of usto, or cajoled servant girls into side rooms for quick moments of joy—as life, then, went on in the palace—Elad retired to a divan in an antechamber of his apartment, poured himself a full cup of wine, and began to read.
And continued to read for long hours into the night, from bound volumes he had taken from his murdered brother Dursoris’s chamber.
“But what if, councilor,
your access to the kitchen were taken from you?”
“That is why we have law.”
“That is why I am lord of the kitchen.”
Lord of the kitchen, Elad thought, and a king intent on keeping the country of which he is king.
Yet it would no doubt have astonished Abgarthis (a man for whom astonishment seemed as ancient as memories of the crib) to discover that King Elad was now spending every night private to himself with the notebooks his earnest brother Dursoris had kept while serving for seven years in the imperial courts of law.
Elad, criminal, young king, bitter in his heart, feeling it needful and somehow wise to posture, incite, or intimidate— Elad, young king, trying hard, every night, to master the good law codes of the throne, even as he tried to master himself.…
* * * *
Umothet, restless, sat on the patio outside his apartment in the capital. The bells from the temple nearby proclaimed midnight. Promptly upon the striking of the hour, there sounded a knock on one wall of the breezeway leading to the patio.
Lord Umothet stood. He reached to his belt—merely a gesture, but it placed his fingers nearer his decorated dagger if such expediency proved necessary.
“Speak your name,” he hissed toward the breezeway.
“I am a shadow.”
Umothet breathed relief. “Come forward.”
Into his garden stepped a short man, his visage unclear beneath the wide hat that he wore. He made a sign to Umothet as he drew close.
“What word of the riders?” the councilor asked him.
“Late this evening, your honor, they reached a small village this side of the Sevulus. They head eastward.”
“Indeed. And left by the southern gate. Elad is not so crafty.… How does Prince Cyrodian fare?”
“My lord, the prince is the butt of jokes, but he is a soldier. He is well; they feed him—he is well.”
Umothet nodded appreciatively at this word. “And our man is still with them?”
“With them and unknown to the others. This information came from him.”
Lord Umothet moved his hand—away from his knife, toward an inner pocket of his light tunic. He withdrew a heavy, full pouch and passed it to the intruder. “Cyrodian’s gold.”
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