“We never have any,” the sultan said, “but I suppose they lack the divine authority of the blood?”
“Right. Also, governments must often do unpopular things, and a newcomer will always blame the previous administration. So Ythbane is in a difficult position. He must rule for Emshandar until he dies — it can’t be long — and then, if he has not already become too hated, he can hope to become regent for the prince, until he comes to his majority. By historical precedent, the young imperor will then repudiate his former guardian and turn on him. The history books are full of such cases.”
He chuckled. “So do not be too hard on the man! A regency is a thankless and dangerous job.”
“What I don’t like,” Eigaze said suddenly, “is how he keeps dragging the old man out to every function and putting him on display like a stuffed corpse!”
Her father blinked at her in astonishment. “Now who is indulging in dangerous talk?”
“Well, it’s true! And that poor little prince!”
“Careful! A prince must learn early. He will succeed in … what … eight years only? And the presence of the imperor lends authority. Don’t repeat those remarks to others, Eigaze!”
His daughter flushed and turned to the window. Inos caught Azak’s eye, but it was unreadable. Obviously Epoxague was a Ythbane supporter, the sort of canny politico who would always be found on the winning side.
And it was none of Inos’s business. If the appeal to Four could be arranged, she might find herself back in Arakkaran within days, properly married to the sultan and legally ex-Queen of Krasnegar.
And Rap would still be dead. Neither wardens nor gods could undo that.
She, also, turned to look out the window.
2
Never before had Inos seen a truly large crowd, and she found it scary. Half a league from the Campus, the coach was blocked completely. The senator and his guests were forced to proceed on foot, with their Praetorian Hussars striving to open a path for them. The crowd’s temper was brutal, because most of those who had come were not going to see the spectacle. Crested helmets of legionaries showed all around, yet even they could not shift the struggling, rumbling sea of people, for it was solid as pack ice, with nowhere to go. Inos was well aware that any minute one of her guardian horses might trample someone and thereby spark a riot. The short walk took well over an hour.
But the Imperial army was still the most efficient organization in Pandemia, and the imperor’s compound had been demarcated and fortified as if to withstand a full-blown siege. The entire Praetorian Guard seemed to be present, bright and deadly, an unbroken cordon of steel and bronze and muscle.
Their leader was a weatherbeaten tribune, who saluted Epoxague smartly and only then registered Azak beside him. The expression that at once overran his face impressed Inos as the most memorable event of the day so far.
Greatly relieved to be out of the crush, the newcomers climbed the grassy slope, to find more guards at the top, and many civilians, but nobody very happy. A canopy of purple leather flapped mournfully over a portable throne and a dozen or so chairs. Despite a damp smell on the wind, no rain had fallen yet.
Before them lay the field, larger than Inos had anticipated. Except for two small tents at east and west, the grassy oval was bare, outlined by a solid ring of soldiers with arms locked, struggling to hold back the throng that covered the bank. Plumed hussars rode slowly around within the cordon, directing the effort.
Latecomers would be fighting to climb up on the outside, those on the flat crest were pushing inward to the edge to get a decent view, while the early birds on the inner slope were being relentlessly forced down against the human fence. Inos was very glad she was not out there among the squirming, heaving, cursing citizens of Hub.
Even the lowering sky seemed to threaten disaster. Already there were rumors of citizens being crushed. Expected festival was turning into probable calamity.
More dignitaries and important guests continued to arrive, standing then in despondent talk, grumbling about the unruliness of the common herd. Many of them seemed disheveled, their opulent cloaks fussed and rumpled.
Inos stood as close to Azak as she ever dared get, ignoring the curious stares being directed at the two of them, wondering how the paint on her face was holding up. Eigaze was pale and oddly taciturn, Epoxague was smiling and nodding to acquaintances — yet discouraging conversation and the obvious curiosity about his astonishing djinn companion. Pages circulated with refreshments.
An hour or so dragged by and noon was nigh when a fanfare announced the arrival of the regent. Inos forgot her troubles and watched in growing excitement. The limp figure in the carrying chair was obviously the old imperor himself, a wasted hank of cloth and bone, and now Inos understood Eigaze’s disgust. That pitiful relic should be dying in peace somewhere, in a comfortable bed. She wondered if he was being deliberately abused to hasten his end, but just to pose the question would be sedition.
And then came the royal family, led by Regent Ythbane himself. He was short and lean and pale-skinned. His cloak was of purple velvet, trimmed with ermine, spangled with imposing orders and bright sashes. There were enough miscellaneous jewels in his osprey-plumed hat to qualify it as a crown. He moved with a studied grace, nodding and smiling to the courtiers’ bows. Even at a distance, Inos felt his charm and his authority. When he reached the inner slope of the bank and was visible to the crowd, he stopped and stood at attention for the imperial anthem. The ensuing cheer sounded thin from so large a congregation.
Princess Uomaya was a disappointment, running to plumpness, almost blowzy. She also was decked out in purple, but it did not flatter her complexion and she was not wearing the garments as well as their cut deserved. Ten years ago she might have been a wondrous beauty, or even five years ago; but she had let her face sag into a permanent expression of defeat and resentment.
The small boy with them was whey-faced and puny, his legs thin as broomsticks within his hose. He was strangely subdued and much less interested in events than seemed right for a child of his years. Now Inos saw why Eigaze had called him a “poor little prince.” Uomaya had a chair beside the throne, the boy stood on the regent’s other side, staring out blankly at the empty field.
Obviously the marquis had passed the message, for Ythbane was barely seated before his eyes searched out the senator. They narrowed ominously at the sight of the djinn.
A curly-haired page came running to Epoxague, who nodded to Azak and began working his way through the throng. Inos followed with her heart starting to pump. Every girl in Pandemia dreamed of being presented at the imperor’s court one day. She had been no exception, but she had always visualized the kindly old imperor in a great shiny ballroom, not this muddy grass and a substitute who seemed to be half regarded as a usurper, seated on a rather ugly thing of gilded wood under a low-slung leather canopy.
The closer courtiers reluctantly made way for the arrivals. Ythbane’s face was dark with suspicion. “Senator! We were advised that you had something important to tell us?” The accompanying expression was warning that it had better be good.
“Your Imperial Highnesses!” Epoxague bowed to the regent and then to his wife. The onlookers watched him with calculating eyes. “First, I have the honor to present a distant relative, who arrived at my house unexpectedly last night — his Majesty Azak ak’Azakar ak’Zorazak, Sultan of Arakkaran.”
Azak removed his hat in impish style, but then he doubled over in one of his djinn gymnast’s bows.
The regent flushed angrily. “An emissary, your Eminence? This is neither the time nor the place!”
Epoxague, Inos noted with surprise, was nervous. “No, your Highness! His Majesty visits the City of the Gods merely to invoke the Right of Appeal to the Four.”
Ythbane was clearly surprised, and yet perhaps relieved that his war was not imperiled. He glanced at some of the onlookers — advisors, likely — and then made a fast decision. “That right is enshrined in our oldest
traditions, your Majesty.” He relaxed his frown. Epoxague had dropped a hint earlier that a mere regent might enjoy boosting his personal prestige by showing how he could invoke the great occult council. Perhaps that calculation was going on now in Ythbane’s obviously quick wits. “We shall enjoy hearing of your petition very shortly. If it meets the requirements of the Protocol, then we shall fulfill our ancient responsibilities and facilitate your suit.”
And then he noticed Inos. No djinn, she! His eyes narrowed again.
“‘First’, you said, Senator?”
“Second, your Majesty …” Epoxague drew a deep breath and glanced around as if to make sure than Inos was still there and had not been magically transported to some far corner of the world. “Your noble predecessor was badly misinformed. This lady is the wife of Sultan Azak, Sultana Inosolan of Arakkaran … ”
Ythbane began to shape a formal smile, and stopped abruptly.
“… and also a distant relative of mine … and also the rightful Queen Inosolan of Krasnegar.”
“You are joking!” the regent said flatly.
“I fear not, your Majesty. She is, as you can see, very much alive. Reports of her death appear to have been ill-founded.”
The regent, his wife, the courtiers within earshot … stunned silence … shocked glances …
Ythbane was the first to recover. “Can you prove your claim, ma’am?”
Inos rose from her curtsy and faced him squarely. “I will make it before the wardens, should your Highness so desire. Or before any other sorcerer who can detect falsehood.”
Ythbane’s lips moved in silence. Then he turned his head and bellowed, “Ambassador Krushjor!”
An elderly, massive jotunn shouldered his way through the crowd. He wore a metal helmet and a long fur cape, clasped at the throat and gaping to display the silver-furred chest below it … Nordlanders spurned shirts. His blue eyes were blazing with fury.
“Your Highness?”
“Thane Kalkor must be advised that there is a third claimant to the throne of Krasnegar.”
The jotunn put his fists on his hips and the cloak gaped wider to reveal a jewel-encrusted belt buckle and crude leather breeches. “The Reckoning must proceed. Once a challenge has been uttered, there is no way to withdraw it.”
Ythbane’s pale cheeks flushed again. “But Duke Angilki may very well wish to recant his claim.”
“He made it falsely. He must suffer the consequences.”
Epoxague said, “But …” and then fell silent.
The regent turned to look at the vast crowd ringing the field. It was growing impatient, its voice a menacing undertone of anger, like some restless sea monster wakening in the deeps.
And at that moment a man in a red cloak emerged from one of the tents and raised a trumpet to his mouth.
“Stop him!” the regent shouted.
“I can’t and you can’t!” the ambassador said. “With all due respect, your Highness, here you are merely another spectator at a sacred ceremony.”
The brazen notes of the challenge came drifting over the campus, and the crowd noise died. The mounted patrol cantered to the far end of the field, then lined up to watch the action.
Ythbane shot a glare of fury at Inos, and she stepped back hurriedly. The senator took her elbow and led her aside. He looked shaken. “Didn’t work!” he whispered.
“I am sorry,” she whispered. “Your kindness has brought you trouble.”
He shook his head angrily and muttered, “Never mind now.”
The Reckoning was going ahead. Was that good news or bad news for Krasnegar?
Everyone was watching the field. Another man emerged from the other tent to repeat the process. Red cloak flapping in the wind, he blew an answering refrain. Then they both stepped back inside.
“Is this what you saw in the casement?” Azak whispered, somewhere above and behind Inos.
“Roughly.” Why was there no rain, though? The sky was dull enough, but in the prophecy there had been rain falling.
The two contestants emerged simultaneously, each wearing only a fur wrapped around his loins. Kalkor was too far off for Inos to recognize, but his silver-gold hair and pale bronze skin were unmistakably jotunnish. The other was grotesquely bulky, with skin of a muddy mushroom shade, and he seemed to have a woolly beard, although she could not be certain at that distance. It was only when she compared him to the spectators on the banks nearby that she saw he was a giant, as meaty as an ox and perhaps even taller than Azak.
Behind the two contenders, the attendants reappeared, each bearing an ax. A painfully angular lump grew in Inos’s throat as she watched the ritual of transfer. She had foreseen Kalkor’s part of this ceremony in the magic casement’s vision.
Now there was no Rap there, being her champion.
And no rain falling. The casement had been a flawed prophet.
Kalkor swung his weapon up on his shoulder — as predicted — and went marching smartly across the grass. The troll shuffled forward to meet him, idly waving his own ax as if it were a fly whisk. The crowd murmured appreciatively.
Then the troll stopped and raised a tree-trunk arm over his head, spinning the huge weapon around like a baton to show how easy it was. The crowd rumbled and roared in delight. Mord of Grool, the favorite, was about to wreak justice on the murdering raider.
Kalkor had also stopped and was watching.
When the troll ended his display, Kalkor lowered his ax to touch its blade to the grass and then hurled it heavenward. It went spinning up, and up … higher even than the onlookers on the bank … it seemed to hang in the air … and then it began to fall, faster and faster. Kalkor reached out and caught it effortlessly, without needing to move his feet. The spectators groaned a low, grievous cry.
Could mundane human muscles have performed that miracle unaided? Inos knew just how heavy those axes were, because the casement had shown Kalkor straining to hold his out at arm’s length. Yet now he was suddenly able to perform circus stunts with it?
“Sorcery!” muttered the senator’s voice somewhere near Inos.
Nobody argued.
The two combatants began to advance again through the silence, more slowly this time, holding their weapons ready. They came to a halt just out of each other’s reach, and perhaps they spoke then, taunting each other.
The troll moved first, with unexpected agility. Wielding his ax like a saber to take advantage of his superhuman reach and power, he made a horizontal lunge at his opponent’s neck. Kalkor did not attempt to parry, nor was he foolish enough to attempt the same stroke — lacking Mord’s great bulk, he would have overbalanced at once. Instead, he skipped nimbly back, holding his ax in both hands athwart his chest. The troll followed, jabbing repeatedly with the great blade. Kalkor withdrew, staying out of reach. The crowd started to jeer.
This might go on indefinitely, Inos thought. Trolls were reputed to be tireless; they had been known to work until they dropped dead.
Kalkor did not wait for that to happen, and he struck so fast that Inos had to take a moment to work out what she had just witnessed, because she had not registered the movements. The thane must have ducked and sliced upward at the troll’s wrist and slipped away again before the ax could fall on him. She was not alone in her surprise — for an instant neither the onlookers nor Mord himself seemed to realize what had happened. Relieved of its burden, Mord’s arm had jerked upward of its own volition. The colossus just stood there, arm raised high, staring at his life’s blood hosing from the stump. Belatedly Inos closed her eyes and put her hands over her ears to shut out the animal howling rising from the spectators.
When she looked again, Kalkor was standing on the corpse, holding the great head in the air, rotating slowly so that all might see its face.
Azak whispered in her ear, “I always did want to visit the City of the Gods. We barbarians have so much to learn about civilization.”
3
“Give me Angilki!”
Kalkor had ar
rived at the base of the bank, as near to the throne as possible. He still held the great ax, and he wore the troll’s lifeblood as if it were an honor. Hair, face, torso — all were joltingly red on so drab a day. The centurion had already told his men to draw, and a cordon of swords stood between the blood-soaked thane and the slope. He looked madly angry, ready to scythe through them with his ax.
Leaning forward on the throne, the regent seemed scarcely less enraged. His scheme to rid the world of the raider had been a disastrous flop. “He is not here. He is in the infirmary.”
“Get him!” the thane screamed. “He should have been here! He must be fetched. He must be brought out to me so I can have my satisfaction!” He was rocking from foot to foot in his fury, barely in control of himself. “I demand his head!”
The legionaries were about as taut as longbows fully drawn. Inos had watched jotnar brawl on the streets of Krasnegar and she knew their frenzies, but she had never seen a true bloodlust before, a mad-dog ravening.
Rain was starting at last, in scattered, splashy drops. The crowd seemed to be easing back, although there were no gaps visible in it yet. The hussars were riding the lines again.
“You have won your contest,” Ythbane shouted. “You are not about to murder a sick man in cold blood.”
“You agreed to a Reckoning! Angilki must die!”
“Not if I can help it! There is another claimant to the throne of Krasnegar.”
That news worked a strange magic on the thane. His gibbering wrath vanished like a snuffed candle-flame. He stilled, and his eyes traveled over the group near the throne until they settled, eerily blue even at that distance, on Inos.
“Aha!” Now Kalkor yelled in glee, and tossed the ax over his shoulder like a pinch of salt — it traveled a good ten paces. Legionaries reeled aside as he stepped forward. He ran nimbly up the bank and angled over to Inos, coming to a halt so close to her that their toes were almost touching. She could not retreat, because Azak and Eigaze and the senator were all behind her, together with several other people. Else she might have fled, screaming. She tried not to cringe before the bloody killer.
A Man of His Word Page 137