Lord Torrut hadn't fled, of course; he was out there somewhere, trying every sort of trap, ambush, and delaying tactic he could improvise. Sarai was fairly sure that Captain Tikri was with him. And most of the magicians she had collected in the palace were taking shelter at various places in the city, on Wizard Street or elsewhere.
And of course, she was staying, herself—but where?
There was a temptation to remain in the palace after all, but to pretend to be someone else—borrow a maid's apron, perhaps, or join the assistant cooks in the kitchens. After all, as far as she knew, Tabaea had never seen her and wouldn't recognize her face.
That was too risky, though. Tabaea might have spies, or her unknown magic might expose the deception, or some innocent servant might slip up and reveal Sarai's rank.
No, Sarai knew she would have to find somewhere else—but where?
She realized she was still staring down the black and empty length of Palace Street, though the wagon was out of sight; she turned away with a wry smile.
Maybe, she thought, she should go to the Wall Street Field. After all, wasn't that where anyone in Ethshar went who had lost her home and been thrown out into a hostile world? And wouldn't it be appropriate, now that Tabaea's ragtag followers would be taking their places in the palace?
But it wasn't everyone from the Field who was marching with the self-proclaimed empress, and Sarai realized, with a bitter little laugh, that the Field was probably the place in all the city outside the palace where she was most likely to be recognized as Lord Kalthon's daughter.
The barracks towers in Grandgate would be almost as bad— and besides, a woman alone there would hardly be safe. Besides, Grandgate, or any part of Wall Street, was a long way from the palace. She wanted somewhere closer at hand, somewhere she could keep an eye on things, the way the magicians did.
The magicians were mostly on Wizard Street, of course—and not necessarily the closer sections, since for many their spells could serve them even at a distance.
She frowned. She was no magician, and she hardly belonged on Wizard Street. She had a little money with her—not much, but a little. Why not just take a room at an inn?
No, she told herself, that would be too exposed, would involve too much dealing with strangers, and at this hour, would be far too noticeable. Ordinary travelers didn't take rooms hours after midnight, did they?
A high, thin scream sounded somewhere to the northeast, on the other side of the palace. The shouting was much closer, and she could hear other noises, noises she couldn't identify. Tabaea must be almost to the palace, and here she was, still standing on the plaza across from Palace Street.
She stepped off the stone pavement onto the bare earth of Circle Street, and choosing her direction at random, she turned right—she didn't want to follow Palace Street, or even the fork for North Palace Street. She wanted to put distance between herself and the fleeing nobles.
The next turn off the circle was Nightside Street, and she passed that by, as well, and the next. Here her choice was largely pragmatic; both streets were utterly black and unlit, while closer at hand the glow from the windows of the palace spilled out over the outer walls and made Circle Street relatively navigable.
She could hear the hissing of fountains left running, out there in the darkened gardens and forecourts; the sound, normally pleasant, was turned sinister and menacing by the circumstances. Sarai wondered whether the wealthy inhabitants of the mansions of Nightside were aware of what was happening just a few blocks away. When they awoke in the morning, how long would it take them to realize that the World had gone mad, that their overlord had been deposed, and that a thieving young magician was ruling the city? Would Tabaea leave them alone, or would she pillage those mansions behind their iron fences?
Well, if Sarai had her way, Tabaea wouldn't have time to disrupt the city's life that much. And right now, Lady Sarai did not care to try finding her way through Nightside's unlit streets.
Sooner or later, despite the dark, Sarai knew she would have to move farther out into the city, away from the palace; she wished there was more natural light to help her. The greater moon was rising in the east, casting orange light on the rooftops, but not yet penetrating to the streets below, while the lesser moon was far down in the west, its pale pink glow of no use at all.
By the time she reached North Street the roar of battle was overpowering, and farther ahead, farther around the circle, she could see reflected torchlight and the shadowed backs of soldiers. North Street was no more brightly illuminated than the others she had passed, but she could scarcely go any farther around the circle if she meant to escape; she turned left onto North Street, despite the darkness.
And then, suddenly, she knew where she was going. She would go to Wizard Street, just three blocks away. She would go to Mereth's shop, Mereth of the Golden Door. Even if Mereth wouldn't take her in, surely the wizard would know of someone who would.
Now that she had a destination in mind, Sarai began to hurry.
Behind her, a man's dying scream sounded above the fighting. Sarai winced. It seemed so pointless, fighting Tabaea every step of the way like this; didn't Lord Torrut see that? He was letting his men die for nothing.
But there was nothing Sarai could do about it, not anymore. She fled down North Street.
The stub of a lone torch still burned unnoticed above a shuttered shop on Harbor Street; Lady Sarai glanced at it, grateful for the slight relief from the surrounding night. To see Harbor Street utterly empty and almost dark seemed very odd indeed; she had never before been out so late and never seen the streets so deserted.
Behind her, the shouting seemed to be fading away. By the time she turned left onto Wizard Street, she was no longer entirely sure whether she heard shouting, or the distant roar of the sea.
Here there were no torches, only whatever light moons and stars might provide, but Sarai could see that the door of Mereth's shop was shut, her signboard unlit. The shop windows were tightly closed, draperies drawn, but a thin line of light showed around the edges; it would scarcely have been visible were the street brighter, either with daylight or the glow of the evening's torches and lanterns.
Sarai hurried to the door and rapped gently on the gilded panels.
For a long moment, nothing happened; then, abruptly, the door was flung open. "Get in!" someone ordered.
Sarai obeyed, and the door slammed shut behind her, leaving Wizard Street once more dark and empty.
CHAPTER 26
The palace door was locked and barred, but Tabaea didn't mind; she braced herself against the paving stones of the plaza, put her shoulder to the brass-covered panels, and shoved with all her supernatural strength. The latch shattered, the brackets holding the bar snapped, and the twisted, ruined door swung open. Tabaea laughed and shouted, "Come on!" She waved to her followers; some of them surged forward, close on her heels, but others hung back, intimidated by the idea of intruding on the palace itself.
Tabaea stepped through the broken portal into a broad and shadowy marble corridor; somewhere far ahead light spilled through an archway, and the contrast of the distant glow with the surrounding darkness seemed to exaggerate the length of the passage.
Or did it? Tabaea was unsure; the palace was for larger than any other building she had ever been in. Perhaps the corridor really was that long.
The euphoria of her triumphant march from Grandgate faded quickly at the sight of the polished stone floor, the countless doors on either side, and a gleaming staircase barely visible in the dim distance. This hardly seemed to her like a part of her own familiar city, or like anything human at all. She had thought old Serem's house was almost offensively magnificent, yet this palace hall dwarfed anything in the wizard's home.
But it was hers now, she reminded herself. She sniffed the air, but that told her little; people had been through here recently, but were not here now. The faint familiar odors of furniture, of lamps and candles, and of polishing oil reached her, mingled
both with the smells of her followers and the street outside, and with scents she could not identify. No longer feeling particularly bold, she nonetheless put on a bold front and marched forward. Her footsteps tapped loudly on the shining marble, and echoed eerily from the stone walls.
Behind her came a score of the vagabonds and scoundrels who had followed her from the Wall Street Field; their feet, bare or slippered or wrapped in rags, did not make the sharp tapping her good new boots did, but slapped or scraped or shuffled. Like her, they were awed by what they saw; their shouting dropped to whispers that echoed from the stone, chasing each other back and forth along the passage.
"Where is everybody?" someone asked.
"Who do you mean?" Tabaea demanded, turning. "Who did you expect here? We fought the city guard in the streets!"
"I mean the people who live here," the beggar said. "The overlord and his family, and all the others."
"Fled, probably," someone said. "Or cowering in then-beds. "
"Did you think they'd be waiting by the door to welcome us?"
Someone laughed.
"Come on," Tabaea said. She had intended to shout it, but somehow couldn't bring herself to do it; instead she merely spoke loudly. She turned forward and marched on down the corridor.
The doors on either side were mostly closed; a few stood ajar, but the rooms beyond were dark, and Tabaea did not bother to explore them. They passed arches opening into large dark rooms, and those, too, Tabaea hurried quickly by without further investigation. Three of her followers carried torches; they waved them in the open rooms to be sure no soldiers lurked in ambush there, but then hurried on after their leader.
Ahead, that lone light spilled its golden glow across gray marble floor, walls of white marble veined with gray, and Tabaea hurried forward to see where it came from.
The answer was a disappointment; a perfectly ordinary oil lamp, apparently forgotten by whoever had extinguished the others, burned atop a black iron bracket on the side of a pillar, lighting another passageway that ran crosswise to the one they were in. This other corridor, Tabaea saw, was not so inhumanly, perfectly straight, but instead curved away in the distance.
And it gave her a choice, and therefore a problem; which way should she go?
The left-hand passage curved to the right; the right-hand passage curved to the left. Whichever of the three she took, she would be proceeding deeper in toward the center of the palace— in which case, there was no reason to prefer one over the other. She marched on straight ahead.
Now that the light was all behind her, shining over her shoulders, she could see more clearly what lay ahead. The corridor continued another forty feet or so, then ended in a dark open space—she could not judge its extent, only that its walls and ceiling were out of sight. All she could see, beyond the corridor's end, was a set of broad steps leading up into the darkness, steps of polished yellow marble.
Where had the builders of this place gotten all this stone, Tabaea wondered; she hadn't known there was so much marble in all the World.
She marched on to the end of the passage; there she paused and looked around. She sniffed the air, but caught no suspicious odors.
To either side, walls began at right angles to the corridor, then curved away into darkness; ahead, under the great staircase, were walls and, she thought, doors. There were carvings in niches and statues standing on pedestals here and there—one stood on either side of the bottommost step. Everything was of stone, in white and gold and maroon.
She let her gaze drift up the staircase; she had expected the top to be utterly black, like the unlit hallway of an inn late at night, but instead there was a faint glow, and she thought she could make out vague shapes. There was a certain airiness about it, somehow, and a hint of the pastel colors of moonslight.
She considered a warlock light, but decided against trying it; she hadn't really learned how to do one properly yet, and she was very wary about overusing warlockry. Instead she waved the torchbearers back and let her eyes adjust. After all, she reminded herself, she could see as well as any cat.
She blinked and drew in her breath.
"Come on," she said, waving her little band forward and marching up the marble steps.
At the top she paused. The sensible thing to do would be to use the torches, but she couldn't resist the more dramatic gesture; she waved, and her warlock fire-lighting skill struck a hundred candlewicks. Golden light flickered, then blazed forth, and Tabaea stepped forward into the Great Hall of the Overlord of Ethshar of the Sands.
She stood on a broad floor paved in tesselated stone, a square floor a hundred feet across. Far above, the palace's immense dome curved gracefully through shadowed distance, too far up for the light of candles to illuminate it well; a hundred-foot ring of sixteen hexagonal skylights set into the dome gave a view of the stars.
Three of the four walls were broken at the center by a broad stair; Tabaea and company had just mounted one of these, the others lying to their left and directly across. To the right, the fourth wall had no stair, but instead an elaborate display of carvings, gilt, and scarlet draperies, all centered around an ornate golden chair on a wide dais. Magnificent golden candelabra, wrought in a variety of shapes, lined the walls to either side of this display, and it was these that now provided the light.
"The throne room," someone murmured, as Tabaea's followers emerged into this splendor.
"And the overlord's throne," someone else added, pointing at the golden chair.
Tabaea grinned, her enthusiasm suddenly returning.
"Wrong," she said, bounding gaily to the throne. She leaped up and stood for a moment on its scarlet velvet cushion, watching as the last few stragglers trickled into the room.
"This is not the overlord's throne," she proclaimed, "not anymore!" She paused dramatically, then slid down and seated herself properly. "This is my throne now," she said. "Mine! Tabaea the First, Empress of Ethshar!" She smiled—not at all a pleasant smile.
After a second's hesitation, the little crowd burst into wild applause.
As they cheered, Tabaea ran her hands along the arms of the throne, enjoying the feel of it; the arms were of solid gold, she thought, worn smooth by centuries of use.
Under one arm she found a loop; curious, she tugged at it. It yielded an inch or so, then stopped. She could have forced it, but decided not to; there was no point in breaking something before she even knew what it was.
It occurred to her belatedly that the loop might have been a trap, something intended to dispose of usurpers like herself, but if so, it obviously wasn't working.
She sat and looked out at the room, at the people cheering for her, at the dim soaring dome above, the shining stone floor, the gold ornaments and silken tapestries, and an immense satisfaction settled over her.
It was hers. All of it, hers.
At least for the moment.
She sniffed the air, sorting out the scents in the room. Nothing was very fresh; no one had been in here for at least an hour before her arrival. The throne smelled of an old man—Ederd IV, of course; wasn't he seventy or eighty years old? Tabaea had never paid much attention to politics.
However old he might be, he was still the only one who had sat in this throne—until herself, of course.
Others had come and gone, men and women of all ages. She could smell the cold stone, the dust on the tapestries, and the lingering scents of the overlord's courtiers. They had stood and knelt on that vast expanse of unfurnished floor. They had been there just that day, Tabaea was sure—but now it might as well have been a century ago, because they were gone, their overlord overthrown. It was all hers now.
She heard footsteps on the stairs, and leaped down from the throne, snatching the Black Dagger from her belt.
A woman was on the stairs; Tabaea could smell her. A woman was approaching, and she was frightened.
Tabaea's followers, the twenty or so that had made it this far, had heard nothing, sensed nothing, until they saw their l
eader jump from her throne and crouch, knife ready. Their babbling euphoria vanished; a few began to retreat toward the stairs by which they had entered, while the others stared nervously in every direction.
"What is it?" someone asked.
Then the woman's head came into sight as she ascended the staircase to the right, as seen from the throne—the side opposite where Tabaea had entered. By her expression, she was utterly terrified; she hesitated at her first glimpse of the new masters of the palace, then continued up the steps.
She wore a gold tunic and a skirt of dark red, almost maroon, with a white apron protecting the front; her long brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She was not particularly young, nor particularly attractive. She looked harmless; what's more, she smelled harmless. Tabaea relaxed somewhat, rising up from her fighting stance, but keeping the dagger ready in her hand.
At the top step the woman in the apron hesitated again, one hand on the rail. She looked over the ragged crew before her, then turned toward the empty throne and spotted Tabaea, in her fine embroidered tunic that was smeared with blood and pierced by holes and tears left by sword thrusts, and her long black skirt stained with mud from the Field.
The newcomer curtsied, catching her apron and skirt up and bobbing quickly.
Tabaea blinked; she had hardly ever seen anyone curtsy before, and certainly never to her. That was reserved for the nobility.
"Um… Your Majesty?" the woman said. "My lady? I'm sorry, I don't know how to address you."
Tabaea smiled. " 'Your Majesty' will suit me quite well," she said.
"Very good, Your Majesty. You rang for me?"
"I did?" Tabaea remembered the loop on the throne. "Ah, yes, so I did."
"How may I serve you?"
Tabaea sheathed her knife and stood as tall as she could on the dais. "You may begin," she said, "by explaining how you know who I am, and by telling me who you are."
The woman in the apron curtsied again. "My name is Ista, Your Majesty; I'm just a servant. I was on duty downstairs when you rang. As for knowing who you are, I don't know for certain, but we were told that the old overlord was fleeing because a great magician had declared herself empress, and he could not stop her. I assume you are she."
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