“Goat meat and lamb meat, if they can afford it,” said Caina. “Most people can’t. Rice and bread, otherwise. Lots of peppers. Most of Istarinmul’s land is desert, but Istarish peppers grow almost anywhere.”
“Nothing but coffee and peppers will put anyone in a foul mood,” said Claudia. “No wonder the Istarish nobles are so truculent. I think…” She looked up and smiled as Martin descended the stairs, flanked by Tylas and three other men of the Imperial Guard. Martin’s clothes were as stark and solemn as Claudia’s were bright. He wore the white shirt, long black coat, black trousers, and gleaming black boots favored by many of the high nobles of the Empire, a Legionary’s broadsword belted at his waist. His boots clicked against the mosaic of the floor, and he took his wife’s hand and kissed her cheek.
“You look lovely, my lady,” said Martin.
Claudia smiled, and this time there was nothing false about it. “And you look dashing, my lord.”
Martin snorted. “I shall settle for not looking like a fool. We should know whether or not I am successful before the night is out.” He looked Caina up and down. “Master Kyrazid, welcome. I am most pleased you could join us.”
Caina bowed for the benefit of the Guards and the passing servants. “The honor is mine, my lord.”
“Your counsel shall be welcome,” said Martin. “As shall your vigilant eye.” He glanced at Claudia, and she gave a tiny shake of her head. “I am pleased we have had no further unexpected guests.”
“Nor have I enjoyed any, my lord,” said Caina.
“Good,” said Martin. “Well, then. Shall we pay a visit to the Grand Wazir?”
###
Claudia sat in the coach, swaying with the motion of the horses, and peered out the windows.
“People are staring at us,” she said, uneasy at the thought.
It was just past dusk, and the streets of Istarinmul had mostly emptied. Yet there were still patches of people and horsemen upon the corners, or groups of slaves bearing sedan chairs. Every last one of them turn to gape at the coach with its four horses, flanked on either side by Imperial Guards in their black cloaks and purple armor.
“I suppose they have not often seen Imperial Guards,” said Martin. He sat on Claudia’s right, his left hand resting atop her right.
“Aye,” said Caina, gazing out the window. “I suspect they’re mostly staring at the coach. Coaches are rare in Istarinmul. Most nobles and Alchemists prefer to travel by slave-borne sedan chair. A coach like this would be intolerable under the noon sun.”
“Just as well we are going to dinner and not breakfast, then,” said Claudia.
“The Empire is an Empire of free men, not an Empire supported by slaves,” said Martin. “I refuse to be carried on the backs of enslaved men.”
“Well spoken,” murmured Caina.
Caina’s white robe, turban, and black beard did look ridiculous, but it was effective. Caina seemed no different than dozens of other minor nobles Claudia had seen during her time in Cyrioch. At the moment Caina seemed like a bored Cyrican noble, but Claudia knew that was a mask, just as much of an illusion as the invisibility of the Silent Hunters.
Perhaps beneath that mask lay nothing but a frozen wasteland. Certainly Caina showed no emotion whenever Claudia challenged her about Corvalis. Caina claimed to have loved Corvalis, but never seemed to show any grief over his death. Perhaps Corvalis had only been a tool to Caina, a weapon and a plaything.
Anger bubbled up at the thought.
Claudia pushed it aside. Now was not the time to dwell upon it. Not when she was about to walk into a stronghold of her enemies. The Grand Wazir and his nobles might not be her enemy yet.
But Cassander Nilas, magus of the Umbarian Order, already was.
“Here we are,” said Caina.
Claudia saw a massive wall of snowy white marble, the ramparts and the towers lined in gleaming gold.
The Golden Palace, the ancestral home of the Padishahs of Istarinmul for centuries.
The coach came to a stop. The Imperial Guards opened the door, and Caina got out first. Martin followed her. Claudia took his hand, and descended the narrow wooden steps.
The wall of white marble rose above, eighty feet high and almost impossibly bright. In daylight the Golden Palace had to be visible for miles. At night it would gleam beneath even the tiniest sliver of moonlight. A massive gate yawned in the wall, and beyond Claudia saw a vast courtyard dominated by a huge fountain with three tiers, water pouring from dozens of statues of naked women and muscular warriors.
The Court of the Fountain.
Armed men stood at the gate, armored in black steel plate and black chain mail. Scimitars and coiled chain whips rested at their broad leather belts. Each man wore a helmet of black steel, the faceplates wrought in the shape of grinning, fleshless skulls. A pale blue glow shone in the depths of the skull-masks, a side effect of the alchemical elixirs the warriors had consumed.
They were Immortals, the elite bodyguards of the Padishah and the Master Alchemists.
Claudia had never fought them, but both Caina and Martin had, and she saw the faint tension in Martin’s arms, saw his hand twitch toward the hilt of his sword. Caina’s face gave away nothing. Claudia felt the glowing blue gazes of the Immortals turn toward her, and for a moment she felt like a mouse pinned beneath the eyes of a hawk.
The Immortals stirred, and a group of them emerged from the Court of the Fountain. A tall man in his middle fifties led them, his expression stern. Despite his age, he looked strong and fit, and unlike many of the Istarish nobles, he wore the chain mail, boots, and trousers of a mounted soldier. His hooked nose was like the beak of a hunting bird, and he moved with the economical strides of a trained fighter.
“That’s him,” murmured Caina. “Erghulan Amirasku, Grand Wazir of Istarinmul.”
Claudia blinked. Caina claimed to have met the Grand Wazir twice before under different guises. She wondered if the Istarish nobleman would recognize Caina. If he did, that would be very bad.
“Lord Martin of House Dorius,” called Erghulan in High Nighmarian with a thick Istarish accent, stopping a half-dozen paces away, “Lord Ambassador of the Emperor of the Nighmarian Empire?”
“I am,” said Martin. “Might I presume that I have the honor of addressing the honorable Emir Erghulan Amirasku, the Grand Wazir of the Padishah of Istarinmul?”
“You do, my lord ambassador,” said Erghulan. Martin offered a bow to the Grand Wazir, and Caina followed suit. Claudia gripped her skirts and bowed as well. “Welcome to the Golden Palace.”
“I confess, my lord Wazir,” said Martin, “that I had not expected you to welcome us in person.”
Erghulan smiled. “In a few days’ time we shall formally present you to the court. This is merely a small, informal banquet that we might get to know each other better.” A cold glint came into his hard black eyes. “And your counterpart Lord Cassander, of course.”
Claudia realized that Caina’s estimation of the man had been right. He would enjoy setting Martin and Cassander against each other, would enjoy watching them fight to secure Istarinmul’s aid or at least neutrality.
Bastard.
“Might I know the names of your companions?” said Erghulan.
“Of course,” said Martin. “This is my wife Claudia.”
“A pleasure, my lady,” said Erghulan, bending over Claudia’s hand and planting a dry kiss upon her fingers.
“Master Kyrazid Tomurzu, a factor of the lords of Cyrica,” said Martin. Caina offered a deep bow, and Erghulan acknowledged her with a polite nod. Apparently Erghulan had indeed failed to recognize her. Either the Grand Wazir was not that bright, or Caina was that good at disguising herself.
“An honor, my lord Wazir,” said Caina in High Nighmarian. Gods, she even sounded Cyrican.
“Yes, of course,” said Erghulan, turning back to Martin. “Come, my lord. Let us walk together. The banquet will begin shortly. It is a small, informal affair, but it will be enjoyable
to talk first.”
“There are indeed many grave matters to discuss,” said Martin.
“Yes,” said Erghulan with a smile. He gestured, and they started towards the gate to the Court of the Fountain, the Immortals and Imperial Guards falling in around them. There were so many armed men that Claudia felt like she was in the middle of an army. “War and peace and the fate of nations. We live in tumultuous times, my friend. Indeed, just a few short years ago, you and I were on the opposite sides of the battlefield.”
“This is so,” said Martin. “The Istarish soldiers fought with valor.”
“As did the Legionaries, but more effectively,” said Erghulan, “which is why the Emperor now rules the Argamaz Desert and the Padishah does not.”
“Such were the terms for peace,” said Martin. Claudia wondered if Erghulan would demand the Argamaz back. Martin had been instructed not to concede any territory to the Padishah.
Erghulan laughed. “Fear not. We have no wish to reclaim the Argamaz. The Argamazi tribesmen are savage and unruly, and I wish your Emperor joy in ruling them. There are larger questions in play than merely wars and nations. The day of the golden dead proved that beyond all doubt.”
“Oh?” said Martin. “How so?” The golden dead had been one of the Umbarian Order’s justifications for the rebellion, claiming that only the Order’s sorcerous powers could prevent another such catastrophe. Claudia thought that rubbish. The Moroaica had raised the golden dead, and Claudia had seen the Moroaica’s sorcerous might. She could have crushed the Umbarians like insects.
“Perhaps a new era of mankind is upon us,” said Erghulan. “Perhaps all these wars and upheavals are merely the birthing pangs of a new and better mankind, a new and better world.”
“Your optimism cheers me,” said Martin, “but I will not believe in a new world of peace and harmony until I see it with my own eyes. Meanwhile, I must live in the world of Padishahs and Emperors and Shahenshahs, a world with the reality of war.”
“Of course,” said Erghulan, and they stepped through the gate and into the Court of the Fountain.
Claudia blinked, stunned despite herself.
If this was what Erghulan called a small banquet, she wondered what the Grand Wazir’s formal ceremonies of state were like.
The huge fountain occupied the center of the massive courtyard. Dozens of Istarish nobles and wealthy merchants in their fine robes moved through the courtyard, speaking with each other. Scores of slaves in gray tunics moved through the courtyard, bearing trays of food and drink. Female dancers whirled and gyrated at the edges of the courtyard, most of them wearing little more than feathers and gilded masks.
“A splendid celebration, my lord,” said Martin. Claudia was happy that he was not ogling the barely-clad dancers. An odd thing to consider, given the stakes at hand. “You honor me with this display.”
Erghulan made a dismissive gesture. “It is but a trifle.” His hard smile returned. “A suitable way for the Lord Ambassador of the Empire to meet his rival. Who, it seems, approaches even now.”
Claudia turned her head, saw the group of men walking towards her, and felt a flicker of fear.
###
Caina sensed the crawling pulse of sorcerous power and looked around, wondering if someone was casting a spell. Yet she saw no sign of any Alchemists, and Claudia was not casting a spell.
The sorcerous aura grew stronger, and a group of men circled around the fountain, their boots clicking against the gleaming marble.
They looked…mutilated.
The men wore close-fitting armor of overlapping steel plates, almost like the scales of a serpent. Their heads had been shaved and covered in an ornate maze of elaborate scars, plates of steel pressed to their jaws and temples. More steel bars ran down the sides of their arms, and Caina felt potent arcane power within them. After a moment, Caina realized why the men looked deformed.
The steel armor plates had been grafted to their flesh.
She looked at Claudia.
“Adamant Guards,” murmured Claudia. “The armor is fused to their flesh via sorcery. The spells give them inhuman strength and speed, and let them heal unnaturally fast.”
“Like the Immortals,” said Caina.
“Worse,” said Claudia. “The Immortals are murderous sadists. The Adamant Guards are as cold as their armor, keep their heads better in a fight. They…”
The steel-plated guards spread out, and in their midst walked one of the most handsome men Caina had ever seen. He had the cold, beautiful face of a marble statue, with bright blue eyes and long, ash-blond hair, currently tied back in a tail. He wore a long greatcoat of black leather with blood-red trim upon the collar and cuffs. The heavy garment ought to have been stifling in the heat, but the blue-eyed man looked comfortable and calm, his hands resting behind his back. Beneath the coat he wore a crisp white shirt with elaborate scrollwork upon the collar, black trousers, and black boots that had been polished to a mirror shine. Upon his chest rested a golden amulet wrought in the shape of a winged skull, the same sigil that the Silent Hunters had borne on their chests and the same sigil carved into the foreheads of the Adamant Guards. A broadsword rested in a scabbard at his belt, alongside a black dagger with a black-streaked emerald in the hilt…
No, not an emerald.
A bloodcrystal.
Caina felt the necromantic sorcery radiating from the thing. Each one of the Adamant Guards gave off a sorcerous aura, but the aura of multiple spells surrounded the black-coated man. Potent necromantic spells bound his dagger, several wards surrounded him, and Caina felt more spells upon his coat, likely imbuing it with the strength of steel plate armor and a resistance to arcane attack. Caina had sensed sorcerers with stronger arcane auras.
But not very many.
“Ah,” said Erghulan, his amused smile widening. “Our other guest of honor. My lord Martin, have you met Lord Cassander Nilas of the Umbarian Order?”
Cassander smiled and walked closer, his hands still tucked in the small of his back, his Adamant Guards following him. The Adamant Guards had dead, lifeless expressions, as if all the emotion had been drained from them. Cassander’s blue eyes roved back and forth, cold and hard.
“I fear not,” said Martin. “I only know of the rebel by reputation.”
Cassander’s smile never wavered. “And I know of you by reputation, Martin of House Dorius. It seems you have decided to throw your lot in with the doddering old Emperor and the archaic fools of the Imperial Curia, rather than follow my Order to the reform of the Empire.” His voice was cold and deep and carried a mocking edge.
“So many words,” said Martin, “to justify treason. It must grow exhausting.”
“Now, now,” said Erghulan. “There is no need for hostilities. This is, after all, the realm of the Padishah, not the Empire of the Emperor or the dominion of the Umbarian Order. I expect you will conduct yourselves with all dignity, my lords.”
“That will not prove a challenge,” said Cassander. “For me, anyway.”
He spread his hands. On his right hand he wore a gauntlet of black steel, a gauntlet that radiated the arcane aura of pyromancy, of sorcery that burned and devoured. A single red crystal rested on the back of the gauntlet, seeming to throb and pulse with its own inner light. A crimson bloodcrystal? Caina had seen blue, black, and green bloodcrystals, but never a red one. Perhaps it had something to do with how the Umbarians wielded pyromantic sorcery without descending into gibbering insanity.
“Nor for me,” said Martin. “A representative of the legitimate government of the Empire can always maintain his dignity before a rebel.”
“This way, my lords,” said Erghulan, gesturing towards the rows of tables at the other end of the Court of the Fountain. “We shall take our place at the high table, and the slaves will bring out the meal.”
The Grand Wazir started forward, his Immortals flanking him, and Martin and Cassander walked forward as well, Claudia upon Martin’s arm, both men eyeing each other. Caina fol
lowed after them, thinking of the ghostsilver dagger at her belt. Cassander’s wards and enspelled coat would turn aside any weapons of steel, but they would be useless against a ghostsilver weapon. Still, Caina did not think the Umbarian magus would attempt any violence within the Golden Palace.
She hoped.
“I confess, my lord Martin,” said Cassander, “that you surprise me.”
“Is that so?” said Martin.
“I would not have marked you as a hidebound traditionalist,” said Cassander. “Especially since Lord Corbould Maraeus is the Emperor’s strongest supporter, and brittle old Corbould has never forgiven you for making his son look bad during the last war. You ought to have sided with us. The Order has need of good men, and you can rise high in our service.”
“Whether or not Lord Corbould hates me,” said Martin, “has no bearing on whether or not the Emperor is the lawful ruler of the Empire. The Umbarian Order is guilty of rebellion and treason. A fact, my lord Wazir, I feel obliged to note to you. Given the Umbarian Order’s stated goal of overthrowing one legitimate monarch, I think it wise to warn your Padishah of the danger.” Cassander let out a mocking little laugh, but Martin kept talking. “If the Umbarians overthrow one lawful monarch, why not two?”
“That is a good point, my lord Cassander,” said Erghulan. “Tell me. Have I invited a serpent into my Padishah’s home? Will you seek to overthrow the Padishah and put Istarinmul under the rule of your Order, just as the magus-emperors ruled Istarinmul through puppet Padishahs in the days of the Fourth Empire?”
“Certainly not, Grand Wazir,” said Cassander, spreading his hands again. The gauntlet of black steel gleamed, the red bloodcrystal flickering. “We seek merely to bring order and reform to the Empire.” Claudia gave a contemptuous snort, and Cassander smiled at her. “The day of the golden dead proved that it is necessary for the Order to rule the Empire. Having the Imperial Curia elect an Emperor has proven an inefficient and cumbersome method of government. The Imperial Magisterium is worse than useless.” His bright blue eyes turned to Claudia. “Decius Aberon is a fat, complacent fool.”
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