The Emperor

by Norman, John;

  “I bungled nothing,” said Urta. “I delivered the poison to the Princess Viviana and explained its purpose. She betrayed the plot.”

  “We miscalculated,” said smooth-cheeked Fulvius, high ministrant in Telnar, second only to the exarch himself. “We anticipated she would work on our behalf, to bring Ingeld, her husband and lord, to the high seat of the Drisriaks.”

  “She did not do so,” said Urta.

  “Why?” asked Sidonicus.

  “Who knows?” said Urta.

  “Perhaps she resented her forced marriage to Ingeld, and wished to foil his plot,” said Fulvius. “Perhaps she cares for, or fears, Abrogastes. Perhaps she even cares for Ingeld, and hoped to protect him, keeping him from participation in such a matter. Perhaps she simply did not wish to be a party to murder.”

  “Please,” said Sidonicus, “righteous political expediency.”

  “Of course,” said Fulvius. “Forgive me, your excellency.”

  “I trust,” said Urta to Ingeld, “we are still friends.”

  “You are Otung, I am Drisriak,” said Ingeld. “How could we be friends? Sooner might a lion befriend a filch.”

  “Associates then, great prince,” said Urta.

  “Regrettably,” said Ingeld.

  “Let there be gentle amity amongst us,” said Timon Safarius Rhodius, primarius of the senate. Behind him stood his two guards, Boris and Andak.

  “Be not in doubt, noble Safarius,” said Fulvius. “There exists such amity.”

  “You are fortunate, dear, brave Urta,” said Sidonicus, “to have escaped from Tenguthaxichai with your life.”

  “I outwitted Abrogastes,” said Urta, “availing myself of a ready antidote.”

  “Abrogastes,” said Ingeld, “is not easily outwitted.”

  “We did not expect you so soon in Telnar,” said Fulvius.

  “I fear we must advance our plans,” said Ingeld.

  “How so?” asked Sidonicus.

  “My father suspects,” said Ingeld.

  “I did not speak,” said Urta to Sidonicus. “Abrogastes suspects nothing of Prince Ingeld.”

  “He suspects, I am sure,” said Ingeld.

  “Surely not,” said Urta.

  “I know my father better than you,” said Ingeld. “That is why I have come so soon to Telnar.”

  “Interestingly, independently,” said Sidonicus, “we were thinking of summoning you to Telnar, with the very object of just such an advancement in our plans.”

  “On what grounds?” asked Ingeld.

  “Corelius, of whom you have doubtless heard, who was involved in the silencing of the defensive batteries of Telnar at the time of the raid of Abrogastes that seized the two princesses, Viviana and Alacida, who was instrumental in the capture of Abrogastes and, later, that of Ortog, and such, has taken leave of our company. Further, we have evidence he has betrayed us to the imperial palace, and, quite possibly, given further evidence, on which we need not elaborate, for a thousand darins of gold.”

  “Deny accusations,” said Ingeld. “Who would believe charges leveled by a deserter, an ambitious, disgruntled minion?”

  “The palace,” said Sidonicus.

  “Where is he now?” asked Ingeld.

  “We do not know,” said Sidonicus.

  “How is it he was not traced and slain?” asked Ingeld.

  “We made every effort to do so,” said Sidonicus. “We failed.”

  “Wherever he is,” said Fulvius, “he is carrying his death in his own hands. In a given day in Telnar scarcely a dozen gold darins enter the banks or markets. As soon as he spends one darin he will signal his position. He will place himself in mortal jeopardy, not only from our kill squads, alerted by our spies, but from common thieves and murderers, as well.”

  “In any event,” said Ingeld, “as I do not have the high seat of the Drisriaks, and I believe that Abrogastes suspects us, it behooves us to come to power as soon as possible, that we may have the resources of the empire at our disposal, these to give caution to Abrogastes, should he be tempted to move against us.”

  “Agreed,” said Sidonicus.

  “How soon can we act?” asked Ingeld.

  “Soon,” said Sidonicus. “I shall send out a confidential exarchical letter to all our temples, instructing our ministrants how to proceed. It is a foul crime that the throne should have been seized by a hateful barbarian. He is a wicked tyrant. His rule is unlawful. His officers steal from the people. He despises and hates you. He holds you in contempt. He exploits you. When will the sufferings of Telnaria be relieved? And now, in these times of trouble and tribulations, of sorrow and misery, a child of royal blood is born, one who by birth belongs upon the throne. Let us rejoice and set things aright. All that is needed is for the people to speak, and speak forcibly, in the language of righteous iron, blood, and fire. Prepare to perform a blessed and holy act. It is the will of Floon and Karch! Await the signal!”

  “Do you truly think your people will believe your lies, despite the evidence of their own senses?” asked Ingeld.

  “Certainly,” said Sidonicus. “They will believe whatever they are told to believe. We teach them so. We train them so. People do not look for themselves and think for themselves. That is difficult. Who wants to do that? They believe words about things. That is easier. Who looks at the things themselves to see if the words are true? Only eccentrics who dare not tell the truth, aware of the dangers and penalties attending honesty.”

  “How soon,” asked Ingeld, “can your deluded puppets be brought into the streets?”

  “Our courageous and righteous faithful,” said Sidonicus.

  “How soon?” asked Ingeld.

  “A few days,” said Sidonicus. “It takes time for a pot to boil. It must be heated; it must simmer; then it boils; then, at the signal, it pours forth, rushing and scalding, into the streets.”

  “The palace is not naive,” said Ingeld. “It will prepare counter­measures. It will summon aid.”

  “Countermeasures will be ineffective,” said Fulvius. “And we can seize Telnar, and the throne, finishing matters, before aid can arrive.”

  “Good,” said Ingeld.

  Chapter Sixty-Four

  “He has by now discovered he cannot eat gold,” said Rurik.

  “Nor drink it, should it be melted,” said an oarsman.

  The longboat was eased to the beach, and oarsmen went over the side and, wading, thrust it up, on the sand.

  Rurik left the tiller, and waded ashore.

  He put his hands to the sides of his mouth, to amplify his voice, and cried, “Ho, wealthy filch, ho!”

  “There is no answer,” said an oarsman.

  “Can he be dead already?” asked another.

  “He should have been left here to die,” said another. “It is what he deserved.”

  “The emperor would not have it so,” said Rurik. “It is a matter of an understanding, of an implicit word given, some article of honor.”

  “Look,” said another, pointing toward the shack. In the portal, clinging to the doorjamb, was a haggard figure. It stepped forth, and fell, and then rose again, took a few steps, and then fell, again. On its hands and knees, it lifted its head, and seemed to cry out, but there was no sound. It lifted one hand, plaintively, toward the group on the beach. Then it began to crawl toward them, slowly. It collapsed a few feet from the longboat. Rurik, and two oarsmen, went to the collapsed figure, and Rurik lifted it to a sitting position. It opened its mouth. Its tongue was dark and swollen. The eyes did not seem to focus. “Water,” it rasped, the noise a hoarse whisper. Then the body stiffened, as if contorted by cramps. Then, again, it lay back, propped in Rurik’s arms. Its skin was dry and papery.

  “Bring water,” said Rurik, and one of the oarsmen went to the longboat and returned with a flask. Most of the oarsmen r
emained near the boat.

  “Water,” said Corelius, reaching toward the flask.

  “Water in this place,” said Rurik, “is expensive.”

  “—Water,” said Corelius, reaching again toward the flask.

  “It costs one thousand darins of gold,” said Rurik.

  “Leave him here,” said an oarsman.

  “I pay, I pay!” rasped Corelius.

  Rurik held the flask of water to the parched lips of Corelius, and, looking up, said to the two oarsmen with him, “Fetch the gold.”

  A bit later the two oarsmen had returned to the beach, and placed the small, weighty box on the sand, near the longboat.

  Rurik then rose to his feet.

  “You may keep your gold,” he said.

  Corelius looked up, startled.

  “You are not dead yet,” said an oarsman. “We are not thieves.”

  Then Rurik said, “Oars.”

  “Wait!” said Corelius.

  Rurik climbed into the longboat and grasped the tiller.

  “Wait, wait!” said Corelius.

  The oarsmen thrust the boat back into the water, turned it about, clambered aboard, and set the oars in the oarlocks.

  “Wait!” cried Corelius, rising unsteadily to his feet, clutching the now-drained flask. “Do not leave me here!”

  Rurik turned about, looking back.

  “Take me with you!” begged Corelius.

  “The fare,” said Rurik, “is one thousand darins of gold.”

  “Leave him,” said an oarsman. “Retrieve the gold later.”

  “I pay it,” cried Corelius. “Take the gold. Save me! Rescue me! Do not leave me here! Take me back with you! Surely you are noble and honorable men! You cannot leave me here! Take the gold! The gold is yours! It is yours!”

  “Stow the box, there,” said Rurik, pointing to a space between two thwarts.

  The two oarsmen who had brought the box down to the beach climbed from the longboat, waded to the beach, gathered up the box, and returned to the side of the longboat. They then lifted the box into the hands of two others who placed it in the area Rurik had designated. These four then reassumed their places on their respective thwarts.

  Corelius staggered into the water, and seized the side of the longboat.

  “Take me with you!” he begged.

  “Bring him aboard,” said Rurik.

  An oarsman pulled Corelius over the side of the longboat, and Corelius crawled to the small, weighty box, clasped it, and lay with it, held in his arms.

  “My gold, my gold,” he said.

  It was night when the longboat reached the delta of the Turning Serpent.

  The shore was little more than a darkness to starboard. One could hear the surf.

  Corelius lay between two thwarts, clutching the box.

  “Are you awake?” asked Rurik.

  “Yes,” said Corelius.

  “You may keep the gold, as before,” said Rurik.

  “I do not understand,” said Corelius.

  “Had you a sense of honor,” said Rurik, “you would understand. You would know we would return for you and that the gold would not be taken from you. You have tormented yourself. The emperor thought it would be so. You lack trust. His experiment is now complete. It is common for one who is dishonest, who lies, who betrays, to fear being treated dishonestly, to fear being lied to, to fear being betrayed. You had the word of a chieftain, of a king, of an emperor, and yet you doubted.”

  “This is some mad game?” asked Corelius.

  “Neither mad nor a game,” said Rurik. “It is a lesson, which an emperor has devised, but does not expect to be learned, a lesson in values, that many things, even a flask of water or a place between the thwarts of a simple longboat, may outweigh the value of gold, and that one may rely on the pledged word of an honorable man.”

  “Who is honorable?” asked Corelius. “To pretend honor is wise, to be honorable is to be foolish. Honor is a deceit. It is a facade, a curtain, behind which to conceal intrigue and the secret stratagems of power. Who does not know this? Let the emperor, if he is truly so naive and foolish, learn lessons, let him learn the ways of the world.”

  “The emperor,” said Rurik, “is prepared to provide you with protection, and an escort, to a destination of your choice.”

  “He is gracious, indeed,” said Corelius. “Put me ashore.”

  “Beware of how you handle gold,” said Rurik. “It can be more dangerous than a handful of vipers.”

  “It will provide me with all I need,” said Corelius. “I need only spend it.”

  “What is the color of gold?” asked Rurik.

  “Gold is the color of gold,” said Corelius, puzzled.

  “Sometimes it is the color of death,” said Rurik.

  “Absurd,” said Corelius. “It is the color of power.”

  “Often,” said Rurik. “Not always.”

  “Always,” said Corelius.

  “Avail yourself of the aid of the emperor,” said Rurik. “Beware of spending even a single darin.”

  “Put me ashore,” said Corelius. “Or am I to be slain now, and the gold taken?”

  “I see the lesson has not been learned,” said Rurik. “The emperor thought it would be so.”

  Rurik then directed his oarsmen to beach the longboat.

  Corelius managed to get the small, sturdy, heavy box in his arms, and climb over the side of the longboat. He then stood on the beach, holding the box.

  “Go,” he said, in the darkness.

  “You have a thousand darins of gold,” said Rurik, “but I would not be you.”

  Chapter Sixty-Five

  A mighty fist pounded on the door to the chamber of Aesilesius. It pounded three times. Had young Aesilesius known more of the customs of Drisriaks and Otungs, he might have recognized that such a knock commonly signals the presence of a person of importance or rank. It is common in the halls of various peoples, peoples who may even be enemies to one another, that, interestingly, one may find similar, even identical, customs, practices, sayings, and ways. That this phenomenon occurs suggests a harkening back to common origins and a past no longer recalled. As it was, Aesilesius was merely startled, shocked at the intrusiveness of such a sudden, bold announcement of presence. Nika cried out in fear, sitting up the couch.

  Aesilesius quickly rose from the couch, and drew his robe about himself.

  The door then, from the outside, was unlocked.

  Aesilesius bent over, making himself appear small, frail, and weak, and seized up a toy, the small, stuffed, yellow torodont, which he clutched to his bosom.

  The door opened.

  Aesilesius straightened up, putting aside the toy.

  “Cover yourself,” said Otto to Nika, “and leave.”

  Nika leaped from the couch, and seized up a tunic, which she held before her. She cast a wild look at Aesilesius.

  “Away, slave,” said Otto.

  “Speak gently to her,” said Aesilesius.

  “Get out, slave,” said Otto.

  Nika sped from the room.

  “Be kind,” said Aesilesius.

  “Slaves are slaves,” said Otto, “and they are to be spoken to as slaves, and treated as slaves. When a woman is a slave and knows she is a slave, she expects to be treated as a slave, and wants to be treated as a slave, for she is a slave. It is what she needs and wants. If you want her at your feet, juicing and begging, treat her as what she is, and wants to be, a slave.”

  “Have you come to kill me?” asked Aesilesius. “Have you finally decided on that? Have you come at last to understand the danger I might pose to you? But if you wished to kill me, presumably you would dispatch underlings to my chamber, to finish the business. Why should an emperor stoop to such chores? Such things are better delegated to menia
ls.”

  “You let her on the surface of the couch?” asked Otto.

  “Yes,” said Aesilesius.

  “Interesting,” said Otto. “Is she “slave satisfactory”?”

  “Very much so,” said Aesilesius.

  “Good,” said Otto.

  “Surely you have not honored my chamber to ascertain the satisfactoriness of a slave,” said Aesilesius.

  “A free woman need not be satisfactory,” said Otto, “but a slave, a collar slut, a chain bitch, must be.”

  “I understand,” said Aesilesius.

  “And extremely so,” said Otto.

  “I understand,” said Aesilesius.

  “Has your slave, based on her inquiries in the palace and her peregrinations in the city, informed you of untoward circumstances and looming events?”

  “All seems level, and serene,” said Aesilesius.

  “It is not,” said Otto. “Much brews beneath the surface. Has the slave informed you of what occurs in many temples, in Telnar, and its vicinity?”

  “Slaves are not allowed in temples,” said Aesilesius, “even at the feet of their masters, nor are dogs.”

  “Sedition emanates from pulpits,” said Otto. “In this we see the hand of the exarch of Telnar, his glorious blessedness, Sidonicus.”

  “My mother,” said Aesilesius, “repudiated his smudging, annoyed to learn that women, even those of noble blood, are denied a koos.”

  “That is doubtless temporary,” said Otto. “She need not fear. Revelation will be trimmed to meet the needs of the day.”

  “Unfolding revelation?” asked Aesilesius.

  “Whatever is required,” said Otto. “Documents can be read in any way the reader wishes.”

  “You are troubled,” said Aesilesius.

  “Graffiti attacking the throne are scrawled on walls and pavements,” said Otto. “Men shun guardsmen and are evasive and surly when approached. There are whisperings and sudden silences in the taverns. Men gather in dark places.”

  “Such things connote restlessness,” said Aesilesius. “But I think such things would not justify your appearance here, this night, at this hour, unless danger was imminent. I suspect you are more deeply apprised than such trivia would suggest.”