A Handful of Men: The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  He settled beside her and peered, as if looking for damage. “Are you all right, my dear?”

  “Of course I’m all right! Except that I want my baby and I want to know what the danger is!”

  She had never spoken to him like that before.

  “You are very brave!” he said.

  Brave? Whatever the danger, the two of them were running away—that required no courage. She did not feel brave. She felt worried about Maya and… and very relieved that the awful ceremony was over. She was no longer on display. The time for bravery had passed, as far as she was concerned, but she could never expect Shandie to understand that.

  Wheels and hooves made strangely muffled sounds in the snow. Even the jingle of harness seemed hushed and the splendid hussars themselves rode without sound.

  “I want to know what the danger is!” she said again.

  “So do I.” Shandie’s expression was grim as winter, but it was directed at the front of the carriage, not at her.

  “The wardens… Why only two?”

  He shook his head impatiently, as if he wanted peace to think. “I don’t know! They wrangle among themselves all the time, but…”

  “But?”

  “But they would never wreck the Rotunda like that over any normal squabble.” He fell silent. She studied him with growing annoyance. Why would he never share his thoughts with her? Why must he shut her out of state business and treat her like a porcelain doll? True, she had no real interest in politics, but a husband and wife must have something in common, apart from the bare-legs-in-the-bed thing. She would gladly listen, if he would only speak!

  The carriage pitched and rocked as it rushed down the hill from the Rotunda, through palace grounds already deserted.

  Emshandar V, Imperor of Pandemia. Impress Eshiala!

  Suddenly he looked around at her, his dark eyes intent. “Oh, my love! I promised you wealth and power and adoration… and now I seem to have brought you exile and danger.”

  If he only knew how little appeal wealth and power and adoration had for her! Like a brainstorm came realization—whatever danger the warden had foretold, it meant the end of public pomp, at least for a while. No state funeral, coronation, enthronement ceremonies, gala balls… A secret, quiet life in hiding? That was a stunningly wonderful idea!

  And perhaps just the three of them? Was it even possible that the Gods might grant her a space of humble, private existence with only her husband and child, in some peaceful corner somewhere? Man and wife together—no affairs of state to distract him, no court ceremonial to terrify her? Might she even learn to love this man as a wife should?

  “You are smiling!” he said wonderingly.

  “Am I? I am sorry!”

  “Don’t be sorry… but why smile?”

  “I don’t mind losing the wealth and power and whatever else it was you said. Not if Maya is safe… and you are with me.” Not far from the truth—closer to it than usual, anyway.

  “You are wonderful!” he said.

  Guilt! Shame! What sort of useless wife was she, to rejoice that her husband might lose his throne? She felt remorse at her relief. The Gods had granted prayers she had not dared speak, and yet she still could not be happy.

  Shandie was scowling. “I must not flee the court myself! I should not be imperor for long if I did that… not without more reason than a dwarf’s ravings. You and Maya, yes. We shall spirit you off to some safe place. Which of your ladies will you take?”

  She turned away. Ladies? She wanted none of them, but she knew enough of Shandie’s thinking—court thinking—to know that she would never be allowed to travel without other women in attendance. Ashia, perhaps? Ashia would not welcome a flight into exile, having achieved semiroyal status as a duchess.

  And there would be males sent along as guards, of course. Shandie himself would choose those.

  She wondered if one of them would be Signifer Ylo. Her heart inexplicably jumped into her throat.

  3

  Even before the racket of falling debris had stopped echoing through the Rotunda, the new imperor was snapping orders: “Ylo, get the group together in the Abnila Chamber and I’ll join you there. Tribune, we’ll go by the west door. Herald, see that the proclamation is made in proper form. Take this, Ylo.” He almost threw Emine’s ancient buckler at his signifer, then he was off down the steps with his arm around Eshiala. They disappeared into the gloom and the dust with guards closing in around them.

  Which was all very well for him to say, Ylo thought, but how much authority did a mere signifer have in this sort of chaos? The hall was almost dark. He saw everything overlain by a green afterimage of the Red Throne exploding, as he had happened to be watching that one. His ears were still ringing from the blast and something had struck him on the side of the neck hard enough to daze him, although he did not seem to be bleeding. Heralds and civilians—perhaps even a few Praetorians also—were running in circles, tripping over rubble, and having hysterics.

  And who exactly did Shandie mean by “the group”?

  Ylo stepped up beside the Opal Throne and retrieved Emine’s sword from where Shandie had dropped it. So now he held the two most sacred relics of the Impire, and yet they might be totally worthless if the warlock had spoken the truth.

  Things could be worse. Shandie’s celebrated ability to outrun the lightning had probably carried him and his wife clean out of the Rotunda before anyone else had even started to move. Hardgraa would certainly have had a carriage waiting there.

  The racket was fading as if someone had demanded silence at any cost and the Praetorians were establishing it by force. The casualties could not be too numerous, or there would be more screaming.

  Afterimages faded. Ylo made out the stooped form of Proconsul Ionfeu, still standing behind the throne. He had an arm around Eigaze. Ionfeu was almost certainly “group” now.

  Ylo stepped down to join them. “Aunt, are you all right?”

  “A little surprised, Ylo,” she said breathlessly. “I had expected more formality.”

  Ionfeu chuckled. “She needs a cup of hot tea, is all. I presume we may now go home?”

  “I think he wants to see you, sir. I was asked to call a meeting in… the Throne Room as soon as possible.” Ylo was not about to leave a direct trail to Shandie’s whereabouts at a time like this—not after the dwarf’s warnings. For all he knew, Shandie was already fleeing the city and the Abnila Chamber rendezvous was itself a red herring. “The only problem… Ah!”

  Light dawned as a torchlight procession came marching in from the east door. The damage was revealed then, and it was shocking. No longer were the entrances concealed behind the thrones. Four shattered platforms lay like islands in a litter of rocks and rubble. Ylo noted sparkling reflections on the floor as the torches went by and he wondered how much of the real stuff the Gold Throne had contained. All the thrones had been encrusted with jewels, too. Someone should worry about that very soon.

  The torchbearers divided, a few remaining by the tunnel, others heading for the other exits. One group came straight to Ylo. He registered uneasily that it was led by Legate Ugoatho of the Praetorian Guard.

  As a trusted confidant of the imperor, Ylo feared almost no man in the world now, but Ugoatho was a necessary exception. Throughout history, the Praetorian legates had been wild cards in Imperial politics, for they controlled the palace. Several had deposed imperors, and a couple had founded dynasties of their own. When an imperor died, his successor normally confirmed the support of the Praetorian legate even before he spoke to the Senate, or the marshal of the armies, or the wardens.

  Ugoatho was a nephew of Marshal Ithy and almost certainly loyal—or rather, Ylo thought, he had been almost certainly loyal before Warlock Raspnex scrambled the board, tore up the Protocol, and predicted revolution. Now anything was possible.

  Flanked by guardsmen holding torches, the legate halted and saluted, his face less expressive than an earth berm. Having his hands full, Ylo responded with the
imperial regalia. If Ugoatho noticed the humor in that, he concealed his amusement admirably.

  “Signifer! His Majesty said you might need assistance.”

  Holy Balance! Command of the Praetorian Guard? What next?

  “Just to collect some persons and transport them to the Throne Room for a council, Legate. Proconsul Ionfeu, here. Sir Acopulo, Lord Umpily… Centurion Hardgraa. Marshal Ithy —“

  “He is indisposed,” his nephew said flatly.

  That was not surprising—the old man had been in poor health for months:

  “I think yourself, also, Legate. That should do.”

  “You have forgotten someone, Ylo,” said a firm but feminine voice.

  Startled, Ylo turned and said, “Who?”

  “Me.” Lady Eigaze smiled her plump, motherly smile at him. “And I need to talk with you on the way there.”

  He had never heard Eigaze express any interest in politics before. He could not imagine her snooping out of mere nosiness—that would be completely out of character—but he knew her of old, and the ring of steel in her bell-like tones.

  “And Lady Eigaze, of course,” he added. “One other thing, sir. Some of the gravel lying around here is pricey stuff. Will you do something to discourage souvenir hunting?”

  He was being recklessly presumptuous. Ugoatho gave him a stare that would have blistered paint, then said, “I’ll see what we can arrange, Signifer.”

  Surprisingly, dismal daylight still lingered outside the Rotunda. Feathery snowflakes continued to fall, and the ground was ankle deep in slush. Ylo shivered as it soaked through his sandals.

  Embedded in guardsmen, he waited with Ionfeu and Eigaze while their carriage was summoned. Bells were tolling everywhere to proclaim Emshandar’s death, but the warlock’s dramatic proclamation was being treated as a state secret for now. Ugoatho had sealed off the Rotunda, letting no one out. Among those being held prisoner were the two hereditary bearers of the regalia, one of whom had tried to wrestle Emine’s sword away from Ylo. He had been removed by two bullock-size Praetorians.

  “What was it you wished to discuss, my Lady?” Ylo asked cautiously.

  There was a darkening bruise on Eigaze’s cheek. Her plump face was paler than usual. She glanced warily at her husband and he frowned a warning—there were listeners all around. Ylo wondered if the man’s permanent stoop was an effect of age, or if he had developed it from hovering over his wife all the time; it put their heads on the same level.

  “You expressed interest in a certain painting, Ylo.”

  “Yes, Aunt.”

  “A seascape? Ion reminded me of a picture by that particular artist I saw in the Orchid Hall many years ago. It may be the same one.”

  “You know the place?” Ylo demanded excitedly.

  “If it is the one I am thinking of, yes I do. It was pointed out to me by a relative of mine.”

  “Reliable identification?”

  “Yes.”

  Ylo nodded, satisfied. Somehow that inexplicable vision in the preflecting pool seemed very important now.

  Eshiala was impress—or was she? If the Protocol had failed, then the Impire itself was as fragile now as a robin’s egg. Shandie had acted as if he took the warlock’s warning very seriously indeed. No one had more experience of warlocks’ advice than he.

  Then the carriage arrived, spraying slush. While the proconsul and his wife were climbing aboard, Ylo’s arm was gripped by a shaky hand. He turned to face the rotund form of Lord Umpily, looking terrified.

  “Signifer!” he bleated. “What is happening? These guardsmen —“ Apparently he thought he was under arrest.

  “The imperor wants you to attend a strategy meeting, my Lord.”

  The chief of protocol relaxed with a loud gasp of relief, but he was obviously badly rattled. “That’s good! Very good. Ylo, I have something I must tell him as soon as possible! Very important!”

  “Then you’ll have the chance as soon —“

  “The pool, remember? I lied when —“

  “You can tell him yourself, my —“

  The fat man failed to sense the warning. He raised his voice over the tolling of the bells. “I saw a dwarf! Not the warlock, another one, but a dwarf —“

  “My lord —“

  “He was sitting on the Opal Throne!” Umpily wailed.

  4

  The drive was brief. In a few minutes Ylo and Umpily walked together into a palace eerily hushed and deserted. The darkening corridors bore only a fraction of their normal profusion of candles and lanterns. Already the paintings and statues were draped with black crepe. The Throne Room was almost empty, and dark. Footmen clad in deep mourning had begun lighting candelabra.

  Ylo found himself whispering, almost trying to tiptoe. He noticed little Sir Acopulo standing close to the massive form of Centurion Hardgraa and had a brief whimsical image of a bird nesting in a tree. Proconsul Ionfeu and Lady Eigaze were working their way around the room, peering under the crepe hangings to look at the paintings.

  They headed for Ylo when he strode over to the east wall. He found the one he wanted at the second try.

  “Yes, that’s it,” Eigaze said. She shot Ylo a worried look. “What is your interest in that place?”

  “I am not at liberty to say, ma’am. Will you tell me where it is?”

  She bit her plump lip and then shook her head. “I had rather not say. If Sh. . . If his Majesty needs to know, I will tell him, of course.”

  Curious! Why should she be concerned with that strange little town and castle?

  The imperor might be waiting upstairs, in the imperial bedchamber, or he might be leagues away, fleeing from the city as the warlock had suggested.

  Ylo was still carrying Emine’s shield and buckler, which were a perfect excuse. “I shall put these back where they belong,” he announced, heading for the private stair that led up to me imperor’s quarters.

  Palace servants in mourning dress lined the corridor, many weeping, all waiting to pay their last respects. The public lying-in-state would start tomorrow. The muffled sobbing and constant clanging of bells grated on Ylo’s nerves. He strode to the head of the line, to find the doors closed and guarded.

  The officer in charge was Centurion Hithi. He paled and showed his teeth when he saw Ylo. Very likely Hithi’s seconds would be calling on Ylo in the near future, although the challenge would have to wait now until the court came out of mourning. Ylo had not decided what to do about that if it happened. Have the man transferred to Pondague or Guwush, probably.

  “Their Majesties are in there,” Hithi growled.

  “Good. I need to see them,” Ylo responded blandly.

  The centurion gritted his teeth, staring at the regalia. Then he stepped back to let Ylo open the door himself.

  He had seen the Abnila Chamber only once, about five months ago, when he had supervised the setting up of tables and desks to make an office. Emshandar had not been present at the time. The room was larger than he remembered, about the size of a twenty-man dormitory in a legionary barracks. It was dim, lit only by tall candelabra at the corners of the great bed, but the opulence of the fittings showed even in the uncertain light. The tables and office clutter had gone. The corpse lay as if asleep, skeletal face shrunken and parchment-tinted. Emshandar was beyond the reach of mortal revenge.

  Eshiala sat in a chair by the fireplace with her daughter on her knee. The child looked grumpy and red-eyed. Her mother stared at Ylo without expression, tense with strain. She was wearing a black gown, and black furs lay on another chair beside her.

  There was no sign of Shandie.

  Ylo saluted the impress stolidly. He inspected the room again. He knew the sword and buckler were kept in here somewhere. Then he saw a doorway that had not been there before, an unframed rectangular opening in the wall. He walked over to it.

  The secret room beyond was large and dark, its walls hidden behind shelves and shelves of great books. Shandie was inspecting their spines by the lig
ht of a candle. As always when wearing civilian garb, he seemed totally nondescript.

  Seeing Ylo, he turned away from his task and came out. As he emerged, the opening disappeared. He showed his teeth in a humorless smile.

  “The private Imperial Archives.” He pointed with a scroll of vellum he had brought from the room. “Put those down over there. Did you get everybody?”

  “They’re waiting in the Throne Room, Sire—Proconsul Ionfeu and his wife, Lord Umpily, Sir Acopulo, and Centurion Hardgraa. Marshal Ithy is sick. Legate Ugoatho is on his way.”

  “Excellent! Why Lady Eigaze?”

  “She can identify the town in that painting, Sire, but she wants to tell you personally.”

  Shandie raised his eyebrows. “Incredible! Yes, that may be very important now. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Ylo. Come, then. My dear?” He headed for Eshiala.

  She rose with Maya in her arms. When Shandie tried to take the girl, she turned away and clung to her mother. He scowled, then went over to the bed. He studied the corpse for a moment and said quietly, “Thank you. Grandfather.”

  Ylo thought, May the Evil have his soul! All of it!

  He hurried to open the door for the impress. He was fairly sure that little Maya would allow her friend Ylo to carry her, but it would not be very tactful at the moment to offer.

  The Throne Room seemed eerily empty and haunted, a great darkness with a few puddles of light under the candelabra. The servants had gone. Five men and a woman were waiting by the cryptic Jalon painting, the only one not draped in crepe. As the newcomers approached, the men bowed to the new imperor. Lady Eigaze curtseyed.

  Shandie eyed them solemnly.

  “You all heard what Warlock Raspnex said?”

  “I was told, Sire,” Ugoatho rumbled as all the others nodded.

  “Then you know that he predicted disorder and trouble. We have no time for formalities. I ask each of you now to accept me as your imperor. I ask you all if you acknowledge me as if you had sworn the customary oath of loyalty. Anyone who has reservations may leave.”