“Gold is not bread,” said the admiral quickly.
“No, but gold is the lifeblood of Tarsis, is it not? Will you sacrifice your fortunes to save your lives? How about the fortunes of your comrades, not to mention the common folk of Tarsis?” Tol let his questions hang in the air, then added, “When you’re paupers, what good will your pride be?”
Silence reigned. At last, Prince Valgold stood. He rolled up the list of Ergothian demands and slid the parchment into his voluminous sleeve.
Scanning the assembly with tired, bloodshot eyes, he announced, “It is late. I will take your demands to the City Assembly. You will have our response soon.”
When the Tarsans were gone, Regobart filled a goblet with strong red wine and drained it.
“Bloody merchants,” he said. “Call themselves princes? There’s no nobility in counting money!”
Privately, Tol agreed, but then, he didn’t see that riding a horse and killing people made one noble either.
He and Regobart took their leave of each other. Tol was so exhausted he thought he would be asleep as soon as he fell into bed. Instead, he slept very poorly. The yowl of a panther out in the dunes disturbed his rest. He even stumbled outside, sword in hand, dressed only in his breechnap, seeking to kill the beast. The only sound to be heard was the wind, hissing over the sand.
At dawn, the Tradewind Gate was thrown open abruptly. Alarms sounded in the Ergothian camp, and warriors rushed to fend off what they imagined was a last-ditch Tarsan attack. Instead of soldiers, however, a band of officials emerged, flanked by heralds.
One of the horn-bearing heralds, his eyes bright with tears, announced, “By order of the princes, syndics, and City Assembly, the city of Tarsis hereby yields to the forces of the Ergoth Empire!” He choked, cleared his throat, and continued. “Here are our counterproposals to the emperor’s demands!”
A youth dashed out and presented a large scroll to Lord Regobart, who had arrived with hair uncombed and still in his sleeping gown. At his side, Tol, haggard from his unsettled night, watched as Regobart broke the seal and opened the scroll. The elder general’s expression grew hard.
“They refuse to give their fleet,” he reported, “and they offer only one hundred thousand gold pieces instead of five hundred thousand!”
Tol shrugged. “Does it matter? It’s a goodly sum. Leave them their ships-or better, demand a token reduction of, say, one hundred galleys. They’ve surrendered. Leave them some pride and they won’t be so resentful in the future.”
Regobart struggled with conflicting emotions. As the warlord of a mighty empire, his inclination was to squeeze a defeated foe for every last drop of blood. As a diplomat, he knew even better than Tol that it was often wiser to let a loser retain some dignity.
The Tarsan officials were waiting, glaring at their conquerors with impotent hatred. Regobart drew himself straight and spoke loudly to them.
“In the name of His Imperial Majesty Pakin III and Prince Regent Amaltar, I accept these terms,” he said. “Let every gate of the city be opened! We shall enter and receive your surrender at noon today!”
Cheers erupted from the warriors who’d rushed to the gate believing themselves to be under attack. The jubilant men engulfed their generals. Cries of “Ergoth! Ergoth!” alternated with “Regobart!” and “Tolandruth!”
In the confusion, a man in Tarsan livery sidled up to Tol and thrust a note in his hand. Tol turned to confront him, but the fellow melted quickly into the crowd. Tol unfolded the small square of foolscap. It bore the seal of the Guild of Goldsmiths.
Hanira of the Golden House, the note read, requests the pleasure of your company for dinner at her residence. On Emerald Square, in the Crucible District. At Sunset.
Faintly, over the tumult of celebration, Tol heard the call of a panther.
Chapter 2
Golden House
Tol struggled with the buttons on the high collar of his tunic, his face reddening.
“I say it’s a trap,” Miya repeated. “I say go,” countered Kiya, normally the more cautious of the sisters. She helped Tol fit the broad belt around his waist, adding, “She’s rich, beautiful, and a woman of influence in this city. She probably wants to discuss business.”
Miya snorted, and the two sisters were off again. While they argued, they helped him struggle into less martial finery. Since he’d returned to the tent and told them about the invitation from Hanira, Kiya and Miya had disputed nonstop about whether he should go. Miya feared an assassination plot. To put a stop to her relentless urging, Tol had donned a light mail shirt under his tunic. It wouldn’t stop an arrow or sword, but it would turn aside a dagger thrust from close range.
Kiya dismissed her sister’s fears. Trained forest fighter that she was, she had a low opinion of city-bred women. They had nothing more in their heads than thoughts of clothes and pretty baubles. It was nothing but a flirtation.
Still, when Miya departed to call for Tol’s horse, Kiya said quickly, “You wear the amulet?”
Tol assured her he did. The Irda nullstone was sewn into the waistband of his smallclothes, so it would always be close.
As a youth, he’d come across an ancient, forgotten ruin at the headwaters of the Caer River. There he had found a small artifact. Strands of copper, silver and gold had been braided together to form a circlet, the free ends joined by a bead of copper. On the bead was etched a complex pattern of angular lines and curving whorls. A piece of dull black glass filled the center of the circlet. It was a pretty find and fit easily in the palm of Tol’s hand, so he’d kept it.
Later, he learned from the wizards of Daltigoth that his simple souvenir was in fact a millstone, an exceedingly rare relic of the lost Irda race. It had one unique ability: it absorbed all magical power it came in contact with.
Yoralyn, the elderly leader of the White Robes in Daltigoth, warned him there were people who would slaughter entire cities to possess such a powerful artifact, so he should destroy it. Unwilling to give it up, Tol did not heed her words. He did, however, keep the amulet a secret. Only Kiya knew he possessed it.
In spite of his dismissive attitude toward Miya’s worries, Tol recognized that he was indeed taking a chance. No Ergothian troops would enter Tarsis until tomorrow, when a small group would escort Lord Regobart to the City Assembly for the formal ceremony ending hostilities. Tol was placing himself alone in the midst of his former foes, but Hanira’s invitation was too intriguing to decline.
He declined the sisters’ offer to escort him. To those unfamiliar with his strapping hostage-wives, the notion of them acting as his personal escort while he visited the home of a beautiful woman would have seemed shocking.
“If Lady Hanira harms me, it would be a disaster for Tarsis,” Tol pointed out reasonably. “What she wants to see me for I don’t know, but I can’t believe this is merely a crude plot against my life.”
Brown eyes serious, Miya folded her arms and loosed a last volley of objections, including, “She’s too old for you.”
Tol ignored her as he buckled a sash to his belt and slipped his jeweled dagger, presented to him by Prince Amaltar years ago, into the silken sling. Miya seized him by the shoulders and spun him around to face her.
“If you get killed, what would happen to Sister and me?”
“When I die, you’re both free to return to the Great Green.”
Kiya broke her sister’s grip and stepped between her and Tol. Holding out Tol’s dress sword to him, she said over her shoulder, “You see, Sister, there’s still a chance to be free of this brute!” Tol laughed and buckled on the sword.
Glowering, Miya muttered, “We put out the lamps when we go to sleep. It’ll be dark when you return. I hope you trip and fall.”
Kiya cuffed her, none too gently, and Tol made his escape.
The fiery disk of the sun was just touching the Bay of Tarsis. Wind swirled, frosting the distant water with whitecaps. Although the fighting had ceased, the Ergothian priests maintained their wi
nd spell to keep the Tarsan fleet at sea.
On the wind-tossed ships, sailors were hoisting lanterns to the top of each ship’s mast to mark the vessel’s position in the coming darkness. One by one, all the galleys acquired a single yellow star. These rose and fell with each roll of the waves.
Two soldiers arrived and saluted. These were the men Tol had asked Frez to pick to accompany him.
The soldier on his right identified himself as Sarkar, corporal of the Long Knife Horde; he named his comrade as Belath. The second fellow dipped his head.
“I see you brought your cloaks as I requested,” Tol said. Both soldiers carried long, dark blue wraps over their arms. “Put them on. We’re not declaring ourselves tonight.”
As the two men obeyed, Sarkar said, “Begging your pardon, my lord, but is this really wise? Entering the enemy’s stronghold with just two men-”
“I’m expected and welcome,” Tol said. “Besides, aren’t three warriors of Ergoth more than a match for any number of Tarsan merchants?”
Buoyed by his words, the soldiers took two horses from the picket line for themselves as Tol mounted his own animal, Shadow.
The sun was half-buried in the sea now, and the cloudless sky was a palette of colors, from darkest red in the west to pale rose directly overhead and sapphire eastward. Tol put the sinking sun on his left and rode to Tradewind Gate.
The massive portal stood open, as had been agreed under the terms of the truce. However, the lack of Tarsan guards was somewhat surprising.
An amber glimmer appeared in the shadowed depths beyond the gate. Nervous, Sarkar and Belath reined up.
“What ails you men?” Tol asked, pulling up as well.
“I don’t know,” said Corporal Sarkar. “Just an odd feeling.”
“I expect we’re being met, since I don’t know the way,” Tol replied. “Is that so strange?”
The men could hardly disagree with their leader. The three of them moved on.
Lofty white walls towered over them, cutting off the last of the sunlight. Although the battlements looked empty, Tol saw glints of metal in the arrow slits of a watchtower by the gate. Their progress was noted.
The sound of their mounts’ iron-shod hooves echoed off the masonry, and the glimmer of light ahead grew brighter. Slowly, the shadows resolved into a figure: a slender rider on horseback, holding a lantern. At first, Tol thought it a beardless boy, but drawing nearer, he realized the light-bearer was a young girl.
She appeared no more than fifteen or sixteen. Mounted on a fine bay horse, she wore striking livery comprising a cloth-of-gold tabard over black tights. Her yellow hair was drawn back in a short, thick braid.
Tol identified himself and asked, “Are you my guide?”
“I am, my lord,” she replied, her voice high and clear. Glancing at the two soldiers, she added, “My orders are that you must proceed alone, my lord.”
Both Sarkar and the taciturn Belath began to protest, but Tol held up a hand for silence. “I must have my retainers,” he said.
“I was bidden to bring only you.”
“Then return to your mistress with my regrets,” Tol said coldly. “A warlord of Ergoth does not scurry about unaccompanied, like a common lackey.”
The girl clenched her mount’s reins in small white fists, biting her lip in indecision. “My lord, you are awaited,” she said, as if that made the difference.
Tol tugged on the reins, as Shadow whirled in a tight circle. “If the syndic wants to see me so badly, then she can come to our camp. Let’s go, men.”
They hadn’t ridden ten paces before the guide cantered up behind them. “My lord, please! The lady I serve will be sorely disappointed if I return without you!”
“Then let my men come with me.”
She gave in. As they turned about once more, Tol asked her name.
“Valderra, my lord. Most call me Val.”
The name scored a sharp wound on his heart, but Tol let nothing show on his face.
“Lead on, Valderra.”
Inside the city wall, the houses were high and handsome, faced with buff-colored stone and with steeply pitched roofs covered in green tiles. Through narrow gaps in the closed shutters Tol could see dim lights flickering. The streets, although wide, paved, and clean, were eerily empty and unlit. An Ergothian city of similar size, like Caergoth or Daltigoth, would have street lamps burning at every corner and torches in sconces by the door of every shop and tavern.
Tol remarked on this. Valderra explained that because of the prolonged war, supplies of tallow and lamp oil, which had to be imported into Tarsis, were almost exhausted.
“Why are there no folk about?” Sarkar wanted to know.
Valderra’s lips set in a firm line. “We have a severe curfew. There has been trouble at night.” She kept her eyes fixed ahead. “Malcontents. Criminals.”
Twilight had arrived when they reached Emerald Square in the very heart of Tarsis. A vast columned building, gabled and turreted, squatted on a hill overlooking the square. Valderra identified it as the City Assembly, with adjacent palaces for the city’s rulers. Tol took the opportunity to ask her the difference between a syndic and a prince.
“Princes are hereditary proprietors of the city’s affairs,” the girl said, eyes rising to the marble complex above them. “They’re descendants of the founders of Tarsis. Syndics are the chosen heads of city guilds.”
So princes were born, syndics made. That fit Tol’s impression of Hanira.
“It’s not correct then to call your mistress ‘Lady’?” he asked.
Valderra shook her head. She wore several tiny gold rings in each earlobe and these tinkled musically with the gesture.
“Syndic Hanira is not a Lady,” she said quite seriously.
Tol smiled. Miya would agree with that statement, no doubt.
Emerald Square was actually two intersecting squares, creating a cross-shaped plaza at the foot of Palace Hill. For the first time since entering Tarsis, the small party encountered other traffic. Virtually all of it was on foot, including several luxurious palanquins carried on the shoulders of bearers. Although cloaked in relative anonymity, the four riders drew stares.
“Horses must be in short supply,” Tol reasoned.
Valderra nodded. “Most were taken for the army.”
Golden House stood at the end of one of the arms of the plaza. Six stories tall and filling the width of the plaza, it was beautiful, but built like a miniature fortress. An outer wall surrounded it, and the house itself showed massive contours. Every corner, every window inlet and doorway was rounded and radiused, giving the impression the whole building had been cast in a single piece instead of constructed. Each window facing the square had its shutters open and a rack of candles burning on its sill.
The gate was closed. Flames leaped in brass braziers-or were they gold? Flanking the gate were guards in livery like Valderra’s, standing with spears ported.
Valderra announced their party. The guards exchanged disapproving glances at learning Tol had brought retainers. They began to protest, but Tol soon put a stop to that.
“Stand aside, you louts!” he bellowed in his fiercest battle — field voice. Both guards flinched. “I have business with your mistress, and these men are with me! Now admit us!”
Immediately, the near guard produced an iron key as long as his arm. It had been dangling from his belt, and Tol had mistaken it for a scabbard. The guard inserted the huge key into a slot in the gate and, with the other sentry’s help, twisted it until a loud clank announced the lock had disengaged.
Once Tol’s party was inside, the gilded gate swung shut and the lock clanged as it was secured. Belath muttered unhappily about being trapped inside.
Uniformed servants appeared out of the dancing torchlight and held Shadow while Tol dismounted. No one came forward to assist Sarkar or Belath.
“Will you see to my men?” Tol asked, and Valderra nodded.
Gesturing at the two warriors, she rode away to
ward a garden nestled between the wall and the house proper. The garden contained fruit trees, and lush green shrubs trimmed and shaped to resemble all manner of whimsical items-a bell, a leaping dolphin, a flock of birds rising into the air.
When she realized the two Ergothians hadn’t moved to follow her, Valderra halted between a leafy statue of a minotaur and a rearing unicorn.
“My lord,” Sarkar said to Tol. “Our place is by your side!”
“All will be well. Go with the girl. Be pleasant but vigilant. I will send for you if I need you.”
Unhappy but obedient, the two men followed their young guide into the topiary.
Tol was met at the door by an older woman in a high-necked, golden gown. Plump and gray-haired, she radiated competence and serenity.
“My lord,” she said, clasping her hands at her waist and bowing. “I am Zae, Keeper of the Golden House.”
“You are the syndic’s chamberlain?”
“Just so, my lord. Will you come this way?”
The entrance hall was staggering. Tol had never seen anything to equal it, not even in the imperial capital. The view overhead went straight to the roof, six floors above. At each level, on three sides, balconies faced the atrium. Underfoot, a carpet woven of golden thread covered a floor of polished black granite. Gilded statues, half again life size, lined both sides of the hall. Extremely lifelike, some statues were portly, some wizened and stooped, a few youthful and strong. Zae explained they represented former syndics of the Guild of Goldsmiths and Jewelers.
Between each statue was a bright globe, perched atop a slender marble column. Each globe emitted a soft, warm light. The air was sweet with the unobtrusive hint of floral incense.
The richness of his surroundings-the heavy tapestries, thick carpets, and ornate furniture-amazed Tol. Even the knobs and hinges of the doors they passed were covered with gold.
Zae told him the Golden House comprised two hundred rooms. Begun in the sixty-sixth year of the city by Syndic Morolin, the house had taken eleven years to build. Hanira had lived here since Year 221 of the city.
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