Tol and Egrin halted by Amaltar’s right hand. They saluted, warrior-fashion.
“Marshal,” Amaltar said, smiling at Egrin, “it has been a long time. You look well.”
“As well as a warrior half my age, Your Majesty,” Egrin joked. “How fare’s Your Majesty’s health?”
Several courtiers gasped at the impudent question, but Amaltar said, “While I was regent, I ruled with the vigor of three men. Now they’re about to put the crown on my head, I have the strength of less than one. Why is that, I wonder?”
“It’s grief,” Nazramin called out from the other end of the council table. “Grief for our noble father, isn’t it, Your Majesty?”
This was obviously a jibe. Amaltar and his father had not been close. In fact, Pakin had cared little for any of his sons, preferring the gentler company of his wives and daughters.
Ignoring his disrespectful brother, Amaltar asked, “What weighty matter brings you here this day, Tolandruth? Surely you did not enter a closed council session to present Marshal Egrin, close though he is to our heart.”
“No, Majesty.” Tol looked to Egrin briefly. The older man urged him on with a slight nod. “There was a spree of riots in the city this morning.”
“There have been many riots,” Lord Rymont said haughtily. Tol’s age but blond where he was dark, Rymont had never fought in a major battle. “Malcontents from all over the empire have come to Daltigoth to air their petty grievances. They will be found out and punished.”
“One already has.”
Rymont thrust out his broad, clean-shaven chin. “Indeed? Who?”
“The leader of the gang that wears blue kerchiefs over their faces,” Tol replied.
“Skylanders,” said Helbin, leader of the Red Robe wizards.
“Provincial scum!” exclaimed Rymont’s aide.
“They’re not scum,” Oropash countered, mopping his round, sweaty face with a handkerchief. “The gentry have many legitimate grievances-”
The city-based warlords shouted him down. They rallied around Lord Rymont, denouncing the Skylanders and their sympathizers as traitors to the empire.
Before things grew too heated, Tol said, “This band of malcontents, as Lord Rymont calls them, attacked the market square near the Quarry district this morning. It so happened I was there with my Dom-shu companions. The chief of the Blue Masks sought me out.” He folded his arms. “He now lies dead in the cellar of my house.”
Tol watched those in the room carefully for any reaction. Mandes’s benign expression twitched as he turned away. Oropash seemed relieved, but Helbin looked alarmed. Nazramin picked up an apple from a tray on the table and bit into it loudly.
“We’ll find out who he was,” Rymont declared. “His confederates will be rounded up!”
“No need. We know who he was,” Egrin put in, “and he is familiar to everyone in this room.”
A heavy silence fell, broken only by the sound of Nazramin devouring his apple.
“Well, speak his name, Marshal, and be done with it!” Rymont prompted peevishly.
Egrin allowed another instant of silence to pass then complied. “His name was Pelladrom Tumult.”
All of them, including Prince Nazramin, were thunderstruck for the space of two heartbeats, then the council chamber exploded into noise. Rymont’s aides all but called Tol a liar and a murderer. They recalled the clash of wills between him and Pelladrom the day Tol had returned to Daltigoth. He had manufactured this story, they said, merely to get back at the proud young noble. Besides, no well-born Rider of the Great Horde would put on a mask and brawl in the streets, especially not on behalf of a band of ragtag bumpkins like the Skylanders.
Angry at their insinuations, Tol looked to the emperor for support. However, Amaltar was clutching his chest with one hand. His face had gone utterly white, and his lips were blue. He gasped for breath.
“Your Majesty!” Tol cried, effectively silencing the uproar.
Chamberlain Valdid hurried to his master. He summoned Mandes with a quick flick of his hand. The sorcerer came forward and laid white-gloved fingers on the great vein in Amaltar’s neck, checking his pulse. Snapping commands to two lackeys, Mandes had a potion compounded on the spot. He was about to administer it to Amaltar when Tol stayed his hand.
“My lord, the emperor needs his medicine,” Mandes protested.
“You drink it first,” Tol said.
Several courtiers gasped. The wizard tried to laugh off the demand, but Tol’s unflinching gaze and hard grip on his right wrist doomed that ploy. Shrugging, Mandes took the vial in his left hand, raised it to his lips, and sipped.
Tol stared. Two hands. Mandes now had two working hands. He’d somehow replaced his lost left arm. Was his healing magic that powerful? He watched Mandes intently for any adverse reaction to the brew he’d been forced to drink.
When nothing happened, Tol released him. Mandes held the remainder of the potion to Amaltar’s lips. Moments after he swallowed it, color flooded back into the emperor’s face. His chest heaved, and he drew a stronger breath.
“His Majesty suffers from asthma. The condition was brought on by too much work and too little rest,” Mandes explained, tucking his gloved hands into his sleeves. Though others whispered, he seemed in no wise upset by Tol’s rude treatment.
“When did you become his physician?” asked Tol coldly.
“I have tended His Majesty in many roles for the past eight years.” Mandes smiled, adding sweetly, “You haven’t been at court, my lord, so of course you wouldn’t know that.”
If Tol had possessed a blade at that moment, Mandes would have died. Egrin sensed this and pulled the infuriated warrior away.
Nazramin’s dry voice cut across the room. “If my brother is improved, can we return to the matter of young Tumult’s death? Is there any real proof he was the leader of the Skylanders in Daltigoth?”
“Only that he died leading his gang on a rampage,” Tol replied, forcing his straining limbs to relax.
He related the story of the brawl in the marketplace, explaining that many people had seen Pelladrom Tumult directing the blue-masked thugs. Miya and Kiya could confirm this, he said, and Egrin had been present when Pelladrom was unmasked.
“Well,” Nazramin said cheerfully, “if it’s true, there’s one less troublemaker in Daltigoth!”
Egrin shook his head. “I fear the repercussions may mean trouble, Your Highness. Lord Enkian Tumult is on his way from the Seascapes to pledge his fealty to our new emperor.” Any sympathy for the sad news that would greet Enkian was quickly abandoned at Egrin’s next statement. “At his back are five hordes.”
Argument broke out anew. Bringing troops to Daltigoth was a serious breach of etiquette, yet Lord Rymont insisted, it was foolish to believe that Enkian might have designs against the dynasty. Five thousand men, though improperly large for an entourage, were far too few to overcome Daltigoth’s loyal garrison.
“Why then does he bring them?” asked Oropash, twisting the sleeves of his robe anxiously.
“Wait four days and ask him,” Nazramin replied. He stood up. “It seems to me the only one here with cause to fear is Lord Tol.” The curtailing of Tol’s name was a deliberate slight. “Enkian will certainly have a score to settle with the one who gutted his son, won’t he?”
Although he wasn’t smiling, Nazramin’s glee was obvious to all. At this juncture Amaltar managed to speak again.
“Lord Tolandruth is my personal champion,” he rasped. “If he slew young Tumult in the course of quelling a riot, then he has committed no crime. Lord Enkian must abide by my judgment.”
Amaltar then dismissed the council. With much unseemly grumbling, the emperor’s advisors withdrew. Amaltar asked Tol to linger.
Egrin departed for the villa. Once the last of the council filed out, Amaltar dismissed his personal servants. Mandes reluctantly went with them. Only four guards remained, one at each of the far corners of the large chamber.
Amaltar waved Tol
closer. “Sit, sir, if you will. I find it taxing to look up these days,” he said. Tol took the chair recently vacated by Lord Rymont.
Amaltar went on. “You’ve done great things for us, Tolandruth. Whatever else happens, I want you to know I appreciate your deeds. My father did also.” Amaltar coughed a little. “There is much more to do, I fear. I must use you again.”
“I am at Your Majesty’s service.”
“Enemies gather around me, Tolandruth. Not enemies of the honorable kind, like you face in battle. These enemies smile and bow, swear their loyalty, yet all the while grasp hidden daggers and contemplate my death.”
Tol said nothing. After what he’d seen of the men closest to the throne, he could not dismiss his liege’s fears.
Amaltar squeezed his eyes shut. Sweat popped out on his waxen forehead. “I’m never free of them, Tolandruth. I hear them moving in every shadow. They’re like ants, black ants, swarming over me. They will pick my bones clean.” His eyelids sprang open. “You must stop them!”
Pity welled in Tol’s heart. He’d earlier wondered if the emperor was being poisoned, but Mandes had drunk some of the potion himself, with no ill effects. It was obvious, though, that the emperor was ill, and his illness was only made worse by the power struggles around him.
Amaltar took hold of Tol’s hands, gripping them so tightly his knuckles turned white, and repeated his plea for help. Tol vowed he would do whatever it took to defend him.
At last, the emperor relaxed, sinking back into his chair. For a moment the old Amaltar returned, the shrewd plotter, the careful judge of men. His dark eyes cleared of some of the pain that clouded them.
“It is said you are impervious to magic,” he murmured.
The swift change of subject surprised Tol, but he denied the rumor, calling it idle gossip.
“If you were, if you had some protective spell or amulet, Tolandruth, you would give it to your emperor, would you not?”
There it was, plainly stated at last. Tol had considered this question many times: dare he admit owning the Irda millstone? Could he give it to someone else to save his life? To Amaltar? Egrin? Valaran?
If it became known that he possessed a nullstone, no one Tol knew would be safe. His friends would be captured and tortured to force him to yield the artifact. There was no telling what evil use the stone could be put to by an unscrupulous owner. Since he could not bring himself to destroy so fantastic and ancient a relic, the safest course was to keep its existence utterly secret.
Calmly Tol said, “Many stories are told about me, Your Majesty. Few are true. If the gods bestow favors on me, I cannot say why. I am a soldier of the empire, nothing more.”
Amaltar’s right cheek twitched. The slight clarity fled his eyes, leaving them even more haunted than before. He gave a rattling sigh.
“You are too honorable to lie to me,” he said. “So be it.”
The words pricked Tol’s conscience, but he knelt in obeisance to his liege. Before he could rise again, Amaltar’s dry, feverish hand came to rest on top of his head.
“Look after my wife, will you?” the emperor whispered.
Tol stiffened. Did Amaltar know? He and Valaran had faced terrible retribution if caught-burial alive for her and a slow, painful dismemberment for Tol. Had Amaltar known all along? Was he now giving his tacit approval?
“Poor Thura,” Amaltar sighed. “When I die, she’ll be too old to marry again. Look after her, Tolandruth.”
Tol was certain the emperor would be able to hear the thundering of his heart. Clearing his throat, managing to speak without the faintest quiver, Tol vowed he would see to Thura’s comfort and safety, should the need arise. By all accounts, the emperor’s eldest wife was a gentle, kindhearted woman.
Amaltar dismissed him, and Tol departed.
Alone at the massive council table, Amaltar reached for a goblet of wine. His fingers trembled as they closed around the golden stem. As he brought the goblet to his lips, dark objects darted around the edges of his vision.
He flung the cup down. Red droplets flew, and the golden goblet clattered loudly on the polished tabletop.
“Ants!” he cried, pushing himself up from the chair with his hands. “I see you there! Ants!”
Shiny black insects the size of his fist hurried out of the light, under the table. Their scissor-like jaws could take off a man’s finger or toe with one snip.
Amaltar let out a shriek and climbed onto the table. He poured forth obscenities at the vermin.
At the far corners of the chamber, the guards did not move to assist their master. No ants, giant or otherwise, were visible to them. They had witnessed the emperor’s bizarre behavior before. The imperial physician’s orders were not to intervene unless the emperor was in peril of hurting himself.
“Ants! Ants!”
In the anteroom outside, Nazramin poured himself a glass of wine. He raised it in silent salute toward the closed doors of the room where his brother screamed at invisible tormentors then drained the glass. Setting it down with careful precision, Nazramin chuckled quietly.
Chapter 12
Foes Unmasked
The death of Pelladrom Tumult seemed to have a chilling effect on the gangs; the streets of Daltigoth were quiet in the following days. Word spread, however, that Lord Enkian was on his way with an army to avenge his son’s death. Since the Tumult family was a distant offshoot of the Ackals, it was even said he planned to depose Amaltar and become emperor in his place. Whatever the gossip in the alleys and city squares, preparations for the complex coronation continued. On the day of the coronation, Amaltar would present himself at the great gate of Ackal Ergot, on the eastern side of Daltigoth, and demand to be let in. A high noble specially chosen for the task would pose several ritual questions to him. Once Amaltar provided the answers, the gate would be opened. Ackal Ergot had first surveyed the site of his future capital on foot, so the rising emperor was required to walk the two and half leagues from the gate to the Inner City, trailed by his entire household-wives, children, courtiers, servants, and guards.
At the Inner City Amaltar’s way would be barred once more. He would demand admission as ruler of the Ergoth Empire, only to be told the emperor already resided within. Touching the gate with a bared sword, Amaltar would symbolically “capture” the Inner City. Within he would find the dead emperor lying enshrined in a great catafalque.
“What’s that?” Kiya asked, interrupting Egrin’s description of the coming ceremony.
“A catafalque is the raised, curtained bier on which the old emperor will lay. Very elaborate,” he told her, then resumed his narrative.
It was because the empire was founded on force and conquest that Amaltar had to enter the catafalque and lightly strike the body of his father with his sword, thereby “defeating” the old emperor.
“Ah, that’s why they turn the old one to stone,” said Kiya, “so the blow won’t damage him.”
Egrin went on. “When the old emperor is ritually overcome, the new emperor emerges from the catafalque and is presented with his predecessor’s crown, which he places on his own head. He is then Emperor of Ergoth, spiritually as well as temporally.”
Tol’s little household was gathered around the kitchen table, having a late supper. With only a trio of candles to hold back the gloom, it was an eerie scene, quite unlike the usual cheerful brightness of the room.
“What becomes of the dead emperor?” asked Kiya. Still hampered by her bad knee, she had her leg propped on a chair.
“He is interred in the vault of his ancestors, deep beneath the Inner City plaza. After the new emperor is crowned and enthroned, he receives the oaths of every warlord in the empire.”
“That could take days!” Miya exclaimed.
The marshal shrugged. “Usually does.”
She shook her head. “Poor old Amaltar! I hope he has good cushions in his chair!”
Tol yawned, and the others professed themselves also ready for rest. Egrin, who slept in the n
orth wing of the villa with his escort from Juramona, took one candle. Tol took one for himself and snuffed the last. Flanked by the Dom-shu sisters, he wished his mentor a good rest.
The villa was quiet. Miya’s hare feet thumped loudly as they climbed the broad, slate-covered stairs to the second floor. For all her stealth in the forest, indoors the younger Dom-shu made far more noise than Kiya, who was limping.
The sisters were once again discussing this fact-rather heatedly-when Kiya suddenly broke off and grabbed the hem of Tol’s jerkin, halting him.
“Something up there on the landing moved!”
Tol’s candle was as thick as his wrist, hut its light was too feeble to illuminate the whole of the great stairway. The landing at the top was covered by a large wine-colored carpet, woven with a golden pattern of circles, lines, and squares. Beyond it, they could see very little down the black corridor.
Tol asked, “What did you see?”
“Something near the floor. It flapped.” Kiya undulated her hand to illustrate what she meant.
Tol took her warning seriously. Kiya was not as imaginative as her sister and not at all prone to seeing things that weren’t there. Handing the candle to Miya, he drew his sword and continued slowly up the stairs.
Miya accompanied him, and the glow of the candle flame flickered over chairs against the wall, side tables covered with dwarven bric-a-brac, and suits of armor. It was easy to imagine furtive movement in the heavy shadows, but Tol saw nothing tangible.
“Sister’s imagining things!” Miya announced through a yawn. She stomped by Tol, handing him the candle as she passed. “G’night!”
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