Emperor Mage

by Tamora Pierce

  The badger looked at the mountain-runners. —Climb on. And no pulling my fur.—

  The mountain-runners lost no time in obeying. Clustered on the god’s broad back, they reminded Daine of nothing so much as children on a boating holiday. “Badger? Does it hurt them to die again? Or if a mage blasted them, say?”

  —How could it hurt flesh that is not there? This awakening you give them is not true life. When they sleep again, they will return to the otherworld that serves the spirits of the People. Now, go back to bed,— he advised. —And tell the Banjiku that Lushagui never meant for them to be slaves.—

  Silvery light bloomed. It winked out, and Daine and Kitten were alone.

  As they sneaked back to Daine’s room, the girl began to yawn. Her body ached as though she had been pummeled. Gently moving Zek from the center of the bed to the side, she got in next to him. Kitten gave a small croak, and the lamps went out. Daine’s last thought was of moving her feet to make room for the dragon, and then she slept.

  The odd night she’d had didn’t cause her to sleep late, but as she cleaned her face and teeth, dressed, and brushed her hair, she felt as if a griffin had landed on her. Kitten roused as she buttoned her shirt and uttered a forlorn cheep.

  “No, don’t,” the girl said, voice gravelly. “One of us ought to rest.”

  Kitten nodded agreement and went back to sleep. Zek, curled up on Daine’s pillow, sat up. You vanished, he said. Kitten got angry and vanished, too. Why didn’t you take me?

  Daine smiled. “I didn’t know I was going anywhere, Zek, or I would have taken you. Remember, I promised you’d be safe from now on. I won’t leave you behind. Now, go back to sleep.” Ever agreeable, the marmoset obeyed.

  Closing her eyes, Daine reached with her magic for the emperor’s birds: she wanted to check their progress. The moment she found them, she knew something was wrong. Each appeared in her magical vision as a tiny ball of light. On a handful, shadows dimmed their fire. Some of the birds were falling sick in the same way as they had before.

  Leaving a note in the common room, she trotted along the shortcut to the aviary, frowning. In conversation with Lindhall the previous day she had learned he would never change the birds’ feed without an excellent reason. He’d also said that the emperor was too good with birds to meddle with their diet when they’d been sick, and she believed him. Then why were they ill again, and how long would it be until the disease spread to the entire flock?

  When she reached the door in the glass wall, she saw emerald fire around its edges. Gingerly she touched the knob. If the magic was to foil intruders, it failed: she felt nothing. She went in and closed the door quietly. When she turned away from it, an oval patch of emerald fire hung in the air before her. It rippled; the face of the Emperor Mage appeared. He was bare of all makeup save for the black paint around his eyes, with only a few gilded braids in his casual hairstyle.

  “Veralidaine, good morning,” he said. “I thought it might be you. Will you come to my table? I’m by the door into the palace.”

  She scuffled a shoe against the ground, not wanting to say why she was there until she had a better idea of what was wrong. “Could I look at the birds first, please, Your Imperial Majesty? They need me to check them over a bit, now they’ve had a couple days free of the sickness.” To excuse herself the half-lie, she crossed her fingers behind her back, where he couldn’t see.

  “Far be it for me to come between you and your charges.” His smile was sweet, if a bit melancholy. “You will come to see me, though? Once you have spoken with them?”

  She didn’t want to, but there was no graceful way to refuse. “Yessir.”

  “Very good.” The image faded; the fiery oval collapsed on itself and vanished.

  Parrot finches came to lead her up the curved stairs to a pair of stricken birds, red-crested cardinals. They clung side by side to a branch well away from the sun, blinking. She saw no signs of trembling, and their eyes were bright, but she could feel the illness starting to work in their bodies. She gathered the male into her hands.

  What have you been into? she asked silently so that the emperor wouldn’t hear. What have you been eating or drinking to make you sick again?

  The bird looked at her dully. He couldn’t remember. He was fine the day before, visiting all his favorite places. And he wasn’t sick, precisely. Just a bit off his feed.

  She opened her mind to his. The illness showed as black threads running along the bird’s nerves, growing toward his spine and brain. Once they reached those, he would know he was sick. She bore down with healing fire, burning out every thready trace.

  When he was well, she opened her eyes to find he’d marked her arms and feet with thick white droppings. She frowned. The night she’d first come to the aviary, her mind was too full of the thing she had seen and the work she was doing for the birds’ dung to register as anything more than the reason for the loss of a pretty outfit. Now she scooped up a bit and rubbed it in her fingers. It was heavy, almost pastelike. What it should have been was compact, wet, dark, with perhaps a few undigested seed hulls mixed in.

  The female red-crested cardinal had the same kind of droppings.

  Daine spread her power through the aviary, calling the other three whose new illness she had detected: a green-and-gold tanager, an orange-bellied leafbird, and one of the royal bluebirds, with its impossibly blue wings and tail feathers. All three nested close to the glass wall. All three of them emptied themselves of heavy white droppings as she healed them. She held them away to spare her clothes more damage.

  With them taken care of, she summoned the red-crested cardinals back to her. All five of her patients clustered on branches around her at the top-most level of the stair, looking at her curiously. Where do you nest? she asked the cardinals.

  The male flew to the tree where he lived, and back. Like the others, he nested by the glass.

  Some kind of magic gone awry in the windows? she wondered. Getting her handkerchief, she scrubbed her hands with it as she thought. Glass splinters falling into the nest or the food? she wondered, but that wasn’t right. If splinters had caused the damage, the birds’ dung would be bloody and black, not white. White paste—why did she think there was something important about white paste?

  A picture came to life in her memory, of Numair making paints, using—

  Lead compounds, she thought, eyes lighting up. They’re getting lead! That’s what’s coming out of their bodies when I heal them! Tell me what you eat here, she ordered.

  Red-faced parrot finches had come to watch everything she’d done, fascinated. Now they chorused, Seeds.

  What kind of seeds? she asked. What do they look like? Show me.

  All the birds came, to shower her with images of seeds.

  Enough! she ordered when they began to repeat themselves. Only seeds, or is there other food?

  Fruit, said the tanagers. Figs, grapes, fluffy leaves with plenty of wet in them.

  Daine smiled, recognizing the image of lettuce in their minds. What else?

  Sometimes green food, said a parrot finch, perching on Daine’s shoulder. It’s good. It’s different. His red face twisted up to hers. They had green food, he said, meaning Daine’s patients.

  So what is it? she asked. What kind of plant?

  Not a plant, exactly, the helpful parrot finch said. He gave up trying to see her face from her shoulder and perched on her hand.

  Not a plant. Green seed? she asked.

  No, said the parrot finch. It is green food. Over here.

  He fluttered up into the air, and darted at the glass. She was about to warn him not to hit it when he stopped, clinging to a vinelike tendril. It was a decoration on one of the metal strips that held the glass panes there. He pecked at the green enamel surface.

  “Goddess bless,” she whispered. She reshaped her eyes and face to give herself a hawk’s vision, and focused on the metal strips near the parrot finch. With so much extra visual power, she noticed a glossy surfac
e on the enamel that was clear, a layer that had to be lacquer of some kind. Cracks ran through it like fractures in ice, and tiny bits had flaked off, revealing the less-shiny green enamel underneath. Everywhere she looked, the clear surface was pitted. In a number of locations, the damage to the clear lacquer was even greater, and there were pocks in the green material itself. She would know the distinctive marks of beaks and claws anywhere.

  Is that what you’ve been eating? she asked her patients, remembering to do it silently.

  It’s good, replied the green-and-gold tanager, cocking his head at her. It tastes different. I’m always thirsty after the green food, but I still like it. The others chorused agreement.

  Daine put her hands on her hips. Salt in the enamel, she thought with disgust. Only they’re eating lead along with it.

  She called the birds to her, even those begging tidbits from Ozorne. Now listen to me, she told them when they were quiet. The green food is killing you. It’s poison. You have to promise me you’ll never, ever touch it again. As she spoke, she pressed down, reinforcing her words with magic so that they would avoid the stuff forever.

  I still have to tell the emperor to have the coatings changed, she thought as she trotted gleefully down the stairs. Or new strips put in, or something.

  “I found out what made them sick!” she said when she found him. He was seated in the area with the marble bench, a seed-filled bowl at his side. A table and two chairs had been placed there, and breakfast was already laid out. “The enamel on the metal things that hold up that glass? They’re eating it for the salt and taking in lead. If you change the paint, or cover it with something that won’t crack or break, they won’t get sick again. I’ve talked to your birds”—they were coming back to him now, perching on his shoulders and on nearby branches as he offered them food from the bowl—“and they won’t go near it anymore, I made fair sure of that! But you’ll have to fix it before any chicks hatch, because doubtless I won’t be here to make them leave it be.”

  He smiled up at her, holding seed-filled palms steady as birds perched and ate. “You have done me a tremendous service, Veralidaine. Will you do me another and take breakfast with me?”

  She looked at the table, set with filled crystal goblets, delicate porcelain and silver, then looked down at herself and blushed. “Your Imperial Majesty, I’m a mess. It would hardly be fitting—”

  With a gentle movement he dislodged the birds and moved the bowl away so that they could sit on the rim and stuff themselves. He closed a hand and opened it, to reveal a ball of green fire. “We require a washbasin and those things necessary for the cleansing of hands. Also a robe—blue, or lilac, blue-gray—suitable for a young lady who stands as high as our chin.” He closed his hand, and the fire was gone. Looking up at Daine, he smiled wistfully. “Please accept. I dislike meals taken alone, and it seems—of late—I am not the most sought-out of companions.”

  What could she say to that? “Thank you, Your Imperial Majesty.”

  Three slaves came through an arch partly shielded by greenery. One carried a gold basin that steamed faintly; another soap, a washcloth, and a neatly folded towel on a tray; and a third something lilac and very fine draped over his arm.

  “Our rooms open into this aviary,” explained Ozorne. She noticed that he’d switched instantly to the imperial we on the arrival of the others. “Our birds will not come there—it is too bright and noisy for them—but we enjoy the sound of the aviary fountains at night.”

  The slave with the basin knelt on one knee before Daine, holding it above his head like an offering. She stepped back, confused.

  “Go on,” the emperor said. “Wash.”

  She was supposed to clean her grimy hands this way? With a human washstand?

  The slave with the tray set it on one of the chairs. She and her companion proceeded to delicately unbutton Daine’s cuffs and roll her sleeves above the elbow. The girl gritted her teeth and did as she was expected to, wetting her hands and scrubbing them. With the best intentions in the world, she couldn’t avoid splashing the boy underneath the basin. When she was finished, the slaves dried her hands and helped her into the lilac robe. She winced as it closed around her dung-streaked clothing. The garment, a finely made thing with silver braid and tiny pearls worked around hem, collar, and cuffs, would never be the same.

  Once she was covered, the slaves served the food as Daine and the emperor each took a chair. When they were done, Ozorne dismissed them. “I find mutes make the best slaves,” he remarked, curling one hand around a crystal goblet. Daine had one just like it before her, filled with something that was the bright red of fresh blood. “They do not chatter. Shall we have a toast, then?”

  Daine stared at him, hands tucked into her lap. “A toast, Your Imperial Majesty?”

  He raised his goblet. “To birds,” he said gravely.

  Relief filled her: she had feared he’d want to toast Carthak, or the ruin of Tortall. Don’t be silly, she scolded herself as she raised her goblet. He wouldn’t try to make me do something bad like that, not when I just helped him.

  She sipped the red liquid. It was pomegranate juice, a bit thick and oversweet. She would have preferred to water it down, but the emperor drank all of his straight down. Good manners dictated that she do the same. When the goblet was empty, she drank from another filled with cold water, to rinse the heaviness out of her mouth.

  “What do you think of the progress being made in the peace talks?” he asked, delicately cutting a bite of ham. “Have you been kept abreast of what transpires here?”

  She fiddled with the napkin she’d put on her lap. “I know it’s not going very well.”

  “No. It was too much to hope for, really, with so much else taking place—all these dark omens. Do you know why the gods are angry?”

  The girl shook her head. It was much too hot in here. Sweat was trickling down her temples, and it was a little hard to follow what he was saying. It also didn’t seem like the time to mention that she had some idea of the source of the gods’ displeasure.

  “I let a threat to Carthak exist. A powerful criminal, sheltered by my enemy, Jonathan of Tortall. The gods do not love a ruler who permits a threat to survive. It was made clear to me, the night of the naval review. Zernou himself pointed out my error, and suddenly I understood.”

  She took a deep breath. It was an effort to draw air in. “He pointed to you,” she whispered.

  Ozorne’s smile was amused and pitying. “Not to me, Veralidaine. To the criminal. To Arram Draper—your teacher, Numair Salmalín. I knew that I was moved to allow his return for a good reason. My hand was guided by the gods themselves.” Rising, he came to her side of the table and lifted one of her arms, placing his fingertips over her pulse. She tried to yank away, but all she could think of was Numair.

  “You cannot fight dreamrose,” Ozorne remarked. “It’s a cousin of wakeflower, and very strong. A spear dipped in it will drop a charging elephant. Frankly, I am amazed you are still awake.”

  “You—can’t hurt us.” She fought hard to say it. “Ambassadors. Sacred—”

  “I will hurt no one, my dear.” He placed her arm in her lap again and brought his chair close, sitting where he could watch her face. “You will run away and vanish into the kingdom. I will be furious. For all I know, you are among criminals in the underground, urging them to rebel against me. Your friends will be forced to leave immediately, under guard. Even Tortall’s allies will be able to see that these talks failed due to you, not to me. I will have my Tortallan war, and no one will stop me.

  “Better, I know that he loves you—the traitor Salmalín. That I could see when he came here seeking you, and the night Zernou pointed him out to me—the night the traitor warned my heir not to trifle with you. Since we will go to war in any case, Salmalín will return for you, and I will have him.” There was nothing in his voice, or eyes, but kind interest. “This will turn out for the best. I like you, Veralidaine. The way you have with my darlings—”
He shook his head admiringly. “You will have a title—countess, perhaps? Even duchess. You will have your own estates, your own slaves, whatever you wish. You will even have the dragon, too. It will be necessary to keep her under the sleep until you are well settled here, but once you are, she will be content as long as you are content. I will not risk waking her until I am certain she will not turn on me.

  Sleep was wrapping around her like a cloud-filled blanket. “Numair . . .”

  Ozorne stood. “He dies, my dear. The gods demand a blood sacrifice, and so do I.”

  NINE

  DAINE LOSES HER TEMPER

  She had the oddest dream. She was Zek, and the world was huge. Kitten, who to Daine was the size of a medium-tall dog, looked like a three-horn to the marmoset. He watched the dragon sleepily from the bed as she walked to and fro on the floor, talking to herself. He could tell she was worried, but not about what.

  Then a section of the wall that was farthest from him swung open with a sound. Zek/Daine leaped from the bed, and hid underneath. Kitten whirled, turning orange with fright, as the Emperor Mage came in, a solid black crystal in his hand. He lobbed it gently at the dragon. It shattered on the floor without a sound, filling the air with smoke. When Zek could see Kitten once more, she was frozen in place, unmoving.

  Ozorne knelt in front of her and drew a hank of thin, black cord from the pouch at his belt. Swiftly he unrolled it and bound Kitten’s muzzle and paws, tying the two ends together when he was done. When he let go of the cord, it shone green, then vanished completely. Kitten’s eyes closed, and she collapsed into the emperor’s arms.

  Ozorne pointed to the door; green fire left his finger, spreading to cover the opening. He then waved to someone in the hole in the wall. Slaves came, gathering up Daine’s things. “Be certain you take all of her belongings,” he instructed quietly. “Not a single hairpin must remain.”

  Zek, wits made sharp by exposure to Daine, looked around. There was no place under the bed to hide if they looked there, and there was magic on the main door. He didn’t know what lay beyond the opening in the wall, but in any event the emperor was between him and it. He peered at the corner near the windows. A cloth hanging was on the wall. Above it, near the ceiling, he saw a rectangular opening: an air vent.