There were at least a hundred senators on the bank of seats around the north side, distinguishable from their guests and other notables by the purple hems on their togas. They certainly weren’t keeping still. They were talking and reading and some of them were dozing, like Grandfather was.
The southerly seats held lesser people, even commoners, and they were being quieter, but he mustn’t look around to see how many there were.
Emine II (q.v.), imperor of the First Dynasty, and legendary founder of the Protocol (q.v.), which brought the powers of sorcery under control by establishing the Council of Four Wardens (q.v.), occult guardians of the Impire . . . Without Court Teacher telling him to, Shandie had memorized a whole page about Emine and recited it for Moms, and she had been pleased and given him a candycake. She had made him repeat it for Ythbane that evening, and even Ythbane had praised him and almost smiled.
They were always pleased when he did bookish things well. They wouldn’t let him do military things—things with horses and swords, although those were what he really wanted, because when he grew up he was going to be a warrior imperor; like Agraine. He wasn’t allowed to do boyish things with other boys hardly at all now. And ceremonial things he hated and usually got beaten after, for fidgeting at. The price of being the heir, Moms said, but it was all Ythbane’s idea.
The woman delegate on her knees had forgotten her words. She stopped, turning ashen pale. Shandie felt sorry for her, wondering if the city fathers would order her beaten when she went home to wherever-it-was. The silence dragged on. No one helped, or could help. The line of ministers remained motionless, staring over her at the opposing line, which was made up of heralds and secretaries. Farther away, the large group of delegates-who-had-done-their-speech looked hugely relieved that this wasn’t their problem. The small group of delegates-who-haven’t-done-it-yet looked terrified.
The woman began all over again from first genuflection, gabbling the words in a shrill voice. The senators in their comfortable chairs were paying no attention.
Those spectator benches went all the way around, except where the four aisles were, of course, but they still left lots of room in the middle. And in the center of that big round floor were the two round steps with Grandfather’s throne on top. Today was a north day; northern cities paying homage, the Opal Throne facing north. Halfway between Shandie and the senators, the White Throne stood on a single step. That place belonged to the warden of the north, but it was empty. Shandie had never seen a warden. Not many people had. And nobody ever wanted even to talk about them, even Grandfather, but he at least wasn’t scared of them. He was imperor, so he could summon the wardens.
One day I will be imperor and use Emine’s buckler to summon the wardens.
Even before Grandfather got old, he had not been frightened of the witch and the warlocks. They couldn’t touch him, he’d said; that was in the Protocol.
No one could use magic on Shandie, either, because he was family. Not that being heir apparent was much comfort when he was bent over Ythbane’s writing table with his pants down. Any magic would be better than that.
The poor woman came to an end at last; eyes turned toward the throne; Shandie stopped breathing again. The pins and needles in his left arm were making his eyes water. If he wriggled his fingers just a little, very slowly, surely no one would notice and tell Ythbane he’d been fidgeting?
Ythbane spoke for Grandfather again; —the woman scrabbled away; another delegate came forward to kneel.
Tomorrow would be East’s turn—eastern cities bringing greetings, Grandfather seated facing east, toward the Gold Throne. Moms and Shandie, too. The senators would have the eastern seats, facing west. He wondered how the senators chose who came on which day, because that wasn’t the whole Senate sitting there.
Not long to go now.
It was awfully hard to keep his knees from shaking, and they did hurt. He tried to imagine the witch of the north suddenly appearing over there on her White Throne, although it wasn’t really white, being carved out of ivory. Bright Water was a goblin, and hundreds of years old. He’d heard people muttering that maybe she’d set the goblins on the Pondague legionaries, but he knew that only East would use magic on Grandfather’s army. What was the word? He’d seen it in his history book. Pre-roga-tive! Prerogative (q.v.), whatever (q.v.) meant. Bright Water’s prerogative was Nordland raiders, but it was silly of the Protocol to put a goblin woman in charge of jotunn sailors. South’s was dragons and West’s was weather.
If Bright Water ever did appear on her throne, then likely all the warlocks would appear, as well, each on his own throne—Olybino and Zinixo and Lith’rian. An imp, a dwarf, and an elf. That was silly, too. The Protocol should have made all the wardens imps, to protect the Impire properly.
One day, when Shandie got to be Emshandar V, then he would get to read the Protocol (q.v.). Only imperors and wardens ever did.
No sorcerer would ever come to a brain-melting boring meeting like this, though.
They were done! Now another herald was unrolling a scroll. Ythbane nodded.
“His Excellency, Ambassador from the Nordland Confederacy . . .”
Ambassador Krushjor came striding forward like a great white bear, followed by a half-dozen other jotnar, all shockingly half naked in helmet, breeches, and boots and nothing else—dumb barbarians showing off their hairy chests and hey-look-at-that muscles! Ambassadors were the only people excused formal court dress. They were allowed ethnic costume. It did look silly, though.
Oh, Holy Balance! Shandie realized that he could use some of those muscles himself right then. His left arm was sagging under the weight of the train draped over it. He tried to raise it and couldn’t. It wouldn’t obey him. It was dead.
But Ythbane couldn’t have noticed yet. He was eyeing the jotunn ambassador, and having to lean his head back to do it. The consul was not big for an imp, and the older man was an average-size jotunn. Some of the younger jotnar in the back were even bigger, with bushy gold beards. And muscles! Bet they could hold up a toga for weeks if they ever had to. Moms called the jotnar “murdering monsters.”
The senators had fallen silent, as if this were going to be more interesting than . . . Gods! There, up in the back row—how could he not have noticed sooner? Just in time, Shandie remembered not to move. It was Aunt Oro, right in there with the senators! He hadn’t seen her in months. She’d been away at Leesoft. His heart jumped, then sank—he wanted to run to her, or at least smile and wave, but of course he mustn’t move. He thought maybe he’d twitched a little on seeing her, but Ythbane was still watching the jotunn, so it wouldn’t matter.
She’d understand that he must put duty first, and mustn’t fidget on formal occasions.
Fancy Aunt Oro in with the senators! But of course she had senatorial rank. Much higher rank, really, because she was Princess Imperial Orosea. She even outranked Moms, who was only Princess Uomaya. So Aunt Oro could sit anywhere she wanted, but he’d have expected her to have a chair on the steps of the throne, like Moms. He wondered when she’d returned to court. He hadn’t heard a whisper, and he was pretty good at picking up gossip, because he spent a lot of time around grown-ups and they tended to forget he was there.
Surely she wouldn’t go back to Leesoft without coming to see him? He wouldn’t mind a hug from Aunt Oro. It wouldn’t be unmanly to let her hug him just once—it wasn’t as if everyone did. Or anyone, really. Of course it would be unmanly to mention the beatings. All boys got beaten, and princes were special and had to be specially beaten. So Ythbane had said last time, making a joke—he’d added a couple of strokes, saying Shandie was being impudent by not laughing.
If Aunt Oro asked any questions, of course, he’d have to tell the truth, and if he was still limping . . . “The matter of Krasnegar has already been settled, signed and sealed!” Ythbane was shouting. Bad sign. He shouted a lot these days. He’d never shouted before Grandfather got old.
Shouting wasn’t going to do him much good with the jotunn, though. The big silver beard parted to show big yellow teeth. “With respect, Eminence—” He didn’t look respectful. “—the document we initialed was merely a memorandum of agreement. It was always subject to the approval of the Thanes’ Moot.”
“And you were to send it—”
“It is on its way to Nordland. I respectfully remind your Eminence, though, that Nordland is months away, and the Moot meets only once a year, at midsummer.”