When she arrived with Kade, half a dozen men were already present, wearing military uniforms or crisp white togas. Others came drifting in behind her, and a couple wearing red togas were necessarily senators. Another sported a purple border and would be one of the consuls. They stood in groups, muttering together in low voices—she had already noticed that all the imps in Hub, even the oldest, held themselves in stiff-backed soldier style. She did not recognize any of them, but she caught some glancing in her direction.
She would have felt slighted had they not. She and Kade had been hastily fitted out with white chitons. They felt like costumes for a masquerade ball—probably because, like togas, they were garments normally seen only on statues or in historical lithographs. The folds clung to her body, and her arms were bare. Chitons were not unlike nightgowns, and whereas Kade’s was woolen, warm, and matronly, hers was sheer enough to be unpleasant on this damp, cool evening. Men had just better look!
Two women entered wearing red chitons. They were both elderly, of course. More men in uniform: proconsuls, and a tribune.
She noticed a newcomer staring at her, a man in an especially impressive uniform. His breastplate was inlaid with gold, and the horsehair crest on his helmet was scarlet. She thought back to a lecture that Proconsul Yggingi had given her once at Kinvale, and decided that this must be the marshal of the armies. She could not recall his name, but it was short . . . Ishy, maybe? . . . something like that. He looked tough, but not unpleasant. She turned her gaze elsewhere so he could admire her profile also.
She found herself staring at the Opal Throne.
Of course all this playacting and the whole great building—everything was designed to draw attention to one spot, the center. Unconsciously she had been fighting back, perversely refusing to look where she was supposed to look. Like a rabbit ignoring a snake, in the hope that it would just go away.
The heart of power. It was a wide and ugly thing in itself, squatting on a two-step circular dais and lit by two candelabra of its own. This was the imperor’s chair, the seat of power, the hub of Hub, the navel of the world. She assumed that by day it flamed brightly. Under the candles it was mostly black, glowing here and there with baleful embers, crawling hints of blood and gold, grass and sky; restless stains of ancient evils. She thought of a dreaming dragon asleep on a hoard of candlelight.
From that potent center radiated four points of color, inset in the gray granite of the floor. The fourpoint star, symbol of the realm. Each triangle stretched out into the encircling darkness—yellow, white, red, and blue. Where each would narrow to nothing stood another throne on a single-step dais. Those must be the thrones of the wardens, and each had a single candelabrum right behind it, shedding its own isolated puddle of light.
The Opal Throne was facing toward one that Inos recognized, in a stunning flash of memory. It glittered gold below the many fires of its candelabrum. She knew who would sit there.
Despite her cynical desire to scorn such theatricals, she was impressed. A large part of the history that packed so many books in her father’s library had been brewed right here, in this great antique chamber, on these five thrones. Oceans of blood had flowed from this spring. The chill and damp were raising chickenflesh on her arms, but the awesome scent of raw power was certainly helping.
Suddenly Azak came striding in, taller than anyone, and accompanied by the tiny form of Senator Epoxague. They were an ill-assorted couple, both clad in togas, one white, one red. Surely Azak had never worn such an absurd garment before, or ever dreamed of doing so, and yet she could not help but note how good he looked in it. His bare right forearm was ropy with muscle, and his hair was burnished copper and gold in the candlelight. At his side, the old senator seemed frail and scrawny, almost pitiful. Poor man! He had risked his career for her, and might be going to pay a heavy price for that kindness.
Azak had seen her, and came to her, looking her over carefully—especially her chin and her newly healed cheeks.
“You are well, my love?”
“I am, sir.”
He frowned at that, and then looked to Kade. “And you, ma’am?”
Kade bobbed a small curtsy. “Very well, your Majesty.”
“I have not yet heard how you departed from Arakkaran, nor how you brought Master Rap with you.” Kade flaunted her daftest simper. “The regent himself asked me the same question. I explained that I had obligations to others that prevented me from answering that.”
Trust Kade to defy even Ythbane!
And Azak, also! The giant flushed angrily, but he did not pursue the matter. Here he was a guest, not a despot.
“We are very grateful to your Eminence,” Inos told the senator.
He smiled wryly. “Imps regard family ties as important, Inos.”
“I shall never forget,” she said.
He sighed. “It was unfortunate that we did not manage to stop the duel. I fear much trouble will flow from that.”
Just then Kalkor himself came stalking in, accompanied by Ambassador Krushjor. Their jotunnish garb of leather breeches and boots was a defiance of the cold; their pale hair shone gold under iron helmets. They glanced around contemptuously and then chose a location where they would see all five thrones, as everyone else had done.
At their heels, as if in attendance on them, came the young goblin, and now he also was wearing jotunn garb, his skin shining much more obviously green under the candles. No one would ever suggest putting a goblin in a toga, and he was not a diplomat who could sport his own ethnic costume. Goblins’ ethnic costume was likely even less respectable than jotnar’s. In a moment Little Chicken noticed Inos, and his angular eyes widened slightly. Then he grinned toothily at her. She very much wanted to have a chat with that young man, to learn why he now consorted with jotnar, and how he and Rap had escaped from Inisso’s chamber. But to go near Kalkor would be to beg for trouble. It would also provoke Azak into a foaming fit.
From time to time Inos recited to herself a little speech she had composed, explaining how her marriage was not valid and she now wished to have it annulled. The logic had seemed quite convincing at first. It felt frailer near Azak, somehow.
A quartet of bearers brought in the old imperor, laying his chair beside the central dais. Oh, that poor old man! Why could they not let him die in peace? The bearers departed.
That would seem to be everyone, Inos thought. She was right—in the distance a door thudded closed, and a moment later Ythbane strode in from the darkness, heading for the Opal Throne. He wore a purple toga, but there was a small bronze shield on his arm, and he carried a short sword in his right hand. Behind him came hurried the spindly little prince, looking both cute and pathetic in his toga. He stared straight ahead, ignoring everyone. His mother was not present.
The regent mounted the two steps to his throne and turned to look over the company. The prince went up one step and then around to the right of the throne. He turned also, and then seemed to freeze, like a statue.
The kid ought to be in bed, Inos thought angrily. Didn’t the Impire know how to look after its future rulers?
“Sultan Azak!” Ythbane proclaimed. “Are you prepared to present your petition to the four wardens, occult preservers of justice within all Pandemia?”
“I am.” Azak’s voice was deeper, and harsher. “Then we invoke the Council of Four on your behalf, as is our ancient right and obligation.” Ythbane raised his sword, and all eyes turned expectantly toward the gold throne.
Clank!
Well! Inos doubted that even a warlock could hear that silly little noise all the way from the Gold Palace. For a moment nothing happened. No one seemed to breath. The Gold Throne remained empty below its shimmering candelabrum.
Then the flames in that golden tree shrank and died, and went out. The throne faded away into the darkness, still empty.
The spectators looked back to Ythbane. His mouth hung open, and even the prince below him was showing a similar astonishment.
Obviously the regent was at a loss. His eyes sought out a couple of the senators, as if seeking guidance. If the Right of Appeal had not been exercised for a hundred years, no one would be an authority on procedures. Had someone forgotten something?
Setting his jaw, Ythbane strode around to his left, so that he faced the Blue Throne, the seat of Warlock Lith’rian. He raised the sword again. Before he could use it, the same invisible fingers snuffed those candles also, and the Blue Throne vanished away into the night.