The old man sank wearily onto the throne that had been his for a generation. For a moment he just panted quietly, looking over the assembled witnesses with evident satisfaction, displaying the teeth that seemed so oversized for his wasted features. Legally nothing had changed, Rap knew. Legally Ythbane still reigned. But men were ruled by their hearts as well as by laws, and Emshandar seated on the throne of his forefathers and holding the state regalia was not the friendless petitioner who had been spurned so lightly a few minutes ago. Now he could rule hearts, and minds must follow.
If others would obey him, then he was dangerous again, and therefore worth obeying. It was a circle: Power made fear made obedience made more power, and no one understood the recipe better than the old lion himself. These few men and women were the tiller of the Impire, and by turning them, he could set whatever course he willed.
Guessing his next move, Rap forestalled it. Dropping to one knee, he pointed at the lonely three-legged stool in the distance. It had been planned as a humiliation, but it would make a good refuge. “Shandie,” he said, ”you go and sit there and watch. And fidget all you like, because no one cares any more about that.”
“Yes, Rap! Thank you!” Without even a glance to see if his grandfather approved, the boy went running off.
Rap’s presumption earned a hard stare of Imperial anger as he rose. And he was not finished yet. His temper had ebbed as fast as it had flowed, leaving a scum of disgust behind it. He had attacked an unarmed man! He would never have used a sword or even a stick like that, so where was the excuse for using sorcery? As he paced over to Ythbane’s still form, he recalled sour old Mother Unonini, perched on the one good chair in Hononin’s dingy little room and preaching: Sorcerers are human, too, Master Rap. They are torn between evil and good, as we all aremore so, perhaps, because their power to do good or evil is so much greater.
He’d behaved like a lout. And in front of Inos, too! Ythbane had a broken shoulder and a fractured skull, together with a dazzling collection of bruises. By the time Rap reached him, though, they were all cured and his eyes were open. As an afterthought, Rap changed his purple toga to plain white. He held out a hand to help the man rise, then left him standing there and returned to his former place before the Opal Throne, blandly ignoring the imperor’s wrath. —which sought out a more rewarding target. “Epoxague!”
“Your Majesty?” The little senator was doing a good job of concealing a very large amount of worry.
“As we recall the Act of Succession,” the imperor said, “it decrees that when a regency is needed, sovereignty shall devolve upon the next in line. Did our daughter refuse to serve?”
The little man rubbed his mustache. “With respect, Sire . . . the next in line was a minor. The wording seemed ambiguous as to whether the sequence then continued to the second in line. There was considerable debate.”
“Pigs’ guts!” Emshandar flushed with fury. “I’ll bet there was! Nit splitting! Of course that’s what it means!”
The senator seemed to shrink slightly. “That did seem to be the view of the majority, Sire, although a narrow one.”
“Then why was Orosea not appointed?” Epoxague’s face shone damply below the golden trellises of the candelabra. “There is provision for bypassing a designated candidate who is unsuitable, Sire, and some honorable senators believed that your daughter’s long absence from the capital might have rendered her unfamiliar with present conditions in—”
“Sewage!” the imperor roared. “Unadulterated sewage! What was worrying them was that Leesoft has elvish blood in him, and those two sons of hers have slanty eyes. Isn’t that so? They didn’t want slanty-eyed princes any nearer the throne than necessary?”
“That view may have . . . That opinion was never expressed in my hearing, Sire, neither in public nor—”
“Cuttlefish! So you accepted a mongrel merman instead! There were no recorded votes, of course?”
“No, Sire.”
For a moment the imperor stared threateningly at the wretched senator. ”The Ythbane regency is dissolved. Should another be necessary in future, either for us or for our grandson, then our daughter will serve. Is that clear?”
Pause. “Yes, Sire.”
“You will promote her interests?” Longer pause. “Yes, Sire.”
“We have your oath, freely given?”
The senator looked uneasily at Rap, who smiled mysteriously; then he glanced at the four empty thrones and finally he yielded to the evident threat. ”Yes, Sire. I so swear.”
“Hummph! Consul?”
In a few minutes, the old fox had extracted that oath from every imp present, including Marshal Ithy, who was the only one pleased to give it. By then Ythbane had gone. When his followers began deserting him and no occult aid arrived, he walked quietly away into the darkness, heading for the west door. Rap let him go, and Emshandar either did not notice or did not care.
“As for Lord Ythbane,” he concluded, “he is hereby banished for life to the city of Wetter, upon pain of death.” He scowled at the flicker of reaction. “For assaulting the heir apparent. Consul, see that the Bill of Attainder is passed quickly and sent on to the Senate.”
Emshandar would not make the mother of his grandson a widow, but his leniency had surprised the audience, although only a sorcerer could have told so from their hard-schooled faces. The old man leaned back for a moment and rubbed an arm across his eyes. He was exhausted, and close to having to admit it. He looked over the company again.
“Sultan Azak, you are welcome to our court—you, and your so-beautiful sultana, also.”
Azak seemed to touch his forehead to his shins as he bowed. Inos curtsyed, flashing Rap a glance of desperation. Miserably Rap pretended not to notice. He had removed the curse and night was at hand.
“The peace proposals you brought are acceptable,” the imperor added wryly. Marshal Ithy flinched, and so did a few others. Azak looked startled, then pleased, then suspicious, all in one fast blink. He bowed again. “Your Majesty is most gracious!”
Rap thought of all those stalwart young legionaries he had seen marching boldly eastward. So he had prevented a bloody war that might have dragged on for a generation? That was good news, but it was most certainly a political use of sorcery, even if accidental.
Where were the wardens?
Emshandar’s well-trained face was transparent enough to Rap. He thought he had won now. The Four had not stepped in to block him, and Ythbane had been discredited. Inos’s problems were irrelevant, for Rap had survived and could look after his own wants.
“That would seem to complete the evening’s business!” The old man sighed gratefully. “Marshal, you will attend us in the morning.”
Ithy saluted, his face grim as he contemplated all those legions he had moved to Qoble and must now return.
Emshandar laid the sword and buckler at his side and put both hands on the arms of his throne to rise. Shimmer!
“There are a few matters left on the agenda, your Majesty,” said the high, sweet voice of an elf.
2
Lith’rian sat on the Blue Throne under the candelabrum. To mundane view he was a golden-skinned adolescent, slumped back at his ease in a toga of shimmering moonlight blue, a garment that seemed more mirage than substance, although it was opaque enough. The sandals on his outstretched feet shone like pearl. His toenails had been silvered, although he was too far off for anyone but Rap to notice.
In the ambience, he was bewilderingly different. True, the physical likeness was there, and where Kalkor had shown as a transparent wraith, the elf was far more solid. He seemed to be standing right in front of Rap, hands on hips, smiling a welcome and studying Rap as Rap was studying him. His slanted opalescent eyes twinkled with cheeky and tolerant amusement. His limbs were slim, his ribs visible above a juvenile flat belly; yet to occult vision the signs of age were obvious—the tiny traces another elf would look for, in earlobes and fingernails. Lith’rian must be older than the imperor, for he had been South since the year Emshandar’s father succeeded.
But the physical likeness was only a tiny part of his spectral presence. Rap reeled before a rainbow chorus of sights and sounds: sunlight singing along crystal forests, flowers schooling like fish, odors of roses and whirling stars, pattern and counterpoint and dance. This was a glimpse of the intricate mind of an elf, and its sheer complexity almost sickened him until he managed to suppress the images and quieten the music. Lith’rian detected the reaction, and his mirth burst up like foam from breaking surf.