If the prince went one way and his signifer went the other, then his career was over before it had begun.
Off to one side of the throne, though, Praetorian Guardsmen stood rigid, flanking an unmarked door. Saved! Ylo continued on down the length of the great hall, veered past the throne, and came to a halt at last.
It had been an Evilish long journey from Qoble.
An Evilish long journey since he was last in this room.
5
The door opened and the Prince Imperial entered. The door closed.
A Praetorian tribune was eyeing Centurion Hardgraa and his two henchmen with mortal challenge in his eye. If the interlopers attempted to take up positions by the door, as they would normally do when Shandie was within, then there was going to be a pitched battle. The palace was Praetorian pasture.
“What do we do now?” Ylo whispered out of the corner of his mouth.
“We wait,” came the reply, soft as wind rustling oak leaves. ”And ogle the pretty girls.”
“Show me how to do that,” Ylo muttered, but he had spotted a socket close by one of those menacing sentinels. He marched over, set his standard in it, stepped back and saluted. Then he turned away as if he had just gone off duty. Apparently he was on the right track, because Hardgraa dismissed his two subordinates, thanking them for a long ride and a job well done.
Lots of women to ogle, not many girls. The conversations were starting up again, but Ylo was acutely aware of being watched. He wandered a tactful distance away from that potent doorway and Hardgraa paced at his side. Bystanders drifted out of their path.
Comprehension came like a dagger stroke. He was an Yllipo, the only Yllipo. All the two hundred or so courtiers present were politicos to their painted toenails. They all knew his background and who he was, every one of them. They would not dare address him until they knew how things stood between him and the imperor. Shandie was not cock of the roost yet.
Awkward minutes dragged by. Courtiers learned patience above all else. They might stand here until midnight.
Ylo noted an incongruous pair wandering in through the great main door—a fat man and a small, birdlike man, Umpily and Acopulo, who had followed the military procession in a carriage. They separated, joyfully greeting old friends.
Then a guardsman came striding through the crowd, heading for Ylo like an arrow. His centurion’s breastplate shone as bright as all the jewels and glitter of the courtiers and his plume floated higher than most of the hussars’, even.
Well, well! Sweeter yet.
The Praetorian stamped to a halt and saluted. Ylo responded. Technically their relative rank was something of a military mystery, but there was no doubt who was the effective superior now.
The man’s face was rigid. He was taking a risk and he knew it—but he was also covering his flanks and they both knew that. “I came to offer my congratulations, Signifer.” He had always been a gentleman.
“Very kind of you, Centurion.” For the life of him, Ylo could not recall the man’s name. One of the Hathinos. It would come, when he needed it.
“Just wanted you to know, er, Signifer . . . That was the most unpleasant job I ever had to do.”
“I did not enjoy it, either.”
“No. Well, we must all obey orders. Nothing personal?”
“Nothing personal,” Ylo agreed, noticing a hint of relief that the disciplined mask could not quite conceal.
He watched in satisfaction as his former superior marched away again. The audience was whispering. Nothing personal—but one day he would make that man lick his sandal, just on principle. Hithi, that was his name. Remember it!
“An old friend?” Hardgraa inquired dryly.
“Not exactly.” He smiled as he threw me to the sharks. “Well, try not to kill him in public,” Hardgraa remarked cheerfully. Then he added, with the air of a man being deliberately relaxed, “Er, Signifer?”
“Yes, Centurion?”
“Don’t look now, but one of the pictures on the eastern wall is of some interest.”
Since when had that human battering ram ever cared for art? Ylo raised his eyebrows to convey his surprise and then slowly surveyed the entire room. ”Oh, well done!” he said when he had finished. “Bravely done!”
The works of art in the Throne Room would have ransomed a fair city: sculptures, tapestries, paintings. The picture Hardgraa had spotted did not seem noteworthy in itself, at least not at this distance, but its subject was. Sunlit green waves in the foreground blew spume, and a majestic galleon heeled under full canvas. In the distance, balancing the composition, a conical rock bore a town on its slopes and a spiky castle at its peak. It was exactly as Shandie had described his vision in the preflecting pool.
For the last year and a half, Ylo had been anticipating the prince’s every want. He could sense them now before Shandie was even aware of them himself. Hardgraa had the trained observation of a bodyguard, but he lacked the courtly guile to proceed from here. To march over to that painting and read its inscription, if it had one, would alert the entire court. The next step was up to Ylo.
He glanced around and located a footman hovering by the wall. He was no callow youth, either, but an old retainer, who should be well versed in palace lore. A flick of an eye brought the man to him, in a deft, unhurried glide. He bowed with the respect proper to Ylo’s rank—which was giddily high at the moment—and he waited cautiously to hear what this enigma wanted.
What was the correct question? The palace art collection would doubtless be the responsibility of some ineffectual noble. There would be an underling to run things, but he would be a professional bureaucrat who spent most of his time playing palace politics. The real work would be done by his staff.
Ylo made a stab at the appropriate title. “The Assistant Deputy Curator of the Royal Paintings,” he said loftily, and watched the flunky twitch with astonishment. “I want to see him. Now.”
It worked like a sword through the heart. The man bowed and withdrew. This sort of authority could easily become addictive!
Hardgraa had drifted away and was deep in conversation with a tribune of the VIIth, apparently an old friend. The room was gradually filling up as latecomers arrived to view the excitement. Here and there Ylo recognized a familiar face—notable political figures, friends of his parents. Still he stood in isolation, the untrusted Yllipo.
And what of the Yllipo’s revenge? For a year and a half he had served the prince imperial with all his strength, served him loyally and well. He had not stuck a knife in his ribs, although the opportunities had been legion.
So now what? The old man must die soon. Until then there would be nothing to do but wait. Shandie would be generousYlo had no doubts of that, because he knew that generosity to one aide bought loyalty from all the others. When Emshandar V was proclaimed imperor and sat secure on the Opal Throne, then his former signifer would receive advancement. A seat in the Assembly to start with, likely. A title, then a few sinecure offices to pad his pockets, then a praetorship to make him rich. In a few years, perhaps a consulship.
And meanwhile, just wait. Wait and woo the women of Hub, the beauties of the Impire. His eyes had been scanning the talent without waiting for orders. One or two were not bad, but most were much too old for his taste. It was their daughters he was after.
Not one of them would compare to the goddess he had seen in the pool. The image had bewitched him. He had thought of little else for two days. Perfection! He suspected no other woman would ever quite satisfy him again. As soon as he had gotten her clothes off her, he would be comparing her with that vision, the goddess of the pool—and she would not compare.
He eyed the tables of refreshments. He had not eaten for hours and he might wait here many hours yet, but he decided to wait a while and let them all stare. He stared back, unconcerned.
Then a dark, slim man came strolling toward him. His doublet sparkled with the jeweled stars and the sash of the Order of Agraine, his hose were of the finest silk. His arrogance would have provoked a conclave of bishops to murder. Ylo ought to know him, obviously. Every eye in the room was on the two of them. The hall fell silent.
“Signifer Ylo?”
Ylo saluted the sash, to be on the safe side. “My Lord?”
“Prince Emthoro of Leesoft.”
Execration! Shandie’s cousin! Third in line.
“Your Royal Highness! I beg pardon. I should have—”