The ministers were whispering at Ythbane’s back, the secretaries and heralds fretting and shuffling. The jotnar were smirking. Ythbane seemed to swell, all pompous in his toga with a purple hem. “So it will not be ratified until next summer—”
“Isn’t that obvious?”
“—but until then—”
“No! Until the news reaches Hub! You do realize that the return journey will also take months?” The pale-skinned old man leered down at the consul, and his manner was so like the one Ythbane himself used on Shandie that Shandie almost disgraced himself by giggling. Ythbane would kill him if he did that.
Ythbane swung around and whispered for a moment with Lord Humaise, and Lord Hithire, and a couple of other new advisors Shandie didn’t know; then he turned around to confront the ambassador again, his face dark as a postilion’s boot.
“The wording of the memorandum was very specific. Until the Moot’s decision is conveyed to his Imperial Majesty’s council, both sides shall act as if the agreement has been ratified in formal treaty. The king will remain in—”
“King?”
“Oh . . . what’s his name? . . . the former Duke of Kinvale!” Ythbane was snarling. He was ever so mad now, and . . . Oh, no! Shandie’s dead arm had drooped so low that the train of his toga was starting to slide off it. God of Children! What did he do now?
“ . . and you were to nominate a viceroy pro tem, subject to . . .” The consul was growing even louder and madder. He would stay mad for days after this. Shandie needed to yawn. His toga was falling off him. He really needed to go pee. He wasn’t much interested in Krasnegar—he’d overheard a few whispers that it was a sellout, that the Council had settled for a paper triumph and given the kingdom to the jotnar. If that was so, then Shandie would take it back when he was grown up and a warrior imperor, but right now he was too weary to care. Another pleat slid off his hand.
Ythbane had finished, but whatever he’d said had not impressed the big blond bear.
“I am an ambassador, not a plenipotentiary, Eminence, as you know. I never professed to have the power to override the thane’s personal rights in this matter. Indeed, if he chooses to press his claim, then the Moot itself would back him as King of Krasnegar. The thanes would never infringe a privilege of one of their own number.” He glanced round at his companions, who grinned; then he added, “Not this one’s, anyway!”
“Kalkor is a murdering, raping, barbar—”
Now the ambassador swelled, and to much better effect than Ythbane had managed. He stepped closer, his fair face ominously flushed. “Do I report your words to the thane as official Imperial policy, or as your personal opinions?” His bellow reverberated down from the dome.
Ythbane fell back a pace. The ministers exchanged worried glances; the jotunn flunkies grinned again. “Well?” roared the ambassador, still wanting an answer.
“What’th all the sthouting?” a new voice said. Shandie jumped and looked around before he could stop himself.
Grandfather was awake! He was slumped awkwardly in his seat, but he was awake. His right eye was open, the left half closed as always, and he was drooling, as always, but obviously he was having one of his good spells, and Shandie was glad, glad, gladlthey were so rare now! It was as if the old man had gone away, like Aunt Oro, and it made Shandie feel all cozy—nice to see him come back, although it would only be for a few minutes.
And Grandfather had noticed Shandie! He smiled down at him. “You’re toga’th come looth, tholdier,” he said quietly. But he was smiling, not angry at all! And Shandie must move to obey an imperial command, whether Ythbane liked it or not. Quickly he gathered up the fallen folds with his right hand, looping them back on his left arm, and he lifted that useless limb back into place and held it there. The pleating was an awful scrimmage, but it would have to do. He smiled briefly, gratefully, up at Grandfather, then turned to stare across at the White Throne again, going as still as a stone pillar again. Pity he’d had no excuse to move his feet a bit.
Ythbane had recovered from his surprise. He bowed to the throne. “A discussion of the Krasnegar matter, your Majesty.”
“Thought that wath all thettled?” Grandfather’s voice was very slurred nowadays; and quiet, but the words obviously staggered the courtiers. Clearly he still understood more than they had believed. “Ambassador Krushjor’s views of the concordat—”
“Memorandum!” the ambassador roared.
“Whaz ‘e want?” the imperor mumbled.
Ythbane scowled. “He demands safe conduct for Thane Kalkor to come here to Hub to negotiate in person on a matter—”
“—he has the best claim to the throne of Krasn—” Krushjor bellowed, much louder than the consul.
“—burning and looting—”
“—thane of Gark, and an honored—”
“—ever dares show his face—”
Then . . . sudden silence, with everyone staring up at the throne behind Shandie’s left shoulder. If it wasn’t sorcery, then Grandfather must have gestured. “Kalkor?” the tired old voice whispered.
“Yes, Sire! The same murdering raider who has been killing and looting all through the Summer Seas for months. The Navy’s Southern Command has been completely reorganized over the matter, as your Majesty will recall, but too late to stop this Kalkor escaping westward, through Dyre Channel. He sacked three towns in Krul’s Bay and is now apparently in, or near to, Uthle. He has the audacity to propose that he sail his infamous orca longship up the Ambly River—all the way to Cenmere!”
Ministers and secretaries shook their heads in disbelief. Senators rumbled with outrage. Shandie had been reading up on that geography just yesterday: the Nogid Archipelago, and the horrid anthropophagi (q.v.), and the Mosweep Mountains, and trolls . . .
“Worse!” Ythbane added loudly. “He, a notorious pirate, demands to be recognized as sovereign ruler of Gark, as if it were an independent state, so he can negotiate directly with your Imperial Majesty on the matter of Krasnegar. He furthermore demands safe conduct for—”
“Granted!”
Ythbane choked, stared, then said, “Sire?” disbelievingly.
“If he’th here behaving himthelf, then he’th not looting thomewhere elsh.”
There was a long, shocked silence, then the consul bowed. “As your Majesty commands.” The senators were glaring.
“When he leavth, tell the Navy,” Grandfather said wearily.
Smiles flashed among ministers and secretaries and heralds. Ripples of mirth rolled through senatorial ranks. The jotnar scowled angrily. Ythbane even put on his smile face, briefly—which wasn’t a smile like anyone else’s.
Shandie heard a sort of groan from Grandfather and desperately wanted to turn and look, but he daren’t, and besides, he was suddenly feeling awfully sick in his stomach. There was a funny ringing in his head, too.
“Safe conduct for Thane Kalkor and how many men, Ambassador?” the consul inquired with icy politeness.
“Forty-five jotnar and one goblin.”
Ythbane had already turned to give orders, but at that he spun back to Krushjor. “Goblin?” Grandfather was snoring again. The sunlight was fading.
“A goblin,” the ambassador said, “male, apparently.”
“What’s he doing with a goblin?”
“No idea. Perhaps he looted him from somewhere? You ask—I won’t! But his letter was very insistent that he will be bringing a goblin with him to Hub.”
Suddenly the ringing in Shandie’s ears swelled to a roar. The step swayed beneath him. He staggered and heard himself cry out.
As he pitched forward, the last thing he saw was Ythbane’s dark eyes watching him.
2
Far, far to the east, evening drew near to Arakkaran. Yet white sails still sprinkled the great blue bay, and the bazaars were thonged. Palms danced in the warm, and salty winds—winds that wafted odors of dung and ordure in through windows and scents of musk and spices and gardenias along foul alleys. All day, as every day, by ship and camel, mule and wagon, the wealth of the land had flowed into the shining city.
Jotunn sailors had toiled in the docks, while elsewhere a scattering of other folk had plied their trades: impish traders, dwarvish craftsmen, elvish artists, mermaid courtesans, and gnomish cleaners; but these outsiders were very few amid the teeming natives. Tall and ruddy, swathed mostly in flowing robes, the djinns had argued and gossiped as always in their harsh Zarkian dialect; they had bargained and quarreled, laughed and loved like any other people. And if they had also lied and cheated a little more than most—well; anyone who didn’t know the rules must be a stranger, so why worry?
At the top of the city stood the palace of the sultan, a place of legendary beauty and blood-chilling reputation; and there, upon a shaded balcony, Princess Kadolan of Krasnegar was quietly going insane.
Almost two days now had passed since her niece had married the sultan, and Kadolan had heard nothing since. Inosolan might as well have vanished from the world. Of course a newly married couple could be expected to treasure their privacy, but this total silence was ominous and unsettling. Inosolan would never treat her aunt this way by choice.