“A joint resolution,” Shandie said sleepily, “based on an Act of Succession passed in the reign of Uggrota III.”
The two men turned to look at him in surprise. He was awake, but barely. He smiled without opening his eyes.
His grandfather beamed proudly. “Clever boy! What else has been going on while I was sick?”
“Oh . . . Lots of things. Thane Kalkor came. And there is going to be a campaign against the perverts in Zark in the spring, and the dwarves have agroabro—broken the Dark River Treaty.” Shandie yawned, and then yawned again. “Drought in East Ambel, good harvest in Shimlundok. The goblins are still killing our soldiers. The XIXth Legion won the pennant again, but the IIIrd came second. Marshal Ithy won a lot of money on that, he said. Riots in Pithmot because of the new tax bill.”
“Well done, soldier! Good report! You go back to sleep now.” Emshandar’s fond smile faded away as he turned back to Rap—he had been shaken by the news, especially the war talk. “Ithy?” he murmured. “Olybino?”
He shook his head angrily and swallowed more wine. “That’s politics for you, Master Rap!”
“Sire?”
“Ythbane needed support. War? New taxes? He bought it dearly, I fear.” For a moment he brooded, then glanced around to see if Shandie was listening. He was, but didn’t seem to be. The old man dropped his voice. “I appointed that half-breed consul just before Emthoro died. Afterward—” He gestured in Shandie’s direction. “—I could see there would have to be a regent appointed. I hoped it would be my daughter, although she isn’t cut out for ruling. I decided Ythbane was smart enough to keep the great families in line and would promote her interests, meaning to manipulate her himself. I did not consider him strong enough to take power personally. Seems I was wrong! He went after . . .” He stopped with a shrug before mentioning Shandie’s mother by name, but Rap understood.
The imperor’s face was a gray desert, scoured by the ages, but when he looked up, his eyes gleamed like sunlight striking rock-girt pools. “So why am I telling all this to a coachman?”
“Because you don’t know who rules the Impire tonight, Sire.”
Emshandar nodded bitterly and drained his glass. It clattered as he laid it down with a shaky hand. “Oh, they obeyed me today, but that was mere courtesy. The imperor must be mundane, the Protocol says, and that toad Ythbane stole the throne with bribery and threats and a sure way with women. No sorcery.”
“While I used sorcery to bring you back.”
How would the wardens judge? But they remained unmentioned.
The old man sighed. “Whom can I trust?” he whispered. “The Assembly goes to the highest bidder. The Senate? The pompous do not easily reverse themselves. Coalitions and compacts and corruption! The army? Ithy?”
“The marshal was a worried man, Sire. I think he will be true to his duty.”
“But his duty is to the law! What is the law? That is the question! Well, even my grandson is not worth a civil war. Sorcerer, this is hard for me to say, but I am asking for your help.” When Rap would have spoken, he raised a hand like a bundle of dry twigs. “Let me finish! By. rights you should have already fled from Hub, hoping to evade the wardens’ wrath. That may be possible, if you can evermore resist the temptation to use your powers and remain one more mundane among millions. But without your continued aid, I fear that the recovery you have granted me will be short-lived indeed. If you do nothing but warn me who is lying and who is true . . . that would not be a serious breach of the Protocol, I think.”
Was ever pride so humbled? A coachman, a stableboy!
“I shall do anything I can to help, Sire, but my time is very short. Something terrible happens to me today. Tonight.”
Rap explained, and the old man looked shockedand also bewildered.
“You are sure of this foresight?” Rap shuddered. “Yes.”
“It does not sound like the wardens. Their usual punishment for illicit sorcery is to enslave the culprit. If I remember rightly, it is South’s turn to get the words. The sinner is merely a container, to be discarded when no longer needed. You know that the words can only be extracted by straight mundane torture?” Emshandar reached for the decanter and frowned at it for being empty. “I can see no need for immolation!”
Perhaps the white glare was not the worst possible future, though.
“I shall do what I can to help, Sire,” Rap repeated. Emshandar’s problems were his fault. He who wakes the dog must bear the bite, his mother had always said. Besides, he could promise anything now.
“I am grateful!” the old man insisted. It was true, but he hated it. “Is there anything . . . I mean, if I should survive and you do not . . . This Inosolan? What do you want for her?”
“Happiness.”
A cynical smile crept over the thin lips and into the hollow eyes, like sunlight trekking a landscape on a cloudy day. “Happiness is rarely within the gift of imperors, Master Rap. Misery is our favored coin. But I promise you I shall try, if I am spared.”
He sighed, an old man, and a very weary one. He needed a few weeks to recuperate and he wasn’t going to get them. “I told those dolts to wait on me in the Emerald Hall long since. To keep them waiting much longer would. be unwise. And after that, I fear, we must adjourn to the Rotunda and meet with the wardens; or some of us must.”
Premonition began to prickle along Rap’s arms as if the room had suddenly chilled. “Which way is the Emerald Hall?”
He scanned in the direction the old man pointed, but even a sorcerer needed time to explore the great sprawling collection of buildings that was the Opal Palace. “Eight sided, green carpets?”
“That’s—the place.” The imperor was looking at him oddly.
A few people were patiently waiting in the Emerald Hall, but not as many as there should have been. The tingling grew urgent as Rap flashed his farsight around and sought out Emine’s Rotunda. He could find that one easily enough, because Shandie had pointed it out to him. It was unmistakable anyway, on the crest of the hill.
“They’re starting without you, Sire.”
Most of the great. dome was filled with night—a menacing sooty evil to Rap’s premonition—but a score or more tall candelabra spilled a dappled puddle of light in the center. Within this brightness, twenty or so courtiers were standing in small groups, talking in low voices. Three were in uniform, the rest wore the same sort of foolish wrapping as the imperor wore, most white, a few bright red. Kids in bedsheets, playing at being wraiths! Azak was there, easily identified by his height. Absurd! If his own court could see him now, he would be laughed at all the way to Nordland. The women looked good, though, in loose, manypleated gowns. Inos at her husband’s side . . .
The five thrones were all empty.
“I don’t see Ythbane,” Rap said. It was hard to make out faces at that range without starting to use real power—enough power to make him conspicuous to the wardens. The Opal Palace was a dead spot within Hub’s occult bustle, an oasis of silence like a city garden. Almost any use of magic here was going to ring out in trumpet fanfares. “What color?”
“A consul’s toga has a purple border, but I suppose he may have grown too big for that now.”
“He wears the purple,” Shandie murmured sleepily. “Then he isn’t there yet,” Rap said. “But it can’t be long.”
Even a mundane could have seen the pain on the old imperor’s face as he gripped the arms of his chair and tried to rise. He sank back, helpless. He bared his teeth, gathered himself, and tried again, with no more success. Sweat shone on his forehead, his breath was harsh. Then he glanced miserably at Rap in a wordless appeal for aid. The will was there, but the body had been starved and immobile for too long.
“I can give you strength, Sire, but I fear there may be a price to pay later. I have no experience at this.”
“I will pay the price!”
Rap poured energy into him, and watched in fascination as color suffused the pale cheeks and the bodily fires blazed up to match the burning will.
“Aha!” he shouted. “Thank you, Sorcerer! The old warhorse will tread a measure yet!” He lurched to his feet.
Premonition! Rap rose, also, aware that every hair on his body seemed to want to stand up—also—on its own. His fate was waiting for him in the Rotunda.