The year of victories was drawing to a close. In far-off Hub the weather would be turning foul and the days short. In Qoble the sun still shone ferociously.
Early one morning Ylo was at his desk as he always was early in the morning. He sat by the door and the big room was filled with the bowed heads of scriveners, copying out letters and reports in busy silence. There were twenty of them, and they were only a small part of the huge staff he commanded. At his back was the door to the prince’s private study. He had a clear view of the antechamber, which was already starting to fill up with hopeful petitioners.
He had become an important person. Shandie’s day would be filled with visitors and documents, but Ylo would choose who or what came first. He was the legate’s right hand, his sword and his shield. He worked hard and loyally. Old dreams of murdering the heir to the throne were nothing now but nightmares to raise a sweat in the dark. He had fallen completely under Shandie’s spell. He knew it and cared not at all.
When the imperor died and a new imperor sat upon the Opal Throne, then his signifer would be at his side and the fortunes of the Yllipo clan would be restored. Shandie had promised.
Meanwhile Ylo must justify the prince’s trust and his judgment. He must also show the world that the Yllipos had owed their success to more than historical good fortune, and show them he would.
For the past hour he had been clicking the coding sticks, deciphering a missive from the imperor. He had whistled softly as the meaning began to emerge. And then—inevitably just as he was coming to the really interesting part—the text had degenerated into gibberish. Muttering curses, he checked his work. He found no error. That meant that the unknown clerk in Hub had made a miscalculation, or skipped a word in the key, or blundered in any one of a dozen ways. Ylo might need hours to find the glitch, by guess or by Gods. At worse, he would have to admit defeat and ask for a repeat, which might take weeks to arrive. God of Patience!
He leaned back and rubbed his eyes, then frowned around the big room, searching for similar signs of slackness or inattention in his minions, but they all seemed suitably engrossed. Sunshine streamed through the huge windows and soft sea breezes rustled the papers. Another beautiful day . . . he was long overdue for some time off.
“Good morning, Signifer,” said a rustly, dry-leaves sort of voice.
Ylo jumped and then frowned at the unimpressive presence of Shandie’s political advisor. He did not rise—he was a soldier and Acopulo was not. ”Morning.”
Acopulo was a small, birdlike man, one of those impish zealots who refused to wear anything but standard Hubban dress, no matter what climate they might be inhabiting. Now his silvery hair was plastered to his head by sweat and dark patches soaked his doublet. His legs within his hose were thin as rice stalks. He regarded Ylo with disapproval.
“Any mail for me?”
“None today—”
“Ah well—patience is a divine virtue.” The little scholar not only looked like a retired priest, he often sounded like one, also. He had an inexhaustible supply of platitudes. “Any news at all?”
“Well . . .” Ylo rubbed his chin, frowning at his inkstand. ”Back in Hub . . . No, that’s just hearsay. No value until it’s confirmed. ”
“Suppose you do your job and let me do mine?”
“My responsibility is not to pass on rumors, Sir Acopulo.”
“Tell me anyway.”
Ylo tried to think of some other delaying tactic, but he was too sleepy this morning to play the game with real enthusiasm. “There’s a report that Count Hangmore is to be the new consul.”
The little man’s mouth twisted in a grimace. “I predicted that weeks ago. Have you nothing better than that to offer?”
Ylo gritted his teeth. “Nothing I am at liberty to reveal.”
“You mean nothing at all, then.” Acopulo had been a teacher, one of Shandie’s childhood tutors, and at times he treated Ylo like an excessively stupid pupil. “From the expression on your face when I approached, you have a garbled cipher to unscramble. I shall leave you to it.” He stalked away, leaving an angry signifer glaring after him.
Ylo bent back to the accursed message. He had made no progress when another, more extensive, form shadowed his desk. Chief of Protocol Lord Umpily would probably have melted into a puddle of pure oil had he tried to wear a doublet in Qoble. Instead he was robed in a loose Zarkian kibr of unbleached cotton that made him resemble a runaway tent. Nevertheless, the dark eyes that peered out through the rolls of fat were sharpand exceedingly inquisitive as he inspected Ylo for signs of wear. “Which was it? The succulent Opia, or the luscious Effi?”
Pretending to ponder, Ylo rested his arms across the paper in front of him, because he strongly suspected that Umpily could read words upside down. ”I’m afraid I have no idea to what your Lordship refers!”
It had been both, actually. He felt very good this morning. A little weary, perhaps, but very good overall.
Umpily sighed wistfully, jowls quivering. “Enjoy it while you’re young, my boy.”
“Oh . . . I do, I do!” Ylo said with a satisfied smirk. Umpily looked at him thoughtfully and lowered his voice. “You know Legate Arkily?”
“Not well.”
“His sister?”
“The young one?” Ylo said with some enthusiasm. “Not nearly as well as I should like.”
“Her husband has left town again, and I don’t know where he’s gone. ”
“You think he’s up to no good?”
“Acopulo does. I think he’s just smuggling.”
Ylo reflected on Legate Arkily’s sprightly sister. “If my duty requires me to stoop to undercover work, then I suppose I must.”
“You think you can get to the heart of the matter?”
“At least reveal the bare facts.”
Umpily waggled a cucumber finger. “Business before pleasure, now!”
“No. Regrettably, the pleasure has to come first. It doesn’t work otherwise.” Ylo exchanged smirks with the chief of protocol, then reached for a small sack under the desk. “You have a full net this morning, my Lord.”
Umpily seemed to correspond with half the imperor’s subjects and thousands of other folk, as well. He was a one-man gossip factory. Beaming happily, he rolled away with his loot and again Ylo returned to the coding sticks.
Any day now Shandie would become imperor. Then Umpily would almost certainly be put in charge of the Bureau of Statistics, which was the intelligence arm of the secret police. Acopulo was probably hoping to be Secretary of State. And Ylo . . . Ah, what joys would the future hold for young Ylo? Any day now. It could not be long.
Then he heard a rustle of excitement out in the antechamber. Muttering complaints to the Gods, he looked up to scan the big room. He located Centurion Hardgraa easily enough, and a handful of his swordsmen, but he could not see Shandie. Puzzled, he rose to his feet and scanned twice more before he spied the prince. He was wearing civilian doublet and cloak, which was unusual, but the remarkable thing about Shandie out of uniform was that there was absolutely nothing remarkable about him. He could have been any well-dressed young man in the whole Impire.
Ylo had been hoping for more time to work on the cipher. He hated reporting incomplete work, but he would have to mention what he had discovered. He watched as Shandie moved through the crowd of well-wishers, flashing greetings just cordial enough not to offend yet formal enough to deter conversation. His memory for names and faces was unfailing. In a few minutes he had escaped from the jungle and came striding in, to pause at Ylo’s desk.
Ylo saluted. “Morning, Signifer.”
“Good morning, Highness.”
As usual, Shandie’s face gave away no more than a dwarf’s, but he registered Ylo’s excitement. “And you’ve got something important!”
“Yes, sir—”
“My wife? She’s coming?”
“Er . . . No, sir. ‘Fraid not.”
The prince sighed and frowned. For months he had been begging his grandfather to let Princess Eshiala come and join him here in Gaaze, but the old man would not even acknowledge the requests anymore. “Did I ever mention that she is the most beautiful woman in the world?”
“I think you did, sir.”
Oddly, though, that was about all he ever did say of her. He had never said that she enjoyed dancing or music or travel—or anything. Nor that she disliked them, for that matter. Shandie seemed curiously blind to women. At the previous night’s dance, for example, at least six had indicated their availability, yet he had shown no sign of even noticing the signals. He was a great leader of men, but either his extraordinary self-discipline controlled even his love life, or he was just unbelievably innocent. Had he been anyone else, Ylo might have offered him a few lessons.