Ylo tagged on the end. Halfway there, his way was blocked by an oak tree garbed in the uniform of a centurion. Eyes like two knotholes peered out of a face of bark.
“Who’re you, soldier?”
Ylo was too exhausted to be humble. “The signifer!”
The man’s wooden eyes narrowed. He glanced back at the standard. “Dead or wounded?”
“Dead.”
The centurion again blocked Ylo as he tried to move. “Do you know who he was?” His voice creaked like falling timber. Ylo shook his head dumbly.
“His cousin. Prince Ralpnie. Fourth in line to the throne.” Ylo stared at the arboreal face for a long moment as his beaten brain wrestled meaning from the words. Eventually he decided they were a caution. And help. He had forgotten such things, in two years of being a nonperson, a number.
He dragged up the proper response from some deep-buried memory. ”Thanks!”
The man nodded. Then he sank down on one knee. By the time Ylo had realized that the centurion was unlacing one of his own sandals, the man had removed it and placed it in front of Ylo’s bare foot. Ylo stepped into it. The big ox even fastened it for him—no matter how muddy and bloody he might be, a signifer must not go into a legate’s presence barefoot if there was a spare shoe around.
Ylo said, “Thanks,” again as the centurion rose.
Without as much as a nod, the tree shifted his roots and eased out of Ylo’s way.
Ylo dragged himself as far as the tent and then into its scented dimness. The walls were made of purple silk. He had not seen silk in two years. Carpets. Furniture. A smell of soap.
There were at least a dozen men there, most in uniform, some not. As he entered, the muttered greetings were ending, the condolences and congratulations. He sensed the roiling dark mood—victory, but oh, the price! Triumph and loss. Heartbreak and joy. Relief and sorrow. The legate’s cousin was but one of many not destined to share the victory.
Carpets. Iron-banded chests. There was one chair, and as Ylo arrived, the legate sat down wearily, glanced in his direction, and raised a foot.
This time the reaction came faster, fortunately. Ylo limped forward and removed the prince imperial’s boots.
Then he stepped back, and the tent fell silent. He felt the eyes on him. The stranger. The newcomer. The usurper.
His cousin!
These were the prince’s battle companions. Some might have been with him since Creslee, and most would have been with him at Highscarp and on the bloody field of Fain. Now one of their number had fallen and here was the replacement.
Not a cousin. Not an aristocrat. A common legionary—or so they would assume.
And Ylo was staring at those hateful imperial features. The prince had removed his helmet. His face was a motley of mud and clean patches, his hair a sweaty tangle. Physically he was nothing special, but his eyes burned like black fire. Twenty-six years old, and the man the army worshipped.
On his lap was a folded wolfskin. His cousin’s cape. So? One cousin. This man murdered my whole family. “Your name?”
“Ylo, sir. Third cohort, XXth Legion.”
“You have done well. Imperial Star, Second Class.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“And signifer, of course?” Pause. Would the upstart dare? ”Thank you, sir.”
The onlookers rustled, like dry grass when something prowls. The prince nodded sadly. His hand lay strangely still on the wolfskin. “By tradition, the honor is yours.” He glanced at the others. “The XIIth has a new signifer, gentlemen.”
Revenge! Close. Dark night. Knife in the ribs . . .
Then, those imperial eyes—imperious eyes—slashed back at Ylo. The legate seemed vaguely puzzled, as if seeing or hearing something not quite right.
“Service?”
“Two years, sir.” More hesitation.
“Mmm . . . Can you ride?”
“Yes, sir.”
Surprise.
“Read and write?”
“Yes, sir.” Astonishment. Puzzled glances.
Then a voice in the background said, “Ylo? Ylopingo . . . ?” There had never been much chance of keeping it secret. “Consul Ylopingo was my father, sir.”
The legate stiffened. “An Yllipo?” Stunned silence.
Then the prince said softly, “Thank you, gentlemen,” and everyone else melted away. Remarkable. Empty tent.
Just the two of them.
Prince Emshandar nodded toward an oaken chest. The new signifer tottered gratefully across to it and sat down, thinking that he would have fallen over had he been left on his feet much longer. His bones burned.
“Tell me.”
Ylo told his story. It did not take long.
The legate stared hard at him all the time, fingers still motionless upon the wolfskin. Then he gestured at a table in a corner. “Wine. And take one for yourself.”
Ylo rose. He snapped open the sealed flask with an expertise he had forgotten he had, but his hand trembled as he filled the goblets. He had just realized that he must be a problem for the prince, and men who embarrassed princes had a very short life expectancy. His hand shook even harder as he passed over the drink, because he was thinking poison. That was another possible means of assassination, safer for the assassin. Revenge would be sweeter if he could himself survive to enjoy it. Oh Gods! His mind was a rats’ nest. He didn’t know what he was thinking. Kill the heir to the throne? What madness was that?
He went back to the chest.
They drank, and the legate’s gaze never left him. Good wine . . . brought back memories.
“Signifer,” the prince said softly.
Not certain he was being addressed, Ylo said, “Sir?”
“Your predecessor was a close confidant of mine. Did you know that? ”
“Yes, sir. Your cousin.”
That display of knowledge won a nod of surprise, and approval. “Yes. He was my signifer. He was also my personal secretary, my closest and most trusted aide, and chief of my personal staff.” Emshandar sipped at the wine without taking his eyes off Ylo. “I assumed you were just a common legionary. I assumed you would become the legion’s signifer—but not mine. You understand? You understand the distinction?”
“Yes, sir.”
“There’s a world of difference between a man who waves a pole about and one who ciphers letters to the imperor.”
“I understand, sir.”
The prince laid his goblet down on a table beside him and rubbed his eyes with the knuckles of both hands. Then he fixed that dark, burning gaze on Ylo again.
Had he been capable of feeling anything, Ylo might have felt relief then—or even amusement at the thought of him, Ylo, attempting to function as aide-de-camp to the prince imperial. Being signifer to the legion was enough—it would be heaven after being a common sword banger. And there would be opportunities for revenge if that was what he wanted after he had considered the pros and cons.
Then the prince said, “Could you serve me?”
God of Madness! Ylo had thought the matter was settled. Serve this murderer?
The imperor was ancient. Any day now the Gods were going to call in his black soul and weigh it—good luck to Them if They found one grain of good in it! This man would mount the Opal Throne as Emshandar V.
His close friends and aides would roll to the top of the heap at once. His personal signifer would be in line for heady promotions, even a consulship, perhaps. That long-lost political career was back on the table again. In fact it was shining brighter than it had ever done.
Sudden caution warned Ylo that politics had turned out to be more dangerous for his family than soldiering ever had. What he wanted now was a little security in his life. Yet . . .
Revenge? To serve this man would be a betrayal of his ancestors, his parents, his brothers . . .
Or would it be a sweeter revenge? And the opportunities for murder would be unlimited, day and night.
Confused, he muttered, “You couldn’t trust me!”
The prince had probably read every thought in that hesitation. “You have the legion’s standard; you have earned it, and no one can question your loyalty to the Impire. For the rest, I will accept your word.”
Ylo stuttered and then blurted out, “Why?”—which was almost a capital offense in the army.
The legate frowned. “I was in Guwush when it happened, Signifer. I disapproved. It was a bloody, inexcusable massacre! I tried to stop it. Can you accept my word on that?”
Such words would be treason on any other lips. And he had no need to lie. He did not seem to be lying.
To Ylo’s astonishment his own voice said, “Yes, sir. I believe you.”
“And I would like to make what small recompense I can. Can you believe that?”
Ylo must have nodded, because the legate rose, and Ylo reeled to his feet, also. He laid down his goblet and lurched forward to accept the cape being offered. Surely the Gods had gone crazy?