The prince shrugged off the gaffe. “No matter. Your predecessor was my brother.”
“Yes, Highness.”
“You were present when he died.” Emthoro displayed surprise, as if the question need not be asked. “I would hear the story.”
“I hardly saw, sir. There was much confusion . . .” Shandie’s heir was a babe in arms. This man must inevitably be his chief opposition. Whatever their personal relationship, politics would dictate a rivalry. Careful! He was lean and quick and dangerous. His eyes held some of the fire that burned in Shandie’s . . . curiously slanted eyes, almost elvish.
Ylo’s voice was narrating the story of Ralpnie’s death at Karthin, mostly from hearsay. Suddenly it dried up.
There she was!
“Signifer?” the prince prompted.
She had just arrived, with a couple of attendants. People were bowing as she advanced from the door. She wore a simple gown of sea blue. She floated rather than walked, acknowledging the onlookers with barely perceptible nods. Cold, slim, and regal, the ultimate in womanhood, carved from a block of diamond. Her miracle black hair was adorned with a simple coronet of rubies. Her features were as perfect as the Gods could achieve in fashioning beauty.
“Who is that?” Ylo demanded breathlessly.
“Who?” the prince inquired in a languid tone, and turned to look. ”The one in blue?”
Danger! People were bowing to her! Idiot!
“Of course not!” Ylo croaked, sweat bursting from every pore. ”The woman in peach.”
“One of the Ullithini girls, I think.” Emthoro regarded him with sinister curiosity. “I thought you meant Princess Eshiala.”
Aghast, Ylo could only shake his head.
She was gorgeous. Shandie had called her the most beautiful woman in the world, and he had been flattering all others when he said so. Her features were perfection. Ylo had seen her naked body in the preflecting pool’s vision.
He had thought of little else for the last two days.
He had concluded that no other woman would ever satisfy him again. And there she was, in the flesh.
His face must be red as a strawberry. She was heading his way.
“Confine your attentions to the Ullithini woman, Signifer,” Prince Emthoro said with a faint sneer. “It would be safer.” He turned and strolled off to meet the princess. Of course it was he she had been approaching. She did not know Ylo existed. God of Fools!
Shandie’s wife! He had been shown a vision of Shandie’s wife!
A cough at his elbow dragged him back from the volcano. He turned to find himself being studied by a pair of huge opalescent eyes, glittering in rose and viridian. They looked very puzzled.
“You wish to see me, Signifer?”
Of course the Assistant Deputy Curator of the Royal Pictures would be an elf. Every elf was a born artist, and by comparison imps knew nothing of things artistic. This one looked like a boy of sixteen, but he might be a grandfather. His clothes were a blaze of silver and ultramarine; although they were beautifully made, they would not have purchased one lace cravat on anyone else in the room. He was shivering with anxiety at being summoned to this chamber.
Ylo thumped his thoughts into shape like a baker kneading dough.
“Ah, yes. I note that there are several landscapes included in the pictures here. I want to know about them.”
The kid’s golden jaw dropped. Ylo was not acting as impish soldiers were supposed to act.
“The places.they represent . . . and the artists . . . and when they were acquired.” That ought to do it. He could tell Shandie to expect the report in a day or two.
The assistant deputy curator gulped. “Of course, Signifer. The mountain scene to the left of that door is a view of the Mosweeps from Jedmuse, painted in oil on canvas by Jio’sys and acquired by confiscation of the estate of Duke Yllipo in 2995. The one to the left . . .”
Elves were fanatics at performing duties, and this one proceeded to reel off information like a human cyclopedia. Grudgingly impressed, Ylo listened as the catalog unrolled. Barely pausing for breath, the curator continued until he reached the only one that held any interest at all for his audience.
“The seascape is a fanciful rendition of the royal vessel Golden Swan in tempera, depicted by the artist Jalon, commissioned by Emthar II in the year 2936—”
“The place!” Ylo said. “That castle? Where is it?”
The elf stuttered. “I think it is just a fantasy background, Signifer. The catalog gives no detail on that.”
“No inscription on the frame, or the picture?”
“No, Signifer.”
“Ah. Excuse my interruption. Pray continue.”
The trail had ended. The rocky island was not a fantasy—any more than Princess Eshiala was a fantasy—but the only way to identify it would be to ask the artist. The painting had been acquired sixty years ago. The artist must be long in his grave by now.
The deputy curator was waxing enthusiastic about the Ambel farm scene when a voice intruded.
Ylo swung around. The door had opened and the prince himself was standing there. His dark eyes blazed with a fury such as Ylo had seldom seen in them. Ylo strode forward at once. Behind him, the court stood aghast at the sight of the prince imperial acting as his own footman . . . And ignoring the wife he had not seen for more than two years.
6
They crossed a small hallway and entered another room, bright and large and cluttered. Ylo took in no detail but one—a gangling old man sprawled forward on a table, his face on his arms. The back of his head was smooth as a skull, splotched with brown patches like lichen on an ancient rock, fringed with straggles of white hair. His rope-thin neck protruded from a collar far too large. Without question, it was the imperor himself, and he was apparently sobbing.
Shandie slammed the door behind him and headed straight to the side of his chair. “Grandsire, I have the honor to present—”
“No!” howled a broken, ragged voice. “No, no! Take him away. I won’t look!” He twisted his head to the side and raised his arms as a fence to hide behind. The sleeves of his doublet fell back to reveal wrists like yellow twigs.
Shandie turned his furious gaze on Ylo again. “His Majesty has accepted that certain injustices have been done. He acknowledges that there was absolutely no evidence against yourself in the matter and that . . . that certain others may not have been granted a fair trial.”
Ylo gasped aloud and his world reeled. Not revenge, but retribution?
“The titles, of course, can be restored,” Shandie said, his voice hard and very loud, “and purged of ignominy. Some of the estates have been sold; some consolidated with other properties. The Dukedom of Rivermead itself is available and others can be added—including any that have particular sentimental value to you, of course. You will be granted an honorable discharge, with the rank of legate. You will be one of the largest landowners in the Impire. ” He paused, studying Ylo’s reaction. “As liege of Rivermead, you will hold in gift five or six seats in the People’s Assembly and may appoint yourself to one of them, if you wish. Dukes are automatically appointed to the Senate, but senatorship is normally restricted to persons who have reached the age of thirty. The Senate would doubtless consider this a special case, if so requested.”
He meant ordered, of course. Ordered by the imperor. Emshandar whimpered, but he had twisted away in his chair and did not look around.
Restitution? Vast wealth . . . Ylo would own personally much of what had previously been shared by many.
Retribution! By signing the warrants, Emshandar would be publicly acknowledging his injustice. Small wonder the old monster was sniveling like a whipped child! Utter humiliation! Shandie was waiting.
Ylo knew the man as he knew his own fingernails. There was more to come.
“Or?”
A hint of something else dulled the anger for a moment, perhaps a flicker of admiration for Ylo’s perception. “Look at this,” the prince said, dropping his voice. He stalked over to the far side of the room and Ylo staggered after him, shaking as if he had been clubbed. Wealth! Power! Women galore! Shandie gestured at a table. There, clearly, was the real cause of his rage. It was heaped head-high with books and scrolls. Baskets and boxes full of papers filled the space below it and flanked it on either side. Dozens lay loose on the rug also. Thousands of them, in all, a mountain.
“Look at it! Just look at it!” The prince’s voice was soft, yet bitter as lye. “And this is only the priority stuff! Many of his staff have died and never been replaced. The rest are all as old as he is and they’re so terrified of him now that they won’t sharpen a quill without his say-so. It must have been piling up for months. Half the army is waiting for its pay . . . judgments to be approved, promotions, laws awaiting signatures . . . Gods! I don’t know what all may be in here.”