Then he looked at Ylo, who did not know what to say, or what was expected of him.
He was appalled by the pile of documents. It would be a nightmare to sort out. Everything would have to be catalogued, because one half would contradict or supersede the other half. Even if, they could be approved and issued, there would not be enough couriers in the Impire to deliver them.
“I have lived too long!” wailed the ancient invalid at the far end of the room. “Let me die!”
Shandie raised his voice again. “I told his Majesty that I only knew one man in the realm who could ever straighten out a mess such as this.”
And his eyes threw the challenge right at his signifer. “I . . . I can’t do both!”
“No, you certainly can’t do both!”
It was obvious. Even if a duke could be a clerk—which he couldn’t—to take over a property like Rivermead and perhaps others would be a full-time task. Ylo would be busy for years to come just running his own estates, no matter how many managers he might hire. He could not do both.
And Rivermead was a long way from Hub.
At times Shandie was totally incomprehensible. Why offer a man the world and then expect him to take on a mind-crippling ordeal instead? He must think that Ylo was crazy.
“I don’t understand! I’m still a soldier. If you want me to clean up this stable, then you can order me to do it!”
A strange look came over the prince’s face. “Yes, I could.”
Duke Yllipo! Duke of Rivermead! One of the largest landowners in the Impire. An old and honored name.
It was not fair!
In the background, the imperor howled. “Give’ his pigswill dukedom and get him out of here!”
Shandie shrugged, turning away restlessly. “You need time to think about it.”
“No, sir,” Ylo said hoarsely. “The Senate can wait.”
The prince’s face lit up with disbelief. “You’ll do it? You’ll try? The Powers know it’s a hellish awful job . . .” He glanced at the monstrous pile. “I don’t even know where you can start.”
“I’ll need two or three good assistants,” Ylo said, thinking longingly of the team he had trained back in Qoble. “More than that and we’ll spend all our time passing stuff back and forth . . .” Then he had a sudden inspiration. “We’ll need extra couriers at the least—hussars?”
“Why not? Give them something to do for once.”
“So let’s keep the whole thing military, this part, too; keep the word from getting out. How about Praetorians?”
“Now that’s brilliant!” Shandie said quietly. ”Excellent!”
“I know a good centurion.” Oh, sweet!
“I’ll assign anyone you want.” The prince grabbed Ylo’s hand and pumped it wildly. “Good man! You have no idea what this means to me, Ylo! You have no idea what this will mean to the Impire!” He hesitated, as if embarrassed. “Frankly, I’m surprised. You’re turning down a lot.”
“I’ll hold you to it, one day, sir.” Ylo was being a fool. He should take the dukedom and run.
Shandie glanced along the room at the whimpering old wreck at the table. Another day the settlement would not include the satisfaction it would bear now, coming with Emshandar’s personal seal on it.
“It’s yours when you want it. Tell me why, though?” The dark eyes studied Ylo narrowly—obviously the prince had expected to be refused.
“Proud to serve, sir,” Ylo said hastily. He wasn’t going to say why.
Rivermead was weeks away from the capital, but Shandie’s personal signifer would reside in the prince’s own residence. Ylo had seen a vision in a preflecting pool, a prophecy.
A promise.
7
Out in the throne room, Eshiala was rapidly spiraling into panic. All these eyes! She should never have come here. She should have waited at Oak House. But the goslings, her maids of honor, had heard the cheering and persuaded her. Of course they had just wanted to be in on the excitement.
They should be here beside her now, and they had scattered all over the hall. Gods knew who they were talking to, or what plans they were making. And everyone seemed to be staring at her.
Shandie was back. Her husband. The man she was supposed to love. Tonight he would claim his marital rights. All very well to say that it was no more than her duty, but it had been a very long time since she had had to endure that. And from now on she would not be able to avoid the pomp and ceremony. Every day she would be on display at his side. Every night she would have to pull up her nightgown for him. She shivered.
A group of the senior courtiers had closed in around her so she couldn’t escape, and now she was being baited by Emthoro—gaunt, saturnine, quietly vicious, jabbing at her with sly little hints and innuendos, enjoying her terror.
“Dear little Maya is almost two now, isn’t she?”
“Nineteen months.”
“Close enough,” the prince said. She saw his nose twitch and waited for the spite. “Two and a half or three years is a very good spacing between children, I always think. I expect you’re both hoping for a son next time?” He must know exactly what was troubling her. Were her fears so obvious? Did everyone know?
“Whatever the Gods choose to give me, Highness.”
The long nose twitched again. “The Gods? Oh, I thought that was Shandie’s job!”
Laughter all round—the consul and his wife were enjoying the sport and so were the other onlookers, a dozen or more of them now. She felt like a bear in a bearpit.
Then, thanks be to the Gods! Ashia arrived.
Eshiala had never been so glad to see her sister—gems, bows, lace, brocade, whalebone, and all. Ashia was no taller than she, but she was more buxom and she somehow managed to convey irresistibility, like a galleon under full sail or a runaway hay wain. Heels clicking, fan flailing, she swirled into the fray with a rustle of fabric to envelope her younger sister in a bearhug, crushing her against armored corset and overflowing bosom, whispering urgently in her ear, ”Smile, you idiot!”
Then she pirouetted on a grand scale, easing Eshiala aside and scattering the group so that it was no longer a bearpit around her. Eshiala wondered why she could never achieve such outrageous maneuvers.
Ashia surveyed the bewildered survivors. “Prince!” she chirruped as Emthoro sardonically bowed to her. “Is it true, then?” She fluttered eyelashes like fly swatters.
His narrow face grew wary. “Is what true, ma’am?”
“That they’re drawing up the deed of abdication?” Ashia beamed around the ring of startled faces. “Well, whatever else can be keeping them so long?”
“Apparently they are consulting with the Yllipo signifer.”
“Well, perhaps they need a fourth for a game of thali?” Ashia countered quickly, and won a snigger. She whirled back to Eshiala without a pause. “Darling, I am as dry as a desert. Do let’s find some refreshment!” And she whirled her sister off to one of the side tables.
“What in the name of virginity is wrong with you?” she demanded. ”Cholera from the looks of you.”
“Shandie’s back!” Eshiala moaned.
“I know that! Everyone knows that! You should be glowing with joy and anticipation!”
“It’s been so long!”
How could she explain, even to her sister? She had been married for barely six weeks when her husband had left her. Now, more than two years later, he was back. He would expect her to do her duty tonight. Every night. “I feel I hardly know him!” she whispered.
“Keep smiling!” Ashia said through her teeth. She snatched up two glasses of wine, pressed one into Eshiala’s hand, and clinked them together in a toast.
“I warned you to stay in practice,” she muttered, beaming for the benefit of watchers. “You want to be wooed all over again, I suppose?”
“Perhaps that’s it,” Eshiala agreed, forcing a meaningless smile that felt as unnatural on her face as a full beard and mustache. Would she know wooing if she met it?
“Tell him it’s the wrong time of the month. Well, your Eminence! Isn’t this exciting!”
No, Eshiala thought, she would not lie to Shandie. He had rights, and she had a duty—a duty to her husband and a duty to the Impire. Other women survived it. With luck she would conceive again right away, just as she had the last time.
The senior courtiers were collecting around her again. She had never known the Throne Room so crowded. Ashia screamed with laughter at some witty remark or other and threw a question to the senator on the far side of Eshiala, effectively dropping a conversational barricade in front of her.
The hall hushed as a herald appeared with his staff and his many-hued tabard. He headed for Eshiala, making her knees knock even harder. She held her head high as she followed him from the room, ignoring all the eyes and the whispers.