“Great Gods! Doesn’t he tell you anything at all?”
“Not much,” she admitted, feeling disloyal.
“We’re going to a rehearsal, that’s all.” Ylo scowled into silence.
She relaxed slightly. “Rehearsal for what?”
“One of two things. You do know that the imperor’s still in a coma?”
She nodded. She also knew that she was not pregnant as she had hoped a month or two ago. State funeral, coronation, all the rest of the horrors—they could not be long delayed now. The terrible prospect hung over her like a headsman’s ax, day and night. Shandie seemed almost as worried as she did, although likely for other reasons.
Ylo said, “The Impire can’t function without a head. Even Shandie admits that. He’s going to wait two more days at the most. Then he’ll apply for a regency.”
She felt her nerves all tighten up together like a string bag, with her heart inside it. She avoided his gaze, sure he would have noticed.
“On the other hand,” he said, “the old man may die first. In that case, Shandie is proclaimed imperor and we have the funeral.”
She nodded, wiping the window with her fingers and pretending to look out. They were still within the palace grounds. “And coronation.”
“No. The coronation comes after the official mourning, perhaps as long as a year. Coronations take planning, and no one can remember the last one. But there will be the enthronement.” He frowned again. “The funeral won’t be so bad. You’ll be veiled.”
“I expect so.”
“Masses of black crepe! I’ll stand in for you, if you want. No one will notice!”
She tried to look shocked at such macabre humor, but the absurd idea was reassuring, and a smile escaped before she could stop it.
“The enthronement will be held on the day after the funeral,” Ylo said. “In the Rotunda, of course. If Shandie becomes regent, then there’s a briefer ceremony, but much the same sort of thing. That’s what we’re rehearsing. In either case, the wardens must confirm his authority in the Rotunda.”
She closed her eyes to mutter a silent prayer. Gawking courtiers were bad enough, but sorcerers . . . !
Ylo sighed. “You honestly have nothing to fear, Eshiala! You always look regal and gorgeous, whatever you may be feeling. Listen, I want to make a suggestion. Do you know Countess Eigaze?”
“I don’t think so.”
“You probably haven’t met her yet. Her husband’s been recalled. He’s going to be a consul. Ionfeu’s a pompous old stick, but trustworthy. One of Shandie’s men. His wife is a very pleasant lady.”
Were there such women in Hub?
“She was a friend of my mother’s,” Ylo continued. “She’s a friend of almost everyone! You’ll have two maids of honor at the ceremonies, of course. I assume your sister will be one?”
“I suppose so.” Shandie had not mentioned this.
“Then choose Eigaze as the other. You’ll like her. She twitters and she’s starting to look her age, I’m afraid, but she’s a lot sharper than she pretends.”
“And trustworthy?”
He nodded solemnly. “Pour your heart out to her if you want. She doesn’t gossip!”
“I don’t believe it!”
“Well, of course, you don’t tell her about us, but—”
“Don’t even joke about it!” she shouted, and at once clapped a hand over her mouth, aghast. God of Madness!
She had startled Ylo again, she thought. “You mean you want it to be serious?” he asked quickly, but his easy smirk was a cover for something much deeper. Probably satisfaction.
She stuffed her hands in her muff again to hide their trembling. “That sort of rumor can start very easily!”
“Yes,” he said, looking glum. “We don’t want rumors, do we?”
“Ylo!” she said. “I do enjoy your company, I admit. I don’t have many friends and you cheer me up. But please stop making jokes about . . . about anything more than that!”
He stared at her so intensely that she felt color pour into her face again and had to look away. “I am happy to be your friend for now, Princess,” he said softly. “But you are irresistibly beautiful. Come daffodil time, I will be your lover, I swear it.”
“You are very unkind!” she muttered.
“I shall be very kind and very gentle.”
“If I tell my husband of this—”
“I will not hit the ground this side of the Mosweeps! But I have told you many times what I intend. Why have you not complained to him before now?”
She bit her lip and did not answer.
The carriage was bouncing to a halt. Ylo said, “Emine’s Rotunda, your Highness.”
3
Emine’s Rotunda was the heart of Impire, the center of the palace, of Hub, of the world. It was so ancient that its exact age was uncertain, but the flagstones in the corridors were hollowed into gutters by the uncountable feet that had walked them in three millennia.
Eshiala had visited the Rotunda once before, when Shandie had taken her on a sightseeing tour of the palace. Then it had been deserted, a huge echoing emptiness. Now there were scores of people bustling around, some standing in groups, others hurrying to and fro, and yet their presence only made the vast place seem even larger. They were as insignificant as ants, the murmurs of voices lost in a frozen timelessness.
Overhead, the high fretted dome wore a dark cap of fresh snow. Around the sides, the glass still admitted light, but it was the gloomy gray light of a winter afternoon, diffuse and sunless, and even those panes had snow heaped on their sills.
Ylo brought her in by the north entrance. Emerging from the entry tunnel behind the White Throne on its one-step dais, they had to walk around that to gain a complete view of the great arena. They stopped to stare around, looking for Shandie.
There was no one at all near the Opal Throne in the center. From the base of its steps the points of the four-colored Imperial star ran out in the mosaic of the floor to the four thrones of the wardens. Outside those, in turn, the bowl of seats rose almost to the base of the dome. They were empty at the moment, but the sight of them reminded her how many eyes would be watching her performance. She shivered, pulling her white cloak tighter.
“No, no, no!” an angry herald proclaimed, striding by with an entourage of harassed-looking footmen. “The temporary seating will come out farther than that.” He and his complaints seemed to fade away quickly, as if the fogs of history had swallowed them already. A troop of Praetorians marched in, heading for the center, rapidly becoming trivial also.
Most of the inhabitants were Praetorians, standing in to represent senators, ministers, and many others. The Rotunda was bitterly cold. She thought the air inside was colder than the air outside. The guardsmen had bare arms and legs.
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked Ylo.
He glanced down at her without seeming to move his head, amusement gleaming under dark lashes. “I’m not allowed to be cold! The Imperial Army never lets climate interfere with discipline. I wore the same outfit in Zark and was cooked. I expect I would have to wear it in a winter campaign against goblins and lose all sorts of things to frostbite.”
“That’s not very sensible, is it?”
“An army isn’t a very sensible organization. Its purpose is to fight wars, and wars are a form of madness to start with.”
“Does Shandie agree with that?”
“I don’t know. I’m only his signifer.”
The jibe was cruel, but perhaps not undeserved. She took a moment to let the pain subside, then said, “I don’t think he’s here.”
“Will somebody please tell me where the buglers are supposed to stand?” an angry male voice behind her demanded. She heard the slap of many military sandals going past, but she did not look around.
“The last time I was here,” she said, “the Opal Throne was facing east.”
“They give it a quarter turn every day, so as not to play favorites. Today is a north day. Tomorrow will be east again.” The Opal Throne was a very ugly thing, a massive stone chair of indeterminate color, but mostly green. She remembered it as being more blue. She was in no doubt that it must weigh tons. “Good exercise for somebody.”
“I wonder if they use trolls?” Ylo mused. “Or would that be sacrilege, do you suppose?”
“Or sorcery? They must use sorcery to clean the windows, anyway.”
“Trained bats.”
She was making idle chatter to keep up her spirits. Ylo was playing along to humor her. Ashia would tell her outright to pull herself together and look happy. Shandie . . . Shandie would not notice.
“There he is,” Ylo said. “In the group by the Red Throne.” She saw him then. She should have remembered that he’d gone off in doublet and hose that morning, not uniform. Swathed in a gray cloak and a floppy plumed hat, he was being remarkably anonymous amidst a dozen or so soldiers and civilians. They seemed to be consulting a chart, and there was a heated discussion in progress—as much as anything could be heated in this ice house, she thought.