If he only knew how little appeal wealth and power and adoration had for her! Like a brainstorm came realizationwhatever danger the warden had foretold, it meant the end of public pomp, at least for a while. No state funeral, coronation, enthronement ceremonies, gala balls . . . A secret, quiet life in hiding? That was a stunningly wonderful idea!
And perhaps just the three of them? Was it even possible that the Gods might grant her a space of humble, private existence with only her husband and child, in some peaceful corner somewhere? Man and wife together—no affairs of state to distract him, no court ceremonial to terrify her? Might she even learn to love this man as a wife should?
“You are smiling!” he said wonderingly. “Am I? I am sorry!”
“Don’t be sorry . . . but why smile?”
“I don’t mind losing the wealth and power and whatever else it was you said. Not if Maya is safe . . . and you are with me.” Not far from the truth—closer to it than usual, anyway.
“You are wonderful!” he said.
Guilt! Shame! What sort of useless wife was she, to rejoice that her husband might lose his throne? She felt remorse at her relief. The Gods had granted prayers she had not dared speak, and yet she still could not be happy.
Shandie was scowling. “I must not flee the court myself! I should not be imperor for long if I did that . . . not without more reason than a dwarf’s ravings. You and Maya, yes. We shall spirit you off to some safe place. Which of your ladies will you take?”
She turned away. Ladies? She wanted none of them, but she knew enough of Shandie’s thinking—court thinking—to know that she would never be allowed to travel without other women in attendance. Ashia, perhaps? Ashia would not welcome a flight into exile, having achieved semiroyal status as a duchess.
And there would be males sent along as guards, of course. Shandie himself would choose those.
She wondered if one of them would be Signifer Ylo. Her heart inexplicably jumped into her throat.
3
Even before the racket of falling debris had stopped echoing through the Rotunda, the new imperor was snapping orders: “Ylo, get the group together in the Abnila Chamber and I’ll join you there. Tribune, we’ll go by the west door. Herald, see that the proclamation is made in proper form. Take this, Ylo.” He almost threw Emine’s ancient buckler at his signifer, then he was off down the steps with his arm around Eshiala. They disappeared into the gloom and the dust with guards closing in around them.
Which was all very well for him to say, Ylo thought, but how much authority did a mere signifer have in this sort of chaos? The hall was almost dark. He saw everything overlain by a green afterimage of the Red Throne exploding, as he had happened to be watching that one. His ears were still ringing from the blast and something had struck him on the side of the neck hard enough to daze him, although he did not seem to be bleeding. Heralds and civilians—perhaps even a few Praetorians alsowere running in circles, tripping over rubble, and having hysterics.
And who exactly did Shandie mean by “the group”?
Ylo stepped up beside the Opal Throne and retrieved Emine’s sword from where Shandie had dropped it. So now he held the two most sacred relics of the Impire, and yet they might be totally worthless if the warlock had spoken the truth.
Things could be worse. Shandie’s celebrated ability to outrun the lightning had probably carried him and his wife clean out of the Rotunda before anyone else had even started to move. Hardgraa would certainly have had a carriage waiting there.
The racket was fading as if someone had demanded silence at any cost and the Praetorians were establishing it by force. The casualties could not be too numerous, or there would be more screaming.
Afterimages faded. Ylo made out the stooped form of Proconsul Ionfeu, still standing behind the throne. He had an arm around Eigaze. Ionfeu was almost certainly “group” now.
Ylo stepped down to join them. “Aunt, are you all right?”
“A little surprised, Ylo,” she said breathlessly. “I had expected more formality.”
Ionfeu chuckled. “She needs a cup of hot tea, is all. I presume we may now go home?”
“I think he wants to see you, sir. I was asked to call a meeting in . . . the Throne Room as soon as possible.” Ylo was not about to leave a direct trail to Shandie’s whereabouts at a time like this—not after the dwarf’s warnings. For all he knew, Shandie was already fleeing the city and the Abnila Chamber rendezvous was itself a red herring. “The only problem . . . Ah!”
Light dawned as a torchlight procession came marching in from the east door. The damage was revealed then, and it was shocking. No longer were the entrances concealed behind the thrones. Four shattered platforms lay like islands in a litter of rocks and rubble. Ylo noted sparkling reflections on the floor as the torches went by and he wondered how much of the real stuff the Gold Throne had contained. All the thrones had been encrusted with jewels, too. Someone should worry about that very soon.
The torchbearers divided, a few remaining by the tunnel, others heading for the other exits. One group came straight to Ylo. He registered uneasily that it was led by Legate Ugoatho of the Praetorian Guard.
As a trusted confidant of the imperor, Ylo feared almost no man in the world now, but Ugoatho was a necessary exception. Throughout history, the Praetorian legates had been wild cards in Imperial politics, for they controlled the palace. Several had deposed imperors, and a couple had founded dynasties of their own. When an imperor died, his successor normally confirmed the support of the Praetorian legate even before he spoke to the Senate, or the marshal of the armies, or the wardens.
Ugoatho was a nephew of Marshal Ithy and almost certainly loyal—or rather, Ylo thought, he had been almost certainly loyal before Warlock Raspnex scrambled the board, tore up the Protocol, and predicted revolution. Now anything was possible.
Flanked by guardsmen holding torches, the legate halted and saluted, his face less expressive than an earth berm. Having his hands full, Ylo responded with the imperial regalia. If Ugoatho noticed the humor in that, he concealed his amusement admirably.
“Signifer! His Majesty said you might need assistance.” Holy Balance! Command of the Praetorian Guard? What next? “Just to collect some persons and transport them to the Throne Room for a council, Legate. Proconsul Ionfeu, here. Sir Acopulo, Lord Umpily . . . Centurion Hardgraa. Marshal Ithy—”
“He is indisposed,” his nephew said flatly.
That was not surprising—the old man had been in poor health for months.
“I think yourself, also, Legate. That should do.”
“You have forgotten someone, Ylo,” said a firm but feminine voice.
Startled, Ylo turned and said, “Who?”
“Me.” Lady Eigaze smiled her plump, motherly smile at him. ”And I need to talk with you on the way there.”
He had never heard Eigaze express any interest in politics before. He could not imagine her snooping out of mere nosiness—that would be completely out of character—but he knew her of old, and the ring of steel in her bell-like tones.
“And Lady Eigaze, of course,” he added. “One other thing, sir. Some of the gravel lying around here is pricey stuff. Will you do something to discourage souvenir hunting?”
He was being recklessly presumptuous. Ugoatho gave him a stare that would have blistered paint, then said, “I’ll see what we can arrange, Signifer.”
Surprisingly, dismal daylight still lingered outside the Rotunda. Feathery snowflakes continued to fall, and the ground was ankle deep in slush. Ylo shivered as it soaked through his sandals.
Embedded in guardsmen, he waited with Ionfeu and Eigaze while their carriage was summoned. Bells were tolling everywhere to proclaim Emshandar’s death, but the warlock’s dramatic proclamation was being treated as a state secret for now. Ugoatho had sealed off the Rotunda, letting no one out. Among those being held prisoner were the two hereditary bearers of the regalia, one of whom had tried to wrestle Emine’s sword away from Ylo. He had been removed by two bullock-size Praetorians.
“What was it you wished to discuss, my Lady?” Ylo asked cautiously.
There was a darkening bruise on Eigaze’s cheek. Her plump face was paler than usual. She glanced warily at her husband and he frowned a warning—there were listeners all around. Ylo wondered if the man’s permanent stoop was an effect of age, or if he had developed it from hovering over his wife all the time; it put their heads on the same level.
“You expressed interest in a certain painting, Ylo.”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“A seascape? Ion reminded me of a picture by that particular artist I saw in the Orchid Hall many years ago. It may be the same one.”