Acopulo dabbed at the sweat streaming down his forehead. The priestly robes he wore over his normal garb were very uncomfortable in this hot, sticky climate. He suspected that a genuine priest would wear only the robes, but to him that would seem like a confession of weakness. He shifted on the bench, trying to ignore the cloying sweetness of the flowering shrub at his back.
“You believe I am lying. Then bring forth a sorcerer, and I shall be happy to repeat my story for him.” Oh, how he would like to talk with a sorcerer!
Lop’quith shook his head regretfully. “The law does not recognize sorcery. If a judge had to admit that witnesses’ memories could be altered, or the physical universe itself changed on an ad hoc basis, then he could never reach any verdict at all!” His tuneful voice turned the nonsensical words to song.
“You used sorcery to discover the letter I bore, and my money belt! I expect you have already had the letters read for you, without breaking the seals.”
The kid’s eyes widened, flickering from rose and aquamarine to cobalt and malachite. “You wish to make this charge?”
“What if I do?” Acopulo asked uneasily.
“It will be a serious matter! The Office of Occult Manifestations will have to be advised, and the Mundane Affairs Inquisitor of the gens will certainly want to become involved.”
God of Torment!
“Then I withdraw the accusation. Please, sir—”
“Do just call me by my name, or ‘Deputy,’ if you prefer.”
“Please, Deputy, then. I did not intend to disembark at Vislawn. All I ask is to board a southbound ship as soon as possible. I do not see where Ilrane need be at all concerned with my affairs.”
“But you are carrying letters from the sovereign of a realm with which we are bound by the Treaty of Clowd, 2998, to the ruler of one with which we may in this instance be in alliance under the Concord of Gaaze, 2875, as amended by the Covenant of Seven Liberties, Clause 18, Paragraph 14.b(i). As a cleric, you are also subject to the Law of Religious Harmonies of the Syndic of Elmas, 2432, or specifically to a codicil—”
“Enough!” Acopulo wanted to weep. “I don’t suppose there is any chance of appealing to Warlock Lith’rian, is there?”
The kid gasped. He ran the fingers of both hands through his curls of shiny gold wire. His voice soared an octave. “The warlock? The Supreme War Leader of the Eol Gens? Have you any idea of the bureaucratic complexities that you would invoke if you filed such a request? Indeed, I am not at all sure that even by raising the possibility, you may not have already—”
“Forget it!” Acopulo screamed. If the complexities alarmed an elf, they terrified him. “Is there any way at all that I can just . . . What’s wrong?”
“There!” Lop’ exclaimed, sitting up suddenly. “Did you see?”
“See what?” Acopulo twisted around to stare where the golden finger pointed.
“A Serene Ocarina! I have never seen one so early in the year!” The opal eyes flamed in sienna, cerulean, and ivory. Lop’quith’s childish face had flushed bright copper with excitement.
“A what?”
“A Serene Ocarina! A butterfly.” Oh, God of Scorpions!
2
The Imperor summoned the Senate at last. For days the capital had boiled with rumors of goblins and dwarves and disasters. Umpily had gathered up all the theories being circulated at court and reported them to Shandie as he was supposed to. Maddeningly, Shandie had just listened and grunted, but not confided in him.
Without question, Shandie had changed since ascending the throne. The old intimacy Umpily had treasured so long was missing now. Some nights he awoke in screaming terror, shattered by nightmares in which he had been right the first time and the ruler was the imposter and the missing fugitive the genuine imperor. In the clear light of day such ludicrous fancies were untenable, of course, and especially so when he was in Shandie’s presence—although those occasions were much rarer now than they had been.
A turnout of the full Senate would almost fill the Rotunda, leaving very few seats for other dignitaries. With the court still in mourning, though, many aristocrats had retired to their country estates to catch up on personal affairs. There were more spare seats available than usual, and Umpily was able to order his toga brought out of storage and squeeze his generous bulk in among the lesser nobility.
By chance or craft, it was an East day, which was traditional for military matters. The Senate all sat on that side, therefore, a solid bank of scarlet togas behind the Gold Throne, so that the imperor would be facing them from the Opal Throne in the center. The minor peerage had to settle for the western seats, in back of the Red Throne. Umpily was put very high, near the back, where he would look down on the proceedings, but he had the Marquis of Mosrace on his right and the Duke of Whileboth on his left. Whileboth was frail now, but a shrewd soldier in his day. His comments would certainly be worthwhile if he managed to hear what was being said. His many acid remarks about old Emshandar had kept him out of the Senate, but he had slaughtered more than his share of dwarves in his time, had Whileboth. The legions had called him “Ironjaw.”
As always, the proceedings failed to start on time. The audience fidgeted and muttered. Both Mosrace and Ironjaw were convinced that Umpily must know what news would be announced. He parried their queries as well as he could without actually admitting his ignorance. They gave up on him at last and pointedly fell into talk with their other neighbors, leaving him isolated.
He wished he could tell them that they need not worry. Whatever the truth behind the rumors, the evil, scheming wardens were gone forever. The Almighty had replaced them, guaranteeing that the Impire would prevail. Umpily could not say so, of course. He could not mention the Almighty to anyone, no matter how hard he tried.
The trumpets sounded and the consuls in their purplehemmed togas led in the procession, trooping in from the west door, dividing behind the Red Throne, and circling around. Bronze and gold flamed in the bright spring sunshine flooding down through the great dome. Marshal Ugoatho shone in gold armor and scarlet-crested helmet; his replacement as legate of the Praetorian Guard was very nearly as splendid. The impress in a simple chiton was enough to draw breath from every man present under the age of eighty, and most of the others, too. Shandie in purple mounting the Opal Throne . . .
Consul Eerieo was a new appointment, and a nonentity. No one could imagine why the imperor had chosen such a nincompoop to run the Senate for him.
“One gets you ten he makes a botch of the invocation,” Mosrace muttered. He had no takers, and Consul Eerieo made a memorable botch. After all that, it was with a strong sense of relief that everyone sat down again to hear what Emshandar V had to say on this, his first formal act as imperor.
“Honored Consuls, your Eminences . . .” His voice was strong, and quite audible. He wasted no breath on preliminaries. He threw the facts before them like gruesome relics.
The truth was much, much worse than the rumors, and the Great Hall seemed to grow colder and colder as the report unfolded.
Without the slightest provocation, the Impire’s boundaries had been violated by both goblins and dwarves. Four legions—the IIIrd, IXth, XVIIth, and XXIXth—had ceased to exist, with hardly a survivor to tell the story. The immensity of the disaster was stunning. As an augury of the new reign, it could not have been worse. As a portent of the millennium, it was terrifying. With the old man barely cold in his grave, the young Emshandar, who had been Shandie, the darling of the army, was telling of twenty thousand dead. And what of the civilians? In harsh, unemotional tones, he read out lists of towns and cities sacked.
All around Umpily, hardened, cynical old politicians were sobbing. Some of their distress came from patriotism, but many of those men were learning of their ruin, of herds and lands and wealth destroyed. The towns of Whileboth and Mosrace both were mentioned—devastated. The implications were even worse than the facts. The news must be weeks old. What had happened since? How close were the vermin now? Destruction and looting must be continuing even as the imperor spoke.
Old Ironjaw was mumbling obscenities, his ancient face as pale as chalk.
The litany of disaster drew to a close, and silence fell. Shandie turned a page. This young imperor was a strategic genius, wasn’t he? Enrapt, the Senate waited to hear his response. It was impressive.