Domes of Fire by David Eddings

wanhn’ t’ talk t’ me ’bout some stuff oz had turnt up missin’ tum the cargo

hold, y’ know.’ He paused. ‘Have I sufficiently entertained you as yet,

Milord Stragen?’ he grinned. ‘Very, very good, Caalador,’ Stragen murmured.

‘Convincing – although it was a tribe overdone.’

‘A failing, Milord. It’s so much fun that I get carried away. Actually,

I’m a swindler. I’ve found that posing as an ignorant yokel disarms people.

No one in this world is as easy to gull as the man who thinks he’s smarter

than you are.’

‘Ohh.’ Ehlana’s tone was profoundly disappointed. Wuz yet Majesty tooken

with the iggernent way I wuz ‘atalkin?’ Caalador asked sympathetically.

‘I’ll do ‘er agm, iff’n yet of a mind – of course it takes a beastly long

time to get to the point that way.’ She laughed delightedly. ‘I think you

could charm the birds out of the bushes, Caalador,’ she told him. Thank

you, your Majesty,’ he said, bowing with fluid grace. Then he turned back

to Stragen. ‘Your proposal has baffled our Tamul friends, Milord,’ he said.

‘The demarcation line between corruption and outright theft is very clearly

defined in the Tamul culture. Tamul thieves are quite class-conscious, and

the notion of actually co-operating with the authorities strikes them as

unnatural for some reason. Fortunately, we Elenes are far more corrupt than

our simple yellow brothers, and Elenes seem to rise to the top in our

peculiar society natural talent, most likely. We saw the advantages of your

proposal immediately. Kondrak of Darsas was most eloquent in his

presentation. You seem to have impressed him enormously. The disturbances

here in Tamuli have been disastrous for business, and when we began

reciting profit and loss figures to the Tamuls, they started to listen to

reason. They agreed to co-operate grudgingly, I’ll grant you, but they will

help you to gather information.’

‘Thank God!’ Stragen said with a vast sigh of relief. ‘The delay was

beginning to make me very, very nervous.’

‘Ye made promises t’ yet queen, an’ y’ wuzn’t shore

iff’n y’ could deliver, is that it?’

‘That’s very, very close, my friend.’

‘I’ll give you the names of some people in Matherion.’ Caalador looked

around. ‘Private-like, if’n y’ take my meanin’,’ he added. ‘It’s all vury

well t’ talk ’bout lendin’ a helpin’ hand an’ sick, but ‘taint hardly

nach’ral t’ be namin’ no names right out in fronta no queens an’ knights

an’ sick.’ He grinned impudently at Ehlana. ‘An’ now, yet queenship, how’d

y’ like it iff’n I wuz t’ spin y’ a long, long tale ’bout my advenchoors in

the shadowy world o’ crime?’

‘i’d be delighted, Caalador,’ she replied eagerly.

Another of the injured knights died that night, but the two dozen

sorely-wounded seemed on the mend. As Oscagne had told them, Tamul

physicians were extraordinarily skilled, although some of their methods

were strange to Elenes. After a brief conference, Sparhawk and his friends

decided to press on to Matherion. Their trek across the continent had

yielded a great deal of’ information, and they all felt that it was time to

combine that information with the findings of the Imperial government. And

so they set out from Lebas early one morning and rode south under a kindly

summer sky. The countryside was neat, with crops growing in straight lines

across weedless fields marked off with low stone walls. Even the trees in

the woodlands grew in straight lines, and all traces of unfettered nature

seemed to have been erased. The peasants in the fields wore loose-fitting

trousers and shirts of white linen and tightly-woven straw hats that looked

not unlike mushroom-tops. Many of the crops grown in this alien countryside

were unrecognisable to the Elenes – odd-looking beans and peculiar grains.

They passed Lake Sama and saw fishermen casting nets from strange-looking

boats with high prows and sterns, boats of which Khalad profoundly

disapproved. ‘One good gust of wind from the side would capsize them,’ was

his verdic’t. They reached Toea, some sixty leagues to the north of the

capital, with that sense of impatience that comes near the end of every

long journey. The weather held fair, and they set out early and rode late

each day, counting off every league put behind them. The road followed the

coast of the Tamul sea, a low, rolling coast-line where rounded hills rose

from broad beaches of white sand and long waves rolled in to break and foam

and slither back out into deep blue water. Eight days – more or less after

they left Toea, they set up for the night in a park-like grove with

an almost holiday air, since Oscagne assured them that they were no’ more

than five leagues from Matherion. ‘We could ride on,’ Kalten suggested.

‘We’d be there by morning.’

‘Not on your life, Sir Kalten,’ Ehlana said adamantly. ‘Start heating

water, gentlemen, and put up a tent we can use for bathing. The ladies and

I are not going to ride into Matherion with half the dirt of Daresia caked

on us – and string some lines so that we can hang our gowns out to air and

to let the breeze shake the wrinkles out of them.’ She looked around

critically. ‘And then, gentlemen, I want you to see to yourselves and your

equipment. I’ll inspect you before we set out tomorrow morning, and I’d

better not find one single speck of rust. ‘ Kalten sighed mournfully. ‘Yes,

my Queen,’ he replied in a resigned tone of voice. They set out the

following morning in a formal column with the carriage near the front.

Their pace was slow to avoid raising dust, and Ehlana, gowned in blue and

crowned with gold and diamonds, sat regally in the carriage, looking for

all the world as if she owned everything in sight. There had been one small

but intense disagreement before they set out, however. Her Highness, the

Royal Princess Danae, had objected violently when told that she would wear

a proper dress and a delicate little tiara. Ehlana did not cajole her

daughter about the matter, but instead she did something she had never done

before. ‘Princess Danae,’ she said quite formally, ‘I am the queen. You

will obey me.’ Danae blinked in astonishment. Sparhawk was fairly certain

that no one had ever spoken to her that way before. ‘Yes, your Majesty,’

she replied finally in a suitably submissive tone. Word of their approach

had preceded them, of course. Engessa had seen to that, and as they rode up

a long hill about mid-afternoon, they saw a mounted detachment of

ceremonial troops wearing armour of black

lacquered steel inlaid with gold awaiting them at the summit. The honour

guard was drawn up in ranks on each side of the road. There were as yet no

greetings, and when the column crested the hill, Sparhawk immediately saw

why. ‘Dear God!’ Bevier breathed in awed reverence. A crescent-shaped city

embraced a deep blue harbour below. The sun had passed its zenith, and it

shone down on the crown of Tamuli. The architecture was graceful, and every

building had a dome-like, rounded roof. It was not so large as Chyrellos,

but it was not the size which had wrung that referential gasp from Sir

Bevier. The city was dazzling, but its splendour was not the splendour of

marble. An opalescent sheen covered the capital, a shifting rainbowrhued

fire that blazed beneath the surface of its very stones, a fire that at

times blinded the eye with its stunning magnificence. ‘Behold!’ Oscagne

intoned quite formally. ‘Behold the seat of beauty and truth! Behold the

home of wisdom and power! Behold fire-domed Matherion, the centre of the

world!’

CHAPTER 24

‘It’s been that way since the twelfth century,’ Ambassador Oscagne told

them as they were escorted down the hill toward the gleaming city. ‘Was it

magic?’ Talen asked him. The young thief’s eyes were filled with wonder.

‘You might call it that,’ Oscagne said wryly, ‘but it was the kind of magic

one performs with unlimited money and power rather than with incantations.

The eleventh and twelfth centuries were a foolish period in our history. It

was the time of the Micaen Dynasty, and they were probably the silliest

family to ever occupy the throne. The first Micaen emperor was given an

ornamental box of mother-of-pearl – or nacre, as some call it by an

emissary from the Isle of Tega when he was about fourteen years old.

History tells us that he would sit staring at it by the hour, paralysed by

the shifting colours. He was so enamoured of the nacre he had his throne

sheathed in the stuff.’ That must have been a fair-sized oyster,’ Ulath

noted. Oscagne smiled. ‘No, Sir Ulath. They cut the shells into little

tiles and fit them together very tightly. Then they polish the whole

surface for a month or so. It’s a very tedious and expensive process.

Anyway, the second Micaen emperor took it one step further and sheathed the

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