“Gently, gently,” ordered the valet. “Don’t lift too fast. The motion makes His Majesty giddy.”
Slowly, solemnly, the sedan chair started off. The Royal Weesham rose and followed after. Count Tretar came after the weesham. The valet de chambre, watching anxiously, hovered about the sedan chair in case His Majesty felt faint. The procession, led by the sedan chair, moved from the garden to the emperor’s sitting room—a fatiguing journey of about ten paces.
Agah’ran—an extraordinarily handsome elf (beneath the paint) in his early two hundreds—was not, as some first supposed on meeting him, crippled. Nothing in the slightest was wrong with His Imperial Majesty’s limbs. Agah’ran (in mid-life, by elven standards) was quite capable of walking and did so, when required. The unusual effort fatigued him for cycles afterward, however.
Once inside the sumptuously furnished sitting room, Agah’ran made a languid motion with his fingers. “His Majesty wishes to stop,” Tretar instructed. The valet echoed the count’s orders. The slaves complied. The chair was lowered, slowly, so as not to make His Imperial Majesty nauseous, to the floor. The emperor was lifted out of it and placed in a chair, facing out on the garden.
“Turn us a bit to the left. We find the view far less fatiguing from this angle. Pour us some chocolate. Will you partake, Tretar?”
“I am honored that Your Imperial Majesty thinks of me.” Count Tretar bowed. He detested chocolate, but would never dream of offending the emperor by refusing.
One of the slaves reached for the samovar. The weesham, looking uneasy (as well he might, considering the discussion was dealing with his true masters, the Kenkari), saw a way to escape and intervened. “I fear the chocolate has grown tepid, O Exalted One. It would give me great pleasure to bring Your imperial Majesty more. I know precisely the temperature Your Imperial Majesty likes it.”
Agah’ran glanced at Tretar. The count nodded. “Very well, Weesham,” the emperor said languidly. “You are dismissed from our royal presence. Six degrees above room temperature and not a degree higher.”
“Yes, My Liege.” The geir, hands plucking nervously at his black robes, bowed himself out. Tretar waved his hand. The valet de chambre hustled the slaves out of the room. The valet himself faded into the background.
“A spy, do you think?” Agah’ran asked, referring to the departed weesham. “The Kenkari found out through him?”
“No, My Liege. The Kenkari would never dream of anything so crude. They may be very powerful in magic, but they are a simple people, politically naive. The geir is sworn to one duty and that is the safekeeping of Your Imperial Majesty’s soul. That is a holy duty, and one with which the Kenkari would not interfere.”
Tretar leaned forward, lowered his voice to a whisper. “From what I have been able to learn, My Liege, it was the ineptness of the Unseen that precipitated this crisis.’*
A corner of the painted eyelid twitched. “The Unseen do not make mistakes, Tretar,” said Agah’ran.
“They are men, O Radiant One. They are fallible, as all men are fallible, with the exception of Your Imperial Majesty. And I have heard it said”—Tretar moved still closer—”that the Unseen have taken steps to discipline the elves involved. They are no more. And neither is the geir who carried news of the princess’s murder to the Kenkari.”
Agah’ran appeared considerably relieved. “The matter is settled, then, and nothing like this will occur again. You will see to that, Tretar. Express our wishes to the Unseen forcibly.”
“Of course, My Liege,” said Tretar, who had absolutely no intention of doing any such thing. Let those cold-blooded demons mind their own affairs! He wanted no part of them.
“That does not help us with our current problem, however, Tretar,” pursued Agah’ran mildly. “The eggs have been broken, so to speak. We see no way of putting the yolks back into their shells.”
“No, O Radiant One,” Tretar agreed, glad to return to a subject less dangerous and of far more importance. “And, therefore, I propose to His Imperial Majesty that he make an omelet.”
“Quite clever, Tretar.” The emperor’s painted lips creased slightly. “Do we partake of this omelet ourselves or feed it to the Kenkari?”