Imperial Traitor (31 page)

‘That depends on whether you’d like them thrown together, or properly sewn,’ Rikala replied, her brusque tone leaving Femke in no doubts as to her displeasure. ‘By late
this afternoon if you’re really desperate, I suppose. So what brought on the sudden change? Am I not working fast enough? Have you taken on someone else?’

‘No, nothing like that, Rikala. You’ve worked miracles. We’re just going to cheat a little, to speed up the launch of the play, that’s all. One of the magicians has
agreed to use his skills to take away the need for quite so many costumes.’

‘A magician! Pah! As if they know anything of clothing. Ah, well, that’s your business, I suppose. I’ll be sure to come along and watch the play when you start performing.
When’s it due to launch?’

‘Now that we have the last of the costumes guaranteed, then tomorrow looks likely. Would you like me to reserve you a place?’

‘That would be kind, dear. Thank you. I look forward to it. Come in this afternoon at the fifth call and I should have those last items ready for you.’

Femke unhooked the completed costumes from the rack and draped them over her arm. She left through the narrow front door, thanking the stout little seamstress again as she departed. To look at
the tiny frontage of her home, it was amazing that Rikala got much trade at all. There was nothing prominent to advertise her presence, but Femke knew that the seamstress had gained her trade
through personal referral and reputation. Having built her little business to capacity on that basis, she did not need fancy window displays.

The narrow street was bustling with people about their morning business. Seeing one of the streetwise tattle touts leaned up against a wall and chatting with a particularly shady character was a
timely reminder that she needed to catch up on the street gossip. Since her release from the Guild complex, she had been totally focused on the plan. There had been no time for anything else, so it
had been a considerable while since she had last done the rounds of the city.

A last glance at the tattle tout settled her mind on the matter. Up-to-date news and gossip would be useful before entering the next phase, to say nothing of starting a few strands of gossip
about the production. An effective rumour spread today would pack out the open-air stage seating for the first showing – even if it were staged tomorrow.

Femke hurried through the busy city streets to where Devarusso’s wagon was parked near the open-air stage. When she knocked on his door there was no response. The door was not locked, so
she cracked it open and cautiously peered inside. There was no sign of Devarusso. ‘He’s probably at the stage with Calvyn,’ she thought. ‘There’s no point in
disturbing their rehearsal.’ Leaving the costumes on the bed, she closed the door behind her and headed back into the city, excited at the thought of getting back to doing what she knew she
did best.

‘Ah, Shalidar! It’s good to see you, son.’ Tremarle savoured the word ‘son’. Although most would consider the deal he had struck before adopting
Shalidar unsavoury, it brought him great pleasure to know that the man he now called ‘son’ had avenged his firstborn. It seemed ever more poetically fitting that the avenger should take
the place of the avenged.

Shalidar had a strong presence, and a sense of calm about him that few possessed. He was not Danar, of course, but that was not necessarily all bad. Whilst he had loved Danar, Tremarle had
always felt his eldest son to be shallow, and at times had despaired that the boy would ever mature. All he and his idle friends had thought about was their trivial hobbies, and which young lady he
planned to seduce next. Shalidar’s focus was on more serious issues.

‘Father,’ Shalidar acknowledged, bowing respectfully. He walked fully into the drawing room, working hard to minimise his limp. ‘Are you having a good day?’

‘I’ve had better . . . but I’ve also had a lot worse. Come. Sit by me. There are some things I wanted to talk with you about.’

Tremarle was sitting in one of four large armchairs arranged in a semi-circle, facing the windows of the drawing room. This was an area of the Palace that Shalidar doubted the previous Emperor
had ever even visited. Surabar had stayed closeted in his bleak study on the first floor of the Palace for the majority of the time. It was said that he left it only to sleep and to attend sessions
of the Imperial Court.

In contrast to the dark study of Surabar, with its minimal furnishing and feeling of military functionality, this drawing room was opulent in décor, rich with bright gold and glowing
purples. It was bright and airy, with tall windows facing south across the manicured gardens of the Palace grounds. The high ceilings displayed ornate coving and a beautiful ceiling rose, from
which depended a crystal chandelier laden with candles. Great pictures by master artists graced the walls, whilst ornaments of the highest quality were tastefully placed on the marble mantelpiece,
on dahl tables and in purpose-built display cabinets.

A wood fire was burning in the grate. It had burned down to a flicker, but the occasional pop and crackle still punctuated the air as the logs were slowly consumed. The scent of wood smoke hung
heavy, though there was no haze to suggest that the flue was restricted in any way.

Shalidar sat down in the chair next to the thickset old Lord. Tremarle shifted in his chair, angling his body more towards his adopted son.

‘There are some interesting rumours circulating the streets at the moment,’ Tremarle began.

‘Rumours? What sort of rumours?’ Shalidar asked, keeping his tone calm and politely interested.

‘Well to start with there’s a rumour that Lord Kempten is not dead, but living out at his country estate with his wife.’

‘I shouldn’t pay credence to such nonsense, my Lord. Lord Kempten was assassinated. Everyone knows that.’

‘Indeed,’ Tremarle agreed, noting Shalidar’s casual dismissal of the story with interest. ‘But the truth and “what everyone knows” are not always the same
thing at all. Still, if Kempten were alive, and he did want the Mantle, all he would have to do is come forward and claim it. As Surabar’s chosen successor, that is his right.’

‘But he has not done so,’ Shalidar pointed out.

‘Which means either he is dead, or he does not want the Mantle,’ Tremarle finished.

‘A logical conclusion.’ Shalidar did not like the way this conversation was going. He had thought to tackle the Kempten issue in a slightly different fashion. To his surprise,
however, Tremarle suddenly dropped the issue and changed the subject to something completely trivial.

‘Out of interest, have you heard anything about the new play starting on the city stage tonight?’ the old Lord asked, taking him by surprise.

Shalidar paused to consider the question for a moment, trying to see if there was more to this sudden change of direction than met the eye. There was no obvious danger in the subject, so he
replied.

‘No, I don’t believe I have. What’s it about?’

‘Apparently the current city troupe have produced a new adaptation of
The True King’s Gambit.
If the rumours are true, they’re utilising magic to create some of the
backdrops. It opens tonight. I was thinking of going along. Would you like to come?’

Shalidar’s mind raced. Having Tremarle go out into such a large mass of public before he had formally accepted the Mantle would be very risky. Any decent assassin could make a successful
hit under those conditions, no matter what security precautions were taken. With Wolf Spider and Femke out in the city somewhere, he did not want to lose sight of Tremarle for any more time than
was absolutely necessary.

‘I’m not sure that would be a good idea before the coronation, my Lord. There’s a rogue assassin loose in the city at the moment. It would be just his style to utilise such an
opportunity in order to increase his profile. The Guild is currently trying to track him down, but he’s clever. So far he’s eluded the extensive network of snares set for him. To make
matters worse, he’s joined forces with one of Surabar’s top Imperial spies, which has given him certain advantages. It’s with this in mind that I was going to make a suggestion
about your coronation . . .’

‘Yes?’ Tremarle prompted. ‘What sort of suggestion?’

‘You might want to make it a private affair, my Lord – a minimum number of witnesses, the High Cleric and you. That would rob the rogue assassin of his chance to make a strike at a
time guaranteed to give him maximum publicity.’

Tremarle looked thoughtful for a moment, and not a little worried. ‘So you believe this man is definitely out to kill me then?’

‘That is my understanding, my Lord, which is why I’ll be spending a lot more time with you until he is apprehended. I believe I know his methods well enough to protect you. Once
you’re Emperor, however, I expect he’ll desist. Rogues often continue to play by the Assassins’ Creed even after they’ve broken from the Guild. Adhering to the creed lends a
veneer of legitimacy to their business.’

Tremarle’ eyebrows raised. ‘A veneer of legitimacy? That could also be said of the Guild, you know, but I take the point. You know my feelings on the Guild. I believe they’re a
necessary part of our society. They’ve played an important role in Shandese culture for centuries. What do you suggest? Is there any other way I can protect myself further?’

‘That’s simple, my Lord – bring forward the coronation ceremony. Have it tomorrow in private. Once you are the Emperor, he’s a lot less likely to touch you.’

Tremarle nodded. ‘That makes sense. And the play? I’d really like to see it. I’ve always enjoyed attending the plays at the open-air stage. Could I not go in disguise or
something?’

‘You’ll be Emperor, my Lord. Why not have them come to you? They could give a private performance in the Palace ballroom, or the Great Hall. There’s plenty of space in
there.’

‘What an excellent idea, Shalidar! I love it. I’ll send someone to invite the players immediately.’ Tremarle got to his feet, his face beaming with enthusiasm, and walked
towards the bell pull.

‘You might want to schedule your coronation before the play, my Lord. Just in case the assassin managed to infiltrate the group,’ Shalidar offered casually, keeping his eyes focused
out through the window at the Imperial gardens.

‘A wise precaution – yes, that makes a lot of sense,’ the Lord replied, pausing mid-way across the room. ‘Very well, I’ll send for the High Cleric and some of the
senior Lords. We can have a private ceremony in the morning and I’ll ask the company of players to stage their new play here in the evening. I could then invite a select audience to celebrate
my change of status without all the normal pomp. I never much enjoyed the big state ceremonies anyway. This will be far more pleasant. Thank you.’

‘My pleasure, my Lord. I look forward to being able to address you as “your Imperial Majesty” tomorrow.’

The rapturous applause was unlike anything Devarusso had ever witnessed before. There was not a single person sitting. The entire crowd was cheering, clapping and whooping with
delight at the spectacle they had just witnessed.

‘OK, everyone, this is it. Don’t trip over your feet. Big smiles. On we go.’

The line of supposed actors was longer than any Devarusso had put on stage before. They filed out to even greater applause. The crowd was literally going wild with delight. When the actors had
all reached their positions, they turned and bowed to the audience. They stepped back two paces and prepared to file off the stage, but the applause did not lessen. Devarusso gave the signal and
they all stepped forwards again to take a second bow. It took a third bow before the noise began to abate.

Devarusso was beaming as he led the line of his ‘cast’ off to the left of the stage and out of sight.

‘Well, I’d say that went off without a hitch. Do you think anyone at the front noticed that the people on stage at the end were not the people in the play?’

‘Not a chance,’ Calvyn replied without hesitation. ‘They were so caught up in the illusion they’d have believed anything by the end. What I want to know is how did Femke
manage to arrange our invitation to the Palace
before
we’d even had a chance to dazzle our first audience? That’s a sort of magic I don’t understand.’

Femke gave him a quirky grin. ‘Knowledge is power,’ she observed, tapping her temple with her forefinger. ‘It always pays to know the weaknesses of your opponent. Tremarle has
been an avid follower of theatre for many years. I saw him at performances many times with my . . . with a group of other Lords.’ Her face darkened for a moment as she mentally cursed the
source of her memory. ‘My main worry was that he might be drawn to the performance here, rather than inviting us into the Palace. That would have made a show at the Palace more difficult to
arrange, but not impossible. I had a back-up plan for that eventuality.’

‘Why does that not surprise me?’ Calvyn replied, shaking his head. ‘I feel I severely underestimated you when we first met back in Thrandor. I realised you were devious, of
course, but if I’d known just how darned clever you were, I’d never have left King Malo to cope with your wiles.’

Femke’s grin widened. ‘The important thing is that we’re going to get in. The buzz from tonight’s show should ensure that there’s little danger of a cancellation
tomorrow. I watched from the side. It looked
very
impressive. Traditional plays will never be the same again.’

Devarusso’s elation visibly deflated. ‘That’s something that really worries me,’ he admitted with a grimace. ‘The sort of effects that Calvyn can produce are so
spectacular, one has to wonder how I’ll ever be able to hold an audience with my regular cast again. Everything will pale into insignificance when compared with this. Are you sure I
can’t tempt you to join my company, Calvyn? Together we could become very rich, you and I.’

Calvyn smiled. ‘No, Devarusso, I’m afraid not. My duty is to my King. I’ve enjoyed working with you these past few days, but my destiny is not here. I must gain my robes as a
magician and return to Thrandor. I’m sorry.’