The Cutting Edge (8 page)

The queen herself sat opposite and at times she played with a sketch pad. Mostly she just talked, drawing him out, listening intently as if everything he said fascinated her. As soon as she sensed that he had revealed everything he knew on one topic, she would switch easily to another. Her questions were shrewd and her range of interests enormous-seamanship, the current state of agriculture in the Impire, fashion, trade, and of course politics. Her attention was the most flattering experience he had known in years.

Kadie swept in wearing a ballgown and her mother's tiara again, and was firmly sent away. A younger jotunn girl named Eva appeared a couple of times to complain that Kadie was being beastly to her, utterly horrid, and the queen settled the matter each time with patient good humor. It was only much later that Efflio realized that the Gath boy had been sitting all the time in a corner, listening to the whole conversation without saying a word.

The queen apologized for her husband's absence-quite needlessly, had she only known ... or perhaps she did. The king was on the mainland, inspecting the beehives, she explained. He had promised to return before the tide turned. Never would be too soon for Efflio.

He had rarely met a woman who cared a spit for politics, but then he had never met a queen before. Fortunately he had some interest in the subject. He found himself telling her of the goblins' raids and their defeat at the hands of the legions, of dwarf trouble in Dwanish and troll trouble in the Mosweeps-even the trolls seemed to be organizing these days, and who could ever have imagined that?-and especially of the djinns. He watched her nimble fingers and the play of shadows on her features until the light grew dim. The fire hissed and scented the room with its friendly smoke. At times he wondered about Impport, if the old place had changed much, and if he still had a daughter there, and whether she might even have a place near her hearth for an old retired sea captain.

Eventually Inosolan laid away her sketch pad with a mutter of annoyance. She clasped her hands and stared a while at the fire. There was a frown showing on those gold-inlay eyebrows. Then she looked up and smiled at him sadly.

"I know Bone Pass. It is a horrible place."

Zark and Krasnegar were about as far apart as it was possible to be in Pandemia.

"Er, I expect it is worse now, m'lady."

"Of course!" She sighed. "Why must men behave like that? I knew the caliph quite well. A very remarkable man. "

Now that was pushing things a bit too far ...

His face had given him away. She smiled mischievously. "I can be even more improbable. I was married to him!"

Efflio wondered what color he had turned now and hoped it would not show in the dimness.

She had turned her attention back to the smoldering peat. "The marriage was annulled by the imperor. In Hub, of course. Azak ... he was only a sultan then. He went back to Zark, and I came on to Krasnegar. Later he proclaimed himself caliph and began his conquests. I have often wondered if the humiliation he suffered that night ... More ale, Captain?"

Efflio declined, sure that he had already indulged unwisely. "You have traveled widely, ma'am."

"Yes. My husband even more widely." She frowned at the windows. "He is late. We shall have to eat without him if he does not come soon. I do hope he hasn't missed the tide. "

"They say . . ."

The queen's smile seemed to sharpen. "That he is a sorcerer? He always denies it."

"Er, yes." That disposed of the subject without resolving much.

"I have never witnessed my husband using sorcery!" Inosolan said with a royal finality that sent a sudden shiver down his back. Her eyes flashed green in the gloom.

"I do not doubt you, ma'am!"

"Good." She relaxed to being just a beautiful woman again. "If he has missed the tide, Captain, then he has missed the tide. He won't walk across the waves, I promise you. What is the news of Prince Shandie?"

Efflio forked over his steaming brains. "I think I have told you everything I know, ma'am. He remains legate of the XIIth. Everyone thinks he should be a proconsul at least, but his grandfather . . . " This was not the Impire, so it was safe to say such things. ". . . his grandfather seems to be jealous of his success. He didn't recall him to Hub for the jubilee."

The queen nodded. "He must be incredibly old. He was old when I knew him, seventeen years ago."

"Just turned ninety-two, ma'am."

"With anyone else," she said thoughtfully, "one would assume that there was sorcery involved. But of course an imperor is exempt from sorcery by the Protocol. "

Except that supposedly a sorcerer had been responsible for Emshandar's miraculous recovery when he had been near death seventeen years ago. A faun sorcerer. Perhaps his cure had been more effective than intended? The captain shivered, wishing he had accepted another tankard of that excellent mulled ale.

"Shandie will inherit soon enough," the queen said, laying aside her sewing. "I hope that all these victories spell a period of peace ahead for the Impire. " She moved as if to rise, but there had been an odd note m her voice.

"Why should they not, ma'am?"

She hesitated. "There's an odd superstition about the year 3000. You must have heard it?"

"Old wives' tales, ma'am!"

She laughed. "And I am an old wife, so I can repeat them! All right, I know that wasn't what you meant! But they bother me. I never cared much for history, but I know this much. The Protocol regulates the use of magic. It protects the Impire, and all of Pandemia also. We all need the Protocol!"

"And twice it almost failed."

"Right. It broke down at the end of its first millennium, when the Third Dragon War broke out. Jiel restored it. A thousand years later it failed again, and there was the War of the Five Warlocks. That was when Thume became the Accursed Land and so on. "

"There have always been wars, ma'am, and there always will be."

"But those were the worst, by far! Those were the only times that magic broke loose again like the Dark Times before Emine-dragons, and fire storms, and all the other horrors that sorcerers can inflict. And they seem to come every thousand years. "

"Coincidence, surely?" the captain said uneasily. He had been hearing these stupid rumors for years, and he was astonished to hear them repeated by this apparently level-headed and practical lady.

"Maybe," she said softly. "But ... ?"

The queen bit her lip and turned her green eyes on the captain. "But my husband takes it all seriously! And that is not like him. "

And her husband was a sorcerer! Wasn't he?

Youth comes back:

Often I think of the beautiful town
That is seated by the sea;
Often in thought go up and down
The pleasant streets of that dear old town,
And my youth comes back to me.

— Longfellow, My Lost Youth

The Battle of Bone Pass did not topple the Caliph as the imperor had predicted it would, but it shattered his power. By midsummer the legions had advanced beyond Charkab against token opposition and a torrent of loot was flowing back to Hub to finance the war.

The XIith was relieved then and withdrawn to its home base at Gaaze, in Qoble. Qoble was Impire. It was a strategic center from which forces could strike at Zark, or at the elves in IIrane, or even at the merfolk of the Kerith Islands, although the Impire had never had much success fighting merfolk.

The XIIth was happy to be home. Gaaze was where the men had their wives, their mistresses, and their children. Here they dwelt in permanent barracks instead of insect-ridden tents. Here they could heal and restore their numbers and train for the next conflict.

Ylo yearned for Hub, but he preferred Gaaze to battlefields. He welcomed the civilized surroundings, the superb climate, the luxurious quarters. The women of Qoble were imps, not djinns. They wore pretty dresses instead of black shrouds. They were more visible and much more accessible.

In Gaaze Shandie was still legate of the XIIth, but he was also the prince imperial. Rich citizens fawned over him, inviting him to an unending glitter of parties and balls. He declined whenever he could, but duty required him to attend many, and his signifer was always at his side. The blushing debutantes were presented and when they rose from their curtseys, their eyes would invariably fall on the prince's companion, the handsome one in the romantic wolfskin cape that was the badge of a hero. Ylo enjoyed Gaaze. Gaaze was good to Ylo.

The year of victories was drawing to a close. In far-off Hub the weather would be turning foul and the days short. In Qoble the sun still shone ferociously.

Early one morning Ylo was at his desk as he always was early in the morning. He sat by the door and the big room was filled with the bowed heads of scriveners, copying out letters and reports in busy silence. There were twenty of them, and they were only a small part of the huge staff he commanded. At his back was the door to the prince's private study. He had a clear view of the antechamber, which was already starting to fill up with hopeful petitioners.

He had become an important person. Shandie's day would be filled with visitors and documents, but Ylo would choose who or what came first. He was the legate's right hand, his sword and his shield. He worked hard and loyally. Old dreams of murdering the heir to the throne were nothing now but nightmares to raise a sweat in the dark. He had fallen completely under Shandie's spell. He knew it and cared not at all.

When the imperor died and a new imperor sat upon the Opal Throne, then his signifer would be at his side and the fortunes of the Yllipo clan would be restored. Shandie had promised.

Meanwhile Ylo must justify the prince's trust and his judgment. He must also show the world that the Yllipos had owed their success to more than historical good fortune, and show them he would.

For the past hour he had been clicking the coding sticks, deciphering a missive from the imperor. He had whistled softly as the meaning began to emerge. And then-inevitably just as he was coming to the really interesting part-the text had degenerated into gibberish. Muttering curses, he checked his work. He found no error. That meant that the unknown clerk in Hub had made a miscalculation, or skipped a word in the key, or blundered in any one of a dozen ways. Ylo might need hours to find the glitch, by guess or by Gods. At worse, he would have to admit defeat and ask for a repeat, which might take weeks to arrive. God of Patience!

He leaned back and rubbed his eyes, then frowned around the big room, searching for similar signs of slackness or inattention in his minions, but they all seemed suitably engrossed. Sunshine streamed through the huge windows and soft sea breezes rustled the papers. Another beautiful day ... he was long overdue for some time off.

"Good morning, Signifer," said a rustly, dry-leaves sort of voice.

Ylo jumped and then frowned at the unimpressive presence of Shandie's political advisor. He did not rise-he was a soldier and Acopulo was not. "Morning. "

Acopulo was a small, birdlike man, one of those impish zealots who refused to wear anything but standard Hubban dress, no matter what climate they might be inhabiting. Now his silvery hair was plastered to his head by sweat and dark patches soaked his doublet. His legs within his hose were thin as rice stalks. He regarded Ylo with disapproval.

"Any mail for me?"

"None today-"

"Ah well-patience is a divine virtue." The little scholar not only looked like a retired priest, he often sounded like one, also. He had an inexhaustible supply of platitudes. "Any news at all?"

"Well . . ." Ylo rubbed his chin, frowning at his inkstand. "Back in Hub ... No, that's just hearsay. No value until it's confirmed. "

"Suppose you do your job and let me do mine?"

"My responsibility is not to pass on rumors, Sir Acopulo."

"Tell me anyway."

Ylo tried to think of some other delaying tactic, but he was too sleepy this morning to play the game with real enthusiasm. "There's a report that Count Hangmore is to be the new consul. "

The little man's mouth twisted in a grimace. "I predicted that weeks ago. Have you nothing better than that to offer?"

Ylo gritted his teeth. "Nothing I am at liberty to reveal."

"You mean nothing at all, then. " Acopulo had been a teacher, one of Shandie's childhood tutors, and at times he treated Ylo like an excessively stupid pupil. "From the expression on your face when I approached, you have a garbled cipher to unscramble. I shall leave you to it. " He stalked away, leaving an angry signifer glaring after him.

Ylo bent back to the accursed message. He had made no progress when another, more extensive, form shadowed his desk. Chief of Protocol Lord Umpily would probably have melted into a puddle of pure oil had he tried to wear a doublet in Qoble. Instead he was robed in a loose Zarkian kibr of unbleached cotton that made him resemble a runaway tent. Nevertheless, the dark eyes that peered out through the rolls of fat were sharpand exceedingly inquisitive as he inspected Ylo for signs of wear. "Which was it? The succulent Opia, or the luscious Effi?"

Pretending to ponder, Ylo rested his arms across the paper in front of him, because he strongly suspected that Umpily could read words upside down. "I'm afraid I have no idea to what your Lordship refers!"

It had been both, actually. He felt very good this morning. A little weary, perhaps, but very good overall.

Umpily sighed wistfully, jowls quivering. "Enjoy it while you're young, my boy. "

"Oh ... I do, I do!" Ylo said with a satisfied smirk. Umpily looked at him thoughtfully and lowered his voice. "You know Legate Arkily?"

"Not well."

"His sister?"

"The young one?" Ylo said with some enthusiasm. "Not nearly as well as I should like."

"Her husband has left town again, and I don't know where he's gone. "

"You think he's up to no good?"

"Acopulo does. I think he's just smuggling."

Ylo reflected on Legate Arkily's sprightly sister. "If my duty requires me to stoop to undercover work, then I suppose I must."

"You think you can get to the heart of the matter?"

"At least reveal the bare facts."

Umpily waggled a cucumber finger. "Business before pleasure, now!"

"No. Regrettably, the pleasure has to come first. It doesn't work otherwise. " Ylo exchanged smirks with the chief of protocol, then reached for a small sack under the desk. "You have a full net this morning, my Lord. "

Umpily seemed to correspond with half the imperor's subjects and thousands of other folk, as well. He was a one-man gossip factory. Beaming happily, he rolled away with his loot and again Ylo returned to the coding sticks.

Any day now Shandie would become imperor. Then Umpily would almost certainly be put in charge of the Bureau of Statistics, which was the intelligence arm of the secret police. Acopulo was probably hoping to be Secretary of State. And Ylo ... Ah, what joys would the future hold for young Ylo? Any day now. It could not be long.

Then he heard a rustle of excitement out in the antechamber. Muttering complaints to the Gods, he looked up to scan the big room. He located Centurion Hardgraa easily enough, and a handful of his swordsmen, but he could not see Shandie. Puzzled, he rose to his feet and scanned twice more before he spied the prince. He was wearing civilian doublet and cloak, which was unusual, but the remarkable thing about Shandie out of uniform was that there was absolutely nothing remarkable about him. He could have been any well-dressed young man in the whole Impire.

Ylo had been hoping for more time to work on the cipher. He hated reporting incomplete work, but he would have to mention what he had discovered. He watched as Shandie moved through the crowd of well-wishers, flashing greetings just cordial enough not to offend yet formal enough to deter conversation. His memory for names and faces was unfailing. In a few minutes he had escaped from the jungle and came striding in, to pause at Ylo's desk.

Ylo saluted. "Morning, Signifer."

"Good morning, Highness."

As usual, Shandie's face gave away no more than a dwarf 's, but he registered Ylo's excitement. "And you've got something important! "

"Yes, sir-"

"My wife? She's coming?"

"Er ... No, sir. 'Fraid not."

The prince sighed and frowned. For months he had been begging his grandfather to let Princess Eshiala come and join him here in Gaaze, but the old man would not even acknowledge the requests anymore. "Did I ever mention that she is the most beautiful woman in the world?"

"I think you did, sir. "

Oddly, though, that was about all he ever did say of her. He had never said that she enjoyed dancing or music or travel-or anything. Nor that she disliked them, for that matter. Shandie seemed curiously blind to women. At the previous night's dance, for example, at least six had indicated their availability, yet he had shown no sign of even noticing the signals. He was a great leader of men, but either his extraordinary self-discipline controlled even his love life, or he was just unbelievably innocent. Had he been anyone else, Ylo might have offered him a few lessons.

"What's the big news, then?"

"The second half is garbled, sir. The first half is your promotion to proconsul." Ylo presumed upon his growing sense of friendship to add, "Congratulations!"

Shandie had inhuman self-control, or perhaps such an honor meant little to a man destined to be imperor. "Thank you. Let me know when you have it worked out. Until then, we'll carry on as usual. "

"I'll be as quick as I can. "

"I know you will. Any clues so far?"

"I think it's another campaign, sir. Against the elves this time. "

The prince muttered something crude, spun around in a swirl of cloak, and stalked away into his own office.

Ylo was left with his mouth hanging open.

His ears had deceived him, hadn't they? Surely the prince could not have referred to his liege lord and grandfather, Imperor Emshandar IV, as a bloodthirsty senile old bastard?

Princess Eshiala detested formal dinner parties. She turned down most invitations automatically, but she could not refuse the imperor. Fortunately this was a very modest affair, strictly family. Emshandar never threw banquets anymore; he was rarely seen in public at all. Tonight there were only eight around the table. His elderly cousin, Marquise Affaladi, was being squired by the Guardsman with whom she had been creating such a scandal lately. The old man had assumed that the brash youngster was one of her grandsons, and no one dared correct his error. His own grandson Prince Emthoro had brought a current mistress, who had the face of a child and the poise of a centurion.

The guests of honor, though, were Senator Oupshiny and his new bride, the lovely Ashia. Ashia qualified as a member of the imperial family because she was Eshiala's sister. She was also Duchess Ashia of Hileen now, Oupshiny being a duke as well as a senator. Her first husband had been a shoemaker's apprentice, and undoubtedly still was.

Candles blazed, gold plate glittered, and an army of servants moved like white ghosts in the background. The little orchestra behind the screen played very softly, not interfering with conversation.

The cost of the guests' attire and adornments would have outfitted a legion and kept it in the field for a year. Old Emshandar had become quite eccentric in his dress lately, but tonight his doublet was as lavish and sumptuous as any, loaded with jewels and orders.

Eshiala was the sole exception, as usual. She wore a simple white kirtle with a gold trim and almost no jewelry. When she had first come to court she had been ignorant of the madcap carousel of fashion, so she had disregarded it and gone her own way. That had been her first and only rebellion, and it had been forced upon her because she had been quite unable to manage hooped dresses and haystack hairstyles and heels like stilts. Shandie had told her she could wear anything she wanted, and the imperor had said she looked gorgeous and that had been that.

Anyone else would have been ostracized for such presumption, for anyone who did not join in the game could be suspected of mocking it. A lady was expected to spend a fortune every month on her wardrobe and furnishings; many had one attendant to look after earrings and another for shoes and so on, just as a gentleman might have one special valet to tie his cravat. Every week saw some new fad in fans or lace or sleeves, and anyone who did not adopt the latest craze instantly would be suspected of economizing. That was utter ruin. One whiff of frugality would do more harm to a reputation than would open incest.

But the court could not just ignore the wife of the prince imperial. They could not reasonably whisper that her husband was falling on hard times and must be out of favor. Her lowly origin was common knowledge, so it could not be maligned further-she was beyond the reach of the dowagers' claws. They dared not make an open enemy of the future impress. They detested her, but they tolerated her because they had to. She had no friends, though.