The Pearls (20 page)

“Sure,” Thirbe broke in. “Let's hear you jabber about how you're going to whip a praetinor one-handed with a broken shoulder. You can barely sit that horse. Seems to me, it's
you
who ought to return to camp. Leave this business to those capable of doing the job.”

“Leave it to you!” Furious, Hervan found himself almost sputtering. “Abandon my command to you? Impossible!
You?
I'd sooner cut my throat than put you in charge.”

“You'll find
her
throat cut if you don't cool down and stop yelling at the top of your lungs,” Thirbe said. “Sound carries far in hills like these. You want them to know how close we are?”

“I know what I'm doing,” Hervan muttered, hot-faced at the reprimand, which this time he knew was deserved. “You can stop treating me like a child and remember I'm in command here.”

“Ain't fit for command, no matter how many times you boast that you are. Not today.”

“That's for me to decide, not you.” Hervan turned to the impassive sergeant, waiting at his stirrup with one hand resting casually on his sword hilt and his gaze steadily on Thirbe. “Sergeant, pass the word. Let's move out.”

F
inished
with his council for the day, Emperor Caelan strode through his recently completed palace, passing bowing courtiers, messengers, idlers, and the curious. Wearing his sun-streaked hair loose on his shoulders and clad in a scarlet tunic edged with imperial purple, his tanned, muscular arms bare save for wide gold bracelets on each forearm, he towered head and shoulders above nearly everyone else. His eyes—once blue, but altered to a light silvery hue after his battle with Beloth—were keen and quick, missing little that went on around him.

In his wake came his lords of service, his chamberlain, his priest adviser, attendant scribes and pages, and his armed protector. Unlike Kostimon, the old emperor, who'd ambled along, taking time to acknowledge those who greeted and flattered him, and giving people in the palace sufficient time to prepare for his arrival, Caelan moved in a whirl of activity. He never strolled, never dawdled. When a meeting ended, he was the first out of his chair as though propelled on springs, whisking out the door before some of his councilors had finished bowing and murmuring their appreciation of his presence. There was no lolling in the shade on a hot autumn day, drinking chilled wine and nibbling on candied figs. Caelan was busy, always busy. He had endless ideas and wanted to set them in motion, and the most frequent complaint he uttered was that his days were too short.

“Give him time,” the older courtiers murmured sagely to each other. “A young, enthusiastic emperor will settle eventually and delegate duties to his officials and minions. The court will calm down into a more pleasant, enjoyable atmosphere. There will again be afternoon revels and banquets lasting all night. Give him time.”

But at the moment, as he strode along so quickly his portly chamberlain was having to trot to keep pace, puffing for breath and growing red in the face, Caelan knew he was behind schedule. The arguments waged today within his privy council had been unexpectedly fierce, making the meeting run far too long.

It was nearly dusk. Long indigo shadows were reaching deep into the palace through the tall windows, and gathering beneath the loggias. Link boys in palace livery were darting about, lighting the countless torches, lanterns, and lamps of scented oil. There was to be a banquet tonight in honor of the new Gialtan ambassador, just arrived at court. Elandra's home province was a firm ally, but Caelan did not want to jeopardize that relationship or take it for granted.

“Your Excellency,” his scribe was saying, “the appointments with Lord Merstirk, General Ulth, and the merchants of—”

“Send them all my apologies,” Caelan said, interrupting this list of unfinished tasks. If he ever paused to think about all that needed doing and all that never quite got accomplished, his head would ache. Elandra had taught him never to permit clerks and underlings to rule his schedule, and she was right.

Caelan tossed the scribe a smile. “Make new appointments.”

“New…yes, of course, Excellency,” the man said, then muttered under his breath, “How in Gault's name am I to fit them elsewhere?”

Ignoring the grumble, Caelan quickened his stride.

Ahead, the passageway turned, dropped down a flight of shallow stone stairs, and so brought Caelan to a pair of tall, elaborate gates wrought with the warding symbols of Choven protections. Imperial Guards stood in front of them, but already word of Caelan's approach had been sent ahead.

“The emperor! Make way for the emperor!”

These warning shouts from the pages caused an instant flurry. Flunkies bowed low. The Guards stepped aside smartly, saluting in unison. The gates to the women's pavilion swung open. Most of Caelan's entourage, permitted no farther, fell back. He swept in, appreciative of perfumed air cooled by enormous punkahs suspended from the ceilings, creaking lazily as small boys pulled their ropes. Carpets in an array of hues and patterns covered the floor. On all sides, maidservants and ladies-in-waiting stopped whatever they were doing to curtsy low to him.

He was conscious of entering a place of feminine allure and mystery. Every part of the pavilion had been fashioned to further that mystique. The walls were curved and flowing. Small passageways branched off on all sides, leading to the private quarters of the ladies of the court. Ahead of him, the enormous atrium formed a sort of common room open to the evening sky. It was furnished with numerous small tables inlaid with capiz shellwork and cushioned chaises. A vast circular pool of water rippled like molten silver beneath the pattering shower of a fountain. Fish in rainbow hues flashed and darted just beneath its surface, gathering in anticipation as the serving girls in loose silk trousers brought large bowls of food and scattered it across the water's surface. Some of the fish had been trained to leap up to take food from a steady hand.

Caelan cast the serving girls an appreciative glance before climbing the steps of polished alabaster that led to the empress's private apartments. Lamps had been lit beneath each step, so that the translucent stone glowed with golden light beneath his feet. Ahead stood more gates bearing Choven protections. And behind them rose a set of double, solid bronze doors sculpted with the Imperial Crest and Elandra's initials in bas-relief.

As these swung open, only Caelan and his protector walked through the portal into an enchantment of flickering lamplight, cool air, exotic perfume, and a mix of vivid colors in the hangings and silk cushions. The empress's sitting room epitomized comfort and luxury.

Rumasin, the Gialtan eunuch who ran Elandra's household, glided forward in greeting. He was old, although few wrinkles marred his skin. His complexion was the shade of undyed linen with a smattering of pale freckles across his nose and cheekbones. Wise green eyes looked respectfully into Caelan's, and he bowed low with his palms pressed together.

“May I take Your Excellency's boots?” he asked.

Caelan nodded, allowing the tranquility of his surroundings to wash over him and tame the hectic buzz of his day. Eager to discuss the meeting with his wife, he looked past the eunuch, but Elandra was not yet present.

Rumasin beckoned to a servant, who came forward with a stool for Caelan to be seated upon. Kneeling, Rumasin drew off Caelan's boots and handed them to the servant, who bowed and carried them away. They were already clean and polished, but Caelan knew that when they were brought back to him for his departure, they would shine even more. Another servant brought embroidered slippers lined with Mahiran cloth. The moment Rumasin slipped them on his feet, Caelan felt a tingling sensation of refreshment travel up his legs.

He sighed in contentment, accepting a cup of delicious fruit water brought to him on a tray of silver, and felt the last of his day's tension drain away. Smiling at Rumasin, he sipped more of the beverage, and asked, “The empress?”

“She has bidden me to greet Your Excellency and ask for your patience in waiting.”

“Ah,” Caelan said, draining his cup. “There must be some uproar in the nursery.”

Rumasin smiled and glided away.

When his son was born, Caelan had ordered the establishment of a separate household for Prince Jarel. The infant had begun life with his own apartments within the women's pavilion, possessing fifty servants and highborn attendants to revolve around his small needs.

At first, it had been customary for the baby to be brought to his doting parents each evening at dusk, to be admired and played with briefly before their evening banquets and entertainments. A few months ago, Jarel had begun walking. Now he was running, his clever little hands getting into everything. The calm, well-ordered nursery routine had been shattered, and chaos broke out frequently. Jarel was said to have his maternal grandfather's temper, his father's strength, and his mother's determination. Although this sitting room remained elegant and welcoming in every detail, it had been stripped of its most fragile and precious breakables, for little Jarel was as lively as a
jinja
and as destructive as a wind spirit.

An earsplitting squeal in the distance told Caelan that his son and heir was coming. From its cushion in a corner of the room, the empress's golden-hued
jinja
shot upright with a hiss, pointed ears quivering.

Caelan laughed and saluted the creature with his cup. “Hide, while you still can.”

Another squeal, much closer, came from the passageway, accompanied by the rapid thud of small feet. Hissing, the
jinja
whirled around and bolted out of sight just as the door burst open and a naked toddler ran in, shouting, “Fa! Fa!” at the top of his lungs.

Hastily, Caelan put down his cup and made a grab for his son, who was trying to climb up his legs. The child was dripping wet and as slippery as a river eel. Red-haired and blue-eyed, he had a chubby little freckled face full of guile and mischief. Beaming from ear to ear, he yelled in delight as his father lifted him high in the air, and flung himself bodily at Caelan's neck.

“Fa!” he yelled, grabbing fistfuls of Caelan's hair and yanking hard.

Still laughing, Caelan hugged him close. “That's my big boy.”

“Oy!” Jarel shouted, pounding his father with chubby fists. “Me Fa's oy!”

Caelan blew a loud raspberry on his son's bare stomach, and the boy screamed and kicked with laughter.

“Welcome, my lord and husband,” Elandra's voice said.

Looking up, Caelan smiled at his lady wife. Her Imperial Majesty Empress Elandra, Queen of Itieria and Star of Gialta, wore a gown soaked from waist to hem. Her hair was half-pulled from its pins, with a lock straggling loose to her shoulder. Still, her beautiful face was serene, and only the maid standing behind her with a towel in one hand and a child-sized set of sleeping robes in the other showed fluster.

Curtsying, Elandra walked up to Caelan and lightly caressed the back of his head.

Quickly he caught her hand and kissed her palm. As always, the sight of her stirred him. He'd loved her from his first glimpse of her as a tense, beleaguered bride of the old emperor. Each day, Caelan counted her presence in his life as his greatest joy and blessing. Without her, he could not have ruled this empire, for he was not trained to the position as she'd been by her first husband. Without her, he would not have survived the aftermath of his fight with Beloth or the chaotic early days of his reign. He owed her his life and his heart. And she had given him this madcap, squirming son who was now kicking wildly in an effort to get down.

“Leggo, Fa!” Jarel shouted.

When Caelan released him, Jarel darted over to his mother, hurling himself into the soft billowing fullness of her skirts, then darting away with a laugh before she could catch hold of him.

The maid, still flapping her towel, set off in pursuit, saying ineffectually, “Now, that's enough, Your Highness. That's enough, sir.”

Caelan and Elandra exchanged happy smiles. He rose to his feet and kissed her thoroughly. “You look beautiful.”

“I'm sure I look a fright,” she said calmly, tucking back her errant lock of hair. “How did the council go? Have they approved plans for healing arts to be added to our university as a course of study?”

Caelan's smile faded. “It wasn't discussed. There's been an attack on the northern border. The Fifteenth and Sixteenth Legions are marching out to support the troops already stationed there.”

Her hands stopped tidying her hair, and she grew quite expressionless. “Then it's definitely war.”

“No, not definitely. A few skirmishes, maybe nothing more.”

“They're testing you.”

He nodded calmly. “Of course.”

“What else happened in council?”

“More provincial protests about high taxes.”

She shrugged, a warlord's daughter, unafraid of anything. “I told you that's what Oucred of Ulinia would say.”

“Aye, a dozen times at least. It's what they
all
kept saying. And it seemed to be all they would say.” He sighed. “I'm told that Ulinia is certain to rebel if I tax them more. They're in a drought—”

“Ulinia is always in drought,” she said. “Or they suffer from famine, or a pestilence has just swept the villages. If that warlord can find an excuse to get out of paying you, he will. His father, I've been told, was worse. A thorough scoundrel.”

Caelan raked back his long hair with his fingers and sat down. “So do I placate the Madruns or the Ulinians? I don't want war from either at the moment. There's too much else that needs doing. But if it comes down to one versus the other—”

“It won't,” she said. “Not unless you let Oucred and Bavriol negotiate the empire's interests foolishly into that kind of corner. There's always another way, my darling. Remember that when they pressure you with their silly ultimatums.”

He grunted, far from convinced. She hadn't sat through the arguments today, or heard the bad reports streaming in from the Madrun line. He wasn't sure he wanted to tell her yet about the mutiny in one of the legions. It had been suppressed already, brutally, the rebels executed swiftly without trial. The one thing Caelan absolutely could not allow to escape his control was the army. Without it, he could not hold this empire.