Asher left, leaving the door open behind him. The corridor was dark for a moment, then Wat appeared, eyes grim. “There’s an issue that needs your attention,” he said.
Arko shook his head and fingered the slip of parchment in his pocket, but did not yet draw it forth. “Right now we have more urgent concerns.” He told Wat about Asher’s story of the messenger burning his messages. “This is untenable,” Arko said, “a grave disrespect to my position.” He ground his teeth. “I look to you for advice on how the empire deals with such matters.”
Suten’s old adviser bowed his head. “Forgive me, but I am at a loss for the moment. Suten Anu never had this problem. His line ruled for two centuries. No one would have dared.”
“Lucky him. You suppose one of those wellborn bootlickers is behind this? Playing with me?”
Wat grimaced. “That’s what I’ve come to tell you. A few of the richest and oldest families who have been loyal to the empire and the Ray for centuries have refused their titles.”
Arko tightened his hold on the parchment.
“This act is unprecedented,” Wat continued. “The highborn of Solus are refusing to accept title and position under your reign. My ears in the White-Wall district say the viziers and nomarchs are still chafing from the … lack of respect you showed in the Cenotaph.”
“Then let them lie with the rabble.”
“That’s not how it works,” Wat said.
“Mithra Himself lit my way, I carry the stone that sat on Suten’s head. Do they dispute this? They dare to refuse the emperor’s wishes?”
“Not quite. It is the Ray who grants their titles. Suten’s great-grandfather was the first to arrange the naming ceremony. He did it to bolster the Ray’s position, and it was a good move for his family—they were the most powerful in Solus at the time—but times have changed, and so have their fortunes. Suten’s line has ended, his family’s gold squandered. They owe no allegiance to Suten anymore, and these families are formidable in their own right. Mered Saad, the brother of the former Protector, is the wealthiest among them and he has declined his title. Others have done the same.”
“So they refuse title and will not bow to my position because I failed to honor them at a banquet?”
The old adviser nodded. “It is one reason. Still, I doubt these nomarchs and viziers are the cause of your troubles. They lack faith, but I don’t believe they are bold enough to attack you outright.”
“It’s the Protector then.”
“I’m guessing this business was orchestrated by Amen Saad.”
Arko rubbed his forehead, rubbed at the yellow jewel that sat uncomfortably just above his eyebrows. This damn thing. Everyone in the empire had a reason to oppose him, for power, for position. For revenge. It was like walking into a snake pit, this business of being the Ray.
Arko needed to take control.
“Tolemy has spoken,” Arko said as he drew forth the proclamation and handed it to Wat.
The old man pored over the transcript. “‘From this day onward,’” he read aloud, “‘Tolemy V, lord of Sola and Emperor of the Five Kingdoms, halts the collection and sequestering of the noble sons of the lower kingdoms. He declares the tributes of grain and meat to be cut by one-half, allowing all of the kingdoms to share in the burden of the drought…’” Wat lowered the parchment. “This is unprecedented,” he said, pausing, seemingly unable to speak.
The empire will no longer collect ransoms. Arko had wanted to release all of the ransoms, but he had not yet thought of a way to do so. Each of the noble-born children in the Priory was there because Tolemy commanded him to be there and the emperor never reversed one of his commands. Arko knew enough about imperial politics to understand this. Gods did not err. An emperor might alter an existing policy, he might stop the collection of tributes, but he would never release the boys he had already imprisoned, not without a compelling reason. Arko was confident that he would soon have such a reason, but he could do nothing more until he found it.
For the time being, it was enough that he had halted the taking of ransoms. This practice, which had so tormented the noble families of the lower kingdoms, was ended. With this simple proclamation he put an end to the fear Tolemy had instilled in the heart of every regent, king, and lord. He put an end to the dread that haunted him still, the terror of not being able to protect his family, his son and his daughters, the horror of not being able to protect himself. As a king, even as Ray, that fear haunted him still. He sometimes felt it at night when he awoke, alone in his chamber in the impenetrable dark, thinking, I’m dead. The emperor’s killed me. I’ve died, and everything else is a dream. But then the truth always closed around him once more, like a suit of armor that fit too tightly. There was no emperor. It was all a lie, all madness. Madness seems to be our only occupation in Sola, Suten had told him before he died. Sanity, on the other hand, is a tremendous weight. Arko looked once more at the proclamation, pondering Suten’s words.
“Take these directives and have them formally transcribed. I will tell you when to post them,” Arko said. “And as for these other matters, Tolemy has no interest in the politics of Solus and neither do I. Let Saad play at his petty games. Let the nobles refuse their titles. We have more pressing matters to address.” He glanced at the slip of parchment and knew that it would change the empire forever.
Wat gave him a slight nod, his face uneasy, his fingers jittering. “I’ll do as you say.”
He took a step backward toward the door. “Is there anything else?”
“Wat.” Arko affected his most kingly voice. “I don’t care if the city is on holiday. Send for a messenger. Tell Saad that Tolemy calls and the Protector must answer. It is time that boy learned some respect.” Arko faced the courtyard. “And one last thing. Damn your traditions. Find me a sword. Something heavy and long. It rattles my nerves not having a blade at my side.”
42
Kepi dreamed of a storm, frightful cracks shattering around her all through the night, but when she woke to blue above the trees and heard the tearing of wood, she realized it was only workmen splitting blackthorn timbers outside her window, the rap-rap-rap of the spike going into the wood, the long ripping sound of the ancient timber peeling apart. Then the rap-rap-rap would come again, and the whole process would start over. A busy place, Rifka. My home, she thought briefly, and then just as quickly banished the word from her mind. The Ferens were not her people, and Rifka would never be her home.
She sat up slowly and looked around. She was alone, as she had been for the past week. Dagrun had left no guards outside or in her room. She could march right out the door, out of the caer, and into the Gray Wood without anyone trying to stop her.
She stood, crossed the room, and as she did each day, she put her hand on the ring pull and gave it a tug. It opened with a soft whine. Unlocked. She could open the door and leave.
Take her sword, take a horse, and go.