They were interrupted by the crash of metal on the doors of the room. A rich strained voice calling them to worship: ‘The Emperor! All kneel for the Ever Living Emperor! Avert your eyes and kneel and be thankful! We live and we die! The Emperor comes! The Emperor comes!’ The High Lords of the Sekemleth Empire got carefully to their feet and assumed kneeling positions on the floor around the table. Small but aching differentiations of rank in the postures they adopted: Lord Emmereth and Lord Verneth knelt upright, heads bowed but bodies erect. The Lords Vorley were crouched lower, Lord Aviced so low his grey hair almost brushed the floor. The minute graduations of status in the high families, mapped out in a man’s closeness to the dirt on the Emperor’s marble floors.
The Emperor entered slowly, a youngish man with a heavy face and a heavy stomach, dressed in black that drained the colour from his skin. He was not a handsome man, and knew it. He was not a clever man, and knew that too. The thin band of yellow silk round his forehead dominated him but improved his looks. ‘The Emperor! The Emperor comes! Kneel and be thankful! The Emperor comes!’ Nodded to his lords and gestured absently for them to rise. They did so slowly, elegantly, a subtlety in their manner, as if they simply happened to be rising at that moment, not because their Emperor had commanded it. Whether the Emperor noticed this or not was uncertain. Probably not. So the great lords of the Sekemleth Empire had risen for centuries, before the fishmonger or stable hand or innkeep’s boy whom the High Priestess in her wisdom had recognized as the next incarnation of the Asekemlene Emperor, the Ever Living, the Eternal, the Husband of the City, he who had watched Sorlost grow from a desert village to an all-powerful empire to a gold-sodden husk.
A servant poured goblets of honeyed wine. ‘You are all well, My Lords?’ the Emperor asked absently, playing with his cup. Eyes flickered, looking at his cup moving, his hands, anywhere but his face. Eyes down and averted. The Golden Emperor, the Sun As It Rises, the World’s Dawn, the King of Golden Life. A youngish man, not handsome, not clever. One should not fear such a man. The High Lords of the Sekemleth Empire, who had once been richer and more powerful than gods: they should not fear such a man. A fish merchant’s son! But their hands shook, beneath the careful perfect nonchalance of their poise.
The Secretary coughed, flinched at the tension, shuffled silver paper, coughed again, began. A domestic issue: the guard house at the Maskers’ Gate to the east of the city was crumbling, should an extra tax levy be imposed on the few merchant caravans still daring the old road to Reneneth in order to fund repairs? Orhan agreed without interest that they should, as did most of the other lords. A petty concern, almost below their notice, except that as Lord of the Rising Sun and thus somehow intimately connected with the eastern edge of the city he might otherwise be called upon to pay for the repairs himself. He spoke shortly to nod the plan through, his mind mostly occupied by the striking new serving boy fussing with the wine jug.
‘Prince Heldan has reached marriageable age,’ the Secretary said. Orhan blinked and realized they’d moved on to foreign affairs. Rather more interesting, although usually equally depressing. The Emperor’s attention wandering, also eyeing the servant and the wine jug. The High Lords of the Empire relaxed a little, now they were onto less important things.
‘I know,’ said March Verneth. ‘My mother’s been talking about it for months. He can have one of my girls. Both, if he promises to be nice to them.’
Laughter at that. The Secretary flushed. ‘What I mean, My Lords, is that King Rothlen seems to be looking for a marital alliance with Ith or Immish.’
Holt Amdelle shuddered. ‘Ith? I wouldn’t marry a Calboride if you paid me twice her weight in diamonds.’
‘Ith would be preferable, however,’ said Darath. ‘If he won’t take one of your girls, of course, March.’
‘I agree,’ said Orhan thoughtfully. ‘Chathe and Immish in close alliance would be catastrophic, as things stand. We’d be hemmed in badly.’ The other men half rolled their eyes. Harping on about Immish again, Lord Emmereth? Can’t you find anything more interesting to think about? They’ve only raised twenty thousand men in two years, tripled our trade levies and crushed the Telean uprising so savagely even we felt upset about it for a few weeks. Anyone would think you suspected them of something untoward … ‘Though a half-Calboride heir to Chathe probably isn’t ideal, either …’
‘Oh, come on,’ Elis Vorley snorted. ‘The Calborides haven’t been different from any other great family for centuries now. Whatever his ancestors might have been or done, Selerie has always seemed perfectly reasonable; in fact, his brother was quite charming when he was here.’
‘Blood’s blood,’ said Holt darkly.
Elis laughed. ‘I’d rather be descended from a false god than a well-documented money-lender.’
‘There’s also been news from the east,’ said the Secretary loudly. ‘The Altrersyr Prince is dead.’
‘Took him long enough,’ Tam Rhyl murmured. ‘I’m amazed he lasted this long.’
‘The younger boy’s already been named as heir. King Illyn is reported to be rather pleased, as you can well imagine.’
‘For the best, I suppose,’ said Darath. ‘Though it would have been interesting to see how things turned out, if he’d survived long enough to rule.’ He stroked his chin thoughtfully. ‘The younger boy was here a few years ago, seemed to like it … We should make overtures.’
‘Overtures?’ said Tam Rhyl darkly. ‘An assassin would be more like it.’
Ah, yes. Of course. That. Not really the kind of thing someone forgot or forgave. Pathetic stupidity, the whole thing. But still … The High Council looked sympathetically at Tam, trying not to snigger. Orhan gave the man what he hoped was a soothing smile.
‘I can appreciate your feelings, Tam. But even you must agree it’s a better outcome politically.’
‘We’ll need to send some kind of formal missive of, uh, condolence and congratulation,’ said Cammor. ‘Carefully crafted, of course. Sensitive subject, children.’
The Secretary gave him a crisp smile. ‘It’s already been written and dispatched, My Lord.’
‘His mother was a Calboride, wasn’t she?’ said Lord Amdelle, still stuck in his previous musings. ‘Calboride and Altrersyr blood … bad combination, that, if ever there was one.’
God’s knives, the man was obsessed with genealogies. Terrible overcompensation: anyone would think he was ashamed of his own. As if blood meant anything. Your great-great grandfather did something nasty and suddenly you had bad blood. Nobody ever spoke about the peasantry like that. They were just people, good or bad, fat or thin, mad or sane. But one of the curious things about being high-born was the way you were entirely defined by your ancestors. Thus interesting to see how the next Lord or Lady Emmereth turned out.
‘And there’s been another outbreak of deeping fever in the southern Chathe,’ the Secretary went on hurriedly. ‘Reports are confused, of course, but at least three villages seem to have been affected. No known survivors, although one can’t be certain.’
‘Put extra soldiers on the gates, question anyone travelling from the north. Have them dispatch anyone travelling from the north who seems sick,’ said Tam quickly. Orhan nodded agreement. He’d read several accounts of deeping fever.