The next weeks were … interesting. Orhan was effectively the ruler of the Sekemleth Empire. It was almost enjoyable.
When he awoke the morning after the morning after he’d failed to assassinate the Emperor, the light was bright and he must have been asleep for a long time. He felt groggy and headachy, but slightly less weary. And he seemed to still be alive, and not under arrest, so things were likely to have remained somewhat under his control. Or his sister’s, rather. He’d commandeered a room in the palace (one of the surviving servants, with grim inevitability, had tried to put him in Tam’s old room). The air was fresh under the smoke stink, the walls were soothing cool pale peaceful green.
Hope!
He bathed and dressed, his mind busy with all the tasks he had still to do. The High Priestess. That was the next big thing. Find a way of ensuring she was confirmed dead. Which meant he’d have to produce a body. Then there was Tam’s family, that he somehow had to save from the fire. Others would have to die in their place, of course. Couldn’t tip his scales too far towards the good. Too late to try for redemption. Just expediency, and saving the life of a crippled girl and a woman he’d known since he was born.
It suddenly occurred to him that he was being dressed in his own clothes. Some of his best, too, a fine shirt of blue silk, dark grey leggings, a belt with an ornate gold buckle, a richly embroidered green jacket, a silver cloak. Celyse. She must have had them sent for while he slept. God’s knives, she was efficient. Thought of all the details.
The door opened and Darath walked in, smiling broadly at him. Orhan’s heart jolted.
‘They said you were awake. Looking rather better than the last time I saw you, too.’ Darath put his arms around Orhan’s neck and kissed him, then began tugging at the fastenings on his clothes. ‘I very much like your new titles. Perhaps you can recite them to me.’
‘What’s been happening?’ Orhan asked him firmly. Focus. Things to sort out. People to kill. ‘Has March come round yet? Is there still fighting anywhere? How’s the city holding generally?’
‘Do we really have to talk business right now?’ Darath sat down on the bed. Pulled Orhan over next to him.
‘Yes. We do. If we want to live, anyway.’
‘Yes, yes, I suppose … We’re fine. The city is fairly calm. March is in a rage because Elis has somehow managed to contract himself to two different women in three hours, only one of whom has the misfortune to be a Verneth, but he’s pulled his men back. He can see which way things are going. Some more buildings burnt down last night, but the fires are out now. Money-lenders, mostly, you may be interested to hear. You didn’t set all this in motion just to burn your banking house down to the ground, did you?’
‘Tempting, but no. I’m not that devious. Also I’d have borrowed more first, if I had. Anything else? How’s the Emperor? And stop that …’
‘You really are boring this morning. I seem to remember we were doing this the other way round a few days ago, you couldn’t keep your hands off me … The Emperor’s still weak at the knees and white-faced with terror. Still clinging to you as the greatest hero the Empire has ever seen. Seems rather taken with your sister, too. Furious with March for any suggestion of suspicious conduct he may harbour against you. Or me. Relax, Orhan. Things are going well. We’re safe. Ish. Can I please take your clothes off you now? We can get straight back to business afterwards.’
A servant brought a light meal later, bread and sweet-cured meat and soft cheese. Lemon-scented water, ice cold; flowery tea; sweet, dark wine. Cimma fruit, crusted with honey and spices, its rancid smell drifting over the room like the smoke. The tea bowls were a porcelain so thin and pale that their hands showed through it. Orhan stretched back in his chair, looking down at the palace gardens beneath them, the sun sparkling on the bathing pool, lilac flowers nodding in the breeze. The city rose behind them, the towers and domes of the great houses jumbled elegantly, the House of Silver flashing in the light.
‘This is all rather glorious, isn’t it?’
‘You’re richer than the Emperor, Darath. Your house is better furnished. You drink better wine and eat better food.’
‘’Tis true.’ Darath chewed a piece of fruit lazily. ‘But it’s more fun doing it here. The view’s better, too. Some thoughtless bastard put a palace in the way of my balcony.’
A tap at the door. A functionary in the Imperial uniform of dark grey and gold appeared. A nervous look on his face. One of the few survivors, who now leapt out of his skin whenever someone entered the same room as him.
‘His Eminence wishes you see you, My Lord Nithque,’ he said meekly. What does he think is going to happen? Orhan wondered. We’ll cut him down where he stands? Having a new reputation as an Imperial hero seemed to be something of a mixed blessing when he was dealing with palace servants. Unless the man had just assumed he and Darath were still right in the middle of things.
‘Work.’ Darath helped himself to another piece of cimma fruit, the juice running down his chin in sticky rivulets. ‘The one great disadvantage of power. I’ll see you later. Dinner? Here?’
Orhan followed the functionary down the Imperial Chambers. A palace to redecorate. A Treasury to manage. Trade and defence to reorganize. Alliances to reconsider. An Empire to rebuild. Oh, yes, work. Darath was the perfect co-conspirator, leaving it all to him to manage.