Slaves worked day and night to get the palace and the Great Temple in some kind of order. The latter had not been seriously damaged: the Great Chamber had been knocked about a bit, several slaves and three priestesses were dead. One foreign assassin had been found alive if terrified out of his wits drooling profanities, but had been swiftly torn to pieces by a screaming mob. Every candle in the place had gone out, even the red lamp on the High Altar. It would need some kind of formal ceremony of rededication and thanks; Orhan had Celyse planning it already. Glory to the Empire, the Emperor, and the Emmereths. Lots of gold splashed around the city on new clothing and jewellery and food. Fountains running with wine and honey; bread for the masses; whores dancing in the streets offering kisses for free; certain substances suddenly available surprisingly cheaply to those interested in such filthy things. He’d have to temporarily rescind the edict against travellers from Chathe to achieve the last, but it was probably worth the risk. Everybody had to be happy and glad to see the new regime, even the street scum.
Orhan was beginning to suspect that Tam had been right, too: keeping the Emperor alive and bowed down with gratitude was a far more effective way of seizing power than killing him would have been. That the Emperor must, deep down, be aware Orhan had come fairly close to assassinating him whilst at the same time saving him from being brutally killed by the very assassins he’d hired was, quite possibly, an accidental masterstroke. Holt Amdelle seemed genuinely to believe Orhan’s version of events, but pretty much everyone else who mattered was quite obviously vaguely aware how things had fallen, but were just under the impression he had somehow controlled it all from first to last. Perhaps he had: been playing a game so complex even he hadn’t understood the moves he was making, the twists of the pieces as his failure led to victory.
In which case, he was possibly the most brilliant strategic genius Irlast had ever known. Which seemed a truly horrifying thing to think. You got lucky, Orhan, he told himself sternly. You’re only able to think that because you got so lucky that you’re not now dead.
The day of the ceremony dawned very hot. The priestesses had been gathered in the Temple all night, keeping vigil, praying in the dark of the Great Chamber. As dawn broke, the candles were relit on the altars and the red lamp blazed a brilliant crimson, bright as rubies and fresh blood. The Great Hymn resounded around the huge room, the candles flared up one after another in a long sigh like a wave. At the moment the red lamp was lit, the sun caught the small high windows in the east and turned them pure and perfect gold. The priestesses threw up their arms, their grey robes shining, their masks glittering with the dark eyes behind; before the High Altar, the tiny figure of a child knelt, clothed in silver, the lamp casting a red tinge to her hair and eyes. She had beautiful hands, slender and long and very white.
The common people of the city had been permitted into the Temple to see this great moment: Orhan had been clear on this, and the old priestess Ninia had agreed with him. They needed to witness the light returning, the Temple and the city made whole and healed, the power of the God and the Empire blazing up. Literally. Arguably a bit over-symbolic, but Orhan rather liked the theatrics. Some things weren’t meant to be subtle.
He watched from the back of the room, filled again with an astonished sense of wonder at what he had achieved. Darath hadn’t wanted him to go: there was a part of him that had agreed, drawn back, shuddered at it. A buried fear that the candles would refuse to light, that the child at the altar would rise up and scream out in the voice of the God that he was damned. In the dark before the dawn came the jewelled masks had been dimly visible, nodding and floating like birds, and he had felt horror seeing them. A rational man, but a guilty one. But he was glad, now, that he had come. The joy of it, the candles and the singing, the gasp of wonder and beauty as the darkness burst into life. He felt cleaner, perhaps more at peace with what he’d done. Glory to the Empire. Glory to the city. Glory to the God.
The great ceremony itself took place in the afternoon. The entire city seemed to smell of cooking and perfume. The great families bustled about in fine clothes and glittering jewels, drawing up before the Temple in litters radiant with light. Orhan and Bil travelled together in a new litter of cool green silk. Bil was dressed in silver, her lovely hair falling loose about her waist, caught back from her face with a net of tiny diamonds. Her face and body had a plumpness to them, the swell of the baby was beginning to show. A new fashion for long sleeves and concealing gauzes, Orhan thought. Or artificial scars moulded in wax and clay. Though she’d perhaps care less now anyway, now that she had power and glory and a coming child.
Bil fidgeted with her rings. ‘I read your letter,’ she said.
‘I meant to burn it.’
‘I did.’
A silence. The litter jolted to a halt. They mounted the steps, stopped for a moment before the great closed door. The wood stared at them, an ancient thing, alive, the knots eyes, the grain rippling fur. The great gashes stood out starkly. As in the morning, Orhan felt fear settle on him, waiting for the doorway to seal itself before him with a crash. Bil stepped forward, pushed the door. It opened.
The dark of the narrow corridor seemed less terrible, this time. Less crushing. Bil gripped his hand but did not seem to feel the same fear either, walking behind him with her head raised. The Great Chamber beyond blazed like a furnace: again, less frightening, less terrible. It was already crowded with the nobles and the wealthiest of the merchants, the priestesses, the Imperial officials, the few foreign somebodies who still happened to be around. Orhan and Bil took their places at the very front of the chamber, staring up at the High Altar and the tiny figure enthroned beside it. She wore gold and silver, hastily fashioned to fit her child’s frame.
Finally, trumpets, a voice shouting, ‘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 assembled congregation knelt carefully. All but the child in gold who sat stiffly on her throne, her face all eyes, fidgeting with the hem of her dress. The Emperor entered slowly, cautiously walking the length of the chamber, flanked by two guards in black armour with drawn swords. That, the Emperor himself had insisted upon, though Orhan hated it and Celyse thought it vulgar in the extreme.
The Emperor seated himself carefully on a gilt chair next to and a little in front of Orhan’s own. The new High Priestess stared at him. She was obviously scared out of her wits. No trouble there, either. She’d do as she was bid. She came back from the killing trembling, clutching the arm of the old priestess Ninia who had had to help and accompany her. Too weak to wield a knife. Such beautiful little white hands. Orhan felt sick at it. But it was the only way.
I shouldn’t have come, he thought. I shouldn’t have seen this. Her.
There was a great banquet after, in the vast, hastily redecorated festival chamber of the palace. Celyse had placed Orhan and Darath next to each other, Bil away on the other side of the Emperor’s dais so she could not see them, but in a grand place with various Verneth and Amdelle women somehow quite obviously beneath her. Darath reached out from his couch and touched Orhan’s arm.