The Hand of Chaos

20

“They cannot do this,” Agah’ran stated with a shrug. He was feeding a slice of orange to a pet hargast[42] bird and did not look up as he spoke. “They simply cannot do this.”

“Ah, but they can, O Exalted One,” replied Count Tretar, head of the Tretar clan,[43] and currently His Imperial Majesty’s most trusted and valued adviser.

“What is more to the point, they have.”

“Closed the Cathedral of the Albedo? Accepting no more souls? I refuse to permit it. Send them word, Tretar, that they have incurred our extreme displeasure and that the cathedral is to be reopened at once.”

“That is precisely what Your Imperial Majesty must not do.”

“Not do? Explain yourself, Tretar.” Agah’ran lifted painted eyelids slowly, languidly, as if the effort were almost beyond his strength. At the same time, he waggled his hands in helpless fashion. His fingers had juice on them, and the stickiness displeased him.

Tretar motioned for the valet de chambre, who summoned a slave, who ran with alacrity to bring the emperor a warm, moist towel. Agah’ran laid his fingers limply on the cloth. The slave reverently cleansed them.

“The Kenkari have never proclaimed allegiance to the empire. Historically, My Liege, they have always been independent, serving all clans, owing loyalty to none.”

“They approved of the forming of the empire.” It was nearing his nap time and Agah’ran was inclined to be petulant.

“Because they were pleased to see the union of the six clans. And therefore they have served Your Imperial Majesty and have supported Your Majesty’s war against your rebel son, Rees’ahn. They even cast him out, as Your Imperial Majesty commanded, ordered his weesham to leave him, essentially damning his soul to live outside the Blessed Realm.”

“Yes, yes, we know all this, Tretar. Come to the point. I grow fatigued. And Solaris is very hot. If I am not careful, I shall begin to sweat.”

“If Your Radiance will bear with me a moment longer.” Agah’ran’s hand twitched, an action that, in another man, might have been the clenching of a fist. “We need those souls, Tretar. You were present. You heard the report. Our ungrateful son Rees’ahn—may the ancestors devour him—has been conducting secret negotiations with that barbaric fiend, Stephen of Volkaran. If they ally... Ah, see what this upset has done to us. We are trembling. We feel weak. We must retire.”

Tretar snapped his fingers. The valet clapped his hands. Slaves brought forth a sedan chair that had been standing nearby. Other slaves lifted His Imperial Majesty gently in their arms, carried him bodily from the cushions on which he’d been seated to the sedan chair, where His Majesty was settled, with much fuss and bother, among the cushions. The slaves hoisted the chair onto their shoulders.

“Gently, gently,” ordered the valet. “Don’t lift too fast. The motion makes His Majesty giddy.”

Slowly, solemnly, the sedan chair started off. The Royal Weesham rose and followed after. Count Tretar came after the weesham. The valet de chambre, watching anxiously, hovered about the sedan chair in case His Majesty felt faint. The procession, led by the sedan chair, moved from the garden to the emperor’s sitting room—a fatiguing journey of about ten paces. Agah’ran—an extraordinarily handsome elf (beneath the paint) in his early two hundreds—was not, as some first supposed on meeting him, crippled. Nothing in the slightest was wrong with His Imperial Majesty’s limbs. Agah’ran (in mid-life, by elven standards) was quite capable of walking and did so, when required. The unusual effort fatigued him for cycles afterward, however. Once inside the sumptuously furnished sitting room, Agah’ran made a languid motion with his fingers. “His Majesty wishes to stop,” Tretar instructed. The valet echoed the count’s orders. The slaves complied. The chair was lowered, slowly, so as not to make His Imperial Majesty nauseous, to the floor. The emperor was lifted out of it and placed in a chair, facing out on the garden.

“Turn us a bit to the left. We find the view far less fatiguing from this angle. Pour us some chocolate. Will you partake, Tretar?”

“I am honored that Your Imperial Majesty thinks of me.” Count Tretar bowed. He detested chocolate, but would never dream of offending the emperor by refusing.

One of the slaves reached for the samovar. The weesham, looking uneasy (as well he might, considering the discussion was dealing with his true masters, the Kenkari), saw a way to escape and intervened. “I fear the chocolate has grown tepid, O Exalted One. It would give me great pleasure to bring Your imperial Majesty more. I know precisely the temperature Your Imperial Majesty likes it.”

Agah’ran glanced at Tretar. The count nodded. “Very well, Weesham,” the emperor said languidly. “You are dismissed from our royal presence. Six degrees above room temperature and not a degree higher.”

“Yes, My Liege.” The geir, hands plucking nervously at his black robes, bowed himself out. Tretar waved his hand. The valet de chambre hustled the slaves out of the room. The valet himself faded into the background.

“A spy, do you think?” Agah’ran asked, referring to the departed weesham. “The Kenkari found out through him?”

“No, My Liege. The Kenkari would never dream of anything so crude. They may be very powerful in magic, but they are a simple people, politically naive. The geir is sworn to one duty and that is the safekeeping of Your Imperial Majesty’s soul. That is a holy duty, and one with which the Kenkari would not interfere.”

Tretar leaned forward, lowered his voice to a whisper. “From what I have been able to learn, My Liege, it was the ineptness of the Unseen that precipitated this crisis.”

A corner of the painted eyelid twitched. “The Unseen do not make mistakes, Tretar,” said Agah’ran.

“They are men, O Radiant One. They are fallible, as all men are fallible, with the exception of Your Imperial Majesty. And I have heard it said”—Tretar moved still closer—“that the Unseen have taken steps to discipline the elves involved. They are no more. And neither is the geir who carried news of the princess’s murder to the Kenkari.”

Agah’ran appeared considerably relieved. “The matter is settled, then, and nothing like this will occur again. You will see to that, Tretar. Express our wishes to the Unseen forcibly.”

“Of course, My Liege,” said Tretar, who had absolutely no intention of doing any such thing. Let those cold-blooded demons mind their own affairs! He wanted no part of them.

“That does not help us with our current problem, however, Tretar,” pursued Agah’ran mildly. “The eggs have been broken, so to speak. We see no way of putting the yolks back into their shells.”

“No, O Radiant One,” Tretar agreed, glad to return to a subject less dangerous and of far more importance. “And, therefore, I propose to His Imperial Majesty that he make an omelet.”

“Quite clever, Tretar.” The emperor’s painted lips creased slightly. “Do we partake of this omelet ourselves or feed it to the Kenkari?”

“Neither, Majesty. We feed it to our enemy.”

“A poisoned omelet, then.”

Tretar bowed in homage. “Your Majesty is, I see, far ahead of me.”

“You are referring to that human child... What’s his name? The one who was brought to the Imperanon yesterday.”

“Bane, Your Majesty.”

“Yes. Charming child, or so we hear. Passable looks, for a human, we are told. What are we to make of him, Tretar? Is this wild tale of his to be believed?”

“I have done some investigating, Your Imperial Majesty. If you would be interested to hear what I have discovered?”

“Amused, at least,” said the emperor, with a languid lift of a plucked eyebrow.

“Your Majesty has, among his slaves, a human who once served in the royal household of King Stephen. A minor footman, he was pressed into service in the Volkaran army. I took the liberty of bringing this man and the child, Bane, together. The footman recognized the child immediately. In fact, the wretched man nearly passed out, thinking he’d seen a ghost.”

“Appallingly superstitious—humans,” Agah’ran commented.

“Yes, My Liege. Not only did this man recognize the boy, the boy knew the footman. He spoke to him by name—”

“By name? A footman? Bah! This Bane cannot have been a prince!”

“Humans tend to be democratic-minded, Sire. I am told that King Stephen admits any human, even those of the lowest, most common rank, into his presence, if they have a suit or a grievance.”

“Gad! How dreadful! I feel quite faint,” said Agah’ran. “Hand me those smelling salts, Tretar.”

The count lifted a small bottle, decorated with silver, and motioned to the valet de chambre, who motioned to a slave, who took the bottle and held it at the proper distance beneath the imperial nose. Several sniffs of the aromatic salts restored Agah’ran to clear-minded attentiveness, alleviated the shock of hearing about the barbaric practices of humans.

“If you are feeling quite well, My Liege, I will continue.”

“Where is all this leading, Tretar? What has the child to do with the Kenkari? You cannot fool us, Count. We are sharp. We see a connection developing here.” The count bowed in homage. “Your Imperial Majesty’s brain is a veritable dragon-trap. If I might presume upon Your Radiance’s patience, I beg Your Majesty to permit me to introduce the child into the Royal Presence. I believe Your Imperial Majesty will find the story the boy has to tell quite interesting.”

“A human? Into our presence? Suppose... suppose”—Agah’ran appeared distraught, fluttered his hand—“suppose we catch something?”

“The boy has been quite thoroughly scrubbed, Your Majesty,” said the count with becoming gravity.

Agah’ran motioned to the valet, who motioned to the slave, who handed the emperor a scented pomander. Holding it up in front of his nose, Agah’ran indicated with a slight nod that Tretar was to proceed. The count snapped his fingers. Two of the royal guard marched in, conveying the child between them.

“Stop! Stop there!” Agah’ran commanded, though the boy had not taken four steps into the large room.

“Guards, leave us,” Tretar ordered. “Your Imperial Majesty, I present His Highness, Bane, Prince of Volkaran.”

“And Ulyndia and the High Realms,” added the child. “Now that my real father’s dead.”

He stepped forward with an imperious air, bowed gracefully from the waist. The prince indicated respect for the emperor, but made it clear he was offering it to an equal, as an equal.

Agah’ran, accustomed to seeing his own people prostrate themselves flat on the floor before their emperor, was considerably taken aback by such arrogance and bravado. It would have cost an elf his soul. Tretar held his breath, thinking perhaps he’d made a serious mistake.

Bane raised his head, straightened his small body, and smiled. He had been bathed and dressed in whatever finery Tretar could find to fit him (human children being considerably rounder than elven children). The golden curls had been combed into ringlets that glistened in the light. Bane’s skin was like fine porcelain, his eyes were bluer than the lapis on the box held by the emperor’s geir. Agah’ran was impressed with the child’s beauty, or so Tretar judged, noting the emperor lift his eyebrow and slightly lower the scented pomander.

“Come nearer, boy—”

Tretar coughed delicately.

Agah’ran took the hint. “Come nearer, Your Highness, that we may look at you.” The count breathed again. The emperor was charmed. Not literally, of course. Agah’ran wore strong talismans that protected him against magic. Tretar, in his first interview with Bane, had been amused to see the human boy attempt to work some type of crude magic upon himself, some sort of enchantment spell. The magic had no effect, but its use was one of the first indications Tretar had that the boy might be telling at least part—if not all—the truth.

“Not too close,” said Agah’ran. Not all the perfume in Aristagon could mask the human smell. “There, that’s near enough. So you claim to be the son of King Stephen of Volkaran.”

“No, I do not, O Exalted Being,” said Bane, frowning slightly. Agah’ran cast a stem glance at Tretar, who inclined his head. “Patience, My Liege,” he said softly. “Tell His Imperial Majesty your father’s name, Your Highness.”

“Sinistrad, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Bane proudly. “A mysteriarch of the High Realm.”

“A term the humans use for a wizard of the Seventh House, My Liege,” explained Tretar.

“Seventh House. And your mother’s name?”

“Anne of Ulyndia, Queen of Volkaran and Ulyndia.”

“Dear, dear,” murmured Agah’ran, shocked, though he had himself fathered more illegitimate children than he could count. “I fear you’ve made a mistake, Count. If this bastard is not the king’s son, then he is not the prince.”

“Yes, I am, My Liege!” Bane cried in childish impetuosity that was quite becoming and, moreover, quite convincing. “Stephen claimed me as his legitimate son. He made me his heir. My mother forced him to sign papers. I’ve seen them. Stephen has to do what my mother says. She’s head of her own army. He needs her support if he wants to remain king.”

Agah’ran glanced at Tretar.

The count rolled his eyes as much as to say, “What do you expect of humans?” The emperor almost smiled, refrained. A smile might muss his paint. “Such an arrangement sounds quite satisfactory to all concerned, Your Highness. We sense something happened to upset it, since you were found on that Geg place. What’s its name...”

“Drevlin, My Liege,” Tretar murmured. “Yes, Drevlin. What were you doing down there, child?”

“I was a prisoner, Your Radiance.” Bane’s eyes glittered with sudden tears. “Stephen hired an assassin, a man called Hugh the Hand—”

“Surely not!” Agah’ran’s painted eyelids fluttered.

“My Liege, please, do not interrupt,” Tretar admonished gently.

“Hugh the Hand traveled to the High Realms. He murdered my father, Your Imperial Majesty, and was going to murder me, but, before he died, my father managed to fatally wound the assassin first. But then I was captured by an elven captain named Bothar’el. He’s in league with the rebels, I think.” Agah’ran glanced again at Tretar, who confirmed this with a nod.

“Bothar’el took me back to Volkaran. He figured that Stephen would pay to have me back safely.” Bane’s lip curled. “Stephen paid to have me out of the way. Bothar’el sent me to the Gegs, paid them to keep me prisoner.”

“Your Radiance will recall,” Tretar struck in, “that around this time, Stephen let it be known among the humans that the prince had been taken prisoner and murdered by elves. The story stirred up the humans against us.”

“But tell me, Count, why didn’t Stephen simply do away with the child?” Agah’ran asked, regarding Bane as if he were some sort of exotic animal, let loose from its cage.

“Because the mysteriarchs had, by this time, been forced to flee the High Realm, which, our spies tell us, has become untenable for their kind. They moved onto Volkaran and told Stephen it would be as much as his life was worth to harm the son of Sinistrad, who had been a powerful leader among them.”

“Yet the queen permits her child to remain a prisoner. Why would your mother allow such a thing?” Agah’ran asked Bane.

“Because if the people found out she’d been whoring with one of the mysteriarchs, they would have burned her for a witch,” said Bane, with an air of innocence that made his use of the crude, if descriptive, verb quite charming.

The count gave a deprecating cough. “I believe there is more to it than that, Your Imperial Majesty. Our spies report that Queen Anne wants to gain the throne herself. She intended to do so, in league with this mysteriarch, Sinistrad—the boy’s father. But he died, and now neither she nor the surviving wizards are powerful enough to overthrow Stephen and take control of Volkaran themselves.”

“But I am, My Liege,” Bane said, ingenuously.

Agah’ran appeared highly diverted. He actually removed the pomander in order to get a better look. “You are, boy?”

“Yes, O Radiant One,” said Bane. “I’ve been thinking this all out. What if I turned up suddenly, safe and sound, on Volkaran? I’d say publicly that you elves kidnapped me, but I had managed to escape. The people love me. I’d be a hero. Stephen and Anne would have no choice but to claim me, take me back.”

“But Stephen would only get rid of you again,” said Agah’ran, yawning and passing a fatigued hand over his brow. It was past nap time. “And, though it might gain you something, we fail to see what this would gain us.”

“A lot, My Liege,” said Bane coolly. “If the king and queen were to both suddenly die, I’d be heir to the throne.”

“My, my,” murmured Agah’ran, eyes opening so wide that the paint on the lids cracked.

“Valet, summon the guards,” ordered Tretar, reading the signs. “Remove the boy.”

Bane flared. “You, sir, are speaking to a prince of Volkaran!” Tretar glanced at the emperor, saw the painted eyelids flicker in amusement. The count bowed to the prince.

“I beg your pardon, Your Highness. His Imperial Majesty has greatly enjoyed this interview, but he now grows weary.”

“We suffer from the headache,” said Agah’ran, pressing polished fingernails to his temple.

“I am sorry His Majesty is indisposed,” said Bane, with dignity. “I will withdraw.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” said Tretar, making a gallant effort to keep from laughing. “Guards, please escort His Royal Highness back to his quarters.” The guards marched in, marched Bane out. Bane cast a secret, inquiring glance at Tretar. The count smiled, indicated that all was well. Bane appeared pleased, walked away between his guards with a grace and elegance not seen in many elven children.

“Remarkable,” Agah’ran said, having recourse, once again, to the smelling salts.

“I trust I have no need to remind Your Majesty that we are dealing with humans and must not allow ourselves to be shocked by their barbaric ways.”

“All very well for you to say so, Count, but we are convinced that this nauseating tale of assassins and whores has quite destroyed our inclination for lunch. We have an extremely delicate digestive system, Tretar.”

“I am sadly aware of the fact, Your Majesty, and for that I do deeply apologize.”

“Still,” the emperor mused, “if the boy were to succeed to the throne of Volkaran, he would have reason to be extremely grateful to us.”

“Indeed, O Exalted One,” said Tretar. “At the very least he would refuse to ally with Prince Rees’ahn, leave the rebels to shift for themselves, might even be persuaded to declare war on them. I further suggest that Your Imperial Majesty offer to serve in the capacity of protectorate to the young king Bane. We could send in an occupation force to keep peace among the warring factions of humans. For their own good, of course.”

Agah’ran’s lid-painted eyes glittered. “You mean, Tretar, that this boy would simply hand us Volkaran.”

“I do, indeed, My Liege. In return for rich reward, naturally.”

“And what of these wizards, these ‘mysteriarchs’?” The emperor grimaced at being forced to speak the human word.

The count shrugged. “They are dying out, Your Imperial Majesty. They’re arrogant, willful, disliked and distrusted even by those of their own race. I doubt if they will trouble us. If they do, the boy will keep them in line.”

“And the Kenkari? What of our wizards?”

“Let them do what they will, My Liege. Once the humans are conquered and subdued, you will be able to concentrate your forces on destroying the rebels. That accomplished, you wipe out the Gegs in Drevlin and take over the Kicksey-winsey. You will then have no more need for the souls of the dead, O Exalted One. Not when you have at your command the souls of all the living in Arianus.”

“Most ingenious, Count Tretar. We commend you.”

“Thank you, My Liege.” The count bowed deeply.

“But this will take time.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“And what are we to do about these wretched Gegs? Shutting the machine down, cutting off our water!”

“Captain Sang-drax—an excellent officer, by the way, I draw Your Imperial Majesty’s attention to him—has brought us a Geg prisoner.”

“So we heard.” The emperor held the pomander to his nose, as though the stench had somehow managed to seep into his half of the palace. “We fail to see why. We have a pair for the royal zoo, don’t we?”

“Your Imperial Majesty is in good humor this day,” Tretar said, adding the laugh he knew was expected.

“We aren’t,” Agah’ran stated petulantly. “Nothing is going right. But we assume that this Geg is of some importance to you?”

“As a hostage, My Liege. I suggest that we offer the Gegs an ultimatum; they either start the Kicksey-winsey or what is left of this Geg female will be returned to them in several small boxes.”

“And what is one Geg more or less, Tretar? They breed like rats. I fail to see—”

“Begging Your Radiance’s pardon, but the Gegs are quite a close-knit race. They have a rather quaint belief that what happens to one Geg happens to all. I think this threat should be sufficient inducement for them to do our bidding.”

“If you think so, Count, then such will be our command.”

“Thank you, My Liege. And now, as Your Radiance appears fatigued—”

“We are, Tretar. We admit it. The pressures of state, dear count, the pressures of state... However, one thought occurs to us.”

“Yes, O Exalted One?”

“How do we return the boy to Volkaran without rousing the humans’ suspicions? And what’s to keep King Stephen from simply doing away with him quietly if we do send him back?” Agah’ran shook his head, wearied himself greatly with the effort. “We see too many difficulties—”

“Rest assured, O Exalted One, I have taken all this into consideration.”

“Truly?”

“Yes, My Liege.”

“And what is your intent, Count?”

The count glanced at the slaves and the valet. He leaned down, whispered into His Radiant Majesty’s perfumed ear.

Agah’ran stared, confounded, at his minister, for a moment. Then a slow smile spread over the lips that were touched with ground coral. The emperor was aware of his minister’s intelligence, just as his minister was aware that his emperor—despite appearances—was no fool.

“We approve, Count. You will make the arrangements?”

“Consider them made, Your Imperial Majesty.”

“What will you tell the boy? He will be eager to leave.” The count smiled. “I must admit, My Liege, it was the boy who suggested the plan.”

“The cunning little devil. Are all human children like this, Tretar?”

“I should not think so, O Exalted One, or the humans would have long ago defeated us.”

“Yes, well, this one bears watching. Keep your eye on him, Tretar. We should love to hear further details, but some other time.” Agah’ran passed his hand weakly over his brow. “The headache grows severe.”

“Your Radiance suffers much for his people,” said Tretar, with a low bow.

“We know, Tretar. We know.” Agah’ran heaved a pain-filled sigh. “And they do not appreciate it.”

“On the contrary, they adore you, My Liege. Attend to His Majesty,” Tretar ordered, snapping his fingers.

The valet de chambre leapt to action. Slaves came running from all directions, bearing cold compresses, hot towels, warm wine, chilled water.

“Carry us to our bedchamber,” said Agah’ran faintly. The valet took over, marshaling the complicated procedure.

Count Tretar waited until he had seen the emperor lifted from the couch, placed among silken pillows on a gilded litter, and carried in a procession, moving at a coral grub’s pace (so as not to disturb the royal equilibrium) toward the bedchamber. Near the door, Agah’ran made a feeble gesture. Tretar, who had been watching closely, was instantly attentive.

“Yes, My Liege?”

“The boy has someone with him. A human freak, whose skin has turned blue.”

“Yes, Your Imperial Majesty,” answered Tretar, not thinking it necessary to explain. “So we have been informed.”

“What of him?”

“You have nothing to worry about, My Liege. I did hear it rumored that this man was one of the mysteriarchs. I questioned Captain Sang-drax about him, and according to the captain, this blue-skinned fellow is only the boy’s manservant.” Agah’ran nodded, lay back among the pillows, and closed the painted eyelids. The slaves bore him off. Tretar waited until certain he was no longer needed, then—smiling to himself in satisfaction—he went off to put the first steps of his plan into action.