“Mighty Khan, the gates?” the Silvanesti lord was saying.
He was a persistent snake. Sahim had to credit him for that. Next to round, bewigged old Zunda, Morillon looked trim, cool, and elegant.
Sahim settled himself back in his throne-not the heavy, priceless Sapphire Throne, which never left the audience hall-and arranged his white and gold robes. Thus seated, he was a head taller than the standing elf. He made the most of his advantage, looking down his nose at Morillon.
“Zunda, how long till sunset?”
“One hour, Mighty Khan,” the vizier replied promptly. He’d long ago learned to have a multitude of disparate facts to hand, even one which his master could easily know for himself, simply by looking over his shoulder at the lowering sun.
Sahim mulled the answer in silence for moment, then barked: “Commander of the Guard!”
The quick flash of surprise on Morillon’s face was most gratifying. The
General Hakkam came forward. Armor clanking, he knelt before his lord. “Commander, take what troops you need and clear the city gates of all malcontents,” the Khan said. “If they resist, put them to the sword!”
Hakkam’s weathered face showed even more surprise than the elf’s, but he acknowledged the command immediately. Before he could rise to go, Sahim spoke again.
“However, the gates will remain closed.”
It seemed all in the crowd were holding their breath. None could fathom what the Khan was up to. From the look on Morillon’s face, it was obvious he, too, was at a loss.
“As you must certainly recall, my lord,” Sahim said, “elves are not allowed within the city after nightfall. The Khan of Khur cannot allow his defenses to be compromised. The malcontents and rioters will be cleared from the gates at once, and the gates will open as usual-at sunrise tomorrow.”
General Hakkam departed.
Morillon expressed his gratitude. His words carried no trace of irony.
“Justice is the cornerstone of khanship,” Sahim said, allowing his amusement to show. It was not a pleasant expression. “The merchants in the souks must trade. I’m sure they miss their
An awed hush fell over the rooftop garden. Morillon’s breathing seemed suddenly loud. All of his diplomatic training was required to keep him from shouting. “What tax, Mighty Khan?” he asked.
“Henceforth, all persons entering Khuri-Khan to trade must pay an entry tax.” He glanced at Zunda. “One gold piece per head.” The vizier lowered his eyes and nodded, ever so slightly.
The amount was ridiculous, exorbitant, and fell especially on the elves, who entered frequently for trade purposes. Morillon’s Silvanesti aplomb failed him utterly. His mouth fell open. Sahim smilingly assured him the tax was only temporary, until the troops could be returned to their barracks.
Morillon bowed stiffly. “I will convey the Great Khan’s words to the Speaker of the Sun and Stars. Will Your Mightiness receive the Speaker to discuss the matter of the alleged massacre?”
Sahim waved a hand magnanimously. “I need no reassurance, my lord. The word of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars is more than enough for me.”
Pale, tight-lipped, Morillon swept out, ignoring the stares of Sahim’s uncouth courtiers. Another so-called tax! This was the second time the Khan had insulted the Speaker to Morillon’s face. The Silvanesti was a lifelong servant of the throne of the Stars and his patience was nearly at an end. Sahim-Khan didn’t know it, but he’d made a lasting enemy of Lord Morillon this day.
Passing through the citadel courtyard, walking so rapidly his small entourage had to jog to keep up, Morillon noted two humans talking together. Lord Hengriff and Prince Shobbat were deep in conversation by a shadowed wall. That is to say, Shobbat was talking animatedly. Hengriff was listening, arms folded across his chest.
The Knight’s eyes moved, crossing Morillon’s gaze in passing, and his impassive countenance altered. The look on his face was so fleeting, Morillon found it difficult to categorize. Was it acknowledgment? A grudging respect? The Dark Order, for all its machinations, was a far more honorable opponent than the grasping, conniving Sahim. Perhaps in that brief moment Knight and elf shared the realization that both were heartily sick of Khur and its ruler. Change was coming. Whether it would be for Neraka or the elves was uncertain, but the current course could not continue.
A very eloquent glance. In a snap of sky-blue silk, Morillon was out the gate and gone. Hengriff continued to stare thoughtfully after him.
“-was delivered!” Shobbat was saying, voice rising. “Did your courier get through as I ordered?”
Hengriff nodded, and the prince demanded, “Well, has he returned? I would speak to him about the nomads’ reaction ”
The Knight didn’t respond. He was still thinking about the Silvanesti noble. Lord Morillon was a chink in the Speaker’s armor. Gilthas trusted him too much, relied too heavily on his counsel, but Hengriff recognized Morillon’s type. He was of the class of elves who let their nation slide into ruin while they observed all the niceties of protocol and manners. Kerianseray and the Qualinesti were much more dangerous. They would have deduced long before now that they had a spy in their midst. Morillon was still in the dark.
“You’re not listening!”
Hengriff fixed the impatient prince with a baleful eye. “No, I’m not. When you calm down and speak rationally, I’ll listen, Your Highness.”
Shobbat quivered. He wasn’t used to such insolence, any more than he was used to standing in the beat. Sweat stood out on his forehead. Tiny red veins webbed the whites of his eyes. He had dyed his hair its usual dark shade, but in strong sunlight, the black carried a faint greenish tinge.
“I need to know what’s happening,” he said, striving for a calmer tone. “Are the nomads coming?”
“Who can say, Highness? Your desert folk are like wolves, fierce and wild. I’ve lived here two years and I don’t begin to understand them.”
Shobbat, Khur born and bred, didn’t understand the nomads either, but he wasn’t about to admit that to Hengriff.
Changing the subject, the Knight told him of his father’s agreement to clear all the city gates of troublemakers.
“Really? All the gates, you say?” The prince pressed a fist to his lower lip. If soldiers of the Household Guard had been sent to all nine gates of Khuri-Khan, there couldn’t be many left in the palace.
“Careful, Highness. Your thoughts leap from your face.”
Shobbat forced a careless laugh and palmed sweat from his forehead. “I don’t know what you mean. I’m simply suffering from the heat. I should retire indoors and escape the warmth.”
Hengriff bowed to the heir of Khur. “To Your Highness’s continued good health.”
The prince withdrew. Once he had seemed a ridiculous figure but Hengriff was beginning to wonder if he had underestimated him. The situation was coming to a head, and quickly. Hengriff’s dispatches to Jelek stressed this urgency. He felt the Order must be ready to move on a moment’s notice. When the crisis came, the fate of the elves would fall not to him who struck first, but him who struck the most decisively.
Six lengthy dispatches, carefully enciphered, he had sent to Jelek via the border town of Kortal. Six dispatches in as many weeks, yet no answer had come back. If Hengriff had been the suspicious type, he might think his messages weren’t getting through. Worse still, could Rennold be ignoring him?
Odd sounds reached the citadel courtyard. Distorted by the brick canyons of Khuri-Khan, the tumult sounded like the crash of waves on a rocky shore. Hengriff knew better. They were the sounds of conflict.
His four bodyguards arrived, already mounted, leading his horse. “My lord!” cried his man Goldorf. “There is fighting at the city gates!”
Hengriff swung into the saddle. “Sahim-Khan ordered his troops to clear the gates. Who are his guards fighting?”
“Torghanists.”
Hengriff betrayed surprise. The priests of Torghan were taking Nerakan pay, and he hadn’t asked them to blockade the city. So who had? His dark eyes narrowed. He suspected the meddling hand of Prince Shobbat in this
