“What is it?” Pakin said. Amaltar said a few words in the emperor’s ear. Pakin III nodded.
“Come here, boy.”
Tol came round the side of the great table and knelt again.
“Amaltar tells me he wants to give you the Order of the Silver Saber.” Tol held up the heavy medal for the emperor to see. “It is a rare honor. No one has been awarded it since the reign of Ergothas III.”
“I’m really not worthy-” Tol tried to say. Pakin HI cut him off.
“Tosh, boy. I’ve heard about you. Thanks to you, I was able to send the insufferable ambassador from Silvanost home with a flea in his ear. That alone was worth the Silver Saber.” A laugh rumbled deep within the emperor’s chest. “Better still, you settled Morthur for us. You’ve already done more for this throne than most of the noble warriors in Daltigoth.
“Amaltar needs a man like you. He’s a thinker, but he’s no warrior. Be his champion. Defend him from the wolves who circle the throne every day, seeking to snatch him from his seat. Will you do that?”
“I will do whatever Your Majesty commands,” Tol said fervently.
“Don’t give yourself too readily, boy. They are plenty of people in this land who will gladly take from you until nothing’s left but skin and bones!”
Pakin III settled back in his chair and folded his hands across his belly. He sighed, a gusty sound of great tiredness.
“To placate Valdid and the snobs in court, I’ll create you a lord of the realm. What is your full name?” the emperor asked.
“Just Tol, Your Majesty.”
“A sound name, but not enough for the velvet-robed nitwits around here.” The emperor closed his red- rimmed eyes briefly. “My ancestor, Ackal Ergot, was a savage who drank blood from the skulls of his enemies. Did you know that?”
Tol shook his head. The emperor laughed, saying, “Now they call him Ackal the Great. He
“Father,” Amaltar said, trying to keep the emperor’s mind on his task.
“Yes, yes.” Pakin III extended a hand scarred by many a battle. “There was a warrior, one of Ackal Ergot’s boon companions. Your name starts out like his, so I’ll give you the rest of it.”
Clearing his throat, he said, “Arise, Tolandruth, Lord of the Realm, commander of the Horse Guards, champion of the House of Ackal.”
Tol stood, slowed by his aching leg, and by the full burden of a new name and weighty titles.
“Father,” Amaltar said, “didn’t Ackal the Great cut off Tolandruth’s head?”
“He cut off all his friends’ heads, eventually,” murmured Pakin III. In moments he was asleep again, snoring softly.
Amaltar and Tol departed. They found Valdid lurking outside the innermost ring of curtains. The crown prince relayed the news of Tol’s elevation.
“His Majesty’s will be done,” replied the chamberlain, bowing his head. “But it may not go well for Master Tol-that is, for Lord Tolandruth. The nobles of the empire are proud, Highness. They may not accept a newly made peer born of peasant stock.” Valdid nodded to Tol. “No offense, my lord.”
Tol blinked at the title, but said automatically, “No offense taken.”
The fact was, his head was swimming from his sudden change of fortune. He’d wakened this morning believing it might be his last day of life, and instead he’d been raised to nobility by the hand of the emperor himself, awarded an honor shared by the greatest warriors in the empire’s history, and named to command a prestigious body of fighters. He could scarcely take it all in.
Crown Prince Amaltar presented him to the crowd in the audience hall as Lord Tolandruth, commander of the city Horse Guards. The assembled courtiers and favor-seekers cheered, as was their wont, but Tol wasn’t fooled by their enthusiasm.
There were a few who didn’t bother applauding. Most of the silent ones clustered around Prince Nazramin, Amaltar’s younger brother, loafing at the far end of the hall. Since seeing Prince Nazramin abuse Valdid in the back halls of the palace, Tol had heard many stories of the prince’s monstrous pride and cruelty. The stony silence of Nazramin and his cronies seemed louder than the cheers of the crowd. Valdid’s prediction of Tol’s poor reception was already coming true.
Lord Enkian was thunderstruck. Gone was the eighteen-year-old foot soldier he knew, and in his place stood the new commander of the city’s mounted garrison, wearing the ancient Order of the Silver Saber, and Enkian’s own equal, Lord Tolandruth.
“I am bewitched,” Enkian said. “How can this be?”
“If it’s witchcraft, my lord, then the emperor cast the spell,” Tol replied. He was giddy with the ability to bandy words with his once forbidding liege.
The rest of Enkian’s entourage from Juramona stood by, likewise dumbfounded. Relfas asked, “So, you’ll not be coming back with us?”
Tol shook his head, grinning foolishly.
“Fantastic,” said Enkian. “Egrin will not believe it.”
Mention of Tol’s old mentor deflated his elation. What about Egrin? Would he never see him again? He thought fast.
“I have two requests for you, my lord,” he said to Enkian. “I’d like to send a letter to Egrin-will you see he gets it?” The marshal nodded, and Tol added, “I also want to keep some of the Juramona footmen here with me-as many as ten, if that’s all right.”
Enkian shrugged. “Keep them all, if you want,” he said, and Tol ignored the slight against his men.
The Juramona delegation was due to depart in two days. Tol would not begin his duties as commander of the Horse Guards- until the following day. In the short interim, he rounded up the foot soldiers from the canal quarter and told them his news. To his surprise, they already knew.
“The whole city rings with your name,” Narren said. “They say you were ennobled by the emperor’s own hand. Is it true?” Tol admitted it was.
He told them of his plan to keep ten men in Daltigoth as his personal retainers. To a man, they all volunteered. Tol chose Narren, then picked nine more based on special skills or talents they had. Tarthan, Allacath, Wellax, and Frez he chose as the four best spearmen in Juramona; Darpo and Lestan were the bravest and steadiest of the footmen; Fellen, son of a builder, was a skillful field engineer. Valvorn and Sanksa, formerly of the Karad-shu tribe, were gifted scouts and trackers. Only Frez and Tarthan were older than thirty, and all the men were fine warriors.
To the rest of the soldiers he was obliged to bid farewell. “Wherever service to the emperor takes me, I shall always be Tol of Juramona, a foot soldier of the Household Guard.”
The cheers raised for this declaration echoed from the blackened rafters of The Bargeman’s Rest.
After sending Narren off with money to find lodgings for his new retinue, Tol returned to the Inner City. He crossed the open courtyard, pausing before the Riders’ Hall. On a whim, he turned away from the hall and entered the wizards’ garden. It was growing dark among the elms and yew as he made his way to the Font of the Blue Phoenix.
She was there, curled up on the pool ledge. Tol moved silently up behind her, thinking a little scare would do Valaran good.
“Grown men shouldn’t tiptoe. You look silly,” she said, raising her head.
“I thought you were asleep.”
“No. Reading.” The light was so poor she had had her nose pressed to the parchment. “
He didn’t know what she was talking about, and didn’t care. He took her in his arms, lifting her bodily from the low marble wall. Valaran did not resist, nor did she return his ardor.
“You always have one thing on your mind,” she said.
“You inspire me,” he replied. He entwined his fingers in her thick brown hair and tried to kiss her, but she
