the background, one of many aides, assistants, and servants of the great men gathered around the Emperor of Ergoth and his high councilors. Unlike Prince Nazramin, however, Mandes met Tol’s gaze. The sight of his bland countenance filled Tol with unexpected fury; he clenched his jaw to keep the emotion from showing on his face.
Tol and Egrin halted by Amaltar’s right hand. They saluted, warrior-fashion.
“Marshal,” Amaltar said, smiling at Egrin, “it has been a long time. You look well.”
“As well as a warrior half my age, Your Majesty,” Egrin joked. “How fare’s Your Majesty’s health?”
Several courtiers gasped at the impudent question, but Amaltar said, “While I was regent, I ruled with the vigor of three men. Now they’re about to put the crown on my head, I have the strength of less than one. Why is that, I wonder?”
“It’s grief,” Nazramin called out from the other end of the council table. “Grief for our noble father, isn’t it, Your Majesty?”
This was obviously a jibe. Amaltar and his father had not been close. In fact, Pakin had cared little for any of his sons, preferring the gentler company of his wives and daughters.
Ignoring his disrespectful brother, Amaltar asked, “What weighty matter brings you here this day, Tolandruth? Surely you did not enter a closed council session to present Marshal Egrin, close though he is to our heart.”
“No, Majesty.” Tol looked to Egrin briefly. The older man urged him on with a slight nod. “There was a spree of riots in the city this morning.”
“There have been many riots,” Lord Rymont said haughtily. Tol’s age but blond where he was dark, Rymont had never fought in a major battle. “Malcontents from all over the empire have come to Daltigoth to air their petty grievances. They will be found out and punished.”
“One already has.”
Rymont thrust out his broad, clean-shaven chin. “Indeed? Who?”
“The leader of the gang that wears blue kerchiefs over their faces,” Tol replied.
“Skylanders,” said Helbin, leader of the Red Robe wizards.
“Provincial scum!” exclaimed Rymont’s aide.
“They’re not scum,” Oropash countered, mopping his round, sweaty face with a handkerchief. “The gentry have many legitimate grievances-”
The city-based warlords shouted him down. They rallied around Lord Rymont, denouncing the Skylanders and their sympathizers as traitors to the empire.
Before things grew too heated, Tol said, “This band of malcontents, as Lord Rymont calls them, attacked the market square near the Quarry district this morning. It so happened I was there with my Dom-shu companions. The chief of the Blue Masks sought me out.” He folded his arms. “He now lies dead in the cellar of my house.”
Tol watched those in the room carefully for any reaction. Mandes’s benign expression twitched as he turned away. Oropash seemed relieved, but Helbin looked alarmed. Nazramin picked up an apple from a tray on the table and bit into it loudly.
“We’ll find out who he was,” Rymont declared. “His confederates will be rounded up!”
“No need. We know who he was,” Egrin put in, “and he is familiar to everyone in this room.”
A heavy silence fell, broken only by the sound of Nazramin devouring his apple.
“Well, speak his name, Marshal, and be done with it!” Rymont prompted peevishly.
Egrin allowed another instant of silence to pass then complied. “His name was Pelladrom Tumult.”
All of them, including Prince Nazramin, were thunderstruck for the space of two heartbeats, then the council chamber exploded into noise. Rymont’s aides all but called Tol a liar and a murderer. They recalled the clash of wills between him and Pelladrom the day Tol had returned to Daltigoth. He had manufactured this story, they said, merely to get back at the proud young noble. Besides, no well-born Rider of the Great Horde would put on a mask and brawl in the streets, especially not on behalf of a band of ragtag bumpkins like the Skylanders.
Angry at their insinuations, Tol looked to the emperor for support. However, Amaltar was clutching his chest with one hand. His face had gone utterly white, and his lips were blue. He gasped for breath.
“Your Majesty!” Tol cried, effectively silencing the uproar.
Chamberlain Valdid hurried to his master. He summoned Mandes with a quick flick of his hand. The sorcerer came forward and laid white-gloved fingers on the great vein in Amaltar’s neck, checking his pulse. Snapping commands to two lackeys, Mandes had a potion compounded on the spot. He was about to administer it to Amaltar when Tol stayed his hand.
“My lord, the emperor needs his medicine,” Mandes protested.
“You drink it first,” Tol said.
Several courtiers gasped. The wizard tried to laugh off the demand, but Tol’s unflinching gaze and hard grip on his right wrist doomed that ploy. Shrugging, Mandes took the vial in his left hand, raised it to his lips, and sipped.
Tol stared. Two hands. Mandes now had two working hands. He’d somehow replaced his lost left arm. Was his healing magic that powerful? He watched Mandes intently for any adverse reaction to the brew he’d been forced to drink.
When nothing happened, Tol released him. Mandes held the remainder of the potion to Amaltar’s lips. Moments after he swallowed it, color flooded back into the emperor’s face. His chest heaved, and he drew a stronger breath.
“His Majesty suffers from asthma. The condition was brought on by too much work and too little rest,” Mandes explained, tucking his gloved hands into his sleeves. Though others whispered, he seemed in no wise upset by Tol’s rude treatment.
“When did you become his physician?” asked Tol coldly.
“I have tended His Majesty in many roles for the past eight years.” Mandes smiled, adding sweetly, “You haven’t been at court, my lord, so of course you wouldn’t know that.”
If Tol had possessed a blade at that moment, Mandes would have died. Egrin sensed this and pulled the infuriated warrior away.
Nazramin’s dry voice cut across the room. “If my brother is improved, can we return to the matter of young Tumult’s death? Is there any real proof he was the leader of the Skylanders in Daltigoth?”
“Only that he died leading his gang on a rampage,” Tol replied, forcing his straining limbs to relax.
He related the story of the brawl in the marketplace, explaining that many people had seen Pelladrom Tumult directing the blue-masked thugs. Miya and Kiya could confirm this, he said, and Egrin had been present when Pelladrom was unmasked.
“Well,” Nazramin said cheerfully, “if it’s true, there’s one less troublemaker in Daltigoth!”
Egrin shook his head. “I fear the repercussions may mean trouble, Your Highness. Lord Enkian Tumult is on his way from the Seascapes to pledge his fealty to our new emperor.” Any sympathy for the sad news that would greet Enkian was quickly abandoned at Egrin’s next statement. “At his back are five hordes.”
Argument broke out anew. Bringing troops to Daltigoth was a serious breach of etiquette, yet Lord Rymont insisted, it was foolish to believe that Enkian might have designs against the dynasty. Five thousand men, though improperly large for an entourage, were far too few to overcome Daltigoth’s loyal garrison.
“Why then does he bring them?” asked Oropash, twisting the sleeves of his robe anxiously.
“Wait four days and ask him,” Nazramin replied. He stood up. “It seems to me the only one here with cause to fear is Lord Tol.” The curtailing of Tol’s name was a deliberate slight. “Enkian will certainly have a score to settle with the one who gutted his son, won’t he?”
Although he wasn’t smiling, Nazramin’s glee was obvious to all. At this juncture Amaltar managed to speak again.
“Lord Tolandruth is my personal champion,” he rasped. “If he slew young Tumult in the course of quelling a riot, then he has committed no crime. Lord Enkian must abide by my judgment.”
Amaltar then dismissed the council. With much unseemly grumbling, the emperor’s advisors withdrew. Amaltar asked Tol to linger.
Egrin departed for the villa. Once the last of the council filed out, Amaltar dismissed his personal servants. Mandes reluctantly went with them. Only four guards remained, one at each of the far corners of the large chamber.
