Amaltar waved Tol closer. “Sit, sir, if you will. I find it taxing to look up these days,” he said. Tol took the chair recently vacated by Lord Rymont.
Amaltar went on. “You’ve done great things for us, Tolandruth. Whatever else happens, I want you to know I appreciate your deeds. My father did also.” Amaltar coughed a little. “There is much more to do, I fear. I must use you again.”
“I am at Your Majesty’s service.”
“Enemies gather around me, Tolandruth. Not enemies of the honorable kind, like you face in battle. These enemies smile and bow, swear their loyalty, yet all the while grasp hidden daggers and contemplate my death.”
Tol said nothing. After what he’d seen of the men closest to the throne, he could not dismiss his liege’s fears.
Amaltar squeezed his eyes shut. Sweat popped out on his waxen forehead. “I’m never free of them, Tolandruth. I hear them moving in every shadow. They’re like ants, black ants, swarming over me. They will pick my bones clean.” His eyelids sprang open. “You must stop them!”
Pity welled in Tol’s heart. He’d earlier wondered if the emperor was being poisoned, but Mandes had drunk some of the potion himself, with no ill effects. It was obvious, though, that the emperor was ill, and his illness was only made worse by the power struggles around him.
Amaltar took hold of Tol’s hands, gripping them so tightly his knuckles turned white, and repeated his plea for help. Tol vowed he would do whatever it took to defend him.
At last, the emperor relaxed, sinking back into his chair. For a moment the old Amaltar returned, the shrewd plotter, the careful judge of men. His dark eyes cleared of some of the pain that clouded them.
“It is said you are impervious to magic,” he murmured.
The swift change of subject surprised Tol, but he denied the rumor, calling it idle gossip.
“If you were, if you had some protective spell or amulet, Tolandruth, you would give it to your emperor, would you not?”
There it was, plainly stated at last. Tol had considered this question many times: dare he admit owning the Irda millstone? Could he give it to someone else to save his life? To Amaltar? Egrin? Valaran?
If it became known that he possessed a nullstone, no one Tol knew would be safe. His friends would be captured and tortured to force him to yield the artifact. There was no telling what evil use the stone could be put to by an unscrupulous owner. Since he could not bring himself to destroy so fantastic and ancient a relic, the safest course was to keep its existence utterly secret.
Calmly Tol said, “Many stories are told about me, Your Majesty. Few are true. If the gods bestow favors on me, I cannot say why. I am a soldier of the empire, nothing more.”
Amaltar’s right cheek twitched. The slight clarity fled his eyes, leaving them even more haunted than before. He gave a rattling sigh.
“You are too honorable to lie to me,” he said. “So be it.”
The words pricked Tol’s conscience, but he knelt in obeisance to his liege. Before he could rise again, Amaltar’s dry, feverish hand came to rest on top of his head.
“Look after my wife, will you?” the emperor whispered.
Tol stiffened. Did Amaltar know? He and Valaran had faced terrible retribution if caught-burial alive for her and a slow, painful dismemberment for Tol. Had Amaltar known all along? Was he now giving his tacit approval?
“Poor Thura,” Amaltar sighed. “When I die, she’ll be too old to marry again. Look after her, Tolandruth.”
Tol was certain the emperor would be able to hear the thundering of his heart. Clearing his throat, managing to speak without the faintest quiver, Tol vowed he would see to Thura’s comfort and safety, should the need arise. By all accounts, the emperor’s eldest wife was a gentle, kindhearted woman.
Amaltar dismissed him, and Tol departed.
Alone at the massive council table, Amaltar reached for a goblet of wine. His fingers trembled as they closed around the golden stem. As he brought the goblet to his lips, dark objects darted around the edges of his vision.
He flung the cup down. Red droplets flew, and the golden goblet clattered loudly on the polished tabletop.
“Ants!” he cried, pushing himself up from the chair with his hands. “I see you there! Ants!”
Shiny black insects the size of his fist hurried out of the light, under the table. Their scissor-like jaws could take off a man’s finger or toe with one snip.
Amaltar let out a shriek and climbed onto the table. He poured forth obscenities at the vermin.
At the far corners of the chamber, the guards did not move to assist their master. No ants, giant or otherwise, were visible to them. They had witnessed the emperor’s bizarre behavior before. The imperial physician’s orders were not to intervene unless the emperor was in peril of hurting himself.
“Ants! Ants!”
In the anteroom outside, Nazramin poured himself a glass of wine. He raised it in silent salute toward the closed doors of the room where his brother screamed at invisible tormentors then drained the glass. Setting it down with careful precision, Nazramin chuckled quietly.
Chapter 12
The death of Pelladrom Tumult seemed to have a chilling effect on the gangs; the streets of Daltigoth were quiet in the following days. Word spread, however, that Lord Enkian was on his way with an army to avenge his son’s death. Since the Tumult family was a distant offshoot of the Ackals, it was even said he planned to depose Amaltar and become emperor in his place. Whatever the gossip in the alleys and city squares, preparations for the complex coronation continued. On the day of the coronation, Amaltar would present himself at the great gate of Ackal Ergot, on the eastern side of Daltigoth, and demand to be let in. A high noble specially chosen for the task would pose several ritual questions to him. Once Amaltar provided the answers, the gate would be opened. Ackal Ergot had first surveyed the site of his future capital on foot, so the rising emperor was required to walk the two and half leagues from the gate to the Inner City, trailed by his entire household-wives, children, courtiers, servants, and guards.
At the Inner City Amaltar’s way would be barred once more. He would demand admission as ruler of the Ergoth Empire, only to be told the emperor already resided within. Touching the gate with a bared sword, Amaltar would symbolically “capture” the Inner City. Within he would find the dead emperor lying enshrined in a great catafalque.
“What’s that?” Kiya asked, interrupting Egrin’s description of the coming ceremony.
“A catafalque is the raised, curtained bier on which the old emperor will lay. Very elaborate,” he told her, then resumed his narrative.
It was because the empire was founded on force and conquest that Amaltar had to enter the catafalque and lightly strike the body of his father with his sword, thereby “defeating” the old emperor.
“Ah, that’s why they turn the old one to stone,” said Kiya, “so the blow won’t damage him.”
Egrin went on. “When the old emperor is ritually overcome, the new emperor emerges from the catafalque and is presented with his predecessor’s crown, which he places on his own head. He is then Emperor of Ergoth, spiritually as well as temporally.”
Tol’s little household was gathered around the kitchen table, having a late supper. With only a trio of candles to hold back the gloom, it was an eerie scene, quite unlike the usual cheerful brightness of the room.
“What becomes of the dead emperor?” asked Kiya. Still hampered by her bad knee, she had her leg propped on a chair.
“He is interred in the vault of his ancestors, deep beneath the Inner City plaza. After the new emperor is crowned and enthroned, he receives the oaths of every warlord in the empire.”
