“It’s not very comfortable,” the warlock said, shifting slightly and looking down at the throne. “And it doesn’t really go with this room.”
“Phenvel’s bigger than you are and he leaned back more,” Sterren pointed out. “As for the looks, maybe we can drape something over it later.”
Vond nodded. “What did the servants say when you told them to fetch it?”
“I used some of the slaves you bought from Akalla, and they didn’t say anything. It’s not their place to question direct orders.”
The warlock nodded again. “That’s good,” he said, in a distracted way.
After a moment of uncomfortable silence, during which Vond tried to find a more comfortable position and Sterren simply stood and waited, Vond asked, “What do you think they thought at the castle? Did anybody object?”
Sterren shook his head. “I sent half a dozen of my guards along. Nobody objected. They may be wondering about it, but they can’t do anything. You’re the warlock emperor, remember, you’re all-powerful. Nobody knows anything’s changed except the two of us.”
Vond smiled, a twisted and bitter expression. “They know. Half of Semma must have heard my scream.”
“They don’t know,” Sterren insisted. “They don’t know why you screamed. They don’t know anything about warlockry. Nobody in the entire empire knows anything about warlockry except you, me, and maybe a few traders and expatriates from the north.”
“They’ll guess, when they see me sitting in this thing.”
“They won’t.”
Vond shook his head, but stopped arguing. “Should I open the doors, now?” Sterren asked. Vond waved a hand unhappily. “Go ahead,” he said. Sterren marched down the length of the audience hall to the great red doors and rapped once on an enamelled panel.
The doors swung in, propelled by two palace servants apiece, another reminder of Vond’s unhappy condition, since he had always moved them magically before.
In the hallway beyond waited a dozen or so petitioners. These were the ones who had been sent on by the Imperial Council or various servants and officials as being outside the council’s purview, with valid reasons to see the Great Vond himself.
There was no bailiff, usher, or doorkeeper to manage the presentations; Vond had always taken care of that himself, using his magically enhanced voice to direct people. As Sterren looked over the uneasy little knot of people he thought to himself that a great many things would have to change if the empire was to run smoothly.
“All right,” he said, “how many groups do we have here? Please, divide yourselves up, spread out, so I can see what the situation is.” The petitioners milled about in confusion; clearly, several had not understood his Ethsharitic. He repeated the instructions as best he could in Semmat and waited while the group sorted itself out into smaller groups.
There were five petitions, it appeared, one group of four, a group of three, two pairs, and a single. “Who speaks Ethsharitic?” Sterren asked.
One hand went up in each group; the single, unfortunately, just looked blank. Sterren asked him in Semmat, “Do you speak Semmat?”
He nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said.
That, Sterren thought, would have to do.
He decided to start with the largest group and work down; it seemed fairest to keep the fewest possible waiting.
“All right,” he said, pointing, “You four, come on in.”
The Ethsharitic-speaking spokesman for the foursome led his party into the audience chamber, down the rich red carpet as the doors swung shut behind them, to stand before the dais. Sterren watched them closely, to see if they seemed aware that anything was out of the ordinary.
They did not. Apparently, either nobody had told them that the Great Vond had no throne and always conducted business floating in the air, or they had dismissed such tales as exaggerations.
They went down on their knees before the emperor and bowed deeply.
“Rise,” Vond said.
His unenhanced voice seemed horribly weak to Sterren, a thin little sound that was almost lost in the great stone chamber.
The petitioners did not seem to notice anything odd. They rose.
Their spokesman took a cautious step forward and waited.
“Speak,” Vond said.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” the petitioner said, “we have come here as representatives for many, many of your subjects who grow peaches. This year, thanks to the fine weather you have given us, we have a very large, very fine crop, and it is all ripening at once, so fast that we do not have time to harvest it. We...” He hesitated, glanced at Sterren, who looked encouraging, and then continued, “We have seen you light the sky at night. Could you do this again? If you could light the sky above our trees, we could harvest by night, as well as by day, and we would not leave fruit to ripen and rot on the tree before we can get to it. I... we understand that you have other concerns, but-”
“No,” Vond said flatly, interrupting the petitioner.
The spokesman blinked. “No?” he said. “But your Majesty-”
“No, I said!”
“May I ask why-”
“No!” Vond bellowed, rising from the throne, not by magic, but standing naturally upon his own feet. His voice echoed from the walls.
A breeze stirred the warlock’s robes, in a closed room where no natural breeze could reach. Vond felt it and looked down at the swaying fabric of his sleeve in horror.
He turned to Sterren and said, “Get them out of here.”
Then he turned and ran from the room.
The petitioners stared after him in astonishment. Sterren stepped forward and told them, “The Great Vond is ill. He had hoped that he would be able to hear petitions regardless, but it appears that the gods would have it otherwise.” He hesitated, then continued, “And I’m afraid that’s why he refused your petition; while his illness persists, his magic is somewhat limited, and to light the sky as you ask would be too great a strain upon his health.”
The petitioners looked at him uncertainly as he spoke, and he saw fear appear on the spokesman’s face. Sterren thought he understood that; after all, when the king is sick, the kingdom is in danger. That old proverb would hold true all the more for an emperor, and a young emperor of a young and still-unsteady empire at that. Worst of all, Vond was an emperor without an heir. “Don’t worry,” Sterren said soothingly. “It’s not that serious.” He hoped the lie would not be obvious.
“What can we do?” the spokesman asked.
“Go home, harvest your peaches as best you can, and don’t worry unduly. If you know the names of any gods, you might pray to them on the emperor’s behalf, and I’m sure healing charms won’t hurt.” He took the spokesman’s arm and led the party back down the hall to the door.
Once again, a single rap opened the doors, and Sterren escorted the little party out into the hall. There he raised his voice and called, “The Great Vond is ill, and all audiences for today are canceled!” He repeated it in Semmat. “If you wish to, you may stay in the area and check with the guards daily, and present your petitions when the Great Vond has recovered; or you may put them in writing and give them to any guard or servant with instructions that they be delivered to Chancellor Sterren, who will see that they are read by the Great Vond as soon as his health permits. If you cannot write, there are scribes for hire in the village.”
The little crowd milled about again, muttering uneasily.
“That is all!” Sterren announced firmly. He turned to the four servants at the doors and dismissed them.
That done, he turned and headed for the stairs. He kept his pace slow and dignified until he knew he was
