At the top she paused. The sensible thing to do would be to use the torches, but she couldn’t resist the more dramatic gesture; she waved, and her warlock fire-lighting skill struck a hundred candlewicks. Golden light flickered, then blazed forth, and Tabaea stepped forward into the Great Hall of the Overlord of Ethshar of the Sands.
She stood on a broad floor paved in tesselated stone, a square floor a hundred feet across. Far above, the palace’s immense dome curved gracefully through shadowed distance, too far up for the light of candles to illuminate it well; a hundred-foot ring of sixteen hexagonal skylights set into the dome gave a view of the stars.
Three of the four walls were broken at the center by a broad stair; Tabaea and company had just mounted one of these, the others lying to their left and directly across. To the right, the fourth wall had no stair, but instead an elaborate display of carvings, gilt, and scarlet draperies, all centered around an ornate golden chair on a wide dais. Magnificent golden candelabra, wrought in a variety of shapes, lined the walls to either side of this display, and it was these that now provided the light.
“The throne room,” someone murmured, as Tabaea’s followers emerged into this splendor.
“And the overlord’s throne,” someone else added, pointing at the golden chair.
Tabaea grinned, her enthusiasm suddenly returning.
“Wrong,” she said, bounding gaily to the throne. She leaped up and stood for a moment on its scarlet velvet cushion, watching as the last few stragglers trickled into the room.
“This is not the overlord’s throne,” she proclaimed, “not anymore!” She paused dramatically, then slid down and seated herself properly. “This is my throne now,” she said. “Mine! Tabaea the First, Empress of Ethshar!” She smiled—not at all a pleasant smile.
After a second’s hesitation, the little crowd burst into wild applause.
As they cheered, Tabaea ran her hands along the arms of the throne, enjoying the feel of it; the arms were of solid gold, she thought, worn smooth by centuries of use.
Under one arm she found a loop; curious, she tugged at it. It yielded an inch or so, then stopped. She could have forced it, but decided not to; there was no point in breaking something before she even knew what it was.
It occurred to her belatedly that the loop might have been a trap, something intended to dispose of usurpers like herself, but if so, it obviously wasn’t working.
She sat and looked out at the room, at the people cheering for her, at the dim soaring dome above, the shining stone floor, the gold ornaments and silken tapestries, and an immense satisfaction settled over her.
It was hers. All of it, hers. At least for the moment.
She sniffed the air, sorting out the scents in the room. Nothing was very fresh; no one had been in here for at least an hour before her arrival. The throne smelled of an old man—Ederd IV, of course; wasn’t he seventy or eighty years old? Tabaea had never paid much attention to politics.
However old he might be, he was still the only one who had sat in this throne—until herself, of course.
Others had come and gone, men and women of all ages. She could smell the cold stone, the dust on the tapestries, and the lingering scents of the overlord’s courtiers. They had stood and knelt on that vast expanse of unfurnished floor. They had been there just that day, Tabaea was sure—but now it might as well have been a century ago, because they were gone, their overlord overthrown. It was all hers now.
She heard footsteps on the stairs, and leaped down from the throne, snatching the Black Dagger from her belt.
A woman was on the stairs; Tabaea could smell her. A woman was approaching, and she was frightened.
Tabaea’s followers, the twenty or so that had made it this far, had heard nothing, sensed nothing, until they saw their leader jump from her throne and crouch, knife ready. Their babbling euphoria vanished; a few began to retreat toward the stairs by which they had entered, while the others stared nervously in every direction.
“What is it?” someone asked.
Then the woman’s head came into sight as she ascended the staircase to the right, as seen from the throne—the side opposite where Tabaea had entered. By her expression, she was utterly terrified; she hesitated at her first glimpse of the new masters of the palace, then continued up the steps.
She wore a gold tunic and a skirt of dark red, almost maroon, with a white apron protecting the front; her long brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She was not particularly young, nor particularly attractive. She looked harmless; what’s more, she smelled harmless. Tabaea relaxed somewhat, rising up from her fighting stance, but keeping the dagger ready in her hand.
At the top step the woman in the apron hesitated again, one hand on the rail. She looked over the ragged crew before her, then turned toward the empty throne and spotted Tabaea, in her fine embroidered tunic that was smeared with blood and pierced by holes and tears left by sword thrusts, and her long black skirt stained with mud from the Field.
The newcomer curtsied, catching her apron and skirt up and bobbing quickly.
Tabaea blinked; she had hardly ever seen anyone curtsy before, and certainly never to her. That was reserved for the nobility.
“Um... Your Majesty?” the woman said. “My lady? I’m sorry, I don’t know how to address you.”
Tabaea smiled. “ ’Your Majesty’ will suit me quite well,” she said.
“Very good, Your Majesty. You rang for me?” “I did?” Tabaea remembered the loop on the throne. “Ah, yes, so I did.”
“How may I serve you?”
Tabaea sheathed her knife and stood as tall as she could on the dais. “You may begin,” she said, “by explaining how you know who I am, and by telling me who you are.”
The woman in the apron curtsied again. “My name is Ista, Your Majesty; I’m just a servant. I was on duty downstairs when you rang. As for knowing who you are, I don’t know for certain, but we were told that the old overlord was fleeing because a great magician had declared herself empress, and he could not stop her. I assume you are she.”
“That’s right,” Tabaea said. “Tabaea the First, Empress of Ethshar of the Sands!” She waved toward the others. “And these are my court!” She laughed, and stepped back to the throne. “So old Ederd’s fled?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Tabaea settled onto the scarlet cushion, grinning broadly. “But you’re still here?”
“Oh, yes, of course, Your Majesty; the palace is my home. Where else would I go?”
“And you’ll serve me, as you served Ederd?”
Ista bobbed her head. “If you’ll permit me, Your Majesty.”
“I will,” Tabaea said, gesturing magnanimously. “What about the other servants?”
“I can’t speak for them all, Your Majesty, but most of them are still here and ready to obey you.”
“Oh, excellent! And what about the others? Ederd had a family, didn’t he? And there are all the others, the so-called Minister of Justice and the rest—what of them?”
“Fled, Your Majesty. Lord Ederd the Heir, Lady Zarrea of the Spices, Lord Edarth of Ethshar, Lord Kalthon, all of them fled.”
“Well, let them flee, then—maybe they can take shelter hi the Wall Street Field!” She laughed. “So this palace is all mine, then?”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Then show me my new domain, Ista—give us all the grand tour!” She stood again and made a shooing gesture.
Ista hesitated, then curtsied once more. “What would you like to see first, Your Majesty?” she asked.
CHAPTER 27
