“Yes, Your Majesty.” Arl bowed hesitantly; he had never been in the palace before Tabaea’s conquest the night before last, had never formally learned anything of court etiquette, and in any case Tabaea’s rules might well differ from what had gone before—if Tabaea had any rules—but he had seen a few plays, had seen the overlord’s visits to the Arena and how he was treated there, and thought that a bow was appropriate at this point.
Then he stepped to the front of the dais, where he paused for a moment to think how to word what he wanted to say. When he thought he had it worked out, he took a deep breath and announced, “Her Imperial Majesty, Tabaea the First, Empress of Ethshar of the Sands, will now hold audience. Those who wish to address the emp... address Her Majesty may form a line.” He pointed to a spot just before his own feet.
He had the feeling that a true chancellor, or chamberlain— wasn’t this something a chamberlain would do?—would have made that sound better, somehow. Until two days ago, Arl had been a beggar and swindler, not a courtier; he had used fancy words, all right, but for persuasion, not formal announcements. It was a different sort of skill.
Of course, it was his old skill, carefully applied to his “old friend” Tabaea, that had gotten him his impressive title and powerful position in the first place.
People were lining up, just the way they were supposed to; Arl was pleased with himself. Without waiting for everyone to settle into place, he took the first one, an old woman, by the hand and led her up onto the dais. After a moment’s hesitation, he turned and sent her on her way to the throne, but did not accompany her.
Uncertainly, the woman took a few tottering steps, then stood before the throne, looking down at Tabaea. The empress looked back.
The old woman was supposed to kneel, Tabaea thought, and she showed no sign of doing it. Her scent didn’t provide any useful information about what she was feeling or planning—she wasn’t scared or excited. Her movements gave no clues.
Well, she was supposed to kneel, and Tabaea decided that she would kneel. Her warlock’s touch reached out and gripped the woman’s knees, forcing them to bend.
The old woman almost tumbled forward; she was far slower catching herself than Tabaea had expected. At last, though, she steadied, and knelt before the throne.
Tabaea addressed her.
“What is it you want, woman?”
“I want a turn in the pretty chair,” the woman mumbled.
Tabaea stared at her.
“I want a turn,” the woman repeated, pointing at the throne.
For a moment, the empress couldn’t believe she had heard correctly. When she did believe it, her first reaction was fury.
Then she remembered what Arl had said about some of the people from the Field; the old woman was obviously demented. “No,” Tabaea said gently. “It’s my throne. I’m the empress.”
“You said we could share,” the woman protested.
“The palace,” Tabaea said. “Not the throne.”
“We don’t share the pretty chair?”
“No,” Tabaea said. “We don’t.”
“Oh.” The old woman looked down at her knees, and announced, “I fell down.”
“You knelt,” Tabaea explained. “When you speak to an empress, you must kneel.”
“Oh.” She showed no sign of rising, of leaving; the line of other petitioners was growing restless, Tabaea could see it and smell it and hear it.
“Is there anyone taking care of you?” Tabaea asked.
“No.”
“That’s too bad,” Tabaea said. “I think you could use some help. But you’ll have to go now.”
“Will you take care of me?”
“No, I’m too busy. I’m the empress.”
“Hike you.”
“That’s nice. Go away, now, and let someone else have a turn.”
“But I didn’t get to sit in the pretty chair.” Tabaea stared at the old woman, frustration beginning to overwhelm her determination to be patient and understanding. She wished someone else would come and drag the old fool away, that there was someone she could signal, but Arl was much too busy keeping order among the others, and she had no one else there to help her. Her other new appointees had been sent off about their various businesses, and what with desertions and confusion she didn’t have all the guards and servants that the overlord had kept close at hand.
To get rid of this nuisance she would either have to call for help or use her own two hands, either of which seemed beneath her dignity as empress.
Tabaea began to see that mere was a contradiction here, between her desire to be an absolute ruler, honored and respected, and her desire to avoid oppressing her people. She might want to be a fair and reasonable empress, but obviously, there were people in the city who wouldn’t be fair and reasonable subjects.
And with people like that, soldiers would be very useful.
Even if she had had a thousand soldiers in the palace, Tabaea realized, in her determination to be a good and kind and fair and accessible ruler she would have sent them away while she was holding court. She now saw that this would not have been a good idea. She resolved that when things were more organized, when she had a proper city guard of her own, she would keep a couple of soldiers nearby.
For now, she had to improvise. The warlock power reached out and pinched the old woman’s nostrils shut.
“Go away,” Tabaea told her, as the woman gasped for breath.
The invisible grip vanished, and the woman got to her feet.
She did not leave, however, instead she reached out and slapped Tabaea across the face. “You nasty!” she shrieked. “You squeezed my nose!”
Tabaea, with her animal responses, had seen the blow coming and ducked aside; what should have been a resounding blow was just a gentle brush across one cheek.
Still, it could not be tolerated; in an instant, Tabaea was on her feet, picking the old woman up by the throat, one-handed.
She looked up at the astonishment on the ancient face and said, “You should die for that. The person of your empress is not to be touched. Because of your age, because my reign is new and you understand little, you won’t die this time, but don’t ever let me see or smell you again.”
Then she flung the woman out onto the marble floor of the audience hall. Brittle old bones snapped, and the woman lay in a heap, moaning softly.
“Get her out of here,” Tabaea said.
No one moved.
“Get her out of here!” Tabaea shouted, pointing at the line of waiting petitioners.
Two men from the back ran to obey; a few of the others abruptly decided that whatever requests they might have had could wait until a more propitious time, and scurried away down the side stairs.
Tabaea settled back on the throne, touched her unmarked cheek, then turned to Arl and snapped, “Next!”
CHAPTER 31
It had been Lady Sarai ’s own suggestion that she not stay at the same inn as Tobas and his wives; she had been worried that such a group would be too distinctive. Instead, she had gratefully accepted a loan of a dozen copper rounds and had found herself lodgings at the Fatted Calf, an inn on Soldiertown Street, a block south of Grandgate Market. The rather inept painting on the inn’s signboard had given it the nickname the Bloated Beef, and that had seemed to imply a cheerful good humor.
That was not, Sarai discovered, reflected hi the urn’s rather tense atmosphere. Her night there was an
