Soen took in a deep breath. Ministries, Orders, Estates. . by the Emperor’s Will, all worked perfectly because it
So the perfection was maintained not in practice but in perception. The knowledge that the current Emperor ascended to the throne by murdering the previous Emperor as he was distracted by his lust for the wife of a recently assassinated Guild Master was not “working toward the Imperial Will.” Indeed, that the entire history of the Rhonas Empire was filled with such unpleasant, vicious, horrifying events was also seen as “not working toward the Imperial Will.” This concern for the solidarity, security, and loyalty of the greatest elven nation in all history extended itself down through every ministry, Order, and Estate as well. Anything unpleasant need not be true if it is not known. So their own histories were constantly rewritten for the sake of “working toward the Imperial Will.”
Each part of the body politic played a vital role but, to Soen, none so important as the role his own Order played nor so dangerous.
The Iblisi alone existed to know the truth. . and it was their task to make sure that no one discovered it.
CHAPTER 17
The old keep was a misnomer; it was more of a fortress than a keep proper. The angular path of its massive outer walls combined with those of matching trenches designed to both stop the enemy and inflict as much damage on them as possible. It was the oldest remaining structure in the city, said by many to have been built by the hand of the first emperor, Rhon Sah-Tseu himself. The Keep’s antiquity was apparent at a single glance, for it lacked the grace and fine, curving lines of the more recent structures of the Empire. To the critical elven eye it was vaguely offensive as a brutish, massive, and graceless pile of carefully fitted stones that was an unpleasant reminder of dark origins best forgotten.
Soen never failed to smile at the irony of the thought each time he crossed the courtyard of the Keep, for now the building itself fulfilled that same function which its visage inspired. Within its walls, Soen knew, were kept all the “unpleasant reminders” of their dark origins safely hidden from view.
The Inquisitor stepped through the dark archway of an angular tower and with rapid steps made his way down a worn circular staircase. Under any other circumstances he would have already been removing the ceremonial trappings of his official robes. There were books, scrolls, maps, and tapestries in the Forbidden Grotto that were calling to him. He longed to lose the present in the writings of the past but he had one final duty to perform before he could comfortably claim some time for himself.
So, he turned off the staircase-how marvelous to have to use stairs, he thought-and made his way down the long central corridor. Several of his fellow Inquisitors passed him, though none acknowledged him in any way. It was just another sign in a long and seemingly endless series of signs that his presence here was considered unearned and unwelcome. It was of no real concern to him if they didn’t want him here. He didn’t want to be here either.
The corridor opened into a large antechamber, but waiting was not Soen’s intention. He turned at once to the black doors of oiled wood and pulled them open.
“Ah, Inquisitor Soen Tjen-rei.” The raspy, alto voice came from the far end of the chamber, dark as the polished slate of the floor over which it rolled.
“Keeper Ch’drei,” Soen replied, bowing deeply. “I have come to report on the proceedings of today’s audience between the Emperor and. .”
“No.” Ch’drei held up her pale hand. “Close the doors behind you. There are too many ears who prey on my words.”
Soen stopped speaking at once. He was a trained observer and knew when it was time to talk, when it was time to listen. “You learn more when you stop speaking” was a motto that had served him well.
He quietly closed the heavy doors, then turned back to face into the hall again. The room did not have the vaulted ceilings so prized in later architecture. Like the fortress surrounding it, the Keeper’s Hall was oppressive, its ceiling hanging low overhead and supported by thick, squat pillars. The walls of the room were dark so that the glowing light from the globe sconces on each pillar was swallowed up in the blackness. At the end of the hall, opposite the entrance doors, sat the throne of the Keeper atop three steps of a dais. Three steps were all it could afford without forcing the Keeper to strike her head on the low ceiling whenever she stood.
On that throne, Ch’drei pressed the long fingers of her hands together. The Keeper was old, even among elves. The skin of her face and long forehead looked almost transparent. It sagged in places and seemed to have been pulled too tightly in others. The mane of her hair seemed to float around her skull like a fine mist. Her lips were drawn back in her age, exposing her teeth in what might too easily have been mistaken for a grin. She stooped over as she sat on the Throne of the Oracle, her body curling forward around her arching spine. She looked frail, but Soen knew better. The Keeper’s featureless eyes were still shining and as black as a grave. Soen knew that there were those who had thought it was time for the Keeper to. . well, relinquish her position in favor of younger, more dynamic individuals such as they themselves presented. Those who had sought the Keeper’s forced retirement were no longer available to testify regarding how they were stopped in their assassination plots; they had simply disappeared.
“Soen, my son,” Ch’drei said with bored detachment, “you are a most talented servant of the Iblisi Mandate and demonstrably a loyal servant of the Imperial Will.”
The Keeper shifted slightly in her throne. The words needed to be said, and so she was saying them although both Ch’drei and Soen were fully aware that they were only preliminary and without substance. “Indeed, your abilities have brought your name to be whispered with both glory and honor in the ears of many of the Orders even here in the capital of the world.”
“The Keeper is most generous in her words,” Soen replied evenly.
A hint of a smile pulled at the corner of the old elf woman’s lips. “I can afford to be generous with words, my son, but the position of our Order among the powers that rule requires more circumspect frugality.”
“And may I dare presume that I might assist the Order in some meaningful way?”
“Can you leave within the hour?”
Soen’s heart jumped, but he maintained his outward calm. “I serve at the pleasure of the Keeper-I can leave at your word.”
Ch’drei nodded, then straightened slightly. “The Myrdin-dai have asked for the assistance of the Iblisi-more particularly,
“They asked for me?”
“By name,” Ch’drei replied. “Had you not been at court, they would have demanded that you go with them at once.” The old woman reached out with her bent hand, gesturing him closer. “Come, my boy, I’ll bandy niceties with the primping fools of the other Orders but let’s have some plain talk between us.”
Soen smiled, the points of his ears quivering as he shook his head. “Who among us ever has ‘plain talk’?”
“Oh, nonsense,” Ch’drei spat the words with disdain, “If I were fifty years younger, I’d throw this at you, and you’d be dropping dead before you could utter another word!”
“
“I’ll throw it at whomever I please,” Ch’drei said, her featureless eyes squinting at him. “I’m especially fond of hitting insolent young boys with it.”
