‘Of course not. They do it out of love. That’s the official explanation, of course. Actually, the custom originated about a thousand years ago. A drunken courtier tripped and fell on his face when the emperor entered the room. The emperor was terribly impressed, and characteristically, he completely misunderstood. He awarded the courtier a dukedom on the spot. People aren’t banging their faces on the cobblestones out of fear, young man. They’re doing it in the hope of being rewarded.’
‘You’re a cynic, Oscagne,’ Emban accused the ambassador.
‘No, Emban, I’m a realist. A good politician always looks for the worst in people.’
‘Someday they may surprise you, your Excellency,’ Talen predicted.
‘They haven’t yet.’
The palace compound was only slightly smaller than the city of Demos in eastern Elenia. The gleaming central palace, of course, was by far the largest structure in the grounds. There were other palaces, however – glowing structures in a wide variety of architectural styles. Sir Bevier drew in his breath sharply. ‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed. ‘That castle over there is almost an exact replica of the palace of King Dregos in Larium.’
‘Plagiarism appears to be a sin not exclusively committed by poets,’ Stragen murmured.
‘Merely a genuflection toward cosmopolitanism, Milord,’ Oscagne explained. ‘We are an empire, after all, and we’ve drawn many different peoples under our roof. Elenes like castles, so we have a castle here to make the Elene Kings of the western empire feel more comfortable when they come to pay a call.’
‘The castle of King Dregos certainly doesn’t gleam in the sun the way that one does,’ Bevier noted.
‘That was sort of the idea, Sir Bevier,’ Oscagne smiled.
They dismounted in the flagstoned, semi-enclosed court before the main palace, where they were met by a horde of obsequious servants.
‘What does he want?’ Kalten asked, holding off a determined-looking Tamul garbed in crimson silk.
‘Your shoes, Sir Kalten,’ Oscagne explained.
‘What’s wrong with my shoes?’
‘They’re made of steel, Sir Knight.’
‘So? I’m wearing armour. Naturally my shoes are made of steel.’
‘You can’t enter the palace with steel shoes on your feet. Leather boots aren’t even permitted – the floors, you understand.’
‘Even the floors are made of sea-shells?’ Kalten asked incredulously.
‘I’m afraid so. We Tamuls don’t wear shoes inside our houses, so the builders went ahead and tiled the floors of the buildings here in the imperial compound as well as the walls and ceilings. They didn’t anticipate visits by armoured knights.’
‘I can’t take off my shoes,’ Kalten objected, flushing.
‘What’s the problem, Kalten?’ Ehlana asked him.
‘I’ve got a hole in one of my socks,’ he muttered, looking dreadfully embarrassed. ‘I can’t meet an emperor with my toes hanging out.’ He looked around at his companions, his face pugnacious. He held up one gauntleted fist. ‘If anybody laughs, there’s going to be a fight,’ he threatened.
‘Your dignity’s secure, Sir Kalten,’ Oscagne assured him. ‘The servants have down-filled slippers for us to wear inside.’
‘I’ve got awfully big feet, your Excellency,’ Kalten pointed out anxiously. ‘Are you sure they’ll have shoes to fit me?’
‘Don’t be concerned, Kalten-Knight,’ Engessa said. ‘If they can fit me, they can certainly fit you.’
Once the visitors had been re-shod, they were escorted into the palace. There were oil lamps hanging on long chains suspended from the ceiling, and the lamplight set everything aflame. The shifting, rainbow-hued colours of the walls, floors and ceiling of the broad corridors dazzled the Elenes, and they followed the servants all bemused.
There were courtiers here, of course – no palace is complete without them – and like the citizens in the streets outside, they grovelled as the Queen of Elenia passed.
‘Don’t become too enamoured of their mode of greeting, love,’ Sparhawk warned his wife. ‘The citizens of Cimmura wouldn’t adopt it no matter what you offered them.’
‘Don’t be absurd, Sparhawk,’ she replied tartly. ‘I wasn’t even considering it. Actually, I wish these people would stop. It’s really just a bit embarrassing.’
‘That’s my girl,’ he smiled.
They were offered wine and chilled, scented water to dab on their faces. The knights accepted the wine enthusiastically, and the ladies dutifully dabbed.
‘You really ought to try some of this, father,’ Princess Danae suggested, pointing at one of the porcelain basins of water. ‘It might conceal the fragrance of your armour.’
‘She has a point, Sparhawk,’ Ehlana agreed.
‘Armour’s supposed to stink,’ he replied, shrugging. ‘If an enemy’s eyes start to water during a fight, it gives you a certain advantage.’
‘I knew there was a reason,’ the little princess murmured.
Then they were led into a long corridor where mosaic portraits were inlaid into the walls, stiff, probably idealised representations of long-dead emperors. A broad strip of crimson carpet with a golden border along each edge protected the floor of that seemingly endless corridor.
‘Very impressive, your Excellency,’ Stragen murmured to Oscagne after a time. ‘How many more miles is it to the throne-room?’
‘You are droll, Milord.’ Oscagne smiled briefly.
‘It’s artfully done,’ the thief observed, ‘but doesn’t it waste a great deal of space?’
‘Very perceptive, Milord Stragen.’
‘What’s this?’ Tynian asked.
‘The corridor curves to the left,’ Stragen replied. ‘It’s hard to detect because of the way the walls reflect the light, but if you look closely, you can see it. We’ve been walking around in a circle for the past quarter of an hour.’
‘A spiral, actually, Milord Stragen,’ Oscagne corrected him. ‘The design was intended to convey the notion of immensity. Tamuls are of short stature, and immensity impresses us. That’s why we’re so fond of the Atans. We’re reaching the inner coils of the spiral now. The throne-room’s not far ahead.’
The corridors of shifting fire were suddenly filled with a brazen fanfare as hidden trumpeters greeted the queen and her party. That fanfare was followed by an awful screeching punctuated by a tinny clanking noise. Mmrr, nestled in her little mistress’ arms, laid back her ears and hissed.
‘The cat has excellent musical taste,’ Bevier noted, wincing at a particularly off-key passage in the ‘music’.
‘I’d forgotten that,’ Sephrenia apologised to Vanion. ‘Try to ignore it, dear one.’
‘I am,’ he replied with a pained expression on his face.
‘You remember that Ogress I told you about?’ Ulath asked Sparhawk, ‘The one who fell in love with that poor fellow up in Thalesia?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘When she sang to him, it sounded almost exactly like that.’
‘He went into a monastery to get away from her, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wise decision.’
‘It’s an affectation of ours,’ Oscagne explained to them. ‘The Tamul language is very musical when it’s spoken. Pretty music would seem commonplace, even mundane – so our composers strive for the opposite effect.’
‘I’d say they’ve succeeded beyond human imagination,’ Baroness Melidere said. ‘It sounds like someone’s torturing a dozen pigs inside an iron works.’
‘I’ll convey your observation to the composer, Baroness,’ Oscagne told her. ‘I’m sure he’ll be pleased.’
‘I’d be pleased if his song came to an end, your Excellency.’
The vast doors that finally terminated the endless-seeming corridor were covered with beaten gold, and they swung ponderously open to reveal an enormous, domed hall. Since the dome was higher than the surrounding structures, the illumination in the room came through inch
-thick crystal windows high overhead. The sun poured down through those windows to set the walls and floor of Emperor Sarabian’s throne room afire. The hall was of suitably stupendous dimensions, and the expanses of nacreous white were broken up by accents of crimson and gold. Heavy red velvet draperies hung at intervals along the glowing walls, flanking columnar buttresses inlaid with gold. A wide avenue of crimson carpet led from the huge doors to the foot of the throne, and the room was filled with courtiers, both Tamul and Elene.
Another fanfare announced the arrival of the visitors, and the Church Knights and the Peloi formed up in military precision around Queen Ehlana and her party. They marched with ceremonial pace down that broad, carpeted avenue to the throne of his Imperial Majesty, Sarabian of Tamul.
The ruler of half the world wore a heavy crown of diamond-encrusted gold, and his crimson cloak, open at the front, was bordered with wide bands of tightly-woven gold thread. His robe was gleaming white, caught at the waist by a wide golden belt. Despite the splendour of his throne-room and his clothing, Sarabian of Tamul was a rather ordinary-looking man. His skin was pale by comparison with the skin of the Atans, largely, Sparhawk surmised, because the emperor was seldom out of doors. He was of medium stature and build and his face was unremarkable. His eyes, however, were far more alert than Sparhawk had expected. When Ehlana entered the throne-room, he rose somewhat hesitantly to his feet.
Oscagne looked a bit surprised. ‘That’s amazing,’ he said. ‘The emperor never stands to greet his guests.’
‘Who are the ladies gathered around him?’ Ehlana asked in a quiet voice.
‘His wives,’ Oscagne replied, ‘the Empresses of Tamuli. There are nine of them.’
‘Monstrous!’ Bevier gasped.
‘Political expediency, Sir Knight,’ the ambassador explained. ‘An ordinary man has only one wife, but the emperor has to have one from each kingdom in the empire. He can’t really show favouritism, after all.’
‘It looks as if one of the empresses forgot to finish dressing,’ Baroness Melidere said critically, staring at one of the imperial wives, a sunny-faced young woman who stood naked to the waist with no hint that her unclad state caused her any concern. The skirt caught around her waist was a brilliant scarlet, and she had a red flower in her hair.
Oscagne chuckled. ‘That’s our Elysoun,’ he smiled. ‘She’s from the Isle of Valesia, and that’s the costume – or lack of it – customary among the islanders. She’s a totally uncomplicated girl, and we all love her dearly. The normal rules governing marital fidelity have never applied to the Valesian Empress. It’s a concept the Valesians can’t comprehend. The notion of sin is alien to them.’
Bevier gasped.
‘Hasn’t anyone ever tried to instruct them?’ Emban asked.
‘Oh, my, yes, your Grace,’ Oscagne grinned. ‘Churchmen from the Elene kingdoms of western Tamuli have gone by the score to Valesia to try to persuade the islanders that their favourite pastime is scandalous and sinful. The churchmen are filled with zeal right at first, but it doesn’t usually last for very long. Valesian girls are all very beautiful and very friendly. Almost invariably, it’s the Elenes who are converted. The Valesian religion seems to have only one commandment: “Be happy”.’
‘There are worse notions,’ Emban sighed.
‘Your Grace!‘ Bevier exclaimed.
‘Grow up, Bevier,’ Emban told him. ‘I sometimes think that our Holy Mother Church is a bit obsessive about certain aspects of human behaviour.’
Bevier flushed, and his face grew rigidly disapproving.
The courtiers in the throne-room, obviously at the emperor’s command, once again ritualistically grovelled as Ehlana passed. Practice had made them so skilled that dropping to their knees, banging their foreheads on the floor and getting back up again was accomplished with only minimal awkwardness.
Ehlana, gowned in royal blue, reached the throne and curtseyed gracefully. The set look on her face clearly said that she would not grovel.
The emperor bowed in response, and an astonished gasp ran through the crowd. The imperial bow was adequate, though just a bit stiff. Sarabian had obviously been practising, but bowing appeared not to come naturally to him. Then he cleared his throat and spoke at some length in the Tamul language, pausing from time to time to permit his official translator to convert his remarks into Elenic.
‘Keep your eyes where they belong,’ Ehlana murmured to Sparhawk. Her face was serene, and her lips scarcely moved.
‘I wasn’t looking at her,’ he protested.
‘Oh, really?’
The Empress Elysoun had the virtually undivided attention of the Church Knights and the Peloi, and she quite obviously was enjoying it. Her dark eyes sparkled, and her smile was just slightly naughty. She stood not far from her Imperial husband, breathing deeply, evidently a form of exercise among her people. There was a challenge in the look she returned to her many admirers, and she surveyed them clinically. Sparhawk had seen the same look on Ehlana’s face when she was choosing jewellery or gowns. He concluded that Empress Elysoun was very likely to cause problems.
Emperor Sarabian’s speech was filled with formalised platitudes. His heart was full. He swooned with joy. He was dumbstruck by Ehlana’s beauty. He was quite overwhelmed by the honour she did him in stopping by to call. He thought her dress was very nice.
Ehlana, the world’s consummate orator, quickly discarded the speech she had been preparing since her departure from Chyrellos and responded in kind. She found Matherion quite pretty. She advised Sarabian that her life had now seen its crown (Ehlana’s life seemed to find a new crown each time she made a speech). She commented on the unspeakable beauty of the Imperial wives, (though making no mention of Empress Elysoun’s painfully visible attributes). She also promised to swoon with joy, since it seemed to be the fashion here. She thanked him profusely for his gracious welcome. She did not, however, talk about the weather.
Emperor Sarabian visibly relaxed. He had clearly been apprehensive that the Queen of Elenia might accidentally slip something of substance into her speech which would have then obliged him to respond without consultation.
He thanked her for her thanks.
She thanked him for his thanks for her thanks.
Then they stared at each other. Thanks for thanks for thanks can only be carried so far without becoming ridiculous.
Then an official with an exaggeratedly bored look on his face cleared his throat. He was somewhat taller than the average Tamul, and his face showed no sign whatsoever of what he was thinking.
It was with enormous relief that Emperor Sarabian introduced his prime minister, Pondia Subat.
‘Odd name,’ Ulath murmured after the emperor’s remarks had been translated. ‘I wonder if his close friends call him “Pondy”.’
‘Pondia is his title of nobility, Sir Ulath,’ Oscagne explained. ‘It’s a rank somewhat akin to that of viscount, though not exactly. Be a little careful of him, my lords. He is not your friend. He also pretends not to understand Elenic, but I strongly suspect that his ignorance on that score is feigned. Subat was violently opposed to the idea of inviting Prince Sparhawk to come to Matherion. He felt that to do so would demean the emperor. I’ve also been advised that the emperor’s decision to treat Queen Ehlana as an equal quite nearly gave our prime minister apoplexy.’
‘Is he dangerous?’ Sparhawk murmured.
‘I’m not entirely certain, your Highness. He’s fanatically loyal to the emperor, and I’m not altogether sure where that may lead him.’
Pondia Subat was making a few remarks.
‘He says that he knows you’re fatigued by the rigours of the journey,’ Oscagne translated. ‘He urges you to accept the imperial hospitality to rest and refresh yourselves. It’s a rather neat excuse to conclude the interview before anyone says anything that might compel the emperor to answer before Subat has a chance to prompt him.’
‘It might not be a bad idea,’ Ehlana decided. ‘Things haven’t
gone badly so far. Maybe we should just leave well enough alone for the time being.’
‘I shall be guided by you, your Majesty,’ Oscagne said with a florid bow.
Ehlana let that pass.
After another effusive exchange between their Majesties, the prime minister escorted the visitors from the hall. Just outside the door to the throne-room they mounted a flight of stairs and proceeded along a corridor directly to the far side of the palace, foregoing the pleasure of retracing their steps around and around the interminable spiral.
Pondia Subat, speaking through an interpreter, pointed out features of interest as they progressed. His tone was deliberately off-hand, treating wonders as commonplace. He was not even particularly subtle about his efforts to put these Elene barbarians in their place. He did not quite sneer at them, but he came very close. He led them along a covered walk-way to the gleaming Elene castle, where he left them in the care of Ambassador Oscagne.
‘Is his attitude fairly prevalent here in Matherion?’ Emban asked the ambassador.
‘Hardly,’ Oscagne replied. ‘Subat’s the leader of a very small faction here at court. They’re arch-conservatives who haven’t had a new idea in five hundred years.’
‘How did he become prime minister if his faction is so small?’ Tynian asked.
‘Tamul politics are very murky, Sir Tynian. We serve at the emperor’s pleasure, and he’s in no way obliged to take our advice on any matter. Subat’s father was a very close friend of Emperor Sarabian’s sire, and the appointment of Subat as prime minister was more in the nature of a gesture of filial respect than a recognition of outstanding merit, although Subat’s an adequate prime minister – unless something unusual comes up. Then he tends to go all to pieces. Cronyism’s one of the major drawbacks of our form of government. The head of our church has never had a pious thought in his life. He doesn’t even know the names of our Gods.’
‘Wait a minute,’ Emban said, his eyes stunned. ‘Are you trying to say that ecclesiastical positions are bestowed by the emperor?’
‘Of course. They are positions of authority, after all, and Tamul emperors don’t like to let authority of any kind out of their hands.’