Emperor and Clown

Naught Availeth

Of
all the cities of Pandemia, only Hub had no legend or history of its founding.
Hub was a legend in its own right, and history was its creation.

Hub
had always been. It was the capital of the Impire, the mother of superlatives,
the City of the Gods. It sprawled along the shores of Cenmere like a marble
cancer.

Alone
among all the dwelling places of mankind, only Hub had never known sack or rape
or the ravages of war. Forever it had lurked in peace behind the swords of its
legions and the sorcery of the Four. Hub was graced by the spoils of a thousand
campaigns and nourished on taxes extracted from half the world. Slaves in
forgotten millions had died to build it, priceless artworks had crumbled
and-weathered away in its halls and gardens to make space for more.

It
was the best and worst parts of a hundred cities, melted into one. Its finest
avenues were wide enough to march a century abreast; its darkest alleys were
slits where half a legion could have vanished without trace.

Hub
was grandeur. Hub was squalor. Hub gathered all the beauty of the world and
offered every vice. Its wealth and population were uncountable. Year in and
year out, by ship and wagon, food poured into Hub to feed its teeming mouths,
yet the humble starved. Hub exported war and laws and little else but
bodies-especially those in summer, when the fevers raged. The rich imported
their wine from distant lands, but their servants drank from the same wells as
the poor, and they infected their masters.

All
roads led to Hub, the imps boasted, and in Hub the greatest ways led to the
center, the five hills, the five palaces. The abodes of the wardens, the Red,
the White, the Gold, the Blue-beautiful but sinister, these were secret places,
masked and buttressed by sorcery, and few went willingly to those. In their
midst, highest and greatest, shone the Opal Palace of the imperor, seat of
government and all mundane power.

To
the Opal Palace came glory and. tribute and petitions and ambassadors.

And
to the Opal Palace came also, each in its own time, all the problems of the
world.

At
the center of Pandemia, Shandie thought, is the Impire. At the center of the
Impire is Hub. At the center of Hub is the Opal Palace-although that isn’t
quite true, because it’s too near the lake to be really in the center--and at
the center of the Opal Palace is Emine’s Rotunda, and at the center of the
rotunda is me.

Am
I, he amended hastily.

And
that wasn’t quite true, either, because the exact center of the great round
hall was the throne, and he was standing one step down from the throne, on
Grandfather’s right.

He
must not move. Not a finger. Not a toe. This was a very formal occasion.

And
Moms had warned him: Ythbane was running out of patience with Shandie’s
continual fidgeting at state functions. Princes must know how to behave with
dignity, Ythbane said, not twitch and shuffle and pick their noses on the steps
of the throne. If he couldn’t learn how to stand for a couple of hours, at
least he would be stopped from sitting down for the rest of the day. Not that
Shandie had ever picked his nose on the steps of the throne. He didn’t think he
really fidgeted enough that any of the audience could see. He didn’t think he’d
earned his last few beatings, but Ythbane had thought so, and Moms always
agreed with anything the consul said. And Grandfather didn’t even know who
Shandie was now.

Grandfather
was on his throne, so he was the center of the rotunda, and the palace, and the
city, and the Impire, and the world. From the sound of his breathing, he was
asleep again. Moms was on his far side, also on the first step; but she had a
chair to sit on.

Dad
had stood here once, he remembered. Where he was. Moms didn’t talk about Dad
now, not ever. Keeping perfectly still would be much easier if you could sit
down to do it. Shandie’s knees were shaking. His left arm was a torment of fire
ants from staying bent, holding up his toga. If his arm fell off, would that be
counted as moving?

Ythbane
would probably beat him anyway. He was still sore from last time.

Grandfather
snorted and snuffled in his sleep. Lucky Grandfather!

One
day I will sit on that throne, and be Imperor Emshandar V.

Then
I will kill Ythbane.

That
was a wonderful thought.

What
else should an imperor do? First, have Ythbane’s backside beaten-right there,
on the floor of the rotunda, where the fat delegate was still kneeling,
reciting his nonsense. In front of the court and the senators. Shandie caught
himself about to smile, and didn’t.

Then
be merciful and cut off his head. Second, abolish these stupid, stupid togas!

Why
should formal occasions require formal court dress, togas and sandals? No one
wore them any other time. What was wrong with hose and doublet and shoes? Or
even tights, which were the latest craze. Ordinary people never had to wear
these ridiculous, scratchy, uncomfortable bed sheets. Sane, ordinary people
hadn’t worn things like these for thousands of years. Oh, my poor arm!

Abolish
togas, that was certain.

And
abolish all these dreadful formal ceremonies! Why bother with them? Grandfather
certainly didn’t want them-he’d been weeping when they’d brought him in. The
birthday homages had just started, too. They would be going on for weeks. What
sort of a way was that to celebrate a birthday, even a seventy-fifth?

A
birthday was one day. That’s what the word meant. Birthday!

Shandie’s
tenth birthday was just a month away, and he was going to have a one-day
birthday. Mostly awful ceremonial, too, but a party with some other boys if he
was good, Moms said.

The
toga was hot and heavy. Sunlight blazed down from the windows in the high dome,
casting his shadow at his feet-but he mustn’t look down.

The
fat delegate from wherever-it-was came to a stuttering end at last, obviously as
relieved as Shandie. He bent forward to place his offering beside the other
offerings, then crawled back a pace and touched his face to the floor. Everyone
looked up at Grandfather, and Shandie froze. Even his eyes. Don’t blink while
Ythbane is watching! ‘

Grandfather
was supposed to say something then, but all Shandie heard was another half
snore.

As
a consul, Ythbane stood at the head of the line of toga-clad ministers, nearest
to the imperor. Shandie could feel those hateful eyes washing over him, looking
for signs of fidgeting, but he stared rigidly across at the empty White Throne
and did not breathe. Little tremors crawled over his scalp. If his hair stood
on end, would Ythbane call that fidgeting?

Ythbane
said loudly, “His Imperial Majesty welcomes the greetings from his loyal city
of Shaldokan.” The fat delegate looked confused, but then realized he could
begin his withdrawal. He had trouble managing his toga while crawling backward
at the same time. Probably he’d never worn one of the stupid things before in
his life. Now he was rising and bowing, and so on ...

The
chief herald ponderously consulted his list. “The honored delegate from the
loyal city of Shalmik,”-he proclaimed. This one was a woman, one of only two
women today. She was very ugly, but these were northern cities, so maybe she
had some goblin blood in her. Goblins had been talked of a lot just lately,
although Shandie had almost never heard them mentioned until a few weeks ago.
In the spring, a horde of the little green vermin had ambushed and massacred
four cohorts of Grandfather’s legionaries while they were on diplomatic
business-and tortured the prisoners to death! Marshal Ithy had promised Shandie
he would punish them severely.

Twenty-four
cities had delivered their birthday presents. That left four more to come after
the woman. Then there would be some sort of petitionthe Nordland ambassador was
waiting in the background. A jotunn, of course. He was old, but he still looked
strong enough to take on a century singlehanded. Maybe his hair had always been
that pale color. He would have those creepy jotunn blue eyes, too. Ugly,
bleached monsters, Moms said. Imps were the only really handsome people.

Emine’s
Rotunda was very big. Shandie wondered how many people it would hold, but if he
asked Court Teacher he would just make Shandie work it out on his abacus.
Circles were tricky-was it times twentytwo, divide by seven, or the other way?

There
were at least a hundred senators on the bank of seats around the north side,
distinguishable from their guests and other notables by the purple hems on
their togas. They certainly weren’t keeping still. They were talking and
reading and some of them were dozing, like Grandfather was.

The
southerly seats held lesser people, even commoners, and they were being
quieter, but he mustn’t look around to see how many there were.

Emine
II (q.v.), imperor of the First Dynasty, and legendary founder of the Protocol
(q.v.), which brought the powers of sorcery under control by establishing the
Council of Four Wardens (q.v.), occult guardians of the Impire ... Without
Court Teacher telling him to, Shandie had memorized a whole page about Emine
and recited it for Moms, and she had been pleased and given him a candycake.
She had made him repeat it for Ythbane that evening, and even Ythbane had
praised him and almost smiled.

They
were always pleased when he did bookish things well. They wouldn’t let him do
military things-things with horses and swords, although those were what he
really wanted, because when he grew up he was going to be a warrior imperor;
like Agraine. He wasn’t allowed to do boyish things with other boys hardly at
all now. And ceremonial things he hated and usually got beaten after, for
fidgeting at. The price of being the heir, Moms said, but it was all Ythbane’s
idea.

The
woman delegate on her knees had forgotten her words. She stopped, turning ashen
pale. Shandie felt sorry for her, wondering if the city fathers would order her
beaten when she went home to wherever-itwas. The silence dragged on. No one helped,
or could help. The line of ministers remained motionless, staring over her at
the opposing line, which was made up of heralds and secretaries. Farther away,
the large group of delegates-who-had-done-their-speech looked hugely relieved
that this wasn’t their problem. The small group of delegates-who-haven’t-done-it-yet
looked terrified.

The
woman began all over again from first genuflection, gabbling the words in a
shrill voice. The senators in their comfortable chairs were paying no
attention.

Those
spectator benches went all the way around, except where the four aisles were,
of course, but they still left lots of room in the middle. And in the center of
that big round floor were the two round steps with Grandfather’s throne on top.
Today was a north day; northern cities paying homage, the Opal Throne facing
north. Halfway between Shandie and the senators, the White Throne stood on a
single step. That place belonged to the warden of the north, but it was empty.
Shandie had never seen a warden. Not many people had. And nobody ever wanted
even to talk about them, even Grandfather, but he at least wasn’t scared of
them. He was imperor, so he could summon the wardens.

One
day I will be imperor and use Emine’s buckler to summon the wardens.

Even
before Grandfather got old, he had not been frightened of the witch and the
warlocks. They couldn’t touch him, he’d said; that was in the Protocol.

No
one could use magic on Shandie, either, because he was family. Not that being
heir apparent was much comfort when he was bent over Ythbane’s writing table
with his pants down. Any magic would be better than that.