Emperor of Thorns (The Broken Empire, Book 3) (44 page)

‘Afrique? Are you never still?’ He glanced back at the column halted in the street. ‘Anyhow, you must come with us. You can ride beside Elin. You remember my sister Elin?’

Oh I did. Visit us in winter, she had said. ‘My horse is back at the inn,’ I told him. ‘And where are you bound? And for what? Has it grown too cold in the north?’

‘Getting married.’ He grinned. ‘Walk with me, if it’s not beneath a king’s dignity.’

‘Dignity?’ I matched his grin and flicked a splinter from my shoulder.

Sindri rejoined his column on foot and I took the place of the warrior beside him. ‘My lady.’ I nodded up at Elin, pale in black velvets, white-blonde hair cascading behind her.

‘You’ve not met my uncle Thorgard, and Norv the Raw, our bannerman from Hake Vale?’ Sindri indicated the other riders, older men, grim, helmed, scarred.

I smacked a fist to my breastplate and inclined my head, remembering the low opinion such men held of the courtesies traded in Vyene. ‘And your father?’

‘His duties keep him in Maladon. Dead things rising from the barrowlands. Also his health is—’

‘A chill, nothing more.’ Duke Maladon’s brother leaned across his nephew.

The column restarted with a blast of serpent horns. We marched on into the silence left in their wake. ‘Married?’ I asked. ‘To a southerner?’

‘A lass from the Hagenfast, good Viking stock. One of Father’s alliances, but she’s a pretty thing. A hellcat in the furs.’

Elin snorted on the other side of him.

‘So you’ve all trooped down to Vyene … ?’

Sindri reached up and flicked one of the bull’s horns on his helm. ‘We’re traditionalists. Frozen in our ways. We’ve barely let go of the old gods three thousand years after the Christ came. In the north any marriage of great consequence must be witnessed by the emperor, and that means coming to court. Even if there’s no emperor. Or steward. So here we are.’

‘Well it’s good to see you.’ And I meant it.

Five years earlier

I came to the Gilden Gate dressed in Sindri’s spare cloak and tunic, with boots from one or other of his warriors, my rank recognized by the Gilden Guard on Sindri’s vouching. The Gate lay deep inside the palace, not an entrance but a rite of passage. I had always imagined the Gate would tower, stand wide enough for a coach and horses, require ten men to open.

‘That’s it?’

‘Yes.’ Hemmet, Lord Commander of the Gilden Guard, didn’t elaborate. He must have met this reaction dozens of times.

We stood, Sindri, his inner party, Hemmet and I, in an antechamber the size of Father’s throne room and appointed with more grandeur and more taste than anything most of the Hundred could aspire to. And in the expanse of the west wall, set with the busts of emperors past, each in white marble deep in its niche to watch the ages, stood the Gilden Gate. A modest entrance in which an ancient wooden archway stood unsupported. Oak perhaps, black with age, any carving smoothed away by the passage of years.

‘Why?’ I asked.

Hemmet turned his gaze on me, very blue, crinkles at the corners. He scratched at the white stubble on his chin. ‘Go through.’ He gestured with his staff of office, a rod of steel and gold, ending in a strange crest of red velvet tongues.

I shrugged and walked toward the arch, no taller than nine foot or so, a little narrower. Nothing until the last two steps. One more and the raw agony of my burn woke again in old scar tissue all across the left side of my face. At the same time the sharp and critical pain of Father’s knife thrust pierced my chest once more, spreading through my veins like acid. And the thorn-patterned box at my hip grew so heavy it made me stagger, dragging me down. I managed to reel back, a hand clasped over my burn scar, cursing and spitting.

‘Nothing tainted may pass,’ Hemmet said. He tucked the rod of office into his belt. ‘When the Hundred meet no magics can be taken within, no mind-sworn can enter to sway men’s loyalties, none tainted with ungodly powers can enter to threaten their fellow rulers with more than men should possess. Any influences exerted on a person will be wiped away should they be able to pass through the gate.’

I straightened, the pain fading as quickly as it had come. ‘You might have warned me.’ I wiped spittle and blood from the corner of my mouth.

Hemmet shrugged. ‘I didn’t know you were tainted.’ A big man, solid in his years. The golden half-plate he wore hardly weighed on him. A stunning piece of work, lobstered over the shoulders and around the back of his neck where it rose to a helm that bore more than the suggestion of a crown.

‘You try it,’ I told him.

He walked on in, turned and spread his hands. You could see he cared little for the Hundred, whether they call themselves king, or duke, or lord. There were many of the hundred, more names than most men could summon to mind, and but a single Lord Commander of the Gilden Guard. Hemmet.

‘So I’m to be left out here?’ I tried not to make it sound like whining.

‘Captain Kosson will show you in through one of the side passages.’ Hemmet smiled. ‘It’s only at Congression that you will be excluded, or should you seek to petition the Emperor when the throne is occupied again.’

And so I took the longer route into the emperor’s throne room. Whilst Sindri, Elin, and the other untainted nobles were led in through the Gilden Gate, poor Jorgy had to slink in around the back like a servant. Kosson led me through long dark corridors holding a lantern to light the way.

‘Most palaces can afford better lighting.’ It seemed a far cry from Ibn Fayed’s grand home.

‘Most palaces are inhabited by royals,’ Kosson replied without looking back. ‘Nobody lives here save a few servants to keep the dust stirred up. The guard come in and out during the years between Congressions, but we’re soldiers, we don’t need oil lamps in every niche. Shadows don’t scare the guard.’

I was about to say that perhaps they should, but something took the words away. ‘There aren’t any niches.’ No place for lamp, lantern, or even torch, nowhere to display statuary, baubles, or any form of wealth as nobles are wont to show.

Kosson stopped and looked up. His gaze led me to a small glass circle set flush with the white stone of the ceiling. ‘A Builder light,’ he said.

I saw them now, every few yards.

‘They don’t work though.’ A shrug and he carried on walking, swinging shadows around us.

‘This is a Builder hall? But—’ It hardly seemed possible. ‘It’s so … graceful. The dome, the archways and antechambers …’

‘Not everything they made was ugly. This was a place of power. Some kind of legislature. They built it grand.’

‘I learn something new every day,’ I said. ‘You think they might have had souls after all then, these Builders?’ I only half-joked.

‘If it’s learning you’re after, I’ll show you something most visitors don’t get to see.’ Kosson made a sharp left into a smaller corridor and then another left.

‘That is … unusual.’ I came to a halt at his shoulder.

A man stood with his back to us. He looked to be running but hadn’t a twitch of motion in him, as if someone had taken the trouble to dress a very well-executed statue in a one-piece beige tunic and trews, belted at the waist. In one hand a long rod, almost like a broom but topped with a mass of red strips, oddly familiar, in the other a strange cup, extremely thin-walled, half-crushed in his grip, a dark liquid spilling from it, going nowhere. It set me in mind of blood droplets exploding from a broken skull, hanging in the air forever. It put me in mind of Fexler.

‘So you’ve got yourself a Builder in stasis.’ I looked around for some kind of projector like the one that had frozen time around Fexler. The section of corridor looked identical to the rest.

Kosson threw me a hurt look, for a moment a child with his enthusiasm dashed. ‘Yes, but see
who
we have here!’

We edged around the invisible glass surrounding the man. That was how it felt. Slick glass, cold to touch, the edge of time where hours and minutes die to nothing.

‘See?’ Kosson pointed to a white rectangle attached to the man’s chest, to the left. It looked to be a piece of plasteek and bore the legend ‘CUSTODIAN’ in black. ‘That means he’s the guardian, the protector. The guard archivists have books that tell the meanings of ancient words.’

‘He looks soft to me.’ Weak, white, fear in his eyes.

‘The strength of the Builders was never in their arms. That’s what the Lord Commander says. I agree with you myself, he’s no warrior. The Lord Commander tracks his ancestry back to the first custodian. This man. He’s the family’s patron saint.’

And in that moment I understood why the man’s broom-thing seemed familiar. ‘That staff of office Hemmet’s got. It’s copied from this, isn’t it? Shorter, prettier, but this?’

Kosson nodded.

‘Patron saint, you say?’ I sucked my teeth trying to figure that one through. ‘You’re telling me Roma canonized a Builder?’

‘You’ll have to ask the Lord Commander that one.’ Kosson shook his head. ‘Come on.’ And he led back the way we’d come.

We were reunited before the throne, a plain wooden chair, high-backed and sturdy, ancient work, crudely fashioned. Here and there gleaming bolt heads drew the eye, on the armrests, the front legs, the sides, smoothed flat to the wood. Legend had it that kings among the Builders had sat in this same seat and the same secret fire that ran through their machines had run through their veins. It had been shipped in across a great ocean long ago.

‘Will you have me keep my distance? Stand over here? Unclean as I am.’ I paused some yards back.

Sindri grinned and waved me forward. Elin intercepted me as I approached, lifting her fingers to touch my scarring. ‘The North knows how you came by your wounds, King Jorg, and they are no taint.’

The throne stood on a dais of two high steps. The throne hall itself reached to the great dome covering the whole palace complex, and lay in a great circle surrounded by many chambers.

‘The wedding ceremony will be conducted here before the throne with an honour watch of one hundred and fifty guard, the troops assigned to escorting each of your fathers to Congression,’ Lord Commander Hemmet told Sindri.

‘A priest of Roma speaking the words within the Gilden Gate,’ I said. ‘That must grate, Lord Commander?’ Whatever the disrespect the guard showed to the Hundred it paled next to that reserved for the Pope and her underlings, be it cardinal or choirboy.

‘Never that, Jorg. The emperors maintained a personal priest swearing no allegiance to Roma. Such clerics are still available from a church within the palace. The Pope holds no sway within these walls, her corruption of the faith doesn’t touch the guard, we keep to older ways. I doubt me that the Gate would allow any priest with Roma’s stink to pass.’

‘Well and good,’ I said. ‘I hold to older ways myself.’ And I stepped closer to Elin. She smelled good, of woman and of horse, neck slender, eyes wicked. I nodded for Hemmet to continue his show and tell. Not that he was waiting for my permission.

‘At Congression the Hundred break into their bickering groups and secret themselves in the preparation halls.’ Lord Commander Hemmet swung an arm to encompass all the side chambers. ‘Lord Sindri and Lady Freya may take a chamber each to house their respective wedding parties.’

‘Can they choose which?’ I asked.

‘Your pardon, King Jorg?’ He had a way of speaking that made ‘king’ seem a very small word.

‘Can they have any of the chambers they wish? There must be thirty or more.’

‘Twenty-seven, and yes, they can have any of them.’ He nodded.

‘Well let’s go exploring then,’ Elin said, and took my hand, leading me off toward a distant archway.

I heard Sindri snort behind me. ‘Come Uncle, Norv.’

‘And I’m supposed to know what to look for?’ I heard the uncle growl behind us. ‘It’s just a damn room.’

We had a fair walk to the first chamber. The emperor’s throne room would fit within Ibn Fayed’s but with not much space to spare, and I judged it more ancient, turned to this purpose at a time when the empire was still in bud.

We halted before double oak doors inlaid with ironwood, the marquetry depicting two battling eagles facing off across the dividing line. Elin’s hand felt cool in mine. She nearly matched me in height, the whiteness of her making something alien yet intriguing. She pushed a door and led me in.

The room beyond lay cavernous and dark, lit in patches by light from small windows in the ceiling, glazed using lost skills or stolen glass.

‘There’s nothing to see,’ I said. ‘And besides, it’s just a room, what’s to choose?’

‘And there’s me thinking this was your idea in the first place,’ Elin said, moving by me, pulling me into the shadows. Something in the way she brushed past lit a fire.

I had been thinking to send Sindri and his party off questing after a suitable room to claim, hopefully with the Lord Commander in tow, leaving me to poke around the empire throne in a moment of privacy. Instead we’d left Hemmet back by the throne and I was wasting my time with—

‘We won’t have long.’ Elin snaked her arms around me, strong and slender fingers kneading into the muscles along my spine.

‘I don’t want Sindri to—’ I started.

She kissed me, challenging, hungry. Then, pulling away, ‘Oh shush, he knows me.’ She shrugged off her velvet cloak.

‘I need to get to the—’

‘I know what you need, my king.’ She drew her tunic overhead, black as moleskin, a fluid motion leaving her naked save for skirts. Skin like milk, showing only the faintest pink at the tips of full and heavy breasts.

It was true. She did know what I needed.

Five years earlier

‘Who the hell are you?’ I pushed myself from Elin and left her leaning back against the wall, still patting down her skirts.

‘A man who sees the future.’ The intruder, a priest by the look of his robes, watched us with milky eyes. For the sake of Elin’s honour I hoped he saw as little as the cataracts suggested.

‘So you already know I’m just about to repeat my question?’ I said.

‘I am Father Merrin, priest of the Free Church of Adam.’