Raven's Shadow (34 page)

Tier knew about recruiting young men.

 

Phoran was deliberately late going to the Council chambers. He wanted them to gossip, to fret. If Avar had done as he asked, they would be more annoyed than worried.

The Emperor stopped before the door, took a deep breath, and nodded to the chamberlain to announce him.

“Rise for the Emperor Phoran, may his reign never cease!”

If it doesn't ever begin,
thought Phoran,
can it ever cease?

Silence fell in the room and Phoran strode leisurely through the doorway, followed by the young page he'd chosen for his small size to make the stack of parchment the page carried look even larger than it was.

Phoran himself was in his most glittering, gaudy clothes—clothes that had caused his valet to mutter about street whores. Phoran had started out to wear a more conservative outfit—but he'd decided that would send the wrong message. He didn't want to announce,
Look! I've changed for you.
He wanted to force them to acknowledge him emperor on his own terms.

His hair was curled, and his face was powdered paler than any court dandy. A small blue star painted beside his eye matched the glittering blue and silver stars embroidered on purple velvet portions of his costume.

He didn't hurry, forcing himself to keep his appearance languid while the impatience of the Septs grew almost palpable. At last he reached the place reserved for the Emperor. A thin coat of dust covered the inlayed surface of his podium, where he gestured for the boy to set the parchment before waving him off in the general direction of Douver, the council secretary.

The page relayed the message he'd been given and the secretary looked up at Phoran incredulously. Phoran stared back, doing his best to look neither nervous nor smug as his page rejoined him.

Douver cleared his throat. “Septs of the Empire. I call a
general roll so that His Glory the Emperor shall know who attends this meeting. Each Sept will call out as I read his name.” He took up a paper and Phoran made a show of removing the top sheet of parchment, which was a copy of the clerk's.

In the end, twenty-four Septs were absent. Phoran was careful to mark each of their names with a stylus while the council watched. Everyone in the room knew that at least eighteen of those named were in the palace.

“Thank you,” said Phoran graciously, and without a speech or any further delay, he picked up the first of the proposed laws. “The matter of the trade agreement between the Septs of Isslaw and Blackwater is declared to be Imperial Law.”

He set the first parchment to one side and picked up the next. By the tenth parchment the Septs began shifting uncomfortably in their seats—except for Avar, who sat in his chair with arms folded across his chest, and stared at Phoran thoughtfully as Phoran continued his show.

Phoran took the fifteenth parchment and read, “For his services to the Empire, the Sept of Jenne is to be awarded the land from Iscar Rock to the eastern field of Kersay Holm in a path no more than ten miles wide.”

He looked up and found the Sept of Jenne in his usual place in the council. “So, what service did you perform for the Empire, Jenne?”

The man he'd addressed stood up. A contemporary of Phoran's father, he was in his late middle years, with iron-grey hair and a short beard. He bowed. “If it please Your Imperial Majesty, it was in the matter of the trouble the Weavers' Guild had last year. I found myself in the position of being able to perform some little service in the matter of raising funds for the displaced merchants.”

“Ah,” said Phoran. “We had wondered. In any case, this proposal is denied. You may reseat yourself, Jenne.” He set it to his left, away from the neat stack of signed documents.

He'd picked up the next proposal when the paralysis wore off and the Sept of Gorrish jumped to his feet followed by a fair number of his followers.

“I protest!” he said, and that was the last thing that anyone
heard clearly for several minutes as the Council of Septs roared its displeasure with the Emperor.

Phoran set the parchment he'd picked up back where he'd gotten it and waited for the uproar to die down with as cool a manner as he could force over his pounding heart. His instincts told him that if he were not able to take control of the Septs at this meeting, he never would.

He watched the flushed faces of the men who protested, seeing the hidden satisfaction on Telleridge's countenance at the strength of the Septs' outrage, though Telleridge said nothing. Avar caught Phoran's gaze and raised an eyebrow, then he made a subtle gesture toward himself as if to ask, “May I?”

Avar thought he could do something about this? Phoran raised his own eyebrows (he had never learned the trick of raising only one) and nodded his head.

Avar stood up, jumped the waist-high barrier and landed on the council floor, six feet or so below the seating area. His action caught the attention of the Septs, buying him a momentary lull in the noise.

“Gentlemen,” he bellowed. “Any man who is still standing and talking after a count of five, I shall personally challenge to armed deadly combat. Even if I have to fight each of you. His Imperial Majesty will then have a much more pleasant time with your heirs. One. Two. Three.”

Avar could do it, too; Phoran knew. Could defeat each and every one of the Septs. That they agreed with Phoran's assessment was demonstrated by the fact that they were seated and silent before Avar reached “four.”

Avar scanned the seats to make certain they were occupied, then with that easy athleticism that Phoran envied so, he jumped up, caught the bottom railing and scaled the barrier to resume his own seat.

“We give thanks to the Sept of Leheigh for his service to the Empire,” said Phoran with more aplomb than he felt. Avar's audacious and effective ploy to silence the Septs had left Phoran the opportunity for a bit of cleverness—or stupidity depending upon how it turned out.

Phoran turned his head to the council leader. “So, Ombre, Sept of Gorrish—you object to my rejection of this proposed
law?” He picked up the offending document and appeared to look at it more closely.

“Permission to speak, please?” Gorrish ground out between clenched teeth.

“Oh, of course,” said Phoran in surprised tones. “We are always glad to hear your concerns, Gorrish.”

The council leader dropped his eyes and took a deep breath. “This is a matter that was already put forth and approved by the council.”

“For me to consider putting into law,” agreed Phoran lightly. “I decided that it was ill-considered.” He reached for the next parchment again.

“Please, Your Majesty, hear me out,” said Gorrish. “The particulars of the case were made known to the council at the time the lands were granted. There were no objections at all.”

Phoran raised his eyebrows again in surprise. “What, none?” He looked around the room. “Avar?”

“Yes, Imperial Majesty?” Avar stood.

“Did you not just put your life at risk in Our Service?” questioned Phoran.

To Phoran's delight, Avar looked at the Septs around him and shook his head slightly. “I suppose someone might have gotten in a lucky blow, Your Majesty, but I did not feel imperiled.”

“Nonetheless,” said Phoran, “there was risk and you did not hesitate to serve me. Is this not a greater deed than raising funds to help a few merchants? A matter, I understand, of some two hundred and thirty-five gold pieces?”

The air went still as the more observant Septs began to realize that Phoran knew more about the affair than he'd appeared to at first.

“Perhaps, Your Majesty,” agreed Avar with seeming reluctance.

“Avar, Sept of Leheigh, please enlighten those here with the amount that you spent on that magnificent mare you purchased yesterday.”

Avar cleared his throat. “Ah, two hundred and forty gold pieces, Your Majesty.”

“We believe that the life of a Sept is of more value than a horse,” said Phoran firmly. “Therefore Avar, Sept of Leheigh, I put it before the council that I intend to gift you with a piece
of land from Tisl to Riesling of a width not more than three miles—”

“But—”
Servish, the hotheaded young Sept of Allyn, surged to his feet. Servish, though, was loyal to a fault and he caught his tongue and began to sink down.

“But what, Allyn?” invited Phoran gently. He had picked Servish especially for this role.

Servish swallowed and straightened up. “I am, always, your loyal servant, Majesty.”

Phoran nodded. “Please,” he said. “What was it you were going to say?”

Servish flushed and took a deep breath. “The land you spoke of is within my Sept, Majesty.”

Phoran smiled at him and then looked at Avar, who had remained standing. “Avar, I am afraid that I cannot grant you lands that belong to a loyal Sept. It would not be right.”

“No,” agreed Avar.

“What say you, my lords?” Phoran looked to the Septs. “Those who would grant me or any other such powers, stand and say, ‘Aye' now.” The room was silent.

“Nor, Gorrish, can I take lands away from any loyal Sept just to grant them to someone who performed some small service to the Empire. The Sept of Gerant has never shown me anything but loyalty. It would be a poor emperor who took lands away from Septs who have committed no offense. You may all take your seats.”

He could feel it happen, Phoran thought. He could feel the reins of the Empire slip into his hands. He kept his face clear of triumph and picked up another piece of parchment.

“In the matter of the border dispute . . .” And the Septs all sat silently in their seats as Phoran read through every last one of the documents.

 

“What is your purpose?” Phoran asked, his hands only a little shaky as he pulled down his sleeve. The triumph of this afternoon was such that even the Memory's bite wasn't enough to sour his mood. If he could control the Septs, then surely he could rid himself of this curse.

“To destroy the Masters of the Secret Path,” it said.

“Ah,” said Phoran.

He'd known the answer, but he hadn't thought of a better question. He had to steady himself when he stood up. “I'm going to see if our friend in the Path's dungeons is any better. You may join me if you'd like.”

Truthfully, he was tempted just to go to bed. He had been tired before the Memory showed up, and losing more blood hadn't helped any. But the memory of Tier's unnaturally deep sleep had been with him all day. The Memory, for whatever reason, followed him to Tier's cell.

There was music coming from the Bard's cell, but the door was too thick to hear more than that. Drawing his short sword, Phoran tapped lightly on the door.

“Come in.” Impossible to mistake that voice: it was Tier.

Phoran sheathed his sword and opened the door. The Bard was sitting on his bed with a lute in his hands. He was pale and looked nearly as tired as Phoran felt, but when Tier saw that it was Phoran, he set the instrument aside and got quickly to his feet. “My emperor.”

“Just Phoran,” Phoran advised him and shuffled over to plop down on the end of the bed. He scooted back until his back was braced against the wall and motioned for Tier to do likewise. “I'm glad to see you in a better state than last night.”

“You came last night as well?” Tier sat down and pulled the lute back into his lap as if it were a baby. He glanced over at the Memory, which had taken up the same place it had on the first night.

“I couldn't wake you,” Phoran yawned. He'd forgotten that he hadn't gotten much sleep the night before. At least he had a better excuse for being tired. “I waited for a few hours, but decided that I'd give you a night to recover from—?”

“Something the wizards have cooked up,” said Tier unhappily. “I'm not certain what.” He shook his head and gave Phoran a small smile. “Nothing anyone can do about it right now. I do have some information for you. You asked about Avar, the Sept of Leheigh. I heard his name mentioned, mostly because his brother, Toarsen, is a Passerine, but if he's a member, the Passerines don't know about it.”

Phoran heaved a sigh of relief. He'd been almost certain after the council incident, but it was good to be sure.

“There are a number of Septs who are Raptors,” said Tier and rattled off a list of thirty or forty.

Phoran would have been more impressed if the list hadn't frightened him so badly. “Could you go through them again, please?” he said tightly.

Tier complied, listing the same people in the same order.

“Did you hear any other names?” asked Phoran, almost afraid to ask. “Not of the Passerines, but the wizards.”

“The Masters, the wizards, except for Telleridge, keep their identities hidden,” said Tier. “I do have the names of more Raptors.”

Phoran listened to a recital that consisted of people ranging from Douver, the council secretary, to the captain of the palace guard, including any number of influential tradesmen and scholars.

“You have a remarkable memory,” said Phoran neutrally. “You heard all of those in the past two days?”

“Mostly today,” agreed Tier. He gave Phoran a small smile. “Bards have to have a good memory, and the Passerines weren't at all unhappy to discuss the glories of membership in the Secret Path.”

Phoran believed him, and wished unhappily that he did not. “What if,” he said slowly, “what if I told you that the Path recruits the restless younger sons and cousins among the nobles of the Empire at the age of fifteen—the kinds of boys who are an embarrassment to their families. Remember, the one rule the Path has when the young men join is that they cannot be direct heirs of any Sept.”

“I have noticed that there are a lot of Septs among the Raptors,” agreed Tier, clearly seeing what was bothering Phoran. “But since I haven't heard of a wave of assassinations of Septs and their heirs, I assumed there was an explanation—the last war or that plague.”