Temple of the Traveler: Empress of Dreams (3 page)

“And if she offered that same virtue?” asked the sage.

“My last body was a eunuch; I have no experience in these matters. Still, she’s awaiting the return of Baran Togg. In the interim, my goal is to be as much an example of self-restraint as Myron was of excess.”

“You’ll have until the Spring Festival to choose.”

“Pardon?”

“The Dance of the Virgins, the fertility rite declaring the end of winter and the first buds of spring. It’s traditional for the emperor to dance first.”

“Bugger,” cursed Pagaose.

“That’s the general idea. Once you’re confirmed, the aristocrats will throw the young women at you in droves, but you can claim tradition and stall them until the festival. The Dance was the traditional symbol of unity for the empire, where each kingdom and tier of aristocracy presents its noble daughters in tribute—and as a way to share your power. It’s the only way for you to take a non-Imperial to wife. Beware: once you declare participation in the Dance, any woman you bed until then can never be more than a concubine. Any later wife would be within her rights to make you expel her. The empire needs you to provide a proper heir.”

“Are these rules for all nobles or just me?”

“In this case, I stress the consequences to underline that the emperor must always keep his word. This is the foundation of your reign. In general, most island nobles force their children of both genders to declare participation in the Dance upon reaching the eligible age. If they choose no one, then they have freedom to do as they please afterward. In practice, a teenager abstaining that long will find someone at the event they fancy. If a man is married before he receives his title, the wife can be grandfathered in
if
they were married in the church of Osos. In any case, whenever land inheritance is involved, the woman must be a virgin.”

“Humi Kragen wasn’t.”

Small Voice waggled his hand. “One could make an argument that Sandarac’s not officially titled yet. There’s also an accepted tradition in the provinces: you can marry the widow of the landowner next door to consolidate territory. Island law doesn’t allow for that because . . . well . . . islands can’t exactly be moved side-by-side. Even if the child’s not his, the law allows for him to declare it so as long as he marries the mother before the child’s birth. We can’t very well get rid of that rule or half the empire would be bastards.”

Pagaose rubbed his forehead. “Anything else I should know?”

“I told my scribe to send your letter of invitation out today. Word should get to the four shore embassies and the Pretender in about three days and to most of the heads of state within the week. Your friends in Kiateros will take longer.”

“Thank you. My position here is . . . tenuous. I need their support and wisdom.”

“Assuming they’re still alive.”

“I know the witch is. The rest, we can only hope.

“Are you certain you want to involve Sandarac, the self-proclaimed emperor of the north? He wants this job for his own.”

“A real peace must include all parties. Unless we satisfy his bride, Humi Kragen, we’ll never be able to sleep at night.”

“What are you offering?” asked the sage.

“Since the first tier of the aristocracy has been decimated, there are a lot of vacancies. I can afford to be generous with titles. Why only four embassies?”

“The kingdom of Mandibos keeps an ambassador on Center; he already knows you’re here. His kingdom was very generous in feeding us in the lean years,” the sage stressed. “They’ll want consideration for this when you ascend the throne.”

“Noted,” said the emperor. He wanted to say that his father had been from Mandibos, and the generous kingdom had placed him, the half-breed baby, in the infamous prison of Tor Mardun. He had no love for the land of his birth, so he changed the subject. “You said
when
I ascend. I appreciate your confidence.”

“That and a half of silver will buy you a mug of mulled wine at the concession stands.”

“Why do you say that? Your word is golden.”

“The church is broke. We don’t even have a temple here anymore, just the memorial symbol on the water and the amphitheater my friend Frond lets us borrow on holy days.”

“How many people come?”

“I’m told about thirty-five regulars, but you can come see for yourself tomorrow. You’ll have guards, and the council will watch you like a hawk, but as head of the church, they have to allow you to attend services.”

“What services?”

“Orphan’s day,” reminded the sage. They didn’t have one every year. The day was added periodically to make up the difference between the calendar year and the celestial. As an extra day, no one had to pay rent or work. It marked the beginning of winter and the storm season, where people bundled indoors with family to outlast the siege of the elements. “The holiday is the default birthday celebrated by every child in the Imperial orphanage. Since the church runs the orphanage, I’m speaking there tomorrow.”

“I was an orphan,” Pagaose admitted.

“Would you like to give the homily to the children?”

Anna’s voice came from the hallway, “He loves to teach. I think the orphans would benefit from his wisdom, even if it’s just once a year.”

Pagaose rose to greet her. “I’m glad you made it back safely.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” She was dressed in a tan, cotton robe with a brown apron from the brewery.

“Assassins,” confided the sage.

“But I’m nobody,” Anna insisted, paling.

“You’re the herald of a new emperor, and the only person he confides in,” said Small Voice.

“I trust
you
,” insisted the emperor.

The sage shook his head. “I’m departing as soon as possible to reach the abbey ahead of the storms.”

“How did the test go?” she asked.

“I’m leaving him with my full authority and vote,” the sage replied. “You picked the right man.”

“I know,” she said, tending to the fire and adding fuel to the blaze.

“Bless you, dear,” said the sage.

“Why would the children hear me only once a year?” asked the emperor.

“They’re half-breeds. Lord Pangborn runs the purity committee. He doesn’t want to see them in public. We managed an exception for their birthday celebration.”

“How many?” asked Pagaose.

“About a hundred souls below the age of fourteen. After that, they have to leave to find jobs. Kestrel would know the exact number; he runs the place.”

The emperor asked, “Could we convince Lord Pangborn to let them attend every week? That would quadruple the attendance and help give them the moral grounding they need. Otherwise, many of them might end up as criminals.”

Anna smiled. “You’d be better off making the lectures a punishment that the orphans deserve regularly or some odious task he can inflict on the emperor.”

“I can complain in the right ways for Pangborn to think it’s his idea,” confided the sage. “She can think like a politician.”

The emperor winced. “I wish you wouldn’t use words like that around a lady.” They all chuckled. “Could she attend the ceremony at sunset?”

The sage nodded. “There will only be about seven of us. It couldn’t hurt.”

“Who do I ask to get her a larger wardrobe?” Pagaose inquired.

“Head chamberlain,” Niftkin replied when no one else knew the answer.

She raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

The emperor sighed. “Permission to speak.”

“
I
have clothes. You need them worse than I do.”

“Touché. I will get as many courtly outfits as you do: one for each of the eight confirmation ceremonies. As a balance, I will order as many sets of common clothes as you, as well. I need them for weapons practice and morning exercise.”

Niftkin asked, “How many sets would that be?”

“Two,” she whispered.

“No shame,” the guard encouraged. “That’s how many uniforms I own. I’ll inform the chamberlain now.”

“I’ll walk with you,” announced the sage as he rose to his feet.

Soon after, a tailor and his assistants were buzzing about the emperor’s suite. No one was permitted to touch him with bare hands. There was a lot to do if they were going to get his highness ready by sundown. A seamstress arrived fifteen bits later, and she retired with Anna to the women’s quarters.

****

Candles and a skylight lit the throne room. In addition to guards, priests, and Anna, several nobles crowded in to watch. The sage had spent hours arranging the symbols on the long banquet table. When the appointed time came, a priest of Osos with a tall, conical cap rang the gong.

Pagaose entered at a measured pace, hands folded. He halted in front of the left end of the table and bowed. Many of the items he knew by sight. “Those are for acolytes and those for soldiers.” Gently touching a gold-rimmed scepter, he gasped, “Myron’s.” The former emperor had twisted appetites and an overwhelming self-centeredness he recognized from earlier echoes in the bedroom paneling. The sensations roiled inside him, like eating seafood left too long in the sun; he snatched his hand back, but his stomach still struggled to hold his dinner.

“Is that the one you choose?” asked the sage.

“No,” he replied a little too strongly. Continuing down the line, he skipped the fragile ones as impractical. At last he found a simple, steel rod: one cubit long, with no ornamentation except a mesh of grooves to improve grip. The aura around this device was confident and caring, with concern for details and tact. “This one: the knurled, steel rod,” he announced. “I like the owner.”

“From Anamaxes the Judge,” the sage interpreted. “He was an interim ruler for fourteen years, head of the College.”

“I never heard of him.”

“Four hundred years ago. His most famous saying was, ‘When I do my job right, no one knows I exist.’”

Pagaose nodded. “A wise man.”

“I confirm his symbol of office as one of practicality, peace, fairness, and compassion,” proclaimed the sage. “Let it be so.”

All the priests bowed their head and answered, “Amen.”

The emperor candidate bowed to receive the blessing from the blind man. Then, the sage fumbled his hands to the proper position in Pagaose’s hair and recited ancient words as he dribbled oil onto the top of his head. He closed with, “You carry in your hands not just a rod, but the symbol of our hope. We now call you Master of the Temple of Osos.”

The priests, assorted nobles present, and even the guards knelt before Pagaose—all but one. A man wearing scribe’s robes charged the emperor with a greenish, glass-bladed dagger. The assassin slashed upward with the weapon as soon as he revealed it.

Pagaose leaned aside, avoiding the blow completely.

Angered, the killer swung again. The shift in the emperor’s stance was barely visible as he dodged again and brought the steel rod down on the hand that wielded the unusual dagger. The dagger plummeted to the floor and smashed, causing the assassin to jump backward.

Pagaose took advantage of the distraction to trip his opponent and tap him in the solar plexus with the rod. A pool of green liquid oozed out from the broken glass. “Step back, Small Voice. The puddle before you contains acid.” A priest led the abbot back to safety.

Niftkin rapped the assassin on the side of the head with the butt of his spear.

The emperor cautioned, “Not too rough. You’ll want to question this man and find out who his accomplices are.”

“The magicians will handle that, sir,” Niftkin promised. “You think this was Sandarac’s answer?”

Pagaose scanned the faces in the room, searching for those who looked disappointed. The general seemed excited by the exchange, and the judge was worried he might be the next victim. Most of the council buzzed with interested speculation. They were either good liars or the attempt had caught them off guard. “No, I think he just had standing orders to eliminate his boss’s competition. Whose job was it to ensure my security?”

Everyone turned to the officer with the untucked shirt. “Commander Taka.” The name meant hawk.

Pagaose said, “Niftkin is the head of my royal guard from now on.”

The guard bowed and Taka left, smoldering. If any wizard came forward to demand his reinstatement, the emperor would have his snake.

Anna covered her face as they hauled the injured man out. Pagaose patted her shoulder with his left hand. She whispered, “Are there people who really hate you that much?”

“It’s nothing personal, just politics,” said the emperor.

Pagaose slept his usual four hours that night. Just before daybreak, he changed into his new exercise clothes. They were finer than the feast robes of his former life, but they would work. Walking down to the garden with seven guards, he began with the move known as Greeting the Sun. Once the sun rose and he was warmed up, he removed his top and borrowed a tall, wooden staff. He wanted to get a feel for this new body, so for the rest of the hour, he flowed through several blocks, thrusts, and one spinning hop that landed him atop the stone ball decorating a bridge entrance.

The maids, groundskeepers, and guards that had gathered clapped delicately at this display. He smiled and bowed liked a performer. Then he turned the move into a fluid tumble and ended on his feet. The crowd cheered as Anna brought him a towel and his shirt.

Niftkin was in awe. “Sir, you practice the Way of Water?”

“A bit,” the emperor said, drying off.

“More than a bit.”

Anna whispered, “He’s being modest. He probably taught it.”

“A little,” admitted Pagaose.

“That’s how you beat the assassin. I saw some hard strikes mixed in your kata, too.”

“I helped a friend practice every morning for a few years. He was Stone. It’s not my style, but it has its uses in the military.”

Niftkin blinked. “How advanced was he?”

“He won the tournament at the Great Library one year,” he replied, idly rubbing behind one ear.

“You could’ve killed that man with your bare hands.”

“My good man, anyone can kill. The skill in martial arts lies in
not
doing so until one absolutely needs to.”

Pagaose handed Anna the dirty towel. He asked her, “Why are those maids still hanging about?”