The Merchant Emperor (10 page)

“Ah, Majesties, well met! Welcome; I hope your travels were easy.”

The Diviner snorted even as he clasped Talquist’s shoulder in greeting.

“The journey from my lands took over three weeks, so even though it was uneventful, it can never be described as ‘easy’ except by migrating birds, Panjeri gypsies, and sea rat merchants such as yourself who actually enjoying plying the wind and the waves,” he said testily. “I have been seasick most of that time; thank you, Talquist. I don’t know why you couldn’t have just accepted the judgment of the Scales a year ago and allowed yourself to be crowned when they chose you in the first place; it would have saved me a second trip after the empress’s funeral, the journey from which I had barely gotten over. There had best be some good pastry and fine wine at the celebration tomorrow if you want me to forgive you and drink to your reign.”

“You will find some upstairs in a few moments, Hjorst,” Talquist replied smoothly, but his skin burned at the Diviner’s words. “I thought perhaps a transition to power rooted in humility and selflessness might best serve my nation, but I certainly understand why this concept eludes you.” He turned to the nervous king of Golgarn. “Beliac; how very nice to finally be able to host you in my domain.” Talquist’s eyes twinkled.

“Thank you,” said Beliac. His journey had taken only eight days, and being born into the royal family of a seafaring nation, he had strong sea legs.

In spite of his ability to stand steady on the deck of a pitching ship, Talquist could tell that Beliac was quaking quietly on solid ground. Golgarn had always been a realm of solid security, in spite of technically being the Firbolg’s neighbor—there were five hundred miles of forbidding mountains between the two kingdoms, making incursions from one into the other unlikely bordering on impossible. Golgarn, therefore, had been blessed with peace for virtually the entirety of its existence, a peace enforced by an overwhelming presence of military might.

As a result, Talquist’s manipulation of the deep-seated fear that Beliac had once confided to him when in his cups, an intense terror he harbored of being eaten alive by the Bolg, a fear whose genesis was little more than stupid horror stories told to him by royal nannies and other children, bordered on artistry; cruel, but nonetheless diplomatic artistry. A fortuitous alliance with a pair of assassin’s guilds, one in the province of Yarim in Roland, the other within Golgarn itself, had led to the king’s willingness to commit his fleet of mostly unused warships to the command of the Emperor Presumptive in return for protection from the Firbolg, something that in fact Beliac did not need.

Even though the king of Golgarn did not know it.

Ah, the joy of friendship,
Talquist thought as he embraced Beliac warmly.

“Come, my friends, I have arranged supper and libations for you both in the Great Hall,” Talquist said, leading the rulers back toward the Great Stair. “My servants will see to your accommodations while we dine.”

*   *   *

A glittering spread awaited at the top of the stairs. Within the quarter hour the men were settled into comfortable chairs before the grand fireplace, imbibing imported libations from the corners of the Known World and feasting on grouse, roasted vegetables, and sweetmeats. Talquist had been certain to order that the table be laid with an impressive variety of fresh fruits, something he knew that Hjorst craved, especially after the long and brutal winter from which the Hintervold was emerging.

Some of the sweetest salt I have ever rubbed in a wound,
he mused from behind his crystal goblet as he watched his guests imbibe his potables and inhale his food.

The benign trap he had laid did not take very long to spring.

“Has Gwydion of Manosse arrived yet?” the Diviner demanded, his deep voice drying the air around them, his fulsome beard quivering in anger. “I have some urgent, and not particularly festive discourse I need to undertake with the Lord Cymrian, though I will be discreet so as not to violate the sanctity and reverence of your Weighing and coronation, Talquist.”

“Oh?” The Emperor Presumptive raised his glass to his lips. “Something troubling you, Hjorst?”

“Indeed,” said the Diviner. “The bastard has been starving the Hintervold, violating our grain treaties, engendering a famine in my lands. What contracted deliveries he actually does make good on, few and far between as they have been, are tainted with rat droppings, mold, or poison.”

Talquist was well aware of this, having been the engineer of it, but he managed to set his face in a troubled mien.

“That’s terrible. I actually was thinking that you were looking somewhat thinner, but did not want to mention it. A famine? Why would he do such a thing?”

“Evidence collected from a captured cohort of the Raven’s Guild from Yarim points to the Alliance’s intention to attack and occupy the riverlands, large parts of the southern Hintervold, this summer,” the Diviner said darkly after looking around to make certain he was not overheard. “The Lord and Lady Cymrian are apparently more power- and land-hungry than we were led to believe four years ago when they were chosen and crowned. Clearly they seek to expand their dominion within the Alliance, their claims of friendship evidently notwithstanding.”

“What is the Raven’s Guild?” asked Beliac, his voice faltering.

“Tilemakers, ceramicists,” said Talquist. “My ships have transported their wares for many years.”

“They’re
assassins
, you idiot.” The Diviner scowled. “The tile factory is a cover, though an effective and profitable one.”

“Really? I’d no idea.” Talquist struggled not to smile behind his glass.

“The southlands bordering the Tar’afel are the only parts of the Hintervold in which agriculture is viable in the short summer growing season,” the Diviner continued, growing more agitated as he spoke. “It’s apparently not enough for the Lord Cymrian to control Roland, the breadbasket of the continent; now he wants the only fertile parts of my lands. You may have to restrain me, Talquist—I seek to find out what is going on diplomatically, king to king, but if he does not yield immediately there may well be war declared before the cake is cut.”

“Likewise, I am hoping for a moment with King Achmed of Ylorc,” said Beliac. “Though, er, not alone, if at all possible. Evidence has been uncovered of Firbolg encampments within two leagues of my capital city; this can obviously not be allowed to stand. I—I hope you will assist me with this, Talquist.”

Talquist sighed dramatically.

“I do hope that you will both show restraint, at least until the Scales have weighed me and the Scepter of the Sun is in my hand,” he said. “It won’t really do to have an intercontinental war break out after I’ve waited the better part of a year, patiently, I believe, to finally ascend the Sun Throne.” He leaned back in his chair and smiled, knowing that neither of the kings his guests were intent on seeing would be attending his investiture.

Given that they were already coping with the news of the sacking of the holy city of Sepulvarta.

“The targeting of the southlands is particularly heinous,” the Diviner continued, his clear blue eyes, characteristic of his northern birth and distant Cymrian lineage, glinting angrily. “It’s bad enough that they seek to attack a sovereign nation, but to disavow long-standing grain treaties which the Hintervold relies upon to feed its population three-quarters of the year, then to bloody the ground of the only growing fields is a form of genocide. I suppose I should not be surprised; Lord Gwydion is the direct descendant of those hateful miscreants Anwyn and Gwylliam, who, once they had conquered the Middle Continent, proceeded to destroy the entire realm in seven hundred years of war over a marital spat, it is said. Even though I myself am spawned of Cymrian blood, it is ancient; I had great reservations when I heard he was appointed to the lordship. He is said to have the blood of the wyrm Elynsynos in his veins; it was only a matter of time before his bloodthirsty nature would out and he would begin swallowing his neighbors.”

“Well, given that
I
am his neighbor to the south, this is highly disturbing news,” said the Emperor Presumptive. “The last thing I want are the citizens of Sorbold to be eaten alive by the Firbolg of Ylorc, which is a major part of the Cymrian Alliance.” He struggled not to laugh aloud as the color fled Beliac’s face, remembering how the king had once confided to him while profoundly inebriated after a particularly festive night in Golgarn his childhood nightmare of being devoured so. “It seems we should plan on you both remaining here after the Weighing and coronation to see what we can sort out with our mutual friends, the Lord and Lady Cymrian. Perhaps we can avert the war that seems to be looming.”

“If the Lady Cymrian is present, I will need to not be left alone with her at any time,” Beliac said decidedly. “Word of her has spread to Golgarn—she is said to be comely, beautiful beyond natural limits, most likely through witchcraft of some kind—and has used her unholy magic to enslave the hearts of men who come into her presence. My wife was most insistent on me keeping my distance. I ask your help in this also, Talquist.”

“Happily given,” Talquist declared. “We will all have to guard one another’s backs in this.” He inhaled decisively. “Which puts on the table for later discussion a topic we will need to address.”

“That being—?” asked the Diviner.

“The threat of the new Cymrian dynasty to the safety and security of the rest of the continent,” the Emperor Presumptive said. “We will talk about it at length, but if you would be so kind, I would like to you come to those discussions with some specific intelligence from your own lands. If you need to do some research, my messenger aviary is available to you at your convenience to send and receive information from your realms.”

“What intelligence are you seeking?”

The crystal goblet in Talquist’s hand came to a stop in midair, hovering where the light of the fireplace caught in its facets and fragmented a spattering of rainbow patterns on the table before him.

“Information about whatever assassin’s guilds reside within your lands, or about whom you have knowledge,” he said. He brought the goblet to his lips and took another sip as the Diviner and the king of Golgarn looked at each other askance, amused in the knowledge that he himself was far more aware of and connected to those entities than either of them were.

*   *   *

Within a few moments of the silence that fell at Talquist’s words, the two rulers were finished with their food and drink and rose grimly, ready to be shown to their rooms.

“I believe you will find your accommodations comfortable, but if there is anything you require, ring for the chamberlain and he will attend to any need you may have,” Talquist said pleasantly as two young female servants in the regalia of the new dynasty appeared at the top of the Great Stair. “Mira, please take King Beliac to his chambers.” The young woman bowed and waited for the king to follow her, which he did hastily, glancing back over his shoulder before descending the stair.

The Diviner started to follow him, only to stop when Talquist laid a hand gently on his forearm.

“Tarry a moment, my friend,” the almost-emperor said quietly. “I have a boon to ask of you.”

The Diviner’s brows drew together. “What is it?”

“I was hoping after the coronation I could prevail upon you to bless me with a divination.”

Hjorst’s eyes widened.

“It is the first day of spring tomorrow, Talquist, a whole season past Yule, when divinations are performed safely.”

Talquist sighed. “I know, and I am very sorry and reluctant to impose upon you,” he said. “It is of the highest import, though, and I was thinking that perhaps the auspicious occasion tomorrow might lend safety and power to the undertaking.”

“Perhaps,” said the Diviner doubtfully. “But, given that I am not within my own duomo, I will need access to a holy place of power, an altar of some sort on which I can spill blood.” A thought occurred to him. “Though I would hesitate to do so, we could possibly consider using the Scales.”

Talquist shuddered inwardly, but betrayed no emotion. The Diviner was referring to the ancient instrumentality that stood in the square outside the palace, its immense size casting an enormous shadow over the land, a giant set of weighing scales with plates large enough to each hold an oxcart. The Scales were considered the arbiter of all things of consequence, the decider of questions of great importance, as they had been brought with the Cymrian refugees a millennia and half ago from the old world, and had been imbued with the wisdom of that land. Any time a throne was left empty, or a dispute over territory or the need to go to war was felt, the Scales had weighed the possibilities and rendered a decision that was considered indisputable and final. It had shown wisdom and unbiased objectivity in all its renderings.

Until, of course, Talquist had found a way to rig the weighing of the candidates for the open throne of the empire of Sorbold.

A throne he had made open by killing both the empress and the Crown Prince himself.

“We will see what we can come up with,” he said nonchalantly. “There is no need to concern yourself with it tonight, Hjorst. Let Kryst show you to your room, good sleep and pleasant dreams to you after your long journey. Thank you for coming all this way for my investiture. I tell you sincerely, this special time for me would not have been the same without you being here to share it with me, my friend.”

The Diviner nodded wearily and followed the servant down the Great Stair. Talquist watched him descend, then sat back down in his chair, refilled his glass, and held it up to the firelight. The goblet caught the light of the flames again, this time causing a warm red glow like a mask on his eyes.

He smiled, amused at his last words to the Diviner.

They were the only truthful thing he had said all night.

He cast a glance over at the statue of the titanic soldier. Though its eyes remained colorless, Talquist was quite certain he could ascertain a slight smile on its stone lips as well.