Heir Of Novron: The Riyria Revelations (62 page)

“Nothing,” she said.

His hand reached out and brushed her cheeks dry. “What?” he asked again.

“I—I don’t want—” She hesitated and took a breath. “I just don’t want people to be afraid of me.”

“That arrow’s already flown,” Degan Gaunt said.

“Shut it, Gaunt,” Alric snapped.

“Look at me,” Hadrian told her, and putting his hand under her chin, he gently lifted it. He took her hands in his. “Do I look frightened?”

“No,” she said. “But… maybe you should be.”

“You’re tired.”

“I am—I’m really very tired.”

“We’re going to be drifting here for a bit, so why don’t you lie down and get some rest? I’m sure things will look better when you wake up.”

She nodded and her head felt like a boulder rocking on her shoulders.

“Com’on,” he said, pulling her to her feet. She wavered and he slipped an arm around her waist and escorted her back into the cabin, where Myron had the bed ready.

“Myron will watch over you,” Hadrian assured Arista as he tucked the blankets tightly around her. “Get some sleep.”

“Thank you.”

He brushed her wet hair from her eyes. “It’s the least I can do for my hero,” he said.

She walked swiftly up the Grand Mar, the broad avenue beautifully lined with flowering trees. The rose-colored petals flew and swirled, carpeting the ground, scenting the air, and creating a blizzard in spring.

It was festival day, and blue and green flags were everywhere. They flew over houses and waved in the hands of passersby. People clogged the streets. Wandering minstrels filled the air with music and song. Drums announced another parade, this one a procession of elephants followed by chariots, prancing horses, dancing women, and proud soldiers. Stall keepers called to the crowd, handing out cakes, nuts, confections, and fermented drinks called Trembles, made from the sweet blossoms of the trees. Young girls rushed from door to door, delivering small bouquets of flowers in the imperial colors.
Noblemen on their chariots wore their bright-colored tunics; gold bracelets flashed in the afternoon sun. Older women stood on balconies, waving colored scarves and shouting words impossible to hear. Boys who dodged and slipped through the crowd carried baskets and sold trinkets. You could get three copper pins for three piths, or five for a keng. There was always a contest to collect the largest variety of pins before the day was out.

It was a beautiful day.

She hurried past the rivers of people into Imperial Square. To her right stood the stone rotunda of the Cenzarium and to the left the more brutish columned facade of the blocked Hall of Teshlor. Before her, at the terminus of the boulevard, rose the great golden-domed imperial palace—the seat of the emperor of the world. She walked past the Ulurium Fountain, across the Memorial Green, to the very steps of the palace—not a single guard was on duty. No one noticed. Everyone was too busy celebrating. That was part of the plan that Venlin had laid well.

She entered the marbled hall, so cool, so elegant, and scented with incense that made her think of tropical trees and mountaintops. The palace was a marvel, large, beautiful, and so sturdy it was hard to imagine what she knew was happening.

She reached the long gallery, the arcade of storied columns, each topped with three lions looking down from their noble perch at all who passed that way.

Yolric was waiting for her.

The old man leaned heavily on his staff. His long white beard was a matted mess. “So you have come,” he greeted her. “But I knew you would. I knew someone would. I could have guessed it would be you.”

“This is wrong. You of all people should see that!”

Yolric shook his head. “Wrong, right—these words have no meanings except in the minds of men. They are but illusions. There is only what is and what isn’t, what has been and what will be.”

“I am here to define that value for you.”

“I know you are. I could have predicted it. My suspicions, it would seem, have weight. This is the second time now. It has taken a long time to find, but there is a pattern to the world. Wobble it and it corrects, which should be impossible; chaos should beget chaos. Order should be only one possibility and drowned by all the other permutations. But if it corrects again, if order prevails, then there can be only one answer. There is another force at work—an invisible hand—and I think I know what that force is.”

“I don’t have time to discuss this theory of yours again.”

“Nor do I have need of you. As I said, I have finally worked it out. You see, the legends are true.”

She was irritated with him; he barred her path but did not attack. He merely babbled on about unimportant theories. This was no time for metaphysical debates about the nature of existence, chaos versus order, or the values of good and evil. She needed to get by him, but Yolric was the one person she could not hope to defeat. She could not take the chance of instigating a battle if it could be avoided. “Do you side with Venlin or not?”

“Side with the Bishop? No.”

She felt a massive sense of relief.

“Will you help me? Together we could stop him. Together we can save the emperor. Save the empire.”

“I wouldn’t need
your
help to do that.”

“So you will let it happen?”

“Of course.”

“Why?”

“I need the wobble. One does not a pattern make. I need to see if it will correct again and, perhaps, how. I must find the fingerprint, the tracks that I can trace to the source. The legends are true—I know that now, but I still want to see his face.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about!”

“I know you don’t. You couldn’t.”

“Are you going to try and stop me or not?”

“The wobble, my boy. I never touch it once I have it going. You go, do what you must. I am only here now to watch. To see if I can catch a glimpse at the face behind the invisible hand.”

She was confused, baffled by Yolric’s unconcerned attitude, but it did not matter; what did was that he would not interfere. Her greatest obstacle was gone. Now it was just between her and Venlin.

“Goodbye, then, old master, for I fear I shall never see you again.”

“No, you won’t. I would wish you luck, but I do not believe it exists. Still, I suspect you have better than mere luck on your side—you have the invisible hand.”

T
he ceiling of the grand imperial throne room was a dome painted to mimick the sky on a gentle summer’s day, and Modina still thought it beautiful. Dressed once more in her formal gown, she sat on the gaudy bird-of-prey throne with the wings, spread into a vast half circle, forming the back of the chair. The throne was mounted on a dais that had twelve steps to climb. She could not help remembering the days they had forced her to practice before it.

“Do you remember the board you ordered sewn into my dress?” she asked Nimbus, who looked suddenly uncomfortable.

“It worked,” he replied.

“Who’s next?”

Nimbus studied the parchment in his hands. “Bernard Green, a candlemaker from Alburn.”

“Send him in, and get another log on the fire. It’s freezing in here.”

Unlike the great hall, the throne room was rarely used, or at least that had been the case until now. When the empress had been a mythical creature, the room had been sealed. Now that she existed in the flesh, the room was opened once more,
but it always felt cold, as if it would take time to recover the warmth after those years of neglect.

Nimbus waved to the clerk, and a moment later, a short, soft-looking man entered. His eyes were small, his nose narrow and sharp. Modina immediately thought of a squirrel and recalled how she used to remember the court of Ethelred by similar associations before she learned their names.

“Your Grand Imperial Eminence,” he said with a shaky voice, and bowed so low his forehead touched the floor.

They all waited. He did not move.

“Ah—please stand up,” she told him. The man popped up like a child’s toy, but he refused to look at her. They all did that. She found it irritating but understood it was a tradition and it would be even more unnerving for them to try to change. “Speak.”

“Ah—Grand Imperial Eminence—I, ah—that is—ah—I am from Alburn, and I—am a candlemaker.”

“Yes, I know that, but what is your problem?”

“Well, Your Grand Imperial Eminence, since the edict, I have moved my family here, but—you see—I have little means and no skills other than making candles, but the merchant guild refuses to grant me a license of business. I am told that I cannot have one as I am not a citizen.”

“Of course,” Nimbus said. “Citizenship is a prerequisite for applying to a guild and only guild members are allowed to conduct a trade within the city.”

“How does one obtain citizenship?” Modina asked.

“Usually by inheritance, although it can be granted to individuals or families as recognition for some extraordinary service. Regardless, one must be a member of a guild to gain citizenship.”

“But if you need to be a guild member to apply for citizenship and you need to be a citizen to be a guild member,
doesn’t that make it extraordinarily difficult to become a citizen?”

“I believe that is the point, Your Eminence. Cities guard against invasions from outside tradesmen that might disrupt the order of established merchants and reduce the profitability of existing businesses.”

“How many citizens are there?”

“At present, I believe about ten to fifteen percent of the city’s population are citizens.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Yes, Your Eminence. It’s also a drain on the treasury, because only citizens are required to pay taxes. Also, only citizens have the right of a trial in a court, or are required to serve to protect the city walls in the event of attack.”

Modina stared at him.

“Shall I summon the city’s merchant council and organize a meeting in order to review the guild policy, say, tomorrow?” Nimbus asked.

“Please do.” She looked back down at Bernard Green. “Rest assured I will address this matter immediately, and thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

“Bless you, Your Grand Imperial Eminence, bless you.” He bowed once more with his head to the floor.

Modina waved her hand and the master-at-arms escorted him out. “I don’t so much mind the bowing—that’s actually nice. It’s the scraping I can’t stand.”

“You are not just the empress,” Nimbus told her. “You are a demigod. You must expect a little scraping.”

“Who’s next?”

“A fellow by the name of Tope Entwistle, a scout from the north,” he replied.

“A scout? A scout follows the candlemaker?”

“He just has a status report—nothing urgent,” Nimbus
told her. “And the candlemaker had been waiting for three days.”

A stocky man entered wearing a heavy wool tunic with a little copper pin in the shape of a torch on his breast. He also sported wool pants wrapped in leather strips. His face was blotchy, his skin a ruddy leather. The tip of his nose was more than red; it was a disturbing shade of purple. His knuckles and the tips of his fingers were a similar color. He walked with an unusual gait, a hobbled limp, as if his feet were sore.

“Your Imperial Eminence.” The man bowed and sniffled. “Sir Marshal Breckton sends word. He reports that there has been no confirmed movement by the elves since the initial crossing. In addition, he sends word that all bridges and roads have been closed. As for the lack of movement on the part of the elven force, it is his estimated opinion that the elves may have gone into winter quarters. He has also sent several quartermaster lists and a detailed report, which I have here in this satchel.”

“You can give those to the clerk,” Nimbus told him.

He slipped the satchel off and sneezed as he held out the bag.

“And how are things in Colnora?”

“Excuse me, Your Highness.” He stuck a finger in his ear and wiggled it. “I’ve been fighting a cold for a month and my head is so clogged I can barely hear.”

“I asked, how are things in Colnora?” she said louder.

“They are fine in Colnora. It’s the road between that gets a tad chilly. Course I can’t complain. I’ve been up on the line in the wilderness and there it is colder than anything. Not even a proper fire allowed, on account of not wanting to give away our positions to the elves.”

“Is there anything you need?”

“Me? Oh, I don’t need much. I already had me a good hot
meal and a sit near a hearth. That’s all I need. Course a soft, warm place to sleep awhile before I head back would certainly be appreciated.”

Modina looked at Nimbus.

“I will inform the chamberlain,” he told her.

“Thank you, Your Eminence,” the scout said, and bowed again before leaving.

“I never really thought about how it must be out there for them, waiting,” Modina said.

“Next is Abner Gallsworth, the city administrator,” Nimbus said, and a tall, thin man entered. He was the best dressed of the lot that morning, wearing long heavy robes of green and gold draped nearly to the floor. On his head was a tall hat with flaps that drooped down the sides of his head like a hound’s ears. His face was long and narrow, qualities made more noticeable by the sagging of age.

“Your Imperial Eminence.” He bowed, but more shallowly than anyone else so far, and there was no scraping to be seen. “While I am pleased to report that all the provisioning you have commanded has been achieved, and that the city is functioning at high efficiency, I nevertheless regret to tell you that there is a problem. We are becoming overcrowded. Refugees are still arriving from the surrounding towns and villages—even more so since the news of troops sealing the roads and passes has leaked into the countryside.

“We now have several hundred people living on the streets, and with the winter’s cold, I have daily reports coming across my desk of frozen corpses in need of disposal. At present we are carting the bodies outside the walls and piling them in a fallow field to await a spring burial. This solution, however, has attracted wild animals. Packs of wolves have been reported and those still outside the city walls are complaining. I would like to request permission to dispose of the bodies at sea. To
do this, I will require access to a barge. As all ships are presently under imperial edict, my request has been repeatedly denied. Hence I am here, appealing to you.”

“I see,” Modina said. “And what provisions have you made to prevent the future deaths of more refugees?”

“Provisions?” he asked.

“Yes, what have you done to stop the peasants from freezing to death?”

“Why… nothing. The peasants are dying because they have no shelter. They have no shelter because they cannot afford any or none can be found. I can neither create money nor construct housing. Therefore, I do not understand your question.”

“You cannot commandeer ships to dispose of bodies either and yet you stand before me requesting that.”

“True, but a barge is an achievable goal. Preventing future peasants from dying is not. The city has been overcrowded for weeks and yet just this morning another large group has arrived from Alburn. There are perhaps fifty families. If a viable solution is what you desire, I suggest preventing any more displaced people from entering the city. Seal it off and be done with it. Let those that come here looking for charity learn that they must provide for themselves. Allowing them entry will only cause a higher rate of mortality.”

“I suspect you are right,” Modina told him. “I also suspect you would feel quite differently if it was you and your family standing on the other side of our locked gate. I am the empress of all the people. It is my responsibility to keep them safe, not the other way around.”

“Then please tell me what you would like me to do, for I can see no solution to this problem. There is simply no place for all these people.”

Modina looked around her, at the painted dome and the great stone hearth burning the new log she had ordered.

“Chancellor?” she said.

“Yes, Your Eminence?” Nimbus replied.

“How many people could we fit in this hall?”

He raised his eyebrows in surprise, then pursed his lips. “Perhaps a hundred if they do not mind squeezing together.”

“I think if faced with freezing to death, they will not mind.”

“You will open the throne room to the public?” Gallsworth asked, stunned. “How will you conduct the business of the empire?”

“This
is
the business of the empire, and no, I am not going to open the throne room to the public.” She looked at Nimbus. “I am opening the entire palace. I want the gates opened at once. Line the halls, corridors, even the chapel. I want every square inch used. There will not be a single man, woman, or child left in the cold as long as there is any room to spare. Is that understood?”

“Absolutely, Your Eminence.”

“Furthermore,” she said, turning to Gallsworth, “I want a study done of the city to locate any other sources of shelter that could be utilized. I don’t care how hallowed or privileged. This is an emergency and all space is to be used.”

“You’re serious?” he said, amazed.

“I will not have my people dying on my doorstep!” she declared in a raised voice that left no room for question.

Guards looked up, concerned by her unusual outburst. Servants appeared nervous and several noticeably cringed. The city administrator did not. He remained straight, his eyes focused on her own. He said nothing for a moment; then his lips began to move about as if he were sucking on something, and finally he began to nod.

“Very well,” he said. “I will begin to look into the matter, but I can tell you right now where there is a large unused space. The Imperial Basilica of Aquesta has the capacity to house
perhaps a thousand and at present is home to no more than eight individuals.”

“If you knew this, why did you not say something before?”

“I would never presume to fill the house of god with poor, filthy peasants.”

“Then what in Maribor’s name is it for?”

“The Patriarch will not be pleased.”

“Damn the Patriarch!” Modina barked. “Nimbus—”

“At once, Your Eminence.”