“Arrested persons go to cells, not the Hall of Healing,” replied the corporal.
Tol decided that meant he wasn’t under arrest. He asked if anyone had come to see him while he slept.
“No one can be admitted to see you.”
Tol was perplexed. “Why not?”
“Orders.”
Exhausted, he gave up. Returning to his bed, and ignoring the petulant complaints of the injured cook, Tol spent a feverish day trying to unravel his confusing situation. Evidently he was in trouble, but for what offense? The killing of Crake, though it weighed heavily on his heart, clearly had been an act of self-defense.
Inevitably his mind returned to Valaran. Betrothed to the crown prince, she was no longer just a girl in the palace, hiding in alcoves or stealing off to gardens to read. Wounded and weak, he’d given his feelings away. Prince Amaltar and Lord Valdid must know all, which would explain why he was being kept isolated.
These mental exertions left him in a sweat, spoiling his rest. Two days after his conversation with the guards, he was hollow-eyed with anxiety. The arrival of Lord Draymon, captain of the Inner City Guard, seemed to confirm his fears his life would soon be over. They must have decided to execute him for presuming to court a high-born lady.
“Arise, Master Tol,” said Draymon. “His Imperial Highness requires your presence.” Tol studied the captain’s face for clues to his fate, but saw only professional indifference.
Two palace valets had come with Draymon, and they laid out a complete set of clothes for Tol-not his usual soldier’s togs, but a handsome ensemble of crisp linen and gray leather, trimmed in imperial red.
“What’s going on?” he asked, keeping his voice even despite his fears.
“Crown Prince Amaltar requires your presence. Be quick. His Highness does not like to be kept waiting.”
Tol pulled off his sick-room shift and dressed. He was unfamiliar with some of the fancier items, but the valets smoothly fitted, buckled, and buttoned him into the outfit. Save for his lank hair, he looked quite the gentleman when they were done. Bypassing the new pouch they’d provided, he tied his old, rain-spotted one, containing the Irda millstone and Morthur Dermount’s sapphire ring, around his waist.
Lord Draymon led the way. Tol’s thigh still gave him a twinge, but he was on the mend, thanks to the skillful ministrations of the clerics of Mishas. They had applied healing poultices to his wound, drawing the soreness out and speeding the healing. Even so, he had trouble keeping up with the long-limbed captain’s stride.
The four soldiers by the door fell in step behind them. The ominous tramp of their booted feet made Tol all the more certain he was going to meet a dire fate. He questioned Draymon again.
“You know what I know,” said the captain. “I am to bring you to the Hall of Audiences.”
The public side of the Imperial Palace was quite spectacular. Everything was constructed on an enormous scale. Ceilings were ten paces high; walls were faced with tapestries or polished marble paneling; and intricate mosaics covered the floors. Lord Draymon conducted Tol through a series of corridors and antechambers before halting before a monumental double door that extended from floor to ceiling.
“Prepare yourself,” he said quietly. Tol’s heart contracted to a hard knot, but he squared his shoulders and thrust his chin out. Come what may, he would not dishonor himself, his mentor Egrin, or the good name of Juramona.
The massive doors swung inward. Draymon and the guards struck their heels together and strode inside in perfect step:
The audience hall was a very long room with a high, arched ceiling. All along Tol’s right were lofty windows, open to the summer air. Light streamed in through the towering arches, softening the harsh bas-relief sculptures of emperors, warriors, and generals, wrought far larger than life size on the facing wall. Like Amaltar’s tent outside Caergoth, the hall was alive with courtiers, favor-seekers, warlords, and foreigners. Loud laughter rang out from the back of the hall, where a group of richly dressed young men were tormenting a hapless servant, pushing him from side to side as he desperately tried not to spill the tray full of goblets he carried. With them, seated on a tall chair by the wall, was Prince Nazramin. In a posture eloquent of arrogance and disdain, he sat with one long leg thrust out, ignoring the inconvenience it posed to all who passed by. At his feet lay a huge mastiff, its coat closely clipped to reveal heavily muscled limbs. Scars on the dog’s chest and front legs showed that he was a fierce battler. Nazramin gave Draymon and Tol a brief sidelong glance, then kicked his dog’s rump. A loud growl erupted from the beast, and its brown eyes followed the two men with a chilling fixity.
A portly little man, not very old but bald as an egg, sidled up to Draymon, bowing.
“Who shall I say has arrived?” he asked in a light, lisping voice.
“Tol of Juramona,” the captain barked as though speaking to raw troops. “We are expected by His Highness!”
The round little man wasn’t at all impressed. “You will wait. I will announce you,” he said, bowing. He scurried away.
Tol asked who the fellow was, and the captain said, “Graybardo, fifth-or maybe sixth-chamberlain to the prince. Vain little weasel…”
Graybardo came hurrying back, quite red in the face. “This way, this way!” he said. “Hurry, please! The prince doesn’t like to be kept waiting!”
The armed guards remained at the door. Draymon unhitched his sword belt and handed it to his corporal, then he and Tol followed on the anxious Graybardo’s heels. They made an imposing pair, cleaving through the crowd like a couple of wolfhounds through a flock of brightly plumed birds.
Prince Amaltar was concluding a conversation as they arrived. Facing him was a delegation of three richly dressed Tarsans, two men flanking a woman. She was tall and raven-haired, wearing a tunic and trews of sky-blue silk. Her face and figure were at odds with the masculine cut of her clothing. Staring at her seductive profile, Tol had the feeling he’d seen her before.
“Gracious prince, those are the wishes of the Syndics,” she was saying, her voice smooth and rich as honey. “May I convey to them your answer?”
“Lady Hanira, decisions this weighty must be considered at length. My imperial father needs to be told of your proposals, and the Council of Companions must be consulted,” Amaltar replied coolly.
The ambassador from Tarsis bowed like a courtly swain. “I shall remain in Daltigoth four days,” she said. “I pray the gods counsel you to an answer before I must depart for home.”
She turned with a flourish and glided away. Onlookers gasped at the woman’s impertinence, turning her back on the crown prince. Her male comrades departed in the proper fashion, backing away, eyes lowered.
As Hanira swept by, Tol remembered her now from the tent at Caergoth-how she had stared so boldly at him. In passing, she did so again, and Tol thought he saw a flicker of recognition in her honey-colored eyes.
With the Tarsan delegation gone, Amaltar beckoned Draymon and Tol forward. He took a silver goblet from a tray borne by a waiting lackey.
“Draymon. Good, I’m glad you’re here. Welcome, Master Tol.” Amaltar suddenly seemed all kindness, but Tol was not relieved by his reception. Too often he’d seen Odovar or Enkian sentence prisoners to death with a smile and a gentle word. Those who exercised power often learned to put a soft face on their harshest rulings.
“That woman!” Amaltar exclaimed, once he’d drunk from the goblet “She has more”-he checked himself-”more nerve than all the men in the Council of Companions.” He set the empty goblet on the tray. The servant promptly whisked it away. “Do you know, she had the impudence to present an ultimatum! To me, crown prince of the Ergoth Empire! We sent a note to the Syndics of Tarsis, complaining about the high taxes they charge on goods they import from the empire. And what do you think their reply was? They’re doubling the tariff again!”