“Do,” she said. Then she looked at Garion, who was trying to conceal a broad grin. “Something funny?” she asked him.
“No, dear,” he replied quickly. “Just enjoying the scenery is all.”
The detachment of guards at the gates was neither as burnished nor plumed as the ceremonial guards at the gates of Tol Honeth. They wore polished shirts of chain mail over the customary red tunic, baggy breeches tucked into the tops of knee-high boots, red cloaks, and pointed conical helmets. They nonetheless looked very much like soldiers. They greeted Kal Zakath with crisp military salutes, and, as the Emperor passed through the gilded gates, trumpeteers announced his entrance into the imperial compound with a brazen fanfare.
“I’ve always hated that,” the Mallorean ruler said confidentially to Garion. “The sound grates on my ears.”
“What irritated me were the people who used to follow me around hoping that I might need something,” Garion told him.
“That’s convenient sometimes.”
Garion nodded. “Sometimes,” he agreed, “but it stopped being convenient when one of them threw a knife at my back.”
“Really? I thought your people universally adored you.”
“It was a misunderstanding. The young man and I had a talk about it, and he promised not to do it any more.”
“That’s all?” ’Zakath exclaimed in astonishment. “You didn’t have him executed?”
“Of course not. Once he and I understood each other, he turned out to be extraordinarily loyal.” Garion sighed sadly. “He was killed at Thull Mardu.”
“I’m sorry, Garion,” ’Zakath said. “We all lost friends at Thull Mardu.”
The marble-clad buildings inside the imperial complex were a jumble of conflicting architectural styles, ranging from the severely utilitarian to the elaborately ornate. For some reason Garion was reminded of the vast rabbit warren of King Anheg’s palace at Val Alorn. Although ’Zakath’s palace did not consist of one single building, the structures were all linked to each other by column-lined promenades and galleries which passed through park-like grounds studded with statues and marble pavilions.
’Zakath led them through the confusing maze toward the middle of the complex, where a single palace stood in splendid isolation, announcing by its expanse and height that it was the center of all power in boundless Mallorea. “The residence of Kallath the Unifier,” the Emperor announced with grand irony, “my revered ancestor.”
“Isn’t it just a bit overdone?” Ce’Nedra asked tartly, still obviously unwilling to concede the fact that Mal Zeth far outstripped her girlhood home.
“Of course it is,” the Mallorean replied, “but the ostentation was necessary. Kallath had to demonstrate to the other generals that he outranked them, and in Mal Zeth one’s rank is reflected by the size of one’s residence. Kallath was an undisguised knave, a usurper and a man of little personal charm, so he had to assert himself in other ways.”
“Don’t you just love politics?” Velvet said to Ce’Nedra. “It’s the only field where the ego is allowed unrestricted play—as long as the treasury holds out.”
’Zakath laughed. “I should offer you a position in the government, Margravine Liselle,” he said. “I think we need an imperial deflator—someone to puncture all our puffed-up self-importance.”
“Why, thank you, your Majesty,” she said with a dimpled smile. “If it weren’t for my commitments to the family business, I might even consider accepting such a post. It sounds like so much fun.”
He sighed with mock regret. “Where were you when I needed a wife?”
“Probably in my cradle, your Majesty,” she replied innocently.
He winced. “That was unkind,” he accused.
“Yes,” she agreed. “True, though,” she added clinically.
He laughed again and looked at Polgara. “I’m going to steal her from you, my lady,” he declared.
“To be your court jester, Kal Zakath?” Liselle asked, her face no longer lightly amused. “To entertain you with clever insults and banter? Ah, no. I don’t think so. There’s another side to me that I don’t think you’d like very much. They call me ‘Velvet’ and think of me as a soft-winged butterfly, but this particular butterfly has a poisoned sting—as several people have discovered after it was too late.”
“Behave, dear,” Polgara murmured to her. “And don’t give away trade secrets in a moment of pique.” Velvet lowered her eyes. “Yes, Lady Polgara,” she replied meekly.
’Zakath looked at her, but did not say anything. He swung down from his saddle, and three grooms dashed to his side to take the reins from his hand. “Come along, then,” he said to Garion and the others. “I’d like to show you around.” He threw a sly glance at Velvet. “I hope that the Margravine will forgive me if I share every home owner’s simple pride in his domicile—no matter how modest.”
She laughed a golden little laugh.
Garion dismounted and laid an affectionate hand on Chretienne’s proud neck. It was with a pang of almost tangible regret that he handed the reins to a waiting groom.
They entered the palace through broad, gilded doors and found themselves in a vaulted rotunda, quite similar in design to the one in the Emperor’s palace in Tol Honeth, though this one lacked the marble busts that made Varana’s entryway appear vaguely like a mausoleum. A crowd of officials, military and civilian, awaited their Emperor, each with a sheaf of important-looking documents in his hand.
’Zakath sighed as he looked at them. “I’m afraid we’ll have to postpone the grand tour,” he said. “I’m certain that you’ll all want to bathe and change anyway—and perhaps rest a bit before we start the customary formalities. Brador, would you be good enough to show our guests to their rooms and arrange to have a light lunch prepared for them?”
“Of course, your Majesty.”
“I think the east wing might be pleasant. It’s away from all the scurrying through the halls in this part of the palace.”
“My very thought, your Majesty.”
’Zakath smiled at them all. “We’ll dine together this evening,” he promised. Then he smiled ironically. “An intimate little supper with no more than two or three hundred guests.” He looked at the nervous officials clustered nearby and made a wry face. “Until this evening, then.”
Brador led them through the echoing marble corridors teeming with servants and minor functionaries.
“Big place,” Belgarath observed after they had been walking for perhaps ten minutes. The old man had said very little since they had entered the city, but had ridden in his customary half doze, although Garion was quite sure that very little escaped his grandfather’s half-closed eyes.
“Yes,” Brador agreed with him. “The first Emperor, Kallath, had grandiose notions at times.”
Belgarath grunted. “It’s a common affliction among rulers. I think it has something to do with insecurity.”
“Tell me, Brador,” Silk said, “didn’t I hear somewhere that the state secret police are under the jurisdiction of your bureau?”
Brador nodded with a deprecating little smile. “It’s one of my many responsibilities, Prince Kheldar,” he replied. “I need to know what’s going on in the empire in order to stay on top of things, so I had to organize a modest little intelligence service—nothing on nearly the scale of Queen Porenn’s, however.”
“It will grow with time,” Velvet assured him. “Those things always do, for some reason.”
The east wing of the palace was set somewhat apart from the rest of the buildings in the complex and it embraced a kind of enclosed courtyard or atrium that was green with exotic flowering plants growing about a mirror-like pool at its center. Jewel-like hummingbirds darted from blossom to blossom, adding splashes of vibrant, moving color.
Polgara’s eyes came alight when Brador opened the door to the suite of rooms she was to share with Durnik.
Just beyond an arched doorway leading from the main sitting room was a large marble tub sunk into the floor with little tendrils of steam rising from it. “Oh, my,” she sighed. “Civilization—at last.”