Agah’ran appeared considerably relieved. “The matter is settled, then, and nothing like this will occur again. You will see to that, Tretar. Express our wishes to the Unseen forcibly.”
“Of course, My Liege,” said Tretar, who had absolutely no intention of doing any such thing. Let those cold-blooded demons mind their own affairs! He wanted no part of them.
“That does not help us with our current problem, however, Tretar,” pursued Agah’ran mildly. “The eggs have been broken, so to speak. We see no way of putting the yolks back into their shells.”
“No, O Radiant One,” Tretar agreed, glad to return to a subject less dangerous and of far more importance. “And, therefore, I propose to His Imperial Majesty that he make an omelet.”
“Quite clever, Tretar.” The emperor’s painted lips creased slightly. “Do we partake of this omelet ourselves or feed it to the Kenkari?”
“Neither, Majesty. We feed it to our enemy.”
“A poisoned omelet, then.”
Tretar bowed in homage. “Your Majesty is, I see, far ahead of me.”
“You are referring to that human child... What’s his name? The one who was brought to the Imperanon yesterday.”
“Bane, Your Majesty.”
“Yes. Charming child, or so we hear. Passable looks, for a human, we are told. What are we to make of him, Tretar? Is this wild tale of his to be believed?”
“I have done some investigating, Your Imperial Majesty. If you would be interested to hear what I have discovered?”
“Amused, at least,” said the emperor, with a languid lift of a plucked eyebrow.
“Your Majesty has, among his slaves, a human who once served in the royal household of King Stephen. A minor footman, he was pressed into service in the Volkaran army. I took the liberty of bringing this man and the child, Bane, together. The footman recognized the child immediately. In fact, the wretched man nearly passed out, thinking he’d seen a ghost.”
“Appallingly superstitious—humans,” Agah’ran commented.
“Yes, My Liege. Not only did this man recognize the boy, the boy knew the footman. He spoke to him by name—”
“By name? A footman? Bah! This Bane cannot have been a prince!”
“Humans tend to be democratic-minded, Sire. I am told that King Stephen admits any human, even those of the lowest, most common rank, into his presence, if they have a suit or a grievance.”
“Gad! How dreadful! I feel quite faint,” said Agah’ran. “Hand me those smelling salts, Tretar.”
The count lifted a small bottle, decorated with silver, and motioned to the valet de chambre, who motioned to a slave, who took the bottle and held it at the proper distance beneath the imperial nose. Several sniffs of the aromatic salts restored Agah’ran to clear-minded attentiveness, alleviated the shock of hearing about the barbaric practices of humans.
“If you are feeling quite well, My Liege, I will continue.”
“Where is all this leading, Tretar? What has the child to do with the Kenkari? You cannot fool us, Count. We are sharp. We see a connection developing here.” The count bowed in homage. “Your Imperial Majesty’s brain is a veritable dragon-trap. If I might presume upon Your Radiance’s patience, I beg Your Majesty to permit me to introduce the child into the Royal Presence. I believe Your Imperial Majesty will find the story the boy has to tell quite interesting.”
“A human? Into our presence? Suppose... suppose”—Agah’ran appeared distraught, fluttered his hand—“suppose we catch something?”
“The boy has been quite thoroughly scrubbed, Your Majesty,” said the count with becoming gravity.
Agah’ran motioned to the valet, who motioned to the slave, who handed the emperor a scented pomander. Holding it up in front of his nose, Agah’ran indicated with a slight nod that Tretar was to proceed. The count snapped his fingers. Two of the royal guard marched in, conveying the child between them.
“Stop! Stop there!” Agah’ran commanded, though the boy had not taken four steps into the large room.
“Guards, leave us,” Tretar ordered. “Your Imperial Majesty, I present His Highness, Bane, Prince of Volkaran.”
“And Ulyndia and the High Realms,” added the child. “Now that my real father’s dead.”
He stepped forward with an imperious air, bowed gracefully from the waist. The prince indicated respect for the emperor, but made it clear he was offering it to an equal, as an equal.
Agah’ran, accustomed to seeing his own people prostrate themselves flat on the floor before their emperor, was considerably taken aback by such arrogance and bravado. It would have cost an elf his soul. Tretar held his breath, thinking perhaps he’d made a serious mistake.
Bane raised his head, straightened his small body, and smiled. He had been bathed and dressed in whatever finery Tretar could find to fit him (human children being considerably rounder than elven children). The golden curls had been combed into ringlets that glistened in the light. Bane’s skin was like fine porcelain, his eyes were bluer than the lapis on the box held by the emperor’s geir. Agah’ran was impressed with the child’s beauty, or so Tretar judged, noting the emperor lift his eyebrow and slightly lower the scented pomander.
“Come nearer, boy—”
Tretar coughed delicately.
Agah’ran took the hint. “Come nearer, Your Highness, that we may look at you.” The count breathed again. The emperor was charmed. Not literally, of course. Agah’ran wore strong talismans that protected him against magic. Tretar, in his first interview with Bane, had been amused to see the human boy attempt to work some type of crude magic upon himself, some sort of enchantment spell. The magic had no effect, but its use was one of the first indications Tretar had that the boy might be telling at least part—if not all—the truth.
“Not too close,” said Agah’ran. Not all the perfume in Aristagon could mask the human smell. “There, that’s near enough. So you claim to be the son of King Stephen of Volkaran.”
“No, I do not, O Exalted Being,” said Bane, frowning slightly. Agah’ran cast a stem glance at Tretar, who inclined his head. “Patience, My Liege,” he said softly. “Tell His Imperial Majesty your father’s name, Your Highness.”
“Sinistrad, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Bane proudly. “A mysteriarch of the High Realm.”
“A term the humans use for a wizard of the Seventh House, My Liege,” explained Tretar.
“Seventh House. And your mother’s name?”
“Anne of Ulyndia, Queen of Volkaran and Ulyndia.”
“Dear, dear,” murmured Agah’ran, shocked, though he had himself fathered more illegitimate children than he could count. “I fear you’ve made a mistake, Count. If this bastard is not the king’s son, then he is not the prince.”
“Yes, I am, My Liege!” Bane cried in childish impetuosity that was quite becoming and, moreover, quite convincing. “Stephen claimed me as his legitimate son. He made me his heir. My mother forced him to sign papers. I’ve seen them. Stephen has to do what my mother says. She’s head of her own army. He needs her support if he wants to remain king.”
Agah’ran glanced at Tretar.
The count rolled his eyes as much as to say, “What do you expect of humans?” The emperor almost smiled, refrained. A smile might muss his paint. “Such an arrangement sounds quite satisfactory to all concerned, Your Highness. We sense something happened to upset it, since you were found on that Geg place. What’s its name...”
“Drevlin, My Liege,” Tretar murmured. “Yes, Drevlin. What were you doing down there, child?”
“I was a prisoner, Your Radiance.” Bane’s eyes glittered with sudden tears. “Stephen hired an assassin, a man called Hugh the Hand—”
“Surely not!” Agah’ran’s painted eyelids fluttered.