“People are talking,” Truda went on. “They say the Skylanders’ chief was of high birth. I’d be happy to quell that rumor, if I could.”
Tol ignored the blatant plea for gossip. He paid her twice her normal fee and the healer was swiftly ushered out.
With Kiya taken care of and the Juramona men made welcome, the difficult visit to Amaltar could not be put off any longer. Tol and Egrin departed to make themselves more presentable for an audience with the future emperor.
Alone in his room, Tol poured cool water from a ewer into a shallow basin and raised a double handful to his face. Staring at his reflection in the mirror, he paused.
In the moment of his greatest triumph his enemies seemed to be multiplying. Could he best them all? Staunch friends, a strong arm, a blade of dwarf steel, and the Irda nullstone were among his assets; Were they enough?
What of Mandes? The sorcerer had defamed him, stolen his glory, and besmirched his honor for more than a decade. Was Mandes responsible for all the treachery that seemed to surround him? If he denounced Mandes, would Amaltar even believe him? Mandes had become a highly trusted advisor to the new emperor, while Tol had been absent a long time.
On the sea journey to Daltigoth, he had contemplated what should be done about the rogue wizard. Mandes was not merely a faithless liar, he was a murderer. Tol was more and more certain he had killed Tol’s men at the Golden House in Tarsis and killed Felryn and Frez as well.
Tol dashed the water on his face. His resolution was firm. There could be only one solution to the problem of Mandes.
Whatever happened with Nazramin or Lord Enkian, the Mist-Maker could not be allowed to live.
Although they hadn’t been summoned, Tol and Egrin had no trouble gaining admittance to the imperial palace. The guards, hailing Lord Tolandruth, ushered the hero of Tarsis through the Inner City to the palace steps. Draymon, commander of the Palace Guard, appeared and sternly ordered his men back to their posts.
“My lord,” he said. “I had no word you were coming.”
“I come on my own. May I see the emperor?”
“He is in council now-”
Egrin said, “The matter is pressing.”
Draymon was not about to forestall two such formidable visitors. With a nod, he conducted them himself to the imperial council chamber.
Loud voices came to them through the closed doors. Egrin professed surprise. Emperor Pakin III would never have allowed such a contentious enclave.
Draymon looked grave. “Our new master, may the gods guide him, is not the man he once was.”
He left them while he entered the chamber to announce them. The heavy gilded doors did not allow them to hear his measured tones, but the chorus of loud denunciations his words engendered carried clearly to Tol and Egrin. They exchanged a look.
When Draymon finally returned, his face was red with embarrassment, but he said, “The emperor will see you at once.”
Tol surrendered his sword, and Egrin likewise removed his saber and dagger. Draymon took the weapons, but delayed Tol’s entry with a quick jerk of his head.
“They’re all there, including Prince Nazramin,” he muttered. “Beware, my lord.”
Tol nodded. “Thank you, Captain. A favor? Stay close to this door-with my sword.”
Another man might have smelled a nefarious purpose in such a request, but Draymon vowed he would remain outside the council chamber until Tol and Egrin returned.
Tol grasped the smooth, cold door handles and shoved the heavy portals apart. The sunlit chamber beyond was much as it had been when he’d last seen it, when he’d volunteered to lead three hundred foot soldiers to Hylo to find the unknown enemy threatening Ergothian hegemony over the kender kingdom. That quest had led to the death of the monster XimXim and the loss of many good comrades.
Amaltar’s assembled advisors ceased bickering as Tol and Egrin entered, but their expressions could hardly be termed welcoming. The crowd parted, revealing Amaltar seated at the head of the long table.
The soon-to-be emperor looked even less well than he had when Tol had seen him just days before. His skin was ashen, a sickly color only made more obvious by the deep scarlet of his robes. His dark eyes, once so intelligent and penetrating, stared out from deeply hollow sockets. High cheekbones, once the envy of many a noble lady, now stood out in such sharp relief his face resembled a skull.
Tol knelt, as he’d been told to do when last presented to Amaltar. Egrin’s astonishment at the action was plain. Warlords of the empire knelt to no one! But he too slowly went down on one knee.
“Your Imperial Highness,” Tol said. “Thank you for receiving us.”
“Lord Tolandruth, welcome. Egrin Raemel’s son, welcome. Come before me.” Though his chest rattled slightly with phlegm, Amaltar’s voice was still strong.
Tol rose. Egrin trailed him through the line of glaring councilors: Chamberlain Valdid; Oropash, head of the White Robes; Red Robe leader Helbin; Lord Rymont, commander of the imperial hordes in Lord Regobart’s absence; lesser lords of the hordes based in the capital; and Prince Nazramin.
Amaltar’s younger brother sat at the end of the lengthy table. Turned partly away, Nazramin’s posture was more proof of Amaltar’s weakness. Such casual contempt would never have been dreamt of in the presence of Pakin III. The Prince Amaltar Tol remembered wouldn’t have allowed it either.
Nazramin was dressed in impeccable white, but his attire was so stylishly cut and so lavishly sprinkled with pearls and sparkling diamonds it could hardly be called mourning dress. He ignored Tol’s progress through the room, blithely studying his nails.
Mandes was there as well, hovering behind the emperor’s chair. Though Amaltar’s personal physician and seer, Mandes did not have the status to sit at the council table. Hands clasped across his belly, the sorcerer kept to the background, one of many aides, assistants, and servants of the great men gathered around the Emperor of Ergoth and his high councilors. Unlike Prince Nazramin, however, Mandes met Tol’s gaze. The sight of his bland countenance filled Tol with unexpected fury; he clenched his jaw to keep the emotion from showing on his face.
Tol and Egrin halted by Amaltar’s right hand. They saluted, warrior-fashion.
“Marshal,” Amaltar said, smiling at Egrin, “it has been a long time. You look well.”
“As well as a warrior half my age, Your Majesty,” Egrin joked. “How fare’s Your Majesty’s health?”
Several courtiers gasped at the impudent question, but Amaltar said, “While I was regent, I ruled with the vigor of three men. Now they’re about to put the crown on my head, I have the strength of less than one. Why is that, I wonder?”
“It’s grief,” Nazramin called out from the other end of the council table. “Grief for our noble father, isn’t it, Your Majesty?”
This was obviously a jibe. Amaltar and his father had not been close. In fact, Pakin had cared little for any of his sons, preferring the gentler company of his wives and daughters.
Ignoring his disrespectful brother, Amaltar asked, “What weighty matter brings you here this day, Tolandruth? Surely you did not enter a closed council session to present Marshal Egrin, close though he is to our heart.”
“No, Majesty.” Tol looked to Egrin briefly. The older man urged him on with a slight nod. “There was a spree of riots in the city this morning.”
“There have been many riots,” Lord Rymont said haughtily. Tol’s age but blond where he was dark, Rymont had never fought in a major battle. “Malcontents from all over the empire have come to Daltigoth to air their petty grievances. They will be found out and punished.”
“One already has.”
Rymont thrust out his broad, clean-shaven chin. “Indeed? Who?”