Chapter Two The Sinister Minister #2
The Emperor’s voice was soft but hideously disturbing, possibly because the divine throat had recently been opened.
Andras hadn’t yet subjected the Emperor to careful scrutiny, because – dreadful truth, to be acknowledged and shoved in a drawer and never looked at again – the Emperor was terrifying.
Horror invaded Andras’s mind as the enemy had invaded their city, as a strange presence had usurped the throne. This creature leered on his stolen throne like a gargoyle dripping with blood. What was the divine turned dark but a monster that could swallow a realm?
Into the compartments with all of that – lock it away.
Their Emperor was a very well-looking young man, discounting the blood.
His profile was perfect for the new paper money Pio’s colleague the Marquis of Popenjoy wished to introduce.
Pio’s mind strayed, wondering if the wicked marquis, also known as the Golden Cobra, had survived the slaughter, but he firmly returned his attention to his Emperor.
The situation was not desperate. The accent and bearing were lamentable, but tutors could be found and – if slain – could be replaced.
The Emperor was still very young, and could absolutely be moulded into the ideal monarch. Given the right advisors.
Pio ventured a step forward. The Emperor’s burning red gaze turned upon his minister, narrowed with – the low cunning of a peasant, the scheming of a devil – wisdom beyond his years.
“Certainly, Your Imperial Highness. Shall we discuss the invading army within our city walls?”
When the sun set, Pio believed the raiders from Tagar were the greatest threat the country would ever face.
After a night soaked with blood and terror, seeing the dead and the Emperor rise to destroy all Pio had ever known…
that might still be true. Even one band of raiders could level a town.
Their capital was under attack by a whole marauding army, led by the raider king Ivor the Heartless and his wild tiger of a general.
They needed their own invincible warrior, if Lord Marius Valerius still lived. They needed a plan.
Commander General Nemeth gave Pio a glance suggesting he was a filthy treacherous weasel. Pio was accustomed to such looks. Many dwelled upon love, many upon honour. Someone had to keep the country running.
“I’ll leave you to it, shall I?” Lady Rahela mumbled.
“I do intend to address the matter of the invading army,” the Emperor agreed, to Pio’s astonished gratitude. “Tomorrow. Tonight, I would like to address the manner of my death.”
There was a quality of stone about the Emperor’s voice suddenly, like a tomb opening.
“I wish,” he said, “to talk to the man who killed me.”
This is an insane killer, whispered a voice from Pio’s mental cabinets. Pio corrected the voice. This is a courageous young ruler eager to lead the charge into battle and claim his empire.
Truth was a coin. Sometimes the coin flipped. Sometimes truth needed to be spun.
“Sire, regarding the matter of who killed you…”
Pio gestured gingerly in the vicinity of the king’s glassy-eyed head, then even more gingerly at Lady Rahela upon her throne of bones.
Considering the part the lady had played in her guard’s demise, their Emperor clearly had peculiar tastes.
No matter. Often the way with the powerful.
History told of a tragically unhinged princess who wandered the palace kissing frogs.
Lady Rahela made an unladylike face, but even she was not madwoman enough to speak now. Every soul in the throne room went as still as the ghouls Pio carefully wasn’t looking at. They didn’t dare breathe. They existed merely to please their Emperor.
If only someone could work out what their Emperor was getting at.
The Emperor laughed like the wild cawing of dark birds.
“Oh, you nobles. Do you think the king cut my throat with his own hands? Do you imagine he had the lady do it? I remember it as if I died yesterday. The king kissed my lady as a humble guard wielded the blade. That guard. The one standing behind the prime minister right now.”
Pio twisted around in dread.
Shadows and sinister light had painted the green crystal cavern of the throne room in broad strokes of black and red.
Yet as the guard stumbled back, a ray struck from one of the crystals and lent springtime-coloured illumination to his face.
Very young, like the Emperor. Unlike the Emperor, his face was open and vulnerable.
Some mother’s beloved boy, raised too soft for this wicked world.
When Pio had selected this guard to accompany him, he’d made a terrible error.
Andras learned the name of any servant who seemed relevant. Perhaps he should start asking servants’ names more often, as he was now in the awkward position of not knowing his Emperor’s name. Or the name of his Emperor’s killer.
He cast an inquiring glance at Nemeth, who muttered: “Conn. A good lad.”
The youngest and most desirous to please always got landed with the worst jobs. Conn, a good lad. Who had obeyed the king, as he was sworn to do, and cut a traitor’s throat.
How could Conn have known? The poor and downtrodden only climbed high in stories. How could any of them have known the young man who would be Emperor actually mattered?
If this were a tale, the moral of the story would be clear, but morals were not practical. Treating everybody in the world as if they mattered would be disastrous for the economy.
“Conn,” the Emperor commanded. With another unpleasant little shock of understanding, Pio realized that of course the Emperor knew the name of the man who wielded the blade. They had been guards together. “Come forward.”
For a moment Andras thought the guard, with eyes like a lamb, was too scared to obey. Then Conn swallowed and moved to do his Emperor’s bidding.
Pio stepped aside to let the boy go to his death unimpeded.
If his mother had raised Conn gently, she had also raised him bold. After the first hesitation, the young guard’s steps did not falter.
What a pity for him. Better to be clever than brave.
As Conn went, he made the sign of the Great Goddess: the door opening, to lead those who believed to a better place. Another horror in a night of horrors. Imagine having faith, and realizing what you had done to your god. Conn looked sick.
The Emperor looked amused. “Draw the blade that cut my throat.”
With desperate courage, Conn drew and held aloft his knife. The blade shone red and wet. From the sharp edge of the steel dripped fresh blood, as though he had cut the Emperor’s throat but a moment ago. As if the Emperor were still bleeding.
The boy’s troubles seemed set to end swiftly. An unfortunate situation, but not Pio’s business.
He had seen enough slaughter tonight. Andras said something he’d never expected to say. “Lady Rahela is right. Let us take our rest after this eventful night, and reconvene in the morning.”
Ever since the ministers had entered the throne room, Rahela had strained as if tied to her throne with invisible bonds. Offered the opportunity to escape, she cast Pio a grateful glance.
Then she clenched her fist around the gilded bone arm of her seat.
The Emperor caught the gesture from the corner of his baleful eye, a hunter sensitive to every movement from his quarry. Perhaps his infatuation might last after all.
“Will I see you in the morning, my lady?”
She favoured him with a red-lipped smile, and asked, smooth and clear, “Where else could I go?”
Her smile told the truth her voice did not. It faltered.
Slowly and reluctantly, raising one gleaming metal claw by one, the Emperor released her wrist.
“Sweet nightmares then, my lady.”
Though he wasn’t an expert on the subject, this didn’t sound like typical love talk to Pio. Yet for some reason, it emboldened the Emperor’s betrothed to lean in despite her obvious fear.
She whispered, “Key. Don’t kill him.”
Wind from a dozen collective tiny sighs of relief hit Pio’s back. Nobody, it appeared, had known the Emperor’s name. At this point it seemed suicidally ill-advised to ask for an introduction. Without the lady, Pio suspected, they would simply have called him “the Emperor” forever.
The Emperor rested his head against the jewelled wings outstretched from his throne, eyes hooded. For a moment, he seemed almost truly young, and almost weary. “My lady urges gentle mercy. What say my ministers?”
There was a general murmur slightly in favour of mercy. If the Emperor wished. Pio made not a sound.
A chill entered the Emperor’s voice. “When it was my throat, my lady said – oh, what was it now – ‘I don’t care what you do to him. It doesn’t really matter. He doesn’t really matter.’ My lady. Ministers of the court. Does anyone have experience getting their throat cut?”
The guard, clutching his red and dripping knife, gave a stifled cry. The ministers who had murmured fell to their knees.
The Emperor’s eyes snapped open, lambent and glaring. “Just me, then. Let me say only this. It is not pleasant. Being thrown into the abyss was also not my idea of fun. I have not been having a good time, I am not in a good mood, and I do want to kill somebody about it.”
With the blaze of jewelled wings at his back and abyss smoke rising in the distance behind him, his court prostrate at his feet, the Emperor’s gaze swept the throne room.
“I hold power over sky and abyss. I am the one who matters now. If you wish to be kind, my lady, be kind only to me. Let the palace echo with screams, until the whole city hears and believes. Hell has no fury like mine, and nobody can stop me now.”
He laid his clawed gauntlet upon the hilt of his sword, fashioned in the shape of a serpent. The king’s sword! Pio thought when he saw it, and remembered. The Emperor’s sword. All that belonged to the king had only been kept in waiting for the Emperor.
That included every soul in the throne room, cowering at the thunder of the Emperor’s voice.