Chapter Eight The Minister and the Murder #2
And the prime minister who said, The sight of him makes me sick.
“Where to begin? Firstly, you don’t need to worship me.
You only need to obey. Secondly, so far, attempts to put me down like the rabid beast I am have not gone well.
Thirdly, if Marius Valerius wants my throne” – the Emperor’s voice curled around the words like thunderclouds around lightning – “he’s welcome to try and take it. ”
Snakes and birds were inlaid in orichal iron upon the Emperor’s black leather vambraces. The Emperor moved so fast that the metal creatures seemed to come alive with the red light of enchantment, and to spring as he leaped.
The great tapered claws of the Emperor’s enchanted gauntlets, often put aside by the king as too heavy to bear, slashed with the easy vicious grace of a great cat. Blood sprayed across the shining surface of the assembly table.
That was what was different about the regalia.
He sharpened the claws on the gauntlets. Pio forced his thoughts into calm, practical observations. He made his hands into ten long knives. Lord Olybrius didn’t even say anything bad about him. He kills randomly, for sport. Anyone could be next.
Aloud, Pio said, “Ring the bell for a maid to clean the table.”
Lord Olybrius fell face down on the table with his throat sliced open.
Blood pooled beneath his cheek, dripping off the table’s edge as though someone had spilled wine.
The Emperor put a hand on the dead man’s shoulder in an almost friendly gesture, wild black head dipped low to speak in the dead ear.
“Wake,” commanded the Emperor.
Lord Olybrius sat up with a jerk, blinking eyes that were fast glazing over with the milky sheen of death. His eyelashes clumped, thick with blood. He opened his mouth. No words came out, only a low rattling moan, a sound that seemed dragged out of a pit.
“There.” The Emperor smiled. “We’re friends now.”
He patted the dead man’s shoulder, then the imperial gaze roved across the assembly and settled on his prime minister.
Pio quailed. He had seen the red shine of enchantment on weapons and ornaments, gems and gravestones, but never in someone’s eyes before.
The abyss, fathoms of flame and shadow, regarded Pio from behind a mask of flesh.
“A prime minister,” the Emperor mused. “That means you’re my most important one.”
Pio took a moment to swallow, while he still had a throat. “Commander General Nemeth and I have the distinction of being considered your right and left hands, sire.”
“My left hand.” The Emperor held his up, blood shining wet on the claws. “Really. I noticed you skulking about the place after the king, weaving your schemes. My lady once remarked that you have the facial hair of an evil chancellor. She said many rulers have a devious, dishonest trusted advisor.”
“If the alternative is getting my throat cut,” Pio offered, “I can shave.”
More shocking than a blow, the Emperor laughed. “No need, my evil chancellor. Don’t worry. I have a reason to keep you around. For now.”
What is your insane reason? and For how long, exactly? were questions that occurred to Pio. It also occurred to him that questioning the Emperor would be unwise.
Pio bowed. “My liege, I live to serve.”
So long as he could live.
The Emperor strolled to the doorway, leaning nonchalantly against the door. “Come to the throne room.”
“Ah, you wish to discuss affairs of state.”
Pio rose with alacrity, making an urgent yet subtle gesture for his ministers to follow suit.
“Yeah,” the Emperor answered, offhand. “Let’s do that.”
That grating voice, low-born accent mingled with the hoarseness from a barely healed cut throat, disturbed and terrified at once. Pio had never imagined a voice from beyond the grave speaking casually.
He walked down the long, dim corridors beside his Emperor, footsteps echoing.
Ghoulish sentries lined the walls of the palace.
Pio looked at them, then back at his assembly, and flinched at the sight of the dead face of Lord Olybrius marching with the others.
The living ministers were giving him a wide berth.
“Do you find the countenances of my dead disquieting?” the Emperor asked.
“A little. What are Your Imperial Majesty’s thoughts on the matter?”
The Emperor threw open the tall, golden doors of the throne room, which should take a guard apiece to budge.
“People around me are often frightened and upset. I’ve never understood why.” His smile suggested otherwise. “Perhaps they find my countenance disquieting.”
A murmur of swift dissent from the ministers trailing behind them rose to the crystalline arches of the throne room, assuring the Emperor he didn’t have an unsettling aspect at all. Just as swiftly, the murmur subsided into an unconvinced and unconvincing mumble.
The Emperor bared his oddly sharp teeth as he sank onto his great jewelled throne.
The armour seemed made for him, and so did the royal seat.
The enchantment-sheened gold raven backing the throne was half obscured by his shadow.
The structure seemed to flare from his broad shoulders, giving the Emperor vast, dark wings.
“Not even a little? Disappointing. I’ll try harder.”
“Your aspect is both fearsome and alluring, Your Imperial Majesty,” said Pio flatly, as if they discussed taxes.
The ministers nodded, the gore-splattered ghoul of Lord Olybrius nodding along with the rest. Every one the Emperor’s puppet.
The Emperor studied the ghoul lord. “I’ll have masks made for my dead. My lady doesn’t like blood.”
My lady again, Pio couldn’t help noticing. It struck Pio the Emperor’s choice of victim was not random. The Emperor didn’t kill anyone who spoke against him. The Emperor killed the man who insulted Lady Rahela.
As soon as they’d been dismissed, Pio must warn the others.
For now, Pio murmured, “How considerate, my liege.”
At the same time, Commander General Nemeth spoke. The right hand of the monarch, who had served alongside Pio for more than a decade.
He snarled at the Emperor, “You filthy, vicious gutter rat. You’d better have an explanation for this!”
A pair of ghoulish guards moved from the shadows of the throne room, dragging a captive.
The captive was heavily chained, shuffling with metal-bound feet, arms held up stiffly by wrapped chains secured to a wooden frame.
He wore fine clothes, in the latest fashion for an aristocrat of Eyam, now ripped to shreds.
When the prisoner lifted his head, Pio saw his face: usually sweet and boyish, wearing a pleasant grin.
Today, one side of that face was bloody and swollen with bruises.
In place of the sunny grin was a gag. The captive beaten and chained like a common criminal in their throne room was Fabianus, Nemeth’s eldest son and heir.
The court’s growing dismay appeared to delight the Emperor, as if he’d pulled a rabbit from a hat rather than put his chief advisor’s son in chains.
“I do have an explanation for this,” began the Emperor, then paused. “Which can wait.”
“What?” demanded the general. “What could possibly be more important?”
He was interrupted by the scrape of the golden doors being opened.
To make way, Pio realized, for disaster.
In two words, the Emperor answered the general and greeted the newcomer: “My lady.”
The betrothed of the divine Emperor posed upon the threshold of the throne room, wearing—Pio knew very little about fashion.
Very little was also, coincidentally, what the lady was wearing.
Sections of almost transparent white silk edged with red fell around her legs in filmy folds, suggesting a dance in many veils across gory ground, and clung enough to make clear the lady wore no underskirts whatsoever.
Her skirts were decorated with scraps of black leather cut into the shape of thorns, and scarlet ribbons twisted to form climbing roses until they reached her waist. At her waist, the red ribbons and bands of black leather drew in tight and criss-crossed in a tower that pushed her bosom to the skies.
She looked like an hourglass wrapped up in red ribbon.
Once the murmurs died down, the scarlet woman blew a kiss to the dark lord on his dark throne. “Hi, gorgeous. Killed anybody today?”
“Only one person. But the day is young. And he’s better now.”
Rahela’s eyes widened, while Pio’s narrowed.
He had to wonder, was her outrageous costume a statement to the court that she could get away with anything now?
The black leather binding the lady’s waist echoed the Emperor’s black leather vambraces.
Her red skirts made Pio remember the tips of the Emperor’s claws glistening with fresh blood.
“One person is restrained, compared to yesterday. A very wicked morning to you, my Ferrari of darkness.” The Beauty Dipped In Blood breezed into the throne room with a saucy little wave to ministers and undead sentries alike. “Gentlemen. A wicked morning all around.”