Path of Revenge (14 page)

With another shrug of his shoulders Torve regained his feet, completely balanced. His imaginary opponent struck, an acrobatic swivel and high kick. Torve waited just long enough to draw the complete movement from his opponent, then bent at the waist in time to avoid the attack. He could almost feel the swish of the bare foot passing over his head. The Defiance was not a weapon to destroy an opponent; it was a tool to humiliate him—or her. Women were equally adept. So Torve practised his deceptions, feinting here, hinting at his full ability there, drawing the best out of his opponent, showing her that her most potent attacks were ineffective against him. Then, when his imaginary opponent acknowledged Torve’s mastery by leaving the pala, the playing field, the Omeran executed a dizzying sequence of spins and kicks from all positions: on his feet, his back, standing on his head. He then circled the room three times and bowed to his opponent, his Defiance over for the morning.

He laved his cooling body with water from a small china bowl, cleansing the sweat from his matted body hair, dried himself slowly, then opened his door and retrieved the clothes left for him by the Palace steward. These clothes were always selected by the Emperor. He was not allowed to choose his own attire, for what interest would an animal have in clothing? Today his master had decided on matching pink jacket and pantaloons. He was the Emperor’s fashion accessory. Torve said nothing, he thought nothing, despite the humiliating knowledge. He put on the clothes.

He left his room without a backward glance: apart from his small carpet, there was nothing of himself in it. He was self-contained in the most literal sense. Where others invested parts of themselves in their possessions and in other people, everything Torve was he held secretly within his skin. He had been bred for service and for loyalty. It was impossible for him to harbour notions of disobedience against his enslaver. He did not need to. His Defiance was over for the morning.

Torve walked briskly but with an unconscious grace down the marble corridor to the Emperor’s suite. There he would await his master’s pleasure. His days and his years had regularly been filled with the indescribable, for his master was a sadist and a torturer, determined to uncover the secret of eternal life by studying death, the enemy. Torve had watched impassively as Amaqi and Omerans alike were taken apart in experiments. He had kept notes. Participated. Not to do so would be unthinkable. For three thousand years his forebears had been bred to slavery, and his inherited emotional insulation against the horror of his service ensured he remained unscarred. The girl, though: she had seen into him, had used her unique vision to penetrate the three-thousand-year thickness of his soul. For the first time in his life Torve found himself profoundly unsettled.

This morning the girl named Lenares had been his imaginary opponent. He had defied her, tricked her, humiliated her, triumphed over her, but his uneasiness remained. He arrived at his master’s oak-panelled door, nodded to the Amaqi servants waiting there, and stood motionless in the corridor, feet shoulder-width apart, hands lightly clasped behind his back, in a state of readiness.

The Emperor emerged, mask already in place as always, today clad in a full red robe lined in purple. He
often favoured full-length robes as it allowed him to wear elevated shoes. Without a word Torve swung in behind him as they made their way towards the throne room.

‘Did you dream about the girl last night?’ the Emperor asked casually. His face would have worn a leer, had it been visible.

Torve forced himself to smile. ‘I thought about her claims, ma great sor,’ he answered carefully. ‘I thought about her way of seeing. I am still convinced we should try to learn everything we can from her.’

‘I can guess what you want to learn from her. It was only to be expected: you have grown up. I may have to speak to the surgeon about this. We can’t have you on heat the whole time.’

Torve turned a bland stare towards his master. ‘However I may best serve you, my lord,’ he responded, containing his fear, knowing that to avoid the surgeon’s knife he must be careful what he said about the unusual girl. ‘I think of your great quest above all else. Perhaps you wish to have someone else help you with her questioning?’

This occasioned a sharp bark of laughter. ‘Of course not. We are a team. It would take me years to train another to your level of skill. Just be careful, that is all.’

Palace guards opened the double doors into the throne room. This vast domed chamber was on a far different scale to the small annex to the Corridor of Rainbows. The throne, directly under the huge cap to the great gold dome above, was surrounded by a marble floor decorated with mosaics representing the races conquered by the Amaqi, in turn flanked by a double row of crystal columns, a triumph of forgotten engineers executing the will of some ancient chancellor. They, not the vaulted dome with its painting of the three gods, nor the acclaimed mosaics on the marble floor,
were the true glory of this space. The crystal columns reflected and amplified the colours worn by the court, already in attendance on their Emperor; blues, greens, reds, golds, yellows, every exotic shade and hue their tailors could purchase from the caravans that came through the city, all to be found shifting and swirling in the crystal separating the court from the throne.

Down went a hundred courtiers and as many other functionaries as the doors opened, foreheads to the floor, the faint rustle of fabric the only sound as the court abased itself before the Emperor. Alone, he walked slowly to his throne; lately he had been taking longer and longer to make the eighty paces to the platform. A message to his advisers, Torve believed, warning them that their expansionist plans would not be rushed. The courtiers were obliged to wait, listening to the sound of their sovereign’s feet—step, pause, pause, step, pause, pause—as he kept them in their uncomfortable position. The Omeran imagined he could hear corsets straining, but was careful to keep his amusement private. This room held danger for him. He was tolerated as an eccentricity, but knew he may one day be traded by his master for some political concession or other.

The slow stepping ceased. Trumpets sounded a fanfare—newly composed each day, though Torve wondered if he had heard this one before—and the court representing the great Alliances rose to stand before their Emperor. The Omeran took his accustomed stance by the double doors, now closed.

‘Bring the exalted Captain Duon,’ the herald cried from his place beside the glittering throne, and the double doors opened again to admit a guard clad in ceremonial silver armour, carrying a staff with the Emperor’s banner affixed to it. ‘Captain Duon at the Emperor’s pleasure,’ the silver guard announced, and gave way to the captain himself.

Torve had seen the captain two days previously, when he had first reported the results of his expedition to the Emperor, and was surprised at the change in the man. Not forty-eight hours ago Captain Duon had looked more scarecrow than human, wild hair and a shaggy beard disguising what, now he had shaved, were clearly patrician features. A man who had seemed uncouth now appeared urbane, cultured, worthy of the rewards the Emperor had granted him. Undoubtedly those rewards had already borne their first fruit: the hero now looked the part. Tall, smooth-skinned, golden-haired, with a wide mouth and full lips. Gasps of admiration and delight came from many of the women—and some of the men—of the court.

‘Ma great sor,’ the man said in a melodious voice after walking to the platform and performing his obeisance, ‘you requested a full accounting of my adventures. I have brought an inventory to aid in this task.’ He pulled a thick notebook from his breast pocket.

‘You misunderstand our purpose,’ the Emperor interrupted. ‘We will not require an inventory. We wish a different kind of accounting. This morning we seek to uncover truths which together may give the Amaqi the key to all the world’s riches.’

The Emperor was not given to overstatement, so an excited murmur of conversation filled the silence following these words. The court—and Torve, his intimate—were caught off balance, as nothing of the Emperor’s purpose in this matter had come to their attention, bribes, spies and confidences notwithstanding.

‘Bring the cosmographer,’ cried the herald, and Torve jerked his head around at the word. Again the double doors swung wide, this time to admit…

‘Lenares the Cosmographer,’ boomed the banner-bearer, ‘at the Emperor’s pleasure.’

In she walked, his opponent, clad in a beautiful white dress edged in purple as was the cosmographers’ gift, her pale hair exquisitely coiffured, swept back from her face: Lenares. Lenares! How had this been accomplished? What wiles had his master employed to get her to present so well? She had certainly not spent the night in the questioning room. She had been perfumed, rouge applied to her face, and she walked as though born to the court. The Emperor had organised this without consulting him.

She turned to Torve and oh, she smiled, and he was sure he was dreaming. And as she turned away and walked towards the throne he realised there were some attacks against which defiance was useless.

‘Lenares the Cosmographer at the Emperor’s pleasure,’ the man in shining armour said. Lenares recognised her cue to walk to the throne as she had been taught. Left, right, small steps, chin raised. Easy. They had explained it to her as a ritual, and she had grasped the concept. She had always loved order and ceremony. She saw the clever Omeran and smiled at him, wanting to greet him or wave but knowing that as part of the ritual she was not permitted to speak in this room until she was spoken to.

They had come for her not long after the Emperor and the Omeran left her and Mahudia alone. Six women took her from the cold room and brought her to a wonderful room of silks and mirrors. There they talked to her about what would be required of her. At first Lenares was angry, but gradually they had captured her interest. A bath, water laboriously borne by servants from the kitchens—she made them all leave the room when the time came to immerse herself in the steaming water—had been followed by sleep amongst scented pillows, then an early awakening. She didn’t mind. She’d never needed much sleep. The women spoke
softly, respectfully to her: can we wash your hair? Can we make you beautiful? She said yes, as it was part of the ritual, and allowed them to touch her even though it was against her rules. So many new experiences, so much new information to take in. She watched them as they worked, listened as they chatted, absorbed it all with her single-minded concentration. She surprised them, as she knew she would, by how rapidly she learned to do what they wanted. She was special. Why should she not do better than they expected?

And if the looks she received from the crowd were anything to go by, she still did better than they expected. Lenares felt a thrill of pride. This was what she had thought would happen two days ago when the Emperor had disappointed her so badly. Now she exulted in the glory of it.

Ninety-seven, ninety-eight, ninety-nine, one hundred paces. A good number to end on. She knelt, then lowered her forehead to the cool marble floor. She was not happy about this part, but she knew all eyes were on her even now, so she endured it. Counted to five, then climbed back to her knees and repeated the exercise twice more. Finally she raised her head, got to her feet and looked into the masked face of the man who had hurt her, who had said he didn’t believe her but who really did, who was using her as part of some complicated plan.

He nodded, a false thing, and welcomed her to the court. She turned and acknowledged the crowd, just as she had been instructed, adding a little twirl of her own before turning back to the Emperor. They admired her; she took note of the frank stares of the courtiers, and it affected her like strong wine to a child.

Torve stood eighty paces away from the throne, having as usual to strain to hear what was being said.
Bored courtiers held their own discussions, and there were other noises arising from the assembly of a hundred people. He was accustomed to this, however, as his master insisted on reviewing the day’s proceedings every evening. As a consequence he had developed a sharp and comprehensive memory.

The Emperor introduced his two subjects to each other, then offered a précis of each to the court. Captain Taleth Duon he described as an adventurer from the Anaphil Alliance, a minor Alliance represented at court by an elderly matriarch and her grandson. The family was well respected but, because they were originally from Punta, a coastal city fifty leagues to fatherback, they were at a disadvantage in the Talamaq Palace. His master did not say this directly, of course, but it was there to be heard in his words.

‘Captain Duon has risen rapidly through the ranks by hard work and obedience.’ Not by the usual method of patronage or purchase of a commission. ‘He came to our attention as a result of his activities coordinating drought relief in Punta province, and gained promotion to captain after supervising the cleansing of the Third of Brick.’ Enthusiastic but poorly connected, doing the dirty work shunned by the aristocracy.

‘We rewarded him by granting him an explorer’s licence. He chose to travel fatherwards and brave the dangers of Nomansland; you will recall we sent him on his journey with much celebration four years ago last summer.’

Already his master was losing the court’s attention. Bored courtiers stifled yawns, picked at their nails with elegant knives or their noses with equally elegant fingers, and pretended to listen. The Emperor must have some plan. Given his expressed loathing for the cosmographer girl, and the minor status of the explorer, there must be something important ahead.

‘Our courageous explorer has returned! And as you are about to hear, he brings with him knowledge that may well make the fortunes of everyone in this room, and bring vast new lands under our control.’

Torve watched the court’s reaction to this carefully phrased statement. The less wealthy courtiers leaned forward, nails or nostrils forgotten, while the richest men frowned and scratched their beards as they considered the prospect of losing their privileged positions. The Emperor would be interested in these reactions. Clever, very clever.