Transformation Page 4

  Sire,

  I accept your righteous rebuke for my decision to reduce Lord Vanye’s rank. It was a thoughtless act, contrary to the best interests of the Derzhi Empire and reflecting dishonor upon myself as your son and heir, and therefore upon you, my father and my liege. Such result was never, and could never be, my remotest intent. To bring the least blight, the most minute taint of unseemly dispute to your glorious reign or your honored person is so vile a thought I can scarcely voice it, as if by saying the words, my tongue must blacken and fall out with the poisonous taste. Upon the life that you have given me and the honor that you have nurtured in me, such a lapse will not happen again.

  But for any act beyond this, I accept no chastisement. Vanye purposefully and contrivedly sought to destroy the property of his prince and liege. This is nothing but treason. To treat such a crime with lenience is to invite further affronts or open rebellion. The penalty for treason must be death or enslavement. So I was taught by you, honored sire. Vanye brought this shame upon his family, not I.

  As for the other matter, it seems but a confirmation of the earlier results. If Vanye’s family are loyal subjects wronged by the Emperor’s justice as they claim, then why is Lord Sierge found spying on his Emperor’s son? This is yet another act of treason to augment and compound the first. A price must be and will be paid for it.

  My words to my cousin were private, and I will offer no apology for them.

  I have received your Khelid messenger graciously and heard from his mouth my Emperor’s rebuke. Your choice of a non-Derzhi voice for this most painful missive is, of course, not a matter on which I would dare express misgivings. But I most determinedly resist the long-term companionship with this Khelid lord that you have suggested. The Khelid people may be worthy allies and have a culture deserving our scrutiny, but when it comes to the governing of the Derzhi Empire, I wish for your tutelage only, sire. Not that of foreigners who treat for peace with their sovereign in chains.

  With all respect and deepest humility,

  Aleksander, Prince of Azhakstan

  A masterpiece. I was absolutely in awe of Aleksander’s craftsmanship and came near blurting out my compliments. To pull in the reminder of the Khelid king in chains ... to couch his own stupidity in such noble sentiments ... I wanted to stand and applaud him. Perhaps the man had more intelligence than it seemed at first. Perhaps he had learned a lesson from the whole nasty mess.

  I shook the sand off the letter and prepared wax for the seal. Aleksander pressed so hard he almost squeezed all of the stuff from under his ring.

  While I cleaned up the desk, including glass fragments and feathers and the oil that had dripped from my hair and my arm, Aleksander spoke to a servant outside his door. In only a moment his uncle Dmitri entered and genuflected quite formally, expressing his surprise at being recalled so soon.

  “I have a mission for you, Uncle.”

  “And what is that?”

  “I wish you to bear my answer to my father.”

  “You jest!”

  “Not at all. I can’t seem to trust my messengers not to pry into my correspondence, but you would not dare deliver a letter with a broken seal to your Emperor, brother or no. You are the only one I can trust, therefore, you must go.” The Prince stuck the letter in his uncle’s thick fingers.

  The Derzhi warrior was furious. “You young fool—”

  “Do not defy me, Uncle. This is not the day for it. I want you on your way within the hour.”

  Dmitri dipped his knee again. “My lord.” Then he stomped out of the room. I would not have been one of his slaves at that moment for an extra year’s rations.

  The Prince did not stop my cleaning, even when I moved from the desk to the couch, where I had seen him recline. He was tapping his foot and staring out of the window again.

  The man who arrived next was so bulbous his gold breeches and vest could scarcely contain his bulk. One could get nauseous from watching the undulating waves of gold satin. His scant hair was swept across the pink ball of his head into a braid of a most unnatural color of red, and it had been a goodly while since the fellow had seen the desert from the back of a warhorse. Amazingly enough he could sweep a bow as gracefully as a slender boy. “Your Highness, all blessings of Athos and his brethren upon you this glorious day. How may I lend my poor talents to the service of my most gracious lord?” His speech was bulbous as well.

  “We are having special guests this evening. I wish every first-degree noble of the House of Mezzrah to receive a personal summons from my Lord High Chamberlain. From his very lips.”

  The florid face was a bit disconcerted. “From my—”

  “From your lips, Fendular, from your lips. I believe there are some nineteen of these gentlemen. You are to greet them with my heartfelt good wishes, my promise of leniency in all our dealings, my most sincere respect, my desire to treat with them, to hear their grievances, and heed their wisdom ... whatever particular flatteries you think appropriate. You are wise in these matters as I am not.”

  Another bow. “Your Highness is too generous with—”

  “You will tell them that I wish to receive them as soon as possible and introduce them to the Emperor’s Khelid emissary, Korelyi. In fact, they will be in my reception rooms no later than four hours from the next striking of the clock.”

  “Four—”

  “Your life is forfeit, Fendular, if even one of these lords is not present. And I will not have them brought by force. They must come willing, despite any ... misgiving ... they may have about my favor. Do you understand me?”

  “Indeed, my lord.” The man had lost a good deal of his robust coloring, and had, indeed, sagged into his clothes a bit like a slip of gold leaf set too close to the forge.

  “What anxiety is this, Fendular? You understand these northern nobles as no one else in the Emperor’s service understands them. You know the right words to bring them.”

  A straightening of the overburdened spine. “It shall be done as you command, Highness. I am honored by your confidence.”

  “Good. And because these lords may be apprehensive—some scurrilous rumors that they are out of my favor—you will arrange for suitable gifts of greeting to await them upon their arrival. Fine gifts. Once I have received our guests, we will surprise them by having them dine at my own table with my Khelid guest. You will give the necessary orders?”

  “Of course, Highness.” Fewer words as the tasks of the next hours grew impossibly complex.

  “Be off with you, Fendular, with all haste.”

  “Your Highness.” Another bow, not quite so sweeping, and the Chamberlain backed toward the door.

  “Oh ... one more thing,” said the Prince.

  “Yes, my lord?”

  “You need not invite Sierge, Lord Vanye’s brother-in-law. I am issuing his invitation myself.”

  Fendular withdrew with his orders and was quickly replaced by a tall, thin Derzhi warrior dressed smartly in the Emperor’s green livery. His face was shaped like a shovel, narrow at the top, spreading into a flat wide jaw. The Prince acknowledged his crisp bow.

  “You value your appointment as the palace guard captain and the trust I bear you, do you not, Mikael?”

  “My life is yours, as you know, Your Highness, since the day you were fifteen and saved—.”

  “You have told me many times that you will neither question nor falter in your duty, no matter what I ask of you. For the honor of your Emperor and your Prince. This is still true?”

  “I would sooner fall upon my sword than fail you, my lord.”

  “Following my instructions to the letter will suffice. You are to take a troop of well-armed guardsmen, and exactly four hours from the next striking of the clock, you are to arrest my attendant Sierge of the House of Mezzrah at his home. The charge is treason. He is to be taken directly to the public square of Capharna and hanged. Without discussion, without announcement, without forewarning to his family. Absolutely without delay of any kind. Do you
understand me?”

  “Aye, my lord.” To his credit, the guard captain’s voice did not falter as his sudden pallor might warrant. “I would assume that no word is to be spoken of this, even in the palace itself, until the deed is done.”

  “You are perceptive as always, Mikael. At the same moment that you are arresting Sierge, two of your finest officers will be extending my gracious invitation to our Khelid guest, Korelyi, to witness an event of great import. He will be escorted to the square, where I will await him. I wish him to be at my side to witness this execution before I entertain him at dinner.”

  “As you wish, my lord, it shall be done. May I suggest doubling the watch this night? The House of Mezzrah has a large standing force and owns at least five assassins.”

  “No. No doubling of the guard. We are not afraid of an honorable family of such long and distinguished service to the Emperor. You will make this clear to those at Sierge’s house and to the guard and to all who may inquire or be concerned. I have judged that only the two men, Vanye and Sierge, have been involved in treason. No one else in the family. Even their wives and children will reap no ill harvest from their deeds.”

  “Yes, Your Highness. Four hours from this.”

  “Go with the gods’ protection, Mikael.”

  “You are Athos’ priest, my lord, and his wisdom guides your hand.”

  As the man bowed and left the room, I sincerely wished that I believed enough in a god—whether the Derzhi sun deity or some other—to think he or she was taking an interest in Aleksander’s plotting. The Prince was either an inordinately brilliant strategist or the maddest fool ever to wear a coronet. I suspected the latter. I suspected he was starting a war over an ugly face and a twenty-zenar slave.

  Once the guard captain was gone, I hastily resumed my cleaning, suspended by the extraordinary events I had witnessed.

  “What is your name, slave?”

  I had hoped he would not care to know it. I should have known better than to hope. It was the ultimate expression of subjugation—to be forced to give up the most personal, the most private self to one who had no claim, no right of friendship or kinship or guesting, to one who had no idea of the power of names or the dangerous entry they gave to the soul. “Seyonne, my lord.” No violation of body or mind was so bitter, save the rites they used to strip us Ezzarians of our power.

  “You are a lucky man, Seyonne.”

  I paused with my hands full of broken porcelain and feathers, trying to keep the foot I had just punctured with a shard of glass from dripping blood on the carpet. I kept my eyes averted and tried not to break into hysterical laughter.

  “When I discovered that the contents of my letter had found their way to Khelid ears ... and thus to my father’s ears, I presumed it was you had done it. The death I planned for you was an artwork.”

  I swallowed my rising gorge.

  “But Durgan and his men convinced me that you had been locked up securely since the day you scribed my words, and therefore, of all the inhabitants of this city, only you were proven innocent. Ironic, is it not?”

  “As you say, Your Highness.” It had been half a lifetime since I had considered myself at all lucky.

  “I’ve heard that you Ezzarians claim you can see the future. Is it true?”

  “If we could see the future, my lord, how could we not have prevented our own destruction?”

  “You asked a question. You did not answer mine.” So he was not a total fool.

  “No man can see the future, Your Highness.”

  “Pity.”

  Aleksander dispatched me to fetch wine, and other house slaves to clean up the mess, and his body slaves to bathe and dress him. Once I located what he required and poured him a fresh glass of wine, he sent me back to the slave house. I was to clean myself and report to the kitchens, where I was to learn the customs for serving at the Prince’s table ... to begin that very night.

  Chapter 4

  The Summer Palace of the Derzhi Emperors had dominated the misty valley of the Ghojan River for some four hundred years. Built on the site of an ancient fortress that had guarded the mountain passes from barbarians to the north, it had been expanded by one after another of Aleksander’s forefathers. The farther north the boundaries of the Empire stretched, the less fortified and more luxurious the palace became. By the time I was taken there, the sprawling palace walls encompassed some ninety hectares of buildings and courtyards, workshops and barracks and armories, butteries and gardens and stables. The city of Capharna itself was scarcely larger.

  The newer rooms of the main keep had large windows and high ceilings, elaborate columns and arches and elegant carvings, a splendor of decoration that seemed misplaced in the harsh mountain setting. For six glorious weeks a year, the sweetest airs of the Empire wafted through the graceful archways, and the gardens exploded in an ocean of flowers. But on almost every other day the bitter winds rattled the huge windows and gusted through the desolate courtyards. In the long winters thick rugs and tapestries were hung over every opening, making the short daylight hours nonexistent for those who didn’t venture out of doors. Unending wagon loads of wood had to be carted from the thick mountain forests to keep the hearths blazing. Even so, the heat all drifted upward to hang in the ceiling vaults, and the residents ... and certainly the lightly clad slaves ... were forever cold.

  This palace would be the entirety of my universe until the Prince decided to dispose of me. Only rarely were Derzhi house slaves permitted beyond their master’s walls. We were always chained at night and closely supervised during the day. As universes went for slaves, though, the Summer Palace would be quite fine—with a variety of interesting people and events to observe.

  Zeroun, the slave commanded to instruct me in the customs of the Prince’s table, was sure that some dreadful mistake had been made. “An Ezzarian, a branded runaway, serving the Prince and his table guests? Impossible. His Highness would never reward such deviance with his favor, and would never tolerate a scarred face in his sight. You don’t even wear fenzai ...” He pulled at my tunic and peered at my back. “As I suspected ... a disobedient barbarian. Impossible. Scandalous impertinence.”

  Three times he sought confirmation of the orders, until he was at risk of stripes himself. His problem, of course, was that he was a Basranni, which meant that he considered himself far above the level of an ordinary slave. The Basranni were a horse-worshiping desert clan, who’d had the misfortune to slay a Derzhi prince when they were trying to assassinate their own tyrant some fifty years previous. Though related by culture, blood, and intermarriage, and allied in war for three hundred years, the Derzhi had leveled every Basranni town and village and killed or enslaved every Basranni man, woman, and child. Still, Basranni slaves believed they were part owner of every Derzhi household, and were more concerned with upholding Derzhi tradition than were the Derzhi themselves.

  “Derzhi table customs are quite refined and quite specific. What concept could you have of the graceful presentation of delicacies? How could you know of hand-washing rites or how to pour—”

  “Zeroun, I have served in four noble Derzhi houses, most recently that of an excessively traditional baron of the most traditional of the noble houses, the House of Gorusch. I know how to lay the meat on top of the loaf. I know how to kneel just behind the cushions, yet serve without touching the guest. I know how to pour the nazrheel on top of the lemon, rather than drop the lemon in the tea. I know never, ever, to offer meat, cheese, or eggs if the guest’s knife is laid crosswise. Just tell me how the Prince’s table differs. If I do something wrong, we will both suffer the consequences.”

  That seemed to stifle his objections, though he took special care not to touch me and to point out to every other slave that passed by us that I was the lowest of the low and could not be trusted. I supposed that would make no difference if I was to be kept forever in the slave-house dungeon rather than join the other men who slept chained to the walls above my head every night. Trust among
slaves was a fragile thing; once lost it was hard to recover, and one could find oneself a pariah among pariahs. I didn’t blame them. Trust had been bled from me long years in the past. But Zeroun was a good teacher. By the time the female slaves had laid the richly patterned cloths and gold plates on the low tables, set out the carafes of wine, and spread the freshly aired cushions alongside, he had crammed my head with every nuance of the Prince’s preferences.

  I had no thoughts to spare for Aleksander’s scheming. When the hour struck, the hour the Prince had set for his plot to unfold, I was trying not to drop a tray of twenty-one small basins of warmed, scented water between the kitchen and the Prince’s table. There were three tables set up in one of the small dining rooms. The Prince’s table, set for twenty-one, was elevated above the other two tables on a low dais. It looked like sixty or seventy people would be at the lower tables to witness whatever the Prince had in mind. A cold draft made the candle flames waver, and a servant stoked the great hearth in the corner of the room behind the dais. Whoever sat at the Prince’s far left would bake; whoever sat at his far right would freeze.

  About fifteen minutes past the striking of the hour, finely dressed, bejeweled Derzhi men and women began crowding into the dining room, jockeying for places at the lower tables. The Baron did not entertain, nor did the master before that, a less than prosperous merchant who could not afford to do so, so it had been on the order of five years since I had been in the midst of so many hostile people at once. It made me uneasy, but I distracted myself by listening for any snippet of conversation that might reveal what had transpired with the House of Mezzrah. Surely there were rumors of the execution or the summoning of the Mezzrahn lords. But I heard nothing beyond curiosity as to who would sit at the high table, what lady did the Prince fancy this month, and when was he ever going to get down to the business of the Dar Heged, the winter joining of northern Derzhi families, the business that had brought Aleksander to Capharna in the first place.