Transformation Page 6

  My table was just to the Prince’s right, close enough and angled such that I could see and hear both the Prince and the petitioners who faced him. Just beyond me was another table arranged with scales and balances and an array of gleaming brass weights. It was manned by the Emperor’s chief redyikka, the magistrate of weights and measures. Every village large enough to have a marketplace had a redyikka to keep traders honest with their measures and to ensure proper coinage and fair dealing.

  The daily session lasted from early morning until well after the usual dinner hour. My hand cramped from so much writing, and my fingernails turned black from all the ink. Every judgment had to be recorded in a large, leather-bound ledger, and many of them involved additional letters or writs to be sent to other parties not present at the Dar Heged.

  The presence of a foreigner and a slave was an affront to the Derzhi, and as they passed behind me or waited for me to finish a paper they needed, they made sure I knew it: some whispered curses and some extremely rude and unlikely suggestions for physical abuse. I wondered if Durgan was right that I was on view for a purpose. I could always tell from the quick intake of breath when one petitioner told another of my role in Lord Vanye’s fall and Lord Sierge’s execution. When the Prince scowled at the disturbance, the Derzhi stopped for a bit, but would start up again once Aleksander was distracted.

  Despite all that, I enjoyed the days well enough. The giant hearth fires were well stoked, there was a variety of people to watch, and though most of the disputes and petitions were mundane, occasionally there were matters of interest or consequence to observe. Best of all, when I returned to the slave house on the first night, Durgan had received orders that I was not to be returned to the underground cell. Though Zeroun had soured my reputation thoroughly among the slaves and no one of them dared speak to me, it did my soul good to feel the breathing of other human beings in the room as I slept. It made it easier to put away fears that I could do nothing about. Easier to strengthen my barricades against dreams that came creeping back from where I had banished them.

  Aleksander, on the other hand, detested the whole business. From the first moment of the first day he snapped at every comer, even if they were presenting a chest of riches to be transported back to the treasury at Zhagad. “What crime did I commit to be trapped in this hateful chair?” he fretted on the third morning, just before the doors were opened to the line of opulently attired Derzhi. He tugged and jerked at the heavy red robe attached to his shoulders. “If Father is to have the privileges of being Emperor, then he must take the duties with it. Why do I care that the House of Gorusch has usurped three grainfields from the House of Rhyzka? What interest have I in some Hamraschi girl’s marriage portion? She’s an ugly wench, and I’d not have her in my bed for triple the dowry. I’d like to tell them to burn the cursed fields and throw the maiden into the fire.”

  The stewards cringed at the Prince’s ranting and groveled appropriately when it was time to open the doors and let the people come. Though he was rude and uncivil, the Prince seemed to maintain somewhat better judgment in public than he did in private. He knew when to use his authority and when to keep himself out of it and induce the warring parties to settle things between themselves. In major disputes he would yield to the suitor who paid the most taxes or brought the most men and horses to his father’s armies or had the most beautiful daughter in tow. Not an arguable position, unless you were the one who happened to be wronged or had some insane notion of justice. The Emperor would probably feel that his interests had been properly looked after.

  I tried my best to pretend that nothing had changed since the execution feast, but as the days passed, I found my eyes skimming the crowds for the demon Khelid and watching in uneasy curiosity as he insinuated himself into palace life. It was not so strange for a rai-kirah to come hunting in Capharna. A Derzhi palace would offer succulent opportunities for a demon, and even if one of them yet lived, no Ezzarian Searcher would dare venture into a Derzhi stronghold. It was surely no more than odd coincidence that a demon happened to come to a place where one who knew what it was—perhaps the last living person who could recognize it—-existed powerless to do anything about it. But I could see no overt signs of demon possession in the Khelid. No extraordinary cruelty. No wild madness. Only smooth charm and polite interest in the proceedings. Why? Fifty times I dismissed such musings, but they lingered in my mind like the taste of rancid meat.

  Late on the afternoon of the fourth day, the proceedings were disrupted by an unusual excursion into the city.

  The Fontezhi Heged was possibly the most powerful Derzhi family in the Empire save the Emperor’s own Denischkar family. The Fontezhi holdings included a sizable portion of northern Azhakstan, plus millions of hectares in the conquered territories of Senigar and Thryce. Unlike most of the hegeds who owned large palaces in Capharna, but whose land holdings were elsewhere, the Fontezhi claimed about two-thirds of the land on which Capharna stood. Merchants and householders of the city worked diligently to keep rents flowing into the Fontezhi coffers.

  The Jurran Heged, on the other hand, was a minor house, not one of the Ten who sat on the Emperor’s Council, nor even one of the Twenty who held the bulk of lands and the traditional Derzhi titles. The Jurrans were closer to being a merchant house than a warrior clan. They needed no sympathy, however. They had a stranglehold on the spice trade and were very rich. But as all their holdings were in gold and spices rather than land and horses, they were dismissed as unimportant.

  On that afternoon, when Aleksander was quite obviously bored to insensibility with a succession of minor disputes and tedious speeches, Baron Celdric, the head of the Jurran Heged, came before him with a protest over the Fontezhi decision to burn a crumbling district of Capharna that lay southwest of the river. It was the poorest district of the city, populated by maimed and diseased veterans, elderly people who had no kin to care for them, widows without resources, and all manner of thieves, dead-handlers, lepers, and mad-men. The Jurrani spice warehouses were situated right in the heart of the district.

  Aleksander yawned through Baron Celdric’s presentation, then sent for a representative of the Fontezhi Heged to answer it. The outcome was foreordained. The Jurrans could never prevail against so powerful a heged ... except that the Fontezhi made a serious mistake. They sent their most junior dennissar, someone’s cousin’s nephew’s son, to appear before the Prince.

  “And where is Lord Pytor?” the Prince snapped at the quaking, bewildered eighteen-year-old whose appearance had sent him into a froth. “Does the lord of the Fontezhi believe he is too important to appear at his Prince’s summons? Perhaps he expected me to wait upon him.”

  “N ... no ... Your Highness. Lord Pytor is out riding this afternoon.” The downy-cheeked young man did not know when to keep his counsel.

  “And have the Fontezhi no messengers, no aides, no horses available to contact him? And perhaps every first-, second-, and third-degree noble of your house is similarly occupied? I cannot believe that such a quailing fish as yourself could have attained even fourth-degree status.

  “Of course not, Your Highness ... I mean, it was just thought ... as it was only the Jurrans and it was not the Emp—” The youth almost swallowed his tongue. “The district is nothing, Your Highness. A filthy, plague-ridden haven for thieves and beggars. Lord Pytor wishes to make it beautiful ... worthy of the Derzhi summer capital.”

  “And how does he plan to make it beautiful by burning it?”

  Recouping a bit of his confidence, the junior dennissar puffed out his chest and tugged at his purple satin vest. “He plans to build a shrine to Athos—your own patron, Your Highness.”

  “But that would take only a small part of such a tract. What else has he planned? Tell me truly, now, or I’ll have it from you less pleasantly.”

  Less sure now. “Only a residence ... for his son ... a small palace ... that’s all.”

  “Well”—Aleksander jumped up from his chair—“as this is s
o unimportant a matter as to send a puling child before the Emperor’s representative, I had best go look at this disputed land myself. Perhaps I may have some use for it.”

  The Fontezhi youth gaped and turned pale. It was not a wise thing to lose your heged lord’s lands by virtue of your incompetence.

  Lord Celdric bowed deeply. “My lord Prince, the Jurran Heged will, of course, accept whatever judgment you see fit. We are honored by your hearing.” His expression was properly solemn and respectful. But I was sitting to the side of him, and I could see his gleeful grin of satisfaction as he bowed.

  So it was that I had to pack up my writing case and ledger book and hasten barefoot through the city streets after Aleksander. He set off walking, sending his hastily saddled mount back to the stables. It was unheard of for royalty to walk the streets rather than ride, and I wondered if the Prince wanted to shock the staid palace staff. Or perhaps it was just to stretch his legs and wake himself up after four days of boredom.

  It was not a quiet journey. Ten hastily mustered torchbearers lit the way through the afternoon gloom, the smoke settling heavily about us in the cold, still air. Fifty guards, an equal number of attendants, cloak-bearers, boot wipers, and every manner of dennissar were still scurrying about, deciding on positions and precedence long after the party passed through the palace gates and into the town.

  Townspeople gathered quickly along the road, gaping at the fabled young prince most of them had never seen. At first it was well-cloaked ladies and children who watched, merchants, shopkeepers, drovers, and clerks who deserted their posts for the chance to catch a glimpse of royalty. They cheered and waved at the flesh-and-blood manifestation of the Empire’s glory. Aleksander did not acknowledge them. They would not expect it. Out of perverse habit they would most likely lose respect for him if he looked pleasant or waved in return. Rather he strode vigorously through the afternoon, talking only with Sovari, the captain of his personal guard.

  After we crossed the arched Ghojan bridge, the lanes grew narrower and muddier and the onlookers not so well turned out. They were thin and ragged, quiet and fearful. Hollow-eyed children hid behind their bony mothers, and crippled old men gaped toothless. In an attempt to mask the growing stench, one of Aleksander’s attendants began swinging a censer that emitted a cloying smoke, but Aleksander shoved the man aside and made him douse the burning herbs in a mud puddle. “That makes the stink worse. Do you think I am some woman who has never smelled the back end of a horse?”

  But I don’t think Aleksander had ever seen the dregs of his cities—and certainly not from his own feet where he could look at them eye-to-eye. His gaze did not remain fixed and ahead as before, but darted from one pitiful sight to another. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at three scabrous beggars who were wallowing in the river of mud and excrement, fighting over a whimpering mangy dog. He drew away from a gaunt-cheeked, rheumy-eyed old woman who was kneeling in the mud with her hands outstretched, wailing in mindless misery. He peered curiously into alleys where groups of rag-wrapped men, women, and children huddled listlessly around pitiful fires, too weak and cold to pay him any mind.

  Two whores pushed aside ragged customers and gaped brazenly at the Prince. One of them, a buxom young girl with long curly hair grinned and wagged a finger at him. Aleksander laughed, and the girl blew him a kiss, lifted her skirt, and went back to her business.

  As the Prince’s procession rounded a corner, a woman with a squalling infant bound to her back was shoved out of a dark, rag-draped doorway, two grimy children clinging to her skirts. “There’s no work here and no bread,” bawled a harsh voice from behind the door. “Die somewhere else.” The woman tripped over a torchbearer and fell right at Aleksander’s feet.

  The young Fontezhi dennissar, thinking, no doubt, to redeem himself in his prince’s eyes, screamed at the woman to give way and kicked at her viciously, sending her sprawling in the filth of the street. One of his bodyguards grabbed the two terrified children by the necks and flung them to the side into a crusted heap of dirty snow. The two little ones burst out wailing and tried to run back to their mother, but I was standing nearby and grabbed hold of them to keep them out of harm’s way. In horror I watched as Aleksander drew his sword. I believed he was going to slay the stunned woman for daring to touch his feet. But instead he laid the tip of the blade at the Fontezhi youth’s throat and fixed his eyes on the youth’s disbelieving face, while extending his other hand to the fallen woman. She stared at him blankly, mud dripping from her lank hair, her starvation-dulled eyes asking only from which direction the blow would come.

  “Here, here, woman,” said Aleksander, shaking his hand at the woman, though still not looking at her. “Take it and get up or these cretins will trample you.”

  She reached out a hand as if putting it into the mouth of a wolf, but the Prince pulled her up and shoved her away. Then he sheathed his sword and with cold ferocity back-handed the Fontezhi guard who had throttled the children. Astonished, I urged the two little ones toward their mother, and the three of them fled down an alleyway. I wondered how many days they had left to live. Unless the weather eased up a little, I guessed it was not many.

  The Prince said nothing more of the incident, but he did seem to take notice of me as I stood shivering in my sleeveless tunic, waiting for the expedition to proceed. He stared at me so long I wondered if I had angered him by interfering even in so small a way. After a quick glance about, he started to speak, but thought better of it and motioned me to stay close behind him. When we reached the Jurran warehouse, he commanded one of Lord Celdric’s attendants to find me a cloak and some sandals lest I be too cold to write properly. I was confounded.

  The Prince took only a few moments to inspect the warehouse before rendering his judgment. The district could not be burned. It might encourage all the unsavory residents of the place to converge on the rest of the city, he said. The Fontezhi dennissar was speechless and kept fingering the tiny scratch on his neck left by Aleksander’s sword. No doubt the Fontezhi lords had assumed that the residents would burn along with the other filth.

  But Aleksander was not done. “The Jurrans will pay for the land on which their warehouses sit,” he said. “Not rent, but in full for proper ownership. Before the end of the Dar Heged, Lord Celdric will bring me a notice of the settlement. Make a note of it, Seyonne. And for the next twenty years the Jurrans will contract solely with Fontezhi caravans to transport their spices within the boundaries of Azhakstan.”

  Masterful. The Fontezhi would lose land for their insult of the Prince. The Jurrans would lose gold for their insult to a more powerful house. The two hegeds would be forced to work together, and would likely both profit handsomely from the contract, leaving good feelings all around. It was well-done. But it was Aleksander’s treatment of the woman I found intriguing. It seemed wholly out of character.

  We were soon back to normal. On that evening as I sat at the Prince’s writing desk copying dispatches for the military commanders on the northern borders, Aleksander came in from the bedchamber and poured himself a glass of wine, then summoned one of his aides. He pointed at the curtained door to the bedroom and jerked his head.

  “What shall we do with her, Your Highness?”

  “Throw her back in the cesspit where you found her. She stinks and is more crude than a Veshtar. Sovari was right.”

  The aide disappeared through the curtain and did not return.

  “What are you looking at, slave?” said Aleksander. “Was she a friend of yours?”

  I suspected it was the whore from the streets, though I never saw her.

  Chapter 6

  On the fifth morning of the Dar Heged the Prince began acting strangely. He could not sit still. He tapped constantly on the arms of his chair. He shifted and settled in the red velvet as if he could not get comfortable. He fiddled with his knife, twisted his braid, and played with a jewel on a chain about his neck, then threw the cushions from his chair aside before commanding a servant to br
ing them back again. He called for wine, but did not drink it; rather he threw the goblet on the floor when he got irritated at a petitioner. An elderly matriarch of a powerful family accusing her son of falsifying the lineage of a prize horse—a crime more serious than murder in the Derzhi Empire—almost fell out of her chair when Aleksander jumped up in the middle of her droning argument and yelled at her. “Be quick about it, woman. There are a thousand others waiting to stand before me.” He circled his chair and drummed his fists on the back of it, trying to induce the woman to talk faster. She got flustered, and I thought he was going to have her hanged when she started panting and holding her breast and had to be carried away. A steward stepped up to the Prince and whispered quietly in his ear, only to have Aleksander yell at him. “I’m perfectly fine. Just get the next person up here before I have you flogged.”

  On the next day things were worse. The Prince could not sit for more than a minute at a time, so he paced back and forth across the dais as people spoke to him, their heads following his movements. It made them stumble in their words, which made him angrier. As the hours passed, he fought to control this restlessness, folding his arms tight about his chest or clenching his wine cup until his knuckles were white. But even then his foot would drum or his head would toss. The stewards and the chamberlains were wide-eyed and fearful. He had two of them flogged for daring to suggest he might want to rest, and he was threatening to do the same for the next person who asked if they could do something for him. It was on that day, the second of this strange behavior, that I noticed the Khelid emissary among the courtiers and attendants behind the Prince’s chair. The fair, slender man in the purple cloak stood watching, saying nothing to anyone, smiling to himself on occasion, though I could never understand what kinds of things he found amusing. I put it out of my mind quickly. What did slaves care about demons or their amusements?