The Waterless Sea (14 page)

The elderly gentleman in scarlet and gold drew himself back as far as the press of the crowd would allow, and looked down his nose, not at Mica, but at Calwyn. Mica was so far beneath his notice that she didn' t even exist.

‘I beg your pardon, sir,' said Calwyn hastily.

‘Ladies who cannot keep their attendants under control should not be permitted to spoil the parade for the rest of us,' pronounced the scarlet gentleman haughtily.

‘It won' t happen again,' said Calwyn, thrusting Mica firmly behind her.

‘They say those who dwell in the desert never wash themselves.' The scarlet gentleman wrinkled his nose fastidiously. ‘They don' t have water to spare.'

‘We' re clean as you,' retorted Mica. ‘Cleaner, I reckon, cos we ain' t hidin behind the stink of no perfume.' She glared at the elderly gentleman, who did smell very strongly of artificial scent.

‘Mica!' hissed Calwyn, but luckily the gentleman in scarlet had moved away and seemed not to have heard her. ‘Mica, you' ll have to go back to our rooms if you can' t keep quiet.'

‘Ever since we come here you been orderin me around,' grumbled Mica. ‘You' re so scared of this lot of painted-up pufferfish, you think I should be, too. Anyway, it' s all right for you,' she added crossly. ‘You' re tall, you can see. I can' t see nothin!'

It was true. Halasaa and Calwyn had a fine view of the courtiers assembling in the Long Gallery. There were the ladies in elaborate costumes, hair pinned up so high that they had to carry their heads with stilted care. There were the lords and princes dressed up in warrior gear that hadn' t seen the heat of battle for centuries: unnaturally bright, polished breastplates, curved swords, engraved armguards, and their own intricate hair arrangements incongruously floating above. Musicians had gathered in the courtyard, quietly tuning their flutes, and now began to beat softly on their drums.

Amagis, sombre and sinister in his customary black, stood not far from theThird Princess, resplendent in silver and golden robes. Calwyn shot a glance at Mica, then she began to sing, very, very low. Even Halasaa could barely hear her through the excited buzz and clamour of the crowd. Down below in the Long Gallery, the ornament at the top of Keela' s headdress gave a sudden tug. Startled, her hands flew to her head, then, satisfied that all was well, fluttered down. Calwyn saw her turn and stare sharply at the Seventh Princess, who stood behind her.

Halasaa looked at Calwyn, his eyes dancing.

‘Do you dare me?' whispered Calwyn. She felt like the naughty little girl she had been in Antaris. And perhaps she wanted to show Mica that she wasn' t so scared after all. She sang again, just two quick notes, a high clear chantment of the winds.

The comb snagged, twisted, and leapt free, clattering to the ground, and Keela' s hair tumbled down around her face. Desperately she clutched at her hair, as if she could hold its intricate loops and swirls in place with her gloved fingers, but it was hopeless. Her hair was in utter disarray, a bird' s nest of tangles. Flushed with anger, the Princess fled the gallery, leaving a ripple of titters and even outright laughter in her wake. There were many in the Palace who had little love for Keela.

Mica stifled her laughter behind her hands.

Halasaa shook his head gently.
She will not forgive such
humiliation.

‘Then it' s lucky she doesn' t know who caused it,' said Calwyn, a little shamefaced, but unable to restrain a giggle. She hadn' t seen Amagis, sensing chantment, raise his head sharply like a raven with a sight of prey.

The musicians, thrown off guard by the brief commotion, settled down and began their music in earnest. The murmuring crowd fell quiet, and the watchers on the balcony could see that the Imperial Family had arrived.

First came the Empresses: there were seven of them. The most senior wife, draped in unbecoming mustard yellow and violet, was ancient and wrinkled. She leaned wearily against the arms of her carved chair, which was carried by two burly manservants. Her hair, dyed harsh black, made her wrinkled face look even older, and her eyes and lips were painted so thickly that Calwyn could see the brushstrokes even from this distance. The First Empress must be the same age as Marna, she thought, yet how much more dignified was the High Priestess of Antaris, with her kindly seamed face that wore every year of experience and wisdom with pride.

One by one the junior Empresses paraded by, each carried in her carved chair. Some were more popular than others, and they each belonged to a different Clan. Different sections of the crowd cheered as each went by. The youngest wife, the Seventh, was pregnant. Her enormous belly jutted out, dwarfing her, and her face was swollen and miserable. She looked as if she would rather be lying on cushions in her rooms than taking part in a procession and a feast. Calwyn felt a pang of sympathy; she looked scarcely older than Mica.

Next came the Princesses. Keela had scrambled her hair back into a semblance of order, and rushed to rejoin the parade. Even with her hair slightly tousled, she was easily the most beautiful and the most spectacularly dressed of the ten Princesses. Beside her, the others were pallid, mousy little things. The crowd cheered loudly when she went past. Mica gave Calwyn a nudge. ‘Them other Princesses' re lookin sour, ain' t they?' she whispered.

Then came the Princes, a veritable horde of them. Samis had been part of this preening company once, Calwyn reminded herself. It was hard to imagine him, so arrogant and so imperious, being one of this anonymous crowd. He always wanted to be first, to stand out among others. Seeing the fifty Princes milling about in their polished armour, indistinguishable, she could almost feel his frustration. The First Prince, with a golden circlet on his head, strutted in front of the others: he was not the oldest, nor the strongest, nor even the most handsome, but somehow he had won the Emperor' s favour and been appointed his father' s heir. He was plump and spoiled, with a self-satisfied smile.

Mica whispered, ‘How come there' s so many Princes, and only ten Princesses?'

‘Heben told me.' Calwyn kept her voice low. ‘They make certain that there aren' t too many princesses.'

Mica' s eyes widened. ‘You mean they
kill
em?'

‘Ssh! They call it an offering to the desert. . . ' ‘That' s horrible!' said Mica loudly, and glared around at the crowd. ‘Murderers!' she muttered fiercely.

Finally came the Emperor himself. The crowd fell silent as his Imperial Majesty passed by. There were none of the shouts and cheers that had accompanied the parade of the Imperial wives and offspring; rather a hush swept over the crowd of onlookers. Reverently, people pulled off their gloves and held them above their bowed heads like banners, as a mark of respect; hastily Calwyn stripped off her gloves and did the same. No one dared to look at the face of the Emperor. But Calwyn was so curious about this powerful man that she couldn' t resist peeping down at the figure in the huge carved chair that swayed slowly past.

She had heard much about the Emperor' s great age and his feebleness, but it was still a shock to see the wizened figure, with a face like yellow paper, in the chair that towered above him. He seemed no bigger than a child, shrunken into his embroidered robes and elaborate gloves, peering out without interest at the silent crowd that thronged the winding corridors. As he passed beneath where Calwyn and the others stood, he glanced up. His eyes met Calwyn' s, and locked there, and she gave an involuntary shudder, for his eyes were the same as Samis' s eyes: dark and cruel and ruthless, piercingly intelligent, utterly arrogant. His cold stare seemed to say, ‘Who are you, to gaze at me?'

She forced herself to stare back without flinching.
I am a
daughter of Taris, a chanter. I am no one' s servant but the Goddess. I will
not bow down to you.
She thought of the hungry, miserable people of Teril, and felt a pang of anger. But then she remembered: we killed this man' s son. And her eyes dropped.

The crowd remained silent, heads lowered, while the shuffling feet of the Emperor' s many attendants went by. Then people began to cough and chatter, and pull on their gloves, and move away. Now would follow the great feast in the Midsummer Banqueting Hall.

Mica stretched her arms above her head. ‘You' d best get on, Cal, if you want to see that Hall. Today' s the only time it' s ever open.'

Calwyn pressed her lips together; she loathed crowds, and today' s procession had been trying enough already. The prospect of another half-day' s noise and jostling was almost unbearable. But it must be done.

She was pulling on her gloves when she felt it.

At first she thought she' d imagined it. She stopped still, and closed her eyes. Someone pushed her from behind.

Mica snapped, ‘Watch where you' re goin!' She tugged Calwyn back against the curved wall as the crowd surged past. ‘What' s wrong? You feelin all right? You ain' t goin to faint?'

Halasaa was at her side. Calwyn knew at a glance that he had felt it too.
Here. Close by.

‘Yes.' The three of them stood in a tight knot, an obstacle to the ceaseless forward surge of the crowd, which parted around them. Calwyn and Halasaa' s dark bright eyes, so alike, met and held. There was chantment nearby, very near.

Not yet.

Calwyn nodded. ‘There are too many people around. We' ll come back when the corridors are clear, during the feast.' She turned to Mica and said in a low voice, ‘Go to Heben. Tell him we' ve found what we came for.'

The food was laid out at one end of the banqueting hall; servants swarmed around the long tables like ants to a lump of honeycomb. Halasaa made a brief foray to the tables so that Calwyn should have something in front of her, and returned with some slivers of marinated
hegesu
meat, and a chunk of marzipan from a model of the Palace that took pride of place high on the central table.

It looked to Calwyn very much like her first glimpse of the real Palace, shining white against a red cloth. It seemed a long time ago. With a sudden pang, she thought of Tonno, waiting with
Fledgewing
, and Trout, busy on the island. And, fleetingly, she thought of Darrow in his little boat, wherever he might be. What would he say if he knew they were here now?

The model Palace was already partly demolished. The servants competed fiercely to grab the choicest titbits for their masters and ladies, and greedy hands had clawed away all the eastern half and left nothing but a heap of crumbs and marzipan rubble. Someone grasped a handful of the remaining walls and tore it away. A turret collapsed, lopsided, into a pool of custard.

Presently a murmuring hush fell over the hall, as the courtiers settled down to eat. Lords and ladies sat in clusters, their servants kneeling to one side with their trays. At the far end of the hall, on a raised platform, sat the Imperial Family and their intimates; Calwyn was relieved that today she didn' t seem to be considered Keela' s best friend. She could see the Third Princess, looking bored, opening her rosebud mouth to receive the sweetmeats that her servant delicately laid on her tongue. The First Prince sat beside her, trying to engage her attention, but Keela ignored him. The Emperor' s heir looked annoyed.

Calwyn glanced about for Amagis; she was particularly anxious that he shouldn' t notice their departure. She spotted him near the edge of the platform. His back was to the hall, and he was staring at the Imperial Family, perhaps at Keela herself.

Calwyn could do no more than pretend to pick at the tray that Halasaa held up to her. Anxiously she scanned the hall, alert for the best moment to sneak out unnoticed. She could see musicians and dancers and jugglers waiting near the doors, for a signal that the entertainments should begin. That would be the best time to go.

But before the musicians could file into the central space, there was a disturbance up on the Imperial platform. One of the Empresses let out a piercing scream; most of the royal family leapt to their feet. Calwyn jumped up from her stool, but she couldn' t see what had happened, and nor could Halasaa.

At the next moment they heard the whispers flying through the hall. ‘The Emperor – the Emperor' s collapsed – the Emperor is ill!'

Courtiers bounded to their feet, the banquet abandoned, trays overturned on the floor. Lords and ladies and servants eagerly pushed toward the platform, ghoulishly craning to see, forgetting that the Emperor was not to be gazed upon.

‘Where are the healers? Clear a space, get back! Move away! Take off his collar, take off his gloves! How dare you lay hands on his person! I have as much rank as you –' The Princes were all shouting orders at once, but no one seemed to be doing anything to help the Emperor.

Halasaa touched Calwyn' s sleeve. Quickly they turned and slipped through the chattering, excited crowd toward the wall of the great hall. Unnoticed in the commotion, Halasaa clambered nimbly up the carved wall, inserting his toes into the crannies and ledges of the stone. Encumbered by her gloves and heavy robes, Calwyn could only watch. ‘What can you see?' she called.

Halasaa' s face was as still as one of the carvings he clung to.
The man is dead.

A gap had formed in the centre of the crush. The Princes and Empresses and their attendants had fallen back, leaving a space around the shrunken, tiny body of the Emperor. Halasaa caught one brief glimpse before the gap closed again: the yellow face, already waxy with death; the limp hands, shockingly naked and gloveless, curled on the embroidered robes. And the whisper travelled through the hall, shivering through the courtiers like a breeze rippling across the sands. ‘He is dead . . . The Emperor is dead . . . The Emperor is dead at last!'

Halasaa leapt lightly from his perch, and he and Calwyn slipped from the hall. No one paid them any attention. Everyone was caught up in the horror and excitement of the moment: after so many years, the unthinkable had happened, and happened in the presence of all the Court. The Emperor was dead. Most of the courtiers had known no other ruler. The Imperial Court, where every moment of every day was governed by ceremony and strict rules of etiquette, was thrown into chaos. No one knew what would happen now. The Emperor was the centre, the focus of every activity of the Court. Without the Emperor, the entire fabric of the Empire might begin to unravel.