The Path of Anger (13 page)

They trotted through the muddy streets of the poorer neighbour-hoods whose thatched houses formed a ring at the outskirts of the city. When their horses’ hooves struck paving stones, the buildings became more grandiose, their windows much bigger. Frog remained silent. Yet, although he did not utter a word, his attitude said much. When they entered the palace, he seemed less serene. There, in the large rooms with their wide windows, standing among the generals his mentor greeted, he became stiff, his head bowed and his eyes furtive but always darting around as if he were seeking someone. Dun-Cadal introduced him to the others briefly, thereby avoiding further questioning from his brothers-in-arms.

Dun-Cadal’s adventures in the Saltmarsh had caused quite a stir. The Imperial Knighthood evinced a mixture of pride and jealousy regarding his exploits. Everywhere people were saying he’d defeated the rebel army singlehandedly. Although he appeared not to be paying any attention, the knight kept an eye on his apprentice. It was not so
much the lad’s behaviour that concerned him, but what he might be feeling. What was he saying to himself as he clasped so many hands, met so many people, walked down hallways broader than he had ever seen before?

He must be feeling dizzy too. . .

To a child of the provinces, arriving among all these warriors in their brightly coloured armour, sporting the ancient symbols of their houses, was intimidating enough. Penetrating the lair of the Knighthood, seeing the coats-of-arms as well as the armour, the famous old blades hung on the walls like venerable souvenirs, was exhilarating. The relics of the Reyes dynasty’s greatest defenders were gathered here, with the helms of the bravest combatants sitting proudly on display. Armour had grown lighter over the centuries, swords more refined. Daermon had no doubt in his mind that Frog would be able to follow in the footsteps of their illustrious predecessors. But first he would have to overcome his nerves.

Everything, from the milky white walls of the palace to the stained glass decorating the halls, from the guards in golden helmets, the tips of their spears gleaming in the sun, to the respectful silence of the ladies in their satin gowns, was new to someone who had lived in the marshes. Here the scent of roses and freshly cut grass was mixed with the most bewitching perfumes.

‘This is your first visit, isn’t it?’ asked a man wearing a white robe with a red fabric draped over one shoulder.

They were following him down a long hallway lined with mirrors. Dun-Cadal had introduced the man as a steward to the Emperor. The latter, on hearing of their arrival, had summoned them immediately. Among all these generals, these captains, these counts and barons glimpsed since they had entered the palace, Frog was visibly becoming bewildered. He who had been so insolent, on more than one occasion, was now timid and reserved. To that was added an obvious nervousness. His master observed the effects as they approached a wide pair of varnished doors with gilded frames. The young man’s skin was beaded with sweat, his gestures grew jerky and his breathing muffled.

‘Are you mute, then, having said nothing until now?’ asked the steward. ‘I’ve heard of you, you know. You’re Frog, am I right?’

‘Yes.’

‘Frog . . .’ said Dun-Cadal reproachfully.

‘Yes, my lord,’ the boy rectified.

‘Your devotion to the Empire has caught our attention . . . as well as our respect, young man.’

‘Thank you, my lord,’ he replied in a suddenly sharp tone.

Dun-Cadal knew very well what was bothering his apprentice. He recalled the way he had behaved upon arriving here for the first time and meeting Asham’s father, disguising his apprehension with a false cockiness. But Frog was still too young to be conceited.

The steward pushed open the two great doors with a slow loud creak. Beyond, in a large room with a black-streaked marble floor, dozens of smooth columns ascended to the ceiling. There was no furniture, not a seat or even a throne. Just a thin red curtain that stretched out near a balcony overlooking rustling tree tops. A strange, imposing shadow seemed to be seated in a wide tub from which curls of steam were rising into the air. Feminine-looking silhouettes were pouring buckets of water into the bath.

Frog froze.

‘Advance,’ ordered Dun-Cadal, pressing him in the back. ‘And don’t speak until he addresses you.’

Behind the cloth, the shadow bent over like a sick child. With a sign of his hand, the steward beckoned them to follow him.

‘Your Imperial Majesty,’ he announced in a loud voice. ‘General Daermon, returned from the Saltmarsh, and his young . . . protégé.’

‘Have you returned with a son?’ a voice jeered. ‘Is that what took you so long?’

As they approached, Dun-Cadal noticed the lad’s more resolute step. But he looked even more anxious than before. His face tense and wearing a frown, he quickened his pace and was walking beside the steward. A few more steps at the same speed and he would be the first to present himself before the Emperor. Frog would surely slow down at the last instant. The general smiled faintly. He was about to reply when a peculiar noise caused him to place his hand on the hilt of his sword. A blade hissed through the air to stop short against the boy’s neck. The steward stepped to one side, alarmed.

‘Peace, Daermon,’ purred a strangely deep voice.

Dun-Cadal stiffened. The shine of his own sword had emerged between the scabbard and the guard. He hesitated over whether to yank it completely free. But he recognised the other man and knew he would be far too quick to respond. For it was the Hand of the
Emperor who had placed the cutting edge of his weapon beneath Frog’s lifted chin.

‘The lad is no enemy,’ Dun-Cadal rumbled in protest.

‘He comes from the Saltmarsh . . .’

The timbre of the other man’s voice was extremely unpleasant, a mixture of hoarseness and whistling, as if there were pebbles lodged in his throat obstructing his breathing.

‘Ever prompt to defend me, Logrid,’ acknowledged the voice behind the curtain as a servant poured more water into his bath.

Wisps of steam drifted along the stretched cloth.

‘But I don’t believe a mere child who has left his region in time of war would come all this way to kill his Emperor.’

The assassin tilted his head slightly to one side, like a wild beast studying the smallest details of its prey. He looked down at the boy’s hand, which was ostensibly reaching for the hilt of his own sword. There seemed to be a tear brimming along the edge of Frog’s right eyelid, ready to run down a face gone rigid with shock. Beneath the assassin’s ample hood not a single feature was touched by the light. Nevertheless, he appeared to be closely examining the lad, who was glaring back at him.

‘Logrid . . .’ growled Dun-Cadal. ‘Leave him be.’

Logrid lowered his blade. As he advanced towards the general, he slipped his sword back into the scabbard which hung from his belt.

‘So this is how we’re welcomed back to court,’ murmured Dun-Cadal as he stepped around the assassin.

‘I’m only following your teaching . . . Daermon,’ Logrid replied in a low voice.

‘The lad isn’t threatening the Emperor, Logrid . . .’

Logrid gave him a strange smile over his shoulder and, with a silent step, crossed the room to disappear behind a column. In his wake he left a boy who was paralysed by fear . . . or by humiliation.

‘Frog . . .’

‘Perhaps it would be better if you were to have a private audience with His Imperial Majesty,’ the steward suggested in the general’s ear.

Dun-Cadal nodded. Whatever had possessed Logrid to cause him to attack a child? The general knew the insurrection in the Saltmarsh was still far from being beaten, but to go from there to suspecting a mere boy of . . . He sighed as the steward led Frog back to the door. The lad did not even glance at him, wearing a sullen
expression on his face. Frog, who was so proud, had been frightened so badly in the presence of the most important person in the world. Worse still, he had been humiliated without being given a chance to display his own talents. It would teach him to be patient, the general decided; it would teach him to be humble. A day would come when, having mastered his anger, he would reveal himself to the entire world in all his splendour. Right now, the important thing was the war. The idea that the lad might influence its outcome had to be sown in the Emperor’s mind. That hope had germinated out of chaos. When the double doors closed behind them, Dun-Cadal advanced towards the red curtain, certain that he had returned from the Salt-marsh with a truly precious stone. The shadow climbed from the tub accompanied by a certain amount of splashing and was immediately covered up by the slender silhouettes of the attendants. It looked like an angel folding its wings, assisted by chaste virgins. Or else a demon. The shape of a skull slowly rose up and the ladies stepped away. They appeared at last in flesh and blood, passing around the curtain, all of them young and beautiful and wearing long green gowns with gold embroidery. Four of them carried the still steaming bathtub. Out of the corners of their eyes they directed curious glances at the general before vanishing behind the columns. A door slammed shut and then there was only the whistling sound of breathing. The silhouette remained unmoving, still masked by the curtain.

‘He saved my life,’ Dun-Cadal said suddenly.

‘I know that,’ replied the Emperor. ‘Forgive Logrid. The revolt has caused trouble even here in Emeris. Who are our friends? Who are our enemies? It’s difficult to know for sure.’ He paused, shifting slightly to one side. ‘Logrid . . . is only protecting me. Just as you did, a long time ago.’

He seemed to be looking for something at his feet, bent down and pulled up what appeared from the shadow it cast to be a stool.

‘How good it was to learn that you were still alive, Dun-Cadal. How pleasant it is to have you here,’ he confided as he sat down.

‘My being alive is even more pleasant for me than for you, Your Imperial Majesty. I’m not certain, however, that Captain Azdeki is of the same opinion.’

The Emperor stifled a laugh.

‘Yes, I’ve heard rumours. Don’t worry about it. Despite his uncle’s pleas, I’ve sent him to another front. I could not do more than
that. He claims he believed that you were dead, and who can prove otherwise? We all believed it. Approach,’ he ordered. ‘Come close to me . . .’

The general obeyed without saying a word, his sword slapping against his thigh. Outside, birds were singing.

‘They’re beautiful, aren’t they? The songs of my Empire . . .’ the Emperor said dreamily. ‘But what happens when some of them become discordant?’ His voice was suddenly harsher. ‘You visited Garmaret, didn’t you?’

‘I found Negus there after our escape from the Saltmarsh. He told me the news.’

‘Ah, really? What news was that?’

‘That the revolt has spread to other regions, Your Imperial Majesty.’

Behind the curtain, the shadow nodded its head ruefully.

‘Like wildfire, I’m afraid.’

‘Negus also told me that Uster’s younger son is the suspected ring-leader . . .’

‘Yes,’ the Emperor admitted. ‘Yes, that’s what I think. Laerte of Uster, Oratio’s second son . . . His father was found guilty of treason and hung. He denigrated my power with his writings, the treacherous bastard! He denigrated the
Liaber Dest
, he denigrated the Order of Fangol . . . Everything we believe in, he wanted to trample. I suppose his son is prepared to do anything to avenge him . . . including inciting the people to rise up against me. Our people, to whom I’ve given my life, a people who are no more than ungrateful children! I am their father and they rebel against me without any thought. This Laerte, just like Oratio before him, must be judged! He has encouraged my people to tear themselves apart! And all of them are accomplices in shedding blood.’

‘Your Imperial Majesty . . .’ murmured Dun-Cadal.

There was anger in the Emperor’s voice, but also a degree of resignation. As if in the end all this was not completely unexpected.

‘I can also shed blood if I have to. I can be ruthless, you know. I’m no longer the child you once protected, I’ve learned a lot since then. Oratio of Uster believed that the Empire could not endure, that change was needed, that I was unworthy! But it was set forth in the
Liaber Dest
itself that my family would accede to the Imperial throne! I am and I remain a Reyes, by the gods! Whatever my opponents say and however many they may be. Me, not worthy? And not
worthy of what? Governing over a court filled with viperish tongues and flatterers seeking my favour in exchange for their lying compliments . . . ?’

The shadow of a sword rose into the air, perfect, slender and straight, its guard seeming to wrap itself around the balled fist. The curtain fluttered slightly.

‘They are here, Dun-Cadal my friend,’ the Emperor affirmed, brandishing Eraëd. ‘They are here, the real rebels. The ones who caused all this. They slither like serpents around my feet. They flatter me, they seduce me, thinking I see nothing.’

Now disgust accompanied his words. He was more deeply wounded than he cared to admit, voicing a distress that only the general could perceive. He had known Asham Ivani Reyes for such a long time. The Emperor lowered the sword and its shadow disappeared into a scabbard which he held in a trembling hand.

‘What was it like, the Saltmarsh?’ he asked suddenly, as if the general had just returned from some leisure trip.

Disconcerted, Dun-Cadal took his time before answering:

‘Wet . . .’

‘A whole year,’ murmured the Emperor.

‘I would have preferred a much shorter stay,’ the general conceded before changing his tone. ‘Don’t be despondent, Your Imperial Majesty. This revolt doesn’t amount to anything. If you fear losing then you might as well surrender to them right away.’

‘I like that,’ replied the Emperor. ‘You’re the only one to speak to me in this manner.’

There was a moment of silence before the Emperor’s muffled voice made itself heard again.

‘It is not here with me, however, that I have the greatest need of you, but at the front. You made a strong impression at the Salt-marsh. They required days to recover from your escape. To think that a single knight . . .’