dictionary or grammar book, unless you were a linguistics officer accredited to the Chamberlain, on the grounds that it’s hard to conspire with someone you can’t talk to.
No guards, not even Household, north of the Pearl Chamber; from there on, security was the responsibility of the Gentlemen Doorkeepers, an order of chivalry founded in the Seventh dynasty and confined to twelve ancient families whose loyalty to the emperor was proverbially fanatical. That was the paradox. If you could somehow slip or fight your way past them, get to the emperor, cut his throat and cram the diadem on to your head, you were then the emperor and they would defend you to the death. The only known exception had been the pretender Phormia, who had managed to grab the crown before the Gentlemen reached him, but who, in his haste, put it on back to front. This was deemed to be procedurally incorrect, and he was cut to pieces on the spot.
The Captain of the Gentlemen knew Senza Belot, of course. He opened the Blue Chamber door without a word, and Senza walked in.
“Senza.” The voice, high and frail, came from somewhere in the blinding gold light, but the echo effect made it hard to place. “Dear boy. Thank you so much for coming. Do sit down. What’ll you have to drink?”
The Blue Chamber was so called because Eita II had had it painted blue; to be precise, a perfect reproduction of the night sky over his home town of Gumis on the night he was born, the constellations picked out in diamonds and freshwater pearls. Five years later Eita was stabbed to death hiding in a latrine in the Guards barracks, and Lanceor IV had had the Chamber redone in gold mosaic, hence the bewildering glare when you first walked in; the Blue Chamber, however, it had remained. Although the mosaics were by Perperis and one of the ten finest artistic achievements of the human race, their purpose was coldly tactical. Dazzle an assassin for five seconds, and you have a much better chance of summoning the Gentlemen in time.
During his previous visits Senza had mapped the Chamber in his mind. He could’ve walked to where the chairs and table were with his eyes shut; not that having them open made much difference. His one fear was that he’d blunder into the old man along the way. If the emperor was in a bad mood, colliding with him would be treason, the noose or the block. If he was in a good mood, it’d be
my dear fellow, how clumsy of me
.
“Tea, please,” Senza called out into the blaze. It would already be there, of course. There’d be slightly too much jasmine in it for his taste; which would please him, because it would prove that Imperial intelligence didn’t know absolutely everything about him.
He found the back of the chair by feel, waited until his eyes were accustomed to the glare (treason, on a bad day, to sit down while the emperor was still standing). He could make out a golden glow reflected in the smooth top of a bald man’s head. It was all right to sit down.
“Thank you so much for the Paleostrate didrachm,” the old man said. For a split second, Senza hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about. Then he guessed it must be the old coin he’d sent him. The emperor collected ancient coins, among many, many other things. “Do you know, there’s only five of them in existence? And your one’s got to be the best specimen yet. You can make out nearly all of the obverse inscription.”
“My pleasure,” Senza replied. The chair was like being eaten by a monster with no teeth. He wriggled as he went in, but the back cushions got him all the same. He could barely move for softness and give. “There’s a what’s-its-name, provenance, that goes with it. I’ll have it sent round.”
“Thank you.” True gratitude; far more so than if he’d just added a new province to the empire. “As you know, provenance is everything with antiquities. It’s criminal the way some dealers blindly ignore it. They’re destroying the past.
No guards, not even Household, north of the Pearl Chamber; from there on, security was the responsibility of the Gentlemen Doorkeepers, an order of chivalry founded in the Seventh dynasty and confined to twelve ancient families whose loyalty to the emperor was proverbially fanatical. That was the paradox. If you could somehow slip or fight your way past them, get to the emperor, cut his throat and cram the diadem on to your head, you were then the emperor and they would defend you to the death. The only known exception had been the pretender Phormia, who had managed to grab the crown before the Gentlemen reached him, but who, in his haste, put it on back to front. This was deemed to be procedurally incorrect, and he was cut to pieces on the spot.
The Captain of the Gentlemen knew Senza Belot, of course. He opened the Blue Chamber door without a word, and Senza walked in.
“Senza.” The voice, high and frail, came from somewhere in the blinding gold light, but the echo effect made it hard to place. “Dear boy. Thank you so much for coming. Do sit down. What’ll you have to drink?”
The Blue Chamber was so called because Eita II had had it painted blue; to be precise, a perfect reproduction of the night sky over his home town of Gumis on the night he was born, the constellations picked out in diamonds and freshwater pearls. Five years later Eita was stabbed to death hiding in a latrine in the Guards barracks, and Lanceor IV had had the Chamber redone in gold mosaic, hence the bewildering glare when you first walked in; the Blue Chamber, however, it had remained. Although the mosaics were by Perperis and one of the ten finest artistic achievements of the human race, their purpose was coldly tactical. Dazzle an assassin for five seconds, and you have a much better chance of summoning the Gentlemen in time.
During his previous visits Senza had mapped the Chamber in his mind. He could’ve walked to where the chairs and table were with his eyes shut; not that having them open made much difference. His one fear was that he’d blunder into the old man along the way. If the emperor was in a bad mood, colliding with him would be treason, the noose or the block. If he was in a good mood, it’d be
my dear fellow, how clumsy of me
.
“Tea, please,” Senza called out into the blaze. It would already be there, of course. There’d be slightly too much jasmine in it for his taste; which would please him, because it would prove that Imperial intelligence didn’t know absolutely everything about him.
He found the back of the chair by feel, waited until his eyes were accustomed to the glare (treason, on a bad day, to sit down while the emperor was still standing). He could make out a golden glow reflected in the smooth top of a bald man’s head. It was all right to sit down.
“Thank you so much for the Paleostrate didrachm,” the old man said. For a split second, Senza hadn’t the faintest idea what he was talking about. Then he guessed it must be the old coin he’d sent him. The emperor collected ancient coins, among many, many other things. “Do you know, there’s only five of them in existence? And your one’s got to be the best specimen yet. You can make out nearly all of the obverse inscription.”
“My pleasure,” Senza replied. The chair was like being eaten by a monster with no teeth. He wriggled as he went in, but the back cushions got him all the same. He could barely move for softness and give. “There’s a what’s-its-name, provenance, that goes with it. I’ll have it sent round.”
“Thank you.” True gratitude; far more so than if he’d just added a new province to the empire. “As you know, provenance is everything with antiquities. It’s criminal the way some dealers blindly ignore it. They’re destroying the past.
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