Path of Revenge by Russell Kirkpatrick Page B

the ability to think, to read, to discuss philosophical texts. Ought to have been crushed under chariot wheels, of course, as soon as its freakish intelligence showed itself. Insteadit was given to him as a pet when he was but the young heir, and he indulged it shamelessly. And now the result: a life-long companion. Totally loyal, completely discreet. The product of generations of Omerans bred for obedience.
    ‘Something insignificant. Nondescript. We will think more on it.’ The Emperor scratched at his beard under his mask.
    His Omeran companion returned to contemplating the roses. Strange species, Omerans, the Emperor reflected, not for the first time. Some scholars even claimed a common ancestry with humans some time in the distant past. Possible, he supposed, but unlikely. The Amaqi valued intelligence above all things, and the Omerans were clearly deficient in this regard, Torve notwithstanding. All speculation was moot, regardless, as Emperor after Emperor down through the centuries declared Omerans emphatically non-human. Self-serving, of course, but something could be both self-serving and true.
    Today the Emperor had his Omeran dressed in pale lavender, an echo of his own royal purple. Torve’s tunic was threaded with lemon, intricate designs of hummingbirds and flowers set off by bright yellow button work. The message—that the Omeran supped constantly from the Emperor’s largesse—could not be mistaken. The pantaloons were a plainer cut, lest the courtiers and Alliance members took offence. The feet were clad in soft white leather shoes, not very practical in the Garden of Angels but certainly comfortable in this heat.
    No matter how the Omeran was dressed, its heritage could not be disguised. Dark brown skin, much darker than the golden Amaqi tone. A high forehead above a broad face, the eyes wide apart, square-jawed and thick-necked, distinctly simian features that were echoed in hairy knuckles and exaggerated musculature.Brutish physical features that appeared inexpertly carved from some hardwood tree.
    He himself wore purple, of course, threaded with gold. His jacket depicted summer showers, the bounty of the Emperor falling on his subjects from golden clouds, and the subject of a private joke between himself and Torve. Pantaloons of overlapping cloth created a rippling effect when he walked, something his seamstresses had come up with recently and which was already becoming something of a sensation at his court. The golden mask he always wore in public sat easily on his face, the weight borne by the bridge of his nose. He had a permanent callus there. His shoes were gilded leather, his hat fashionably square with a tassel of gold thread, and he wore kid-leather gloves. He was very pleased with the effect, and refused to spoil it by rubbing at his sore buttocks.
    The Gate of the Father opened inwards, and the wretched cosmographers filed into the Garden of Angels. Relics of a religious past, an anachronism in the secular world with its emphasis on the ever-present Now, the cosmographers were hated by the Amaqi precisely because they reminded everyone of their history. In a culture that chose to focus on the present, this was a major failing.
    The Emperor doubted they were aware of this.
    He watched them as they filed slowly across the lawn towards his bench. The Chief Cosmographer, Son sear her soul, held hands with a young woman who looked none too happy at the fact. Was this why she—the Emperor searched his mind for her name, appended to countless petitions for audiences, how could he have forgotten?—was this why Mahudia joined with the cosmographers? To dally with the acolytes? The daughter of Hudan, leader of the Elborans, one of the most important Alliances, could live in luxury if she chose. Late thirties, if heremembered correctly. Fine features, full-breasted, and with a fortune in trust from her father, she could pick and choose from the noblemen of the city. Had she chosen perversion