members of the Congregate, reverberated across the hooded stone
spaces. "Let me pass, you caste-menial fool!"
The scene troubled her perhaps
more than it should. To be Empress of the Three Seas was one thing, to be the
wife of the Aspect-Emperor was quite another. In his absence, absolute
authority fell to her—but how could it not bruise and break when the fall was
so far? Even where one would expect her rule to be absolute—such as her own
palace—it was anything but. In Kellhus's absence, the Andiamine Heights seemed
nothing so much as a squabbling mountain of bowing, scraping, insinuating
thieves. The Exalt-Ministers. The caste-nobles of the High Congregate. The
Imperial Apparati. The visiting dignitaries. Even the slaves. It sickened her
the way they all lined up moist-eyed with awe and devotion whenever Kellhus
walked the halls, only to resume their cannibalistic rivalries the instant he
departed—when she walked the gilded halls. Word has it, Blessed
Empress, that so-and-so is questioning the slave reforms, and in the most
troubling manner... On and on, back and forth, the long dance of tongues as
knives. She had learned to ignore most of it, the palace would be on the brink
of revolt if even a fraction of what was said was true. But it meant that she
would never know if the palace were about to revolt, and she had read enough
history to know that this was every sovereign's most mortal concern.
She cried out,
"Imhailas!"
Whether it was her or some
perverse trick of the stone, the ringing of her voice had the character of a
screech. A herd of apprehensive faces turned to her and the twins. There was a
comical scuffle as they all struggled to kneel in the absence of floor space.
She could not but wonder at what Kellhus would say about this lack of
discipline. Who would be punished and how? There was always punishment where
the Aspect-Emperor was involved...
Or as he pretended to call it,
education.
"Imhailas!" she cried
again. She squeezed Samarmas's hand in reassurance, smiled at him. He had a
tendency to cry whenever she raised her voice.
"Yes, your Glory," the
Exalt-Captain called from the blockaded threshold.
"What are all these people
doing here?"
"It's been some time, your
Glory. Almost two years since the last—"
"This is foolish! Clear
everyone out save your guards and the pertinent ministers."
"At once, your Glory."
Of course Imhailas scarce needed
to utter a word: Everyone had heard her anger and her rebuke.
"They're more afraid of
Father," young Kelmomas whispered at her side.
"Yes," Esmenet
replied, at a loss as to how to respond otherwise. The insights of children
were too immediate, too unfiltered not to be unwelcome. "Yes, they
are."
Even a child can see it.
She drew the boys to the wall to
make way for the file of men—a parade of seditious souls draped in ingratiating
skins, or so it seemed. She acknowledged their anxious and perfunctory bows as
they scurried past, wondering how she could possibly rule when her instruments
so sickened her. But she had been too political for far too long not to
recognize an opportunity when she saw one. She stopped Lord Sankas as he made
to pass, asked him if he would assist her with the twins. "They've never
seen a skin-spy before," she explained. She wondered how she could have
forgotten how tall he was—even for a caste-noble. Her own height had always
been a source of shame for her, given the way it shouted her caste-menial
origins.
"Indeed," he said with
a gloating smile. Most men were only too eager to embrace evidence of their
importance, but when they were as old as Sankas, it seemed more unseemly for
some reason. He looked down, winked at her sons. "The horrors of the world
are what make us men."
Esmenet smiled up at the Lord,
knowing this little piece of advice to her sons would endear them to him.
Kellhus was forever reminding her to seek the counsel of those whose
spaces. "Let me pass, you caste-menial fool!"
The scene troubled her perhaps
more than it should. To be Empress of the Three Seas was one thing, to be the
wife of the Aspect-Emperor was quite another. In his absence, absolute
authority fell to her—but how could it not bruise and break when the fall was
so far? Even where one would expect her rule to be absolute—such as her own
palace—it was anything but. In Kellhus's absence, the Andiamine Heights seemed
nothing so much as a squabbling mountain of bowing, scraping, insinuating
thieves. The Exalt-Ministers. The caste-nobles of the High Congregate. The
Imperial Apparati. The visiting dignitaries. Even the slaves. It sickened her
the way they all lined up moist-eyed with awe and devotion whenever Kellhus
walked the halls, only to resume their cannibalistic rivalries the instant he
departed—when she walked the gilded halls. Word has it, Blessed
Empress, that so-and-so is questioning the slave reforms, and in the most
troubling manner... On and on, back and forth, the long dance of tongues as
knives. She had learned to ignore most of it, the palace would be on the brink
of revolt if even a fraction of what was said was true. But it meant that she
would never know if the palace were about to revolt, and she had read enough
history to know that this was every sovereign's most mortal concern.
She cried out,
"Imhailas!"
Whether it was her or some
perverse trick of the stone, the ringing of her voice had the character of a
screech. A herd of apprehensive faces turned to her and the twins. There was a
comical scuffle as they all struggled to kneel in the absence of floor space.
She could not but wonder at what Kellhus would say about this lack of
discipline. Who would be punished and how? There was always punishment where
the Aspect-Emperor was involved...
Or as he pretended to call it,
education.
"Imhailas!" she cried
again. She squeezed Samarmas's hand in reassurance, smiled at him. He had a
tendency to cry whenever she raised her voice.
"Yes, your Glory," the
Exalt-Captain called from the blockaded threshold.
"What are all these people
doing here?"
"It's been some time, your
Glory. Almost two years since the last—"
"This is foolish! Clear
everyone out save your guards and the pertinent ministers."
"At once, your Glory."
Of course Imhailas scarce needed
to utter a word: Everyone had heard her anger and her rebuke.
"They're more afraid of
Father," young Kelmomas whispered at her side.
"Yes," Esmenet
replied, at a loss as to how to respond otherwise. The insights of children
were too immediate, too unfiltered not to be unwelcome. "Yes, they
are."
Even a child can see it.
She drew the boys to the wall to
make way for the file of men—a parade of seditious souls draped in ingratiating
skins, or so it seemed. She acknowledged their anxious and perfunctory bows as
they scurried past, wondering how she could possibly rule when her instruments
so sickened her. But she had been too political for far too long not to
recognize an opportunity when she saw one. She stopped Lord Sankas as he made
to pass, asked him if he would assist her with the twins. "They've never
seen a skin-spy before," she explained. She wondered how she could have
forgotten how tall he was—even for a caste-noble. Her own height had always
been a source of shame for her, given the way it shouted her caste-menial
origins.
"Indeed," he said with
a gloating smile. Most men were only too eager to embrace evidence of their
importance, but when they were as old as Sankas, it seemed more unseemly for
some reason. He looked down, winked at her sons. "The horrors of the world
are what make us men."
Esmenet smiled up at the Lord,
knowing this little piece of advice to her sons would endear them to him.
Kellhus was forever reminding her to seek the counsel of those whose
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