know … more stuff. ”
Adare bit off a sharp retort. The other High Ministers had accompanied her into the tomb to pay their final respects. Crass though he might have been, il Tornja was now the highest-ranking man in the empire. It would not do to tangle with him before the others, especially given the fact that he seemed disposed to accept her recent appointment.
“Not from my father,” Adare replied simply. “He gave the people the show they required out there, but in here … the stone is enough. He would not have wanted to waste anything on the dead that could be of use to the living.”
The Aedolians lowered the bier into place, straightened from their burden, saluted the Emperor with their bandaged stumps, then filed silently from the chamber. The various ministers said a few words, and then they, too, took their leave until only Adare and il Tornja remained. Say what you have to say, she thought to herself, and give me a few final moments with my father. But il Tornja did not go, nor did he address the corpse.
Instead, he turned to Adare. “I liked your father,” he said, nodding casually toward the bier. “Good soldier. Knew his tactics.”
She bristled at the offhand tone. “He was more than a simple soldier. ”
The kenarang shrugged. Il Tornja had held the post of kenarang barely more than a couple of years and was, of course, utterly new to the regency, and yet he didn’t seem to feel any of the awe that was so typical of newcomers to the capital. He didn’t seem to have much awe for her either. Most people quailed before Adare’s fiery gaze; he didn’t appear even to notice it. The man spoke as if he were seated in a tavern with his boots up, and she were the tavern wench. Come to think of it, he had more or less dressed for a tavern as well.
He was clean enough, but unlike the ministers in their somber robes or the soldiers in their crisp uniforms, il Tornja’s garb wasn’t the slightest bit funereal. He wore a blue cloak with a golden clasp over a blue doublet, the whole ensemble sumptuously tailored. A golden sash hung from his right shoulder, the metal inlaid with sparkling gems that might have been diamonds. If Adare didn’t know that the man had won dozens of battles, several of them against daunting odds, she might well have mistaken him for a masker who had stumbled into the tomb while looking for his stage.
The kenarang ’s uniform was expensive, but the cloth itself was clearly just an excuse to show off the physique beneath. The tailor had known his work, cutting the fabric to pull tight over the muscles, especially when il Tornja moved. Although he stood just barely taller than she, he was built like one of the statues lining the Godsway. She tried ignoring him, focusing her attention on her father’s body.
“I’m sorry if I offended,” he replied, sweeping a little bow. “I’m sure your father was great at the whole lot of it—the taxes and road-building and sacrifices and the rest of the tedium an Emperor has to attend to. Still, he liked a good horse and a good sword.”
He delivered the last line as though it were the ultimate compliment.
“If only an empire could be governed with a sword from horseback,” Adare replied, careful to keep her voice cold.
“Men have managed it. That Urghul—what was his name? Fenner. He had an empire, and people say the man hardly ever dismounted.”
“ Fannar had a bloodbath that lasted twenty years. Within weeks of his death, the tribes had dissolved back to their age-old rivalries and his ‘empire’ was gone.”
Il Tornja frowned. “Didn’t he have a son?”
“Three. The two eldest were thrown on the funeral pyre with their father, and the youngest, as far as anyone knows, was gelded and sold to slavers from east of the Bone Mountains. He died in chains in Anthera.”
“Not such a good empire,” il Tornja agreed with a shrug. Fannar’s failure didn’t seem to trouble him in the slightest. “I’ll have to
Adare bit off a sharp retort. The other High Ministers had accompanied her into the tomb to pay their final respects. Crass though he might have been, il Tornja was now the highest-ranking man in the empire. It would not do to tangle with him before the others, especially given the fact that he seemed disposed to accept her recent appointment.
“Not from my father,” Adare replied simply. “He gave the people the show they required out there, but in here … the stone is enough. He would not have wanted to waste anything on the dead that could be of use to the living.”
The Aedolians lowered the bier into place, straightened from their burden, saluted the Emperor with their bandaged stumps, then filed silently from the chamber. The various ministers said a few words, and then they, too, took their leave until only Adare and il Tornja remained. Say what you have to say, she thought to herself, and give me a few final moments with my father. But il Tornja did not go, nor did he address the corpse.
Instead, he turned to Adare. “I liked your father,” he said, nodding casually toward the bier. “Good soldier. Knew his tactics.”
She bristled at the offhand tone. “He was more than a simple soldier. ”
The kenarang shrugged. Il Tornja had held the post of kenarang barely more than a couple of years and was, of course, utterly new to the regency, and yet he didn’t seem to feel any of the awe that was so typical of newcomers to the capital. He didn’t seem to have much awe for her either. Most people quailed before Adare’s fiery gaze; he didn’t appear even to notice it. The man spoke as if he were seated in a tavern with his boots up, and she were the tavern wench. Come to think of it, he had more or less dressed for a tavern as well.
He was clean enough, but unlike the ministers in their somber robes or the soldiers in their crisp uniforms, il Tornja’s garb wasn’t the slightest bit funereal. He wore a blue cloak with a golden clasp over a blue doublet, the whole ensemble sumptuously tailored. A golden sash hung from his right shoulder, the metal inlaid with sparkling gems that might have been diamonds. If Adare didn’t know that the man had won dozens of battles, several of them against daunting odds, she might well have mistaken him for a masker who had stumbled into the tomb while looking for his stage.
The kenarang ’s uniform was expensive, but the cloth itself was clearly just an excuse to show off the physique beneath. The tailor had known his work, cutting the fabric to pull tight over the muscles, especially when il Tornja moved. Although he stood just barely taller than she, he was built like one of the statues lining the Godsway. She tried ignoring him, focusing her attention on her father’s body.
“I’m sorry if I offended,” he replied, sweeping a little bow. “I’m sure your father was great at the whole lot of it—the taxes and road-building and sacrifices and the rest of the tedium an Emperor has to attend to. Still, he liked a good horse and a good sword.”
He delivered the last line as though it were the ultimate compliment.
“If only an empire could be governed with a sword from horseback,” Adare replied, careful to keep her voice cold.
“Men have managed it. That Urghul—what was his name? Fenner. He had an empire, and people say the man hardly ever dismounted.”
“ Fannar had a bloodbath that lasted twenty years. Within weeks of his death, the tribes had dissolved back to their age-old rivalries and his ‘empire’ was gone.”
Il Tornja frowned. “Didn’t he have a son?”
“Three. The two eldest were thrown on the funeral pyre with their father, and the youngest, as far as anyone knows, was gelded and sold to slavers from east of the Bone Mountains. He died in chains in Anthera.”
“Not such a good empire,” il Tornja agreed with a shrug. Fannar’s failure didn’t seem to trouble him in the slightest. “I’ll have to
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