David Eddings - Enchanter's End Game

“You haven’t gotten away with it yet, Drosta,” Rhodar told him dryly.

“I will if we run fast enough, Rhodar, and right now I really feel like running.”

’Zakath, dread Emperor of boundless Mallorea, was a man of medium height with glossy black hair and a pale, olive-tinged complexion. His features were regular, even handsome, but his eyes were haunted by a profound melancholy. He appeared to be about thirty-five years old, and he wore a plain linen robe with no ornament or decoration upon it to indicate his exalted rank.

His pavilion stood in the center of the camp of the Malloreans, a vast sea of tents standing on the plains of Mishrak ac Thull. The earthen floor of the pavilion was covered with priceless Mallorean carpets, and the polished tables and chairs were inlaid with gold and with mother of pearl. Candles filled the pavilion with glowing light. Somewhere nearby, a small group of musicians played subdued melodies set in a minor key.

The Emperor’s only companion was a half grown cat, a common, mackerel-striped tabby with that gangling, long-legged awkwardness of the adolescent feline. While ’Zakath watched with a sort of sad-eyed amusement, the young cat stalked a scrap of balled-up parchment, her feet noiseless on the carpet and her face set in a look of intent concentration.

As Princess Ce’Nedra and her companions were escorted into the pavilion, ’Zakath, seated on a low, cushioned divan, held up his hand for silence, his eyes still fixed on the cat.

“She hunts,” the Emperor murmured in a dead voice.

The cat crept nearer to her intended prey, crouched and shifted her hind feet nervously, her bottom twitching from side to side and her tail lashing. Then she leaped at the parchment. The ball crackled as she pounced on it, and, startled, she jumped high into the air. She batted the ball experimentally with one paw; suddenly finding a new game, she bounded it across the floor with a series of soft-pawed jabs, scampering after it with awkward enthusiasm.

’Zakath smiled sadly. “A young cat,” he said, “with much yet to learn.” He rose gracefully to his feet and bowed to Ce’Nedra. “Your Imperial Highness,” he greeted her formally. His voice was resonant, but there was that peculiar deadness in it.

“Your Imperial Majesty,” Ce’Nedra replied, inclining her head in response.

“Please, Goodman,” ’Zakath said to Durnik, who was supporting the still-dazed Polgara, “let the lady rest here.” He indicated the divan. “I’ll send for my physicians, and they will see to her indisposition.”

“Your Majesty is too kind.” Ce’Nedra mouthed the ritual phrase, but her eyes were searching ’Zakath’s face for some hint of his real intentions. “One is surprised to meet such courtesy-under the circumstances.”

He smiled again, rather whimsically. “And, of course, all Malloreans are supposed to be raving fanatics—like Murgos. Courtesy is out of character, right?”

“We have very little information about Mallorea and its people,” the princess responded. “I was not certain what to expect.”

“That’s surprising,” the Emperor observed. “I have a great deal of information about your father and your Alorn friends.”

“Your Majesty has the aid of Grolims in gathering intelligence,” Ce’Nedra said, “while we must rely on ordinary men.”

“The Grolims are overrated, Princess. Their first loyalty is to Torak; their second to their own hierarchy. They tell me only what they want to tell me—although periodically I manage to have a bit of additional information extracted from one of them. It helps to keep the rest of them honest.”

An attendant entered the pavilion, fell to his knees, and pressed his face to the carpet.

“Yes?” ’Zakath inquired.

“Your Imperial Majesty asked that the King of Thulldom be brought here,” the attendant replied.

“Ah, yes. I’d nearly forgotten. Please excuse me for a moment, Princess Ce’Nedra—a small matter requiring my attention. Please, you and your friends make yourselves comfortable.” He looked critically at Ce’Nedra’s armor. “After we’ve dined, I’ll have the women of my household see to more suitable clothing for you and for Lady Polgara. Does the child require anything?” He looked curiously at Errand, who was intently watching the cat.

“He’ll be all right, your Majesty,” Ce’Nedra replied. Her mind was working very rapidly. This urbane, polished gentleman might be easier to deal with than she had anticipated.

“Bring in the King of the Thulls,” ’Zakath ordered, his hand wearily shading his eyes.

“At once, your Imperial Majesty,” the attendant said, scrambling to his feet and backing out of the pavilion, bent in a deep bow.

Gethell, the King of Mishrak ac Thull, was a thick-bodied man with lank, mud-colored hair. His face was a pasty white as he was led in, and he was trembling violently. “Y-Your Imperial Majesty,” he stammered in a croaking voice.

“You forgot to bow, Gethell,” ’Zakath reminded him gently. One of the Mallorean guards doubled his fist and drove it into Gethell’s stomach. The Thull monarch doubled over.

“Much better,” ’Zakath said approvingly. “I’ve asked you here in regard to some distressing news I received from the battlefield, Gethell. My commanders report that your troops did not behave well during the engagement at Thull Mardu. I am no soldier, but it seems to me that your men might have stood at least one charge by the Mimbrate knights before they ran away. I’m informed however, that they did not. Have you any explanation for that?”

Gethell began to babble incoherently.

“I thought not,” ’Zakath told him. “It’s been my experience that the failure of people to do what’s expected of them is the result of poor leadership. It appears that you’ve not taken the trouble to encourage your men to be brave. That was a serious oversight on your part, Gethell.”

“Forgive me, dread ’Zakath,” the King of the Thulls wailed, falling to his knees in terror.

“But of course I forgive you, my dear fellow,” ’Zakath told him. “How absurd of you to think that I wouldn’t. A reprimand of some sort is in order, though, don’t you think?”

“I freely accept full responsibility,” Gethell declared, still on his knees.

“Splendid, Gethell. Absolutely splendid. I’m so glad that this interview is going so well. We’ve managed to avoid all kinds of unpleasantness.” He turned to the attendant. “Would you be so good as to take King Gethell out and have him flogged?” he asked.

“At once, your Imperial Majesty.”

Gethell’s eyes started from his head as the two soldiers dragged him to his feet.

“Now,” ’Zakath mused. “What do we do with him after we’ve flogged him?” He thought a moment. “Ah, I know. Is there any stout timber in the vicinity?”

“It’s all open grassland, your Imperial Majesty.”

“What a pity.” ’Zakath sighed. “I was going to have you crucified, Gethell, but I suppose I’ll have to forgo that. Perhaps an extra fifty lashes will serve as well.”

Gethell began to blubber.

“Oh, come now, my dear fellow, that just won’t do. You are a king, after all, and you absolutely must provide a good example for your men. Run along now. I have guests. One hopes that the sight of your public flogging will give your troops greater incentive to do better. They’ll reason that if I’d do that to you, then what I’ll do to them will be infinitely worse. When you recover, encourage them in that belief, because the next time this happens, I’ll have made arrangements to have the necessary timber on hand. Take him away,” he said to his men without so much as a glance over his shoulder.

“Forgive me for the interruption, your Highness,” he apologized. “These little administrative details consume so much of one’s time.” The King of the Thulls was dragged sobbing from the pavilion. “I’ve ordered a small supper for you and your friends, Princess Ce’Nedra,” ’Zakath continued. “All the finest delicacies. Then I’ll make arrangements for the absolute comfort of you and your companions.”