Guy Kay - Sailing to Sarantium

He reaches the smaller of the two main palaces, ascends the wide steps. Doors are opened for him by the soldiers on duty there. He pauses on the threshold, looking up at the grey-black clouds west over the sea, then he walks into the palace to see if the woman whose words saved them all that day two years ago is still awake, or has-as threatened-gone to sleep.

Gisel-Hildric's daughter, queen of the Antae-is said to be young and even beautiful, though that last hardly matters in the scheme of things. It is distinctly probable she could offer him an heir, though less likely that she would really afford an alternative to the invasion of Batiara. Were she to come east to wed the Emperor of Sarantium it would be seen as an act of treachery by the Antae. A successor would be named, or emerge.

Successors among the Antae tend to follow each other rapidly in any case, he thinks, as swords and poison do their winnowing. It is true that Gisel would serve as excuse for Sarantine intervention, lending validity to his armies. Not a trivial thing. The endorsement of the High Patriarch might reasonably be expected in the name of the queen, and that would carry weight among the Rhodians-and many of the Antae- which could turn the balance in a war. The young queen, in other words, is not really wrong in her reading of what she might represent for him. No man who prided himself on his command of logic and capacity to analyse and anticipate could deny that this is so.

Marrying her-if she could be winkled out of Varena alive-would represent a truly dazzling opening up of avenues. And she is indeed young enough to bear, many times. Nor is he so old himself, though he might feel it at times.

The Emperor of Sarantium comes to his wife's chambers by way of the inner corridor he always uses. He sheds the cloak there. A soldier takes it from him. He knocks, himself. He is genuinely uncertain if Aliana will be awake. She values her sleep more than he does-most people do. He hopes she has waited. Tonight has been interesting in unexpected ways, and he is far from tired, keen to talk.

Crysomallo opens the door, admitting him to the innermost of the Empress's rooms. There are four doors here. The architects have made of this wing a maze of women's chambers. He himself doesn't even know where all the corridors lead and branch. The door closes on the soldiers. There are candles burning here, a clue. He turns to her longtime lady-in-waiting, eyebrows lifted in inquiry, but before Crysomallo can speak, the door to the bedchamber itself opens, and Aliana, the Empress Alixana, his life, appears.

He says, "You are awake. I am pleased."

She murmurs, mildly, "You look chilled. Go nearer the fire. I have been considering which items of my clothing to pack for the exile to which you are sending me."

Crysomallo smiles, lowering her head quickly in a vain attempt to hide it. She turns, without instruction, and withdraws to another part of the web of rooms. The Emperor waits for the door to close.

"And why," he says, austere and composed, to the woman who remains with him, "do you assume you'll be allowed any of them when you go?"

"Ah," she says, simulating relief, a hand fluttering to her bosom. "That means you don't intend to kill me."

He shakes his head. "Hardly necessary. I can let Styliane do it once you are discarded and powerless."

Her face sinks as she considers this new possibility. "Another necklace?"

"Or chains," he says agreeably. "Poisoned manacles for your cell in exile."

"At least the indignity would be shortened." She sighs. "A cold night?"

"Very cold," he agrees. "Windy for an old man's bones. The clouds will break by morning, though. We'll see the sun."

"Trakesians always know the weather. They just don't understand women. One can't have all gifts, I suppose. Which old man were you walking with?" She smiles. So does he. "You will take a cup of wine, my lord?"

He nods. "I'm quite certain there's nothing wrong with the necklace," he adds.

"I know. You wanted the artisan to take a warning about her." He smiles at that. "You know me too well."

She shakes her head, walking over with the cup. "No one knows you too well. I know some things you are inclined to do. He will be a prize, after tonight, and you wanted to give him some caution."

"He's a cautious man, I think."

"This is a seductive place."

He grins suddenly. He can still look boyish at times. "Very."

She laughs, hands him his wine. "Did he tell us too easily?" She walks over to take a cushioned seat. "About Gisel? Is he weak that way?"

The Emperor also crosses and sits easily-no sign of age in the movement-on the floor by her feet among the pillows. The fire near her low-backed chair has been attentively built up. The room is warm, the wine is very good and watered to his taste. The wind and the world are outside.

Valerius, who was Petrus when she met him and still is when they are private, shakes his head. "He's an intelligent fellow. Very much so, actually. I didn't expect that. He didn't really tell us anything, if you recall. Kept his silence. You were too precise in what you asked and said merely to be hazarding a guess. He drew that conclusion and acted on it. I'd call him observant, not weak. Besides, he'll be in love with you by now." He smiles up at her and sips his wine.

"A well-made man," she murmurs. "Though I'd have hated to see the red beard they say he came with." She shudders delicately. "But, alas, I like my men much younger than that one."

He laughs. "Why did you ask him here?"

"I wanted dolphins. You heard."

"I did. You'll get them when we're done with the Sanctuary. What other reasons?"

The Empress lifts one shoulder, a motion of hers he has always loved. Her dark hair ripples, catching the light. "As you say, he was a prize after discrediting Siroes and solving the charioteer's mystery."

"And the gift to Styliane. Leontes didn't much like that."

"That isn't what he didn't like, Petrus. And she will not have liked having to match his generosity, at all."

"He'll have a guard. At least for the first while. Styliane did sponsor the other artisan, after all."

She nods. "I have told you, more than once, that that marriage is a mistake."

The man frowns. Sips his wine. The woman watches him closely, though her manner appears relaxed. "He earned it, Aliana. Against the Bassanids and in the Majriti."

"He earned appropriate honours, yes. Styliane Daleina was not the way to reward him, my love. The Daleinoi hate you enough, as it is."

"I can't imagine why," he murmurs wryly, then adds, "Leontes was the marriage-dream of every woman in the Empire."

"Every woman but two," she says quietly. "The one here with you and the one forced to wed him."

"I can only leave it to him to change her mind, then."

"Or watch her change him?"

He shook his head. "I imagine Leontes knows how to lay a siege of this kind, as well. And he is proof against treachery. He is secure in himself and his image of Jad."

She opens her mouth to say something more, but does not. He notices though, and smiles. "I know," he murmurs. "Pay the soldiers, delay the Sanctuary."

She says, "Among other things. But what does a woman understand of these great affairs?"

"Exactly," he says emphatically. "Stick to your charities and dawn prayers."

They both laugh. The Empress is notorious for mornings abed. There is a silence. He drinks his wine, finishing it. She rises smoothly, takes the cup, fills it again and comes back, sitting as she hands it to him again. He lays a hand on her slippered foot where it rests on a pillow beside him. They watch the fire for a time.

"Gisel of the Antae might bear you children," she says softly.

He continues to gaze into the flames. He nods. "And be much less trouble, one has to assume."