‘Don’t be concerned, Kalten-Knight,’ Engessa said. ‘If they can fit me, they can certainly fit you.’
Once the visitors had been re-shod, they were escorted into the palace. There were oil lamps hanging on long chains suspended from the ceiling, and the lamplight set everything aflame. The shifting, rainbow-hued colours of the walls, floors and ceiling of the broad corridors dazzled the Elenes, and they followed the servants all bemused.
There were courtiers here, of course – no palace is complete without them – and like the citizens in the streets outside, they grovelled as the Queen of Elenia passed.
‘Don’t become too enamoured of their mode of greeting, love,’ Sparhawk warned his wife. ‘The citizens of Cimmura wouldn’t adopt it no matter what you offered them.’
‘Don’t be absurd, Sparhawk,’ she replied tartly. ‘I wasn’t even considering it. Actually, I wish these people would stop. It’s really just a bit embarrassing.’
‘That’s my girl,’ he smiled.
They were offered wine and chilled, scented water to dab on their faces. The knights accepted the wine enthusiastically, and the ladies dutifully dabbed.
‘You really ought to try some of this, father,’ Princess Danae suggested, pointing at one of the porcelain basins of water. ‘It might conceal the fragrance of your armour.’
‘She has a point, Sparhawk,’ Ehlana agreed.
‘Armour’s supposed to stink,’ he replied, shrugging. ‘If an enemy’s eyes start to water during a fight, it gives you a certain advantage.’
‘I knew there was a reason,’ the little princess murmured.
Then they were led into a long corridor where mosaic portraits were inlaid into the walls, stiff, probably idealised representations of long-dead emperors. A broad strip of crimson carpet with a golden border along each edge protected the floor of that seemingly endless corridor.
‘Very impressive, your Excellency,’ Stragen murmured to Oscagne after a time. ‘How many more miles is it to the throne-room?’
‘You are droll, Milord.’ Oscagne smiled briefly.
‘It’s artfully done,’ the thief observed, ‘but doesn’t it waste a great deal of space?’
‘Very perceptive, Milord Stragen.’
‘What’s this?’ Tynian asked.
‘The corridor curves to the left,’ Stragen replied. ‘It’s hard to detect because of the way the walls reflect the light, but if you look closely, you can see it. We’ve been walking around in a circle for the past quarter of an hour.’
‘A spiral, actually, Milord Stragen,’ Oscagne corrected him. ‘The design was intended to convey the notion of immensity. Tamuls are of short stature, and immensity impresses us. That’s why we’re so fond of the Atans. We’re reaching the inner coils of the spiral now. The throne-room’s not far ahead.’
The corridors of shifting fire were suddenly filled with a brazen fanfare as hidden trumpeters greeted the queen and her party. That fanfare was followed by an awful screeching punctuated by a tinny clanking noise. Mmrr, nestled in her little mistress’ arms, laid back her ears and hissed.
‘The cat has excellent musical taste,’ Bevier noted, wincing at a particularly off-key passage in the ‘music’.
‘I’d forgotten that,’ Sephrenia apologised to Vanion. ‘Try to ignore it, dear one.’
‘I am,’ he replied with a pained expression on his face.
‘You remember that Ogress I told you about?’ Ulath asked Sparhawk, ‘The one who fell in love with that poor fellow up in Thalesia?’
‘Vaguely.’
‘When she sang to him, it sounded almost exactly like that.’
‘He went into a monastery to get away from her, didn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘Wise decision.’
‘It’s an affectation of ours,’ Oscagne explained to them. ‘The Tamul language is very musical when it’s spoken. Pretty music would seem commonplace, even mundane – so our composers strive for the opposite effect.’
‘I’d say they’ve succeeded beyond human imagination,’ Baroness Melidere said. ‘It sounds like someone’s torturing a dozen pigs inside an iron works.’
‘I’ll convey your observation to the composer, Baroness,’ Oscagne told her. ‘I’m sure he’ll be pleased.’
‘I’d be pleased if his song came to an end, your Excellency.’
The vast doors that finally terminated the endless-seeming corridor were covered with beaten gold, and they swung ponderously open to reveal an enormous, domed hall. Since the dome was higher than the surrounding structures, the illumination in the room came through inch-thick crystal windows high overhead. The sun poured down through those windows to set the walls and floor of Emperor Sarabian’s throne room afire. The hall was of suitably stupendous dimensions, and the expanses of nacreous white were broken up by accents of crimson and gold. Heavy red velvet draperies hung at intervals along the glowing walls, flanking columnar buttresses inlaid with gold. A wide avenue of crimson carpet led from the huge doors to the foot of the throne, and the room was filled with courtiers, both Tamul and Elene.
Another fanfare announced the arrival of the visitors, and the Church Knights and the Peloi formed up in military precision around Queen Ehlana and her party. They marched with ceremonial pace down that broad, carpeted avenue to the throne of his Imperial Majesty, Sarabian of Tamul.
The ruler of half the world wore a heavy crown of diamond-encrusted gold, and his crimson cloak, open at the front, was bordered with wide bands of tightly-woven gold thread. His robe was gleaming white, caught at the waist by a wide golden belt. Despite the splendour of his throne-room and his clothing, Sarabian of Tamul was a rather ordinary-looking man. His skin was pale by comparison with the skin of the Atans, largely, Sparhawk surmised, because the emperor was seldom out of doors. He was of medium stature and build and his face was unremarkable. His eyes, however, were far more alert than Sparhawk had expected. When Ehlana entered the throne-room, he rose somewhat hesitantly to his feet.
Oscagne looked a bit surprised. ‘That’s amazing,’ he said. ‘The emperor never stands to greet his guests.’
‘Who are the ladies gathered around him?’ Ehlana asked in a quiet voice.
‘His wives,’ Oscagne replied, ‘the Empresses of Tamuli. There are nine of them.’