Gerant smiled and ran a finger over his moustache to smooth it. “I answered a summons from my emperor, lad. Make no mistake.”

Phoran tilted his goblet toward Gerant. “And they say you don’t know how to play politics.”

Gerant let out one of his soft chuckles. “No. What they say is that I don’t like politics.” To Kissel he said, “I do understand your question, though. Tier and I haven’t seen each other since the war, but we’ve exchanged letters two or three times a year for twenty years and…” He shook his head. “You’ve met Tier. I’d trust his judgment before I’d trust my own—and I’ve done so. I expect that if I’d not heard from him since he left Gerant, I’d still come running if he asked.”

“You’ve got it, too,” observed Phoran. “That something that makes people want to do as you say. I don’t know what it is, exactly. Avar has it upon occasion, but you and Tier carry it about your shoulders like a mantle of authority.”

Gerant bowed his head. “Thank you. I’ve had to work at it. Tier was like that when he was a snot-nosed boy leading around men twice his age and experience and not a one of them thought to question it.”

Toarsen laughed. “The Path didn’t know what they were doing when they threw him down among us, did they, Kissel? I think they expected us to cow him or torment him like we did that poor Traveler bastard who was there before him. But instead Tier took us and made us into a weapon for the Emperor.” He nodded at Phoran, who raised his goblet in acknowledgment.

“See that you serve him well,” said Avar.

“Speaking of service,” said Phoran, changing the subject. “I need an heir.”

Avar grinned at him. “Do you have a lady in mind?”

Phoran rolled his eyes. “Please don’t be stupid, Avar. Any wife I can contract right now is as likely to kill me in my sleep as anything. A blood heir will have to wait until I have a few more allies than those who are now present. Besides, a child would be of no use anyway. Too vulnerable.”

He sipped at his drink and let them roll the idea around in silence a while, then said, “If I have a legal heir, an adult heir, the first thought in my enemy’s mind won’t be—if Phoran could just take a fall off his horse… or down the stairs, then I wouldn’t have to worry about him.”

Avar got it, but Phoran could see that Kissel and Toarsen were still working through it.

“It’s not so much that I’m less vulnerable with an heir,” he explained. “It’s that there is less to be gained by my assassination—especially if my heir is likely to be more trouble than I am.”

“It won’t help with Gorrish or anyone else with a personal grudge,” said Avar. “And, if you’ll excuse me for saying so, you’ve gone out of your way to offend a lot of people, Phoran. But political enemies will be less likely to consider assassination as a solution. Do you have an heir in mind?”

“You,” he said, and could have laughed at Avar’s blank face. Avar wasn’t stupid, but sometimes you had to grab him by the shoulders and make him look before he saw the wild boar charging him. “Come now, who else would it be? Your mother and mine were first cousins or some rot—which is how your father took over as regent when my uncle died. You’re as close to family as I’ve got—you and Toarsen.”

“I don’t want to become Phoran the Twenty-Seventh,” Avar said in dead seriousness.

“Don’t then.” Phoran leaned back and took the last swallow from his goblet. “Follow my tradition and include the first Phoran. You can be Phoran the Twenty-Eighth instead. Or, as far as I’m concerned, since I presume I’ll be dead if you inherit, you can be Avar the First.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Avar said impatiently. “You know it isn’t. I don’t want your place.”

“No,” said Phoran. “Which is the best reason for me to name you heir. Come, it’s all right. Hopefully, you’ll be deposed by the child of whatever poor lady someone eventually forces to marry me. But until then, I need an heir, and you are it.”

Avar’s handsome chin set firmly. “I won’t, and you can’t make me.”

Toarsen grinned and raised his goblet at Phoran. “That’s the first time I’ve ever heard him sound like a spoiled brat. Thank you for that—it’s hard growing up with a big brother who is perfect.”

“Come, Avar,” coaxed Phoran. “The weight of the Empire is a heavy one, twenty-seven emperors deep. Since the first Phoran We have protected and served Our people. Who else’s strong right arm am I to trust to keep the Empire safe and whole?”

“Gerant,” said Avar.

Even as Gerant shook his head, Phoran said, “Gerant is no relative of mine, not even if you search back ten generations. The Council could overthrow the appointment even before it was announced.”

“Come, my lord,” said Gerant gently. “It is for every man to serve his emperor and the Empire as best he can.”

“All right,” he said, but he didn’t sound happy about it.

Deciding it was best to get the business over with before he had to argue Avar around again, Phoran bounced to his feet. “Come then, all of you, let’s go see if my scribe has the papers drawn up yet. We’ll need witnesses.”

“You’ve already had them drawn up?”

Phoran grinned at Avar. “I know you, my friend. Duty has never been a burden you’ve shunned.”

Phoran had a new scribe. His previous scribe, whose duties had been far lighter than the scribe of a proper emperor ought to have been, was, nonetheless, one of the gentlemen due to lose his life by hanging in the market square sometime in the next week or so.

Phoran had found his new scribe himself via his archive keeper, who was not happy about losing his most promising journeyman. He’d given him several rooms in an underused wing with a secret passage to the libraries, where the young man worked during the day. It was after hours, and in any case, Phoran had requested this business be secret until he had the papers signed and witnessed.

As he led the way to the scribe’s apartment, Phoran found himself wondering, not for the first time, what his ancestors had been thinking when they put the palace together. Small civilizations could flourish in unused rooms, and no one would be the wiser. Since the palace had been built over many generations, there was no pattern to how it was laid out.

He led his cohorts up three stories, over two halls, then down a floor, through several small doorways, the last of which led to a gallery where one could look down over waist-high rails to a pond three stories below. A raised section in the middle had obviously been a fountain, though the stone fishes’ mouths were dry.

The whole pool—which was deeper than the pole Phoran had once pushed into it and large enough to swim a small whale—was covered with scum giving the whole gallery an unpleasantly fishy smell despite the fresh air that came from having no ceiling over the gallery.

“You put your scribe here?” asked Avar. “What did he do to you?”

“This is the shortest way,” explained Phoran. “If you’d all quit gawking, we’ll be there in no time.”

“I think this might be why they keep getting pigeons in the art gallery.” Kissel had his hand propped to shade his eyes from the bright sun that made quite a change from the dim halls they’d been wandering through.

“I haven’t seen this before,” said Toarsen, leaning over the rails. “I’ve been exploring this place for years. How could I not have seen this? Have you looked into fixing that fountain?”

“Fall over, and you won’t have to worry about the fountain. Phoran has all the maps to the palace somewhere,” said his brother. “He knows all sorts of odd places.”

“Not all the maps, by any means,” said Phoran. “Or if they are all the maps, then they leave out a great deal.”

Irrepressible, Toarsen twisted until his back rested on the rail rather than his belly and looked up. “Three stories up? What does the outside of this look like Phoran? Are we in the North Central section or—”