Amaltar seemed unconcerned by the stir he’d created. He descended from the dais, walking stiffly to a side door. All in the hall went to their knees out of respect, except his privy council. They followed the emperor in a rustle of silk and soft clatter of armor. By the time Tol stood again, the imperial consorts had departed as well.

In a brief span of time, he’d beheld the changed man who was to be emperor, seen the faithless traitor Mandes exalted at his side, and made an enemy of the haughty Pelladrom Tumult, yet none of that remained long in Tol’s mind. He could think only of how breathtakingly lovely was Valaran, the woman he loved.

Chapter 10

Tol had hoped for an invitation to stay in the imperial palace, but none came. When he complained, Kiya told him sternly, “Given so many mysterious attempts on your life, I’d think you’d welcome a little distance between yourself and the palace.”

After seeing Mandes again, Tol more than ever believed that the wizard was behind the strange incidents that had threatened him, but as usual, the Dom-shu woman was right. They spent a day searching for accommodations.

The inns were already brimming with the thousands of visitors who’d come for the funeral and coronation. Even if they hadn’t been, Tol required more than a simple roof over his head. Whether he liked it or not, he needed a place worthy of Lord Tolandruth. Unfortunately, few homes remained available for rent.

In the end, it was Miya, the champion haggler, who found a suitable place. She took a turn through the marketplace and acquired new suede boots, a cask of Ropunt lager for half the usual price, and a tip on a house for rent.

“There’s an empty villa in the Quarry district,” she announced. “Cost you nine gold pieces a day.”

The price was good for an entire villa, but the Quarry district was not exactly prestigious. Located just east of the Inner City, it was a vast bowl-shaped hollow left after the stone for the imperial palace was mined out. Over the years, it had filled with houses built tall and narrow to fit in the pit. Most of its residents were artisans, and though some were quite wealthy, the Quarry district did not compare to the Inner or Old cities as locations of distinction.

Tol made his displeasure plain. Since leaving the palace they’d tramped the busy streets of Daltigoth, all their possessions borne on the shoulders of hired porters. The endless circling through the streets, together with the crowds that collected wherever Tol went, had frayed his nerves. Living in the wilds for so long, he’d forgotten how claustrophobic life in the city could feel.

“Listen to you!” Miya chided. “Worried about an unseemly address, are you? Pretty high and mighty for a lad from Juramona!”

“Farm boy,” added Kiya, eyeing him narrowly.

He glared at them for the space of two heartbeats, then a sheepish smile broke over his sweaty face. They were right. The Quarry district certainly was better than wandering the streets like a homeless acting troupe.

When they arrived, they found the district to be relatively quiet. Winding their way through the narrow, steep lanes to the address Miya had been given, the only sounds they heard were the tap of tinsmiths’ hammers, the creak of baskets being woven, and the hum of potters’ wheels. The peacefulness appealed to Tol, as did their proximity to the palace. He apologized for his earlier churlishness and commended Miya on her choice.

“All I sought was a bargain,” she replied.

The white wall of the Inner City rose nearby, putting most of the Quarry district in shadow though it was only early afternoon. Miya’s find was located in the easternmost section of the former stone pit, the side farthest from the looming wall, and it was perched on the highest part of that area, a place fittingly called Noonday Ridge. The villa was in fact a mansion, the largest house in the Quarry district. Its rambling ground floor was surmounted by a much smaller second story, which was surrounded by elevated gardens. The whole house was encircled by a stout stone wall topped with a row of iron spikes.

The small caravan entered a courtyard. Miya pulled up the “To Let” sign and tossed it into waist-high weeds. No one had lived here in quite a while.

They were admitted by an elderly woman caretaker. Inside, the doorways were curiously low, just barely tall enough to allow the Dom-shu sisters to pass through without stooping. The old woman explained the villa had been built by a wealthy dwarf merchant named Rumbold. He had gone on an expedition to the east to buy iron four years ago and never returned.

The porters deposited Tol’s chest of pirate treasure in the hall. Miya paid off the men and the caretaker, and they departed. Tol sat down on a low settee, leaned back, and exhaled gustily.

Kiya took hold of his chin and squinted into his eyes. “You’re exhausted. You should go to bed,” she announced.

He did feel drained of strength. The long campaign, the journey from Tarsis, the fight with Xanka, the tragic loss of Felryn and Frez, all of it hung around his neck like shackles. Seeing Mandes again had stirred up a mighty anger, but that wasn’t an antidote to all the travails of the trail. Worse, the deep wound in his heart left by Valaran’s long, unexplained rejection had opened anew. She had barely acknowledged his longing gaze. He didn’t know how to stanch his emotions.

Miya set the cask of Ropunt lager down at his feet. Her agreement with her sister’s prescription was plain. Grateful once more for the women’s support, Tol took Miya’s hand. With her other, she reached over and tousled his hair.

“Rest, husband,” she said roughly. “You look like you’ve walked all the way from Tarsis!”

Although it was only four marks past midday, Noonday Ridge was submerging in the shadow of the Inner City wall. Tol hunted through the dim, dusty corridors of his new home until he found the master bedchamber. Rumbold’s bed was generously sized for a dwarf’s but barely accommodated Tol’s modest height. He drank only a single cup of lager before succumbing to sleep.

The brass mug, bearing the arms of the lost dwarf’s line, fell from Tol’s slack fingers. It landed with a dull thump on the rug and rolled to a stop against the wall.

Half a league away, at a far more stylish address, the master of the house was in his private sanctum. Heaps of curling scrolls spilled off tables onto the floor, mingling with trays of half-eaten food. Everywhere the eye fell there were goblets stained with the dregs of many days’ wine. No one was allowed in this room to clean it, and the occupant of the high-backed chair was too lost in thought to care about such mundane matters.

Mandes pressed the tips of both forefingers to his temples. Before him was a shallow silver pan filled with gently steaming liquid. He sprinkled various colored salts in the pan, noting how the swirling patterns changed with every addition. His lips barely moved as he whispered the words of power.

At last, he commanded, “Show me.”

The lines of color resolved themselves into a scene-a kitchen or dining hall. The object of his surveillance was seated at a rough table, sawing at a roasted boar’s leg with a long knife.

“Come, voice,” Mandes breathed.

“-and make a fool of himself,” said a female, someone not in view. “He could lose everything!”

The woman Mandes watched put down her carving knife, the boar’s leg forgotten. “He wouldn’t do that,” she said. “Our husband may be lovesick, but he’s not stupid.”

The unseen speaker snorted loudly. “This is no ordinary woman, sister! She’s the emperor’s wife!”