If Tol had possessed a blade at that moment, Mandes would have died. Egrin sensed this and pulled the infuriated warrior away.

Nazramin’s dry voice cut across the room. “If my brother is improved, can we return to the matter of young Tumult’s death? Is there any real proof he was the leader of the Skylanders in Daltigoth?”

“Only that he died leading his gang on a rampage,” Tol replied, forcing his straining limbs to relax.

He related the story of the brawl in the marketplace, explaining that many people had seen Pelladrom Tumult directing the blue-masked thugs. Miya and Kiya could confirm this, he said, and Egrin had been present when Pelladrom was unmasked.

“Well,” Nazramin said cheerfully, “if it’s true, there’s one less troublemaker in Daltigoth!”

Egrin shook his head. “I fear the repercussions may mean trouble, Your Highness. Lord Enkian Tumult is on his way from the Seascapes to pledge his fealty to our new emperor.” Any sympathy for the sad news that would greet Enkian was quickly abandoned at Egrin’s next statement. “At his back are five hordes.”

Argument broke out anew. Bringing troops to Daltigoth was a serious breach of etiquette, yet Lord Rymont insisted, it was foolish to believe that Enkian might have designs against the dynasty. Five thousand men, though improperly large for an entourage, were far too few to overcome Daltigoth’s loyal garrison.

“Why then does he bring them?” asked Oropash, twisting the sleeves of his robe anxiously.

“Wait four days and ask him,” Nazramin replied. He stood up. “It seems to me the only one here with cause to fear is Lord Tol.” The curtailing of Tol’s name was a deliberate slight. “Enkian will certainly have a score to settle with the one who gutted his son, won’t he?”

Although he wasn’t smiling, Nazramin’s glee was obvious to all. At this juncture Amaltar managed to speak again.

“Lord Tolandruth is my personal champion,” he rasped. “If he slew young Tumult in the course of quelling a riot, then he has committed no crime. Lord Enkian must abide by my judgment.”

Amaltar then dismissed the council. With much unseemly grumbling, the emperor’s advisors withdrew. Amaltar asked Tol to linger.

Egrin departed for the villa. Once the last of the council filed out, Amaltar dismissed his personal servants. Mandes reluctantly went with them. Only four guards remained, one at each of the far corners of the large chamber.

Amaltar waved Tol closer. “Sit, sir, if you will. I find it taxing to look up these days,” he said. Tol took the chair recently vacated by Lord Rymont.

Amaltar went on. “You’ve done great things for us, Tolandruth. Whatever else happens, I want you to know I appreciate your deeds. My father did also.” Amaltar coughed a little. “There is much more to do, I fear. I must use you again.”

“I am at Your Majesty’s service.”

“Enemies gather around me, Tolandruth. Not enemies of the honorable kind, like you face in battle. These enemies smile and bow, swear their loyalty, yet all the while grasp hidden daggers and contemplate my death.”

Tol said nothing. After what he’d seen of the men closest to the throne, he could not dismiss his liege’s fears.

Amaltar squeezed his eyes shut. Sweat popped out on his waxen forehead. “I’m never free of them, Tolandruth. I hear them moving in every shadow. They’re like ants, black ants, swarming over me. They will pick my bones clean.” His eyelids sprang open. “You must stop them!”

Pity welled in Tol’s heart. He’d earlier wondered if the emperor was being poisoned, but Mandes had drunk some of the potion himself, with no ill effects. It was obvious, though, that the emperor was ill, and his illness was only made worse by the power struggles around him.

Amaltar took hold of Tol’s hands, gripping them so tightly his knuckles turned white, and repeated his plea for help. Tol vowed he would do whatever it took to defend him.

At last, the emperor relaxed, sinking back into his chair. For a moment the old Amaltar returned, the shrewd plotter, the careful judge of men. His dark eyes cleared of some of the pain that clouded them.

“It is said you are impervious to magic,” he murmured.

The swift change of subject surprised Tol, but he denied the rumor, calling it idle gossip.

“If you were, if you had some protective spell or amulet, Tolandruth, you would give it to your emperor, would you not?”

There it was, plainly stated at last. Tol had considered this question many times: dare he admit owning the Irda millstone? Could he give it to someone else to save his life? To Amaltar? Egrin? Valaran?

If it became known that he possessed a nullstone, no one Tol knew would be safe. His friends would be captured and tortured to force him to yield the artifact. There was no telling what evil use the stone could be put to by an unscrupulous owner. Since he could not bring himself to destroy so fantastic and ancient a relic, the safest course was to keep its existence utterly secret.

Calmly Tol said, “Many stories are told about me, Your Majesty. Few are true. If the gods bestow favors on me, I cannot say why. I am a soldier of the empire, nothing more.”

Amaltar’s right cheek twitched. The slight clarity fled his eyes, leaving them even more haunted than before. He gave a rattling sigh.

“You are too honorable to lie to me,” he said. “So be it.”

The words pricked Tol’s conscience, but he knelt in obeisance to his liege. Before he could rise again, Amaltar’s dry, feverish hand came to rest on top of his head.

“Look after my wife, will you?” the emperor whispered.

Tol stiffened. Did Amaltar know? He and Valaran had faced terrible retribution if caught-burial alive for her and a slow, painful dismemberment for Tol. Had Amaltar known all along? Was he now giving his tacit approval?

“Poor Thura,” Amaltar sighed. “When I die, she’ll be too old to marry again. Look after her, Tolandruth.”

Tol was certain the emperor would be able to hear the thundering of his heart. Clearing his throat, managing to speak without the faintest quiver, Tol vowed he would see to Thura’s comfort and safety, should the need arise. By all accounts, the emperor’s eldest wife was a gentle, kindhearted woman.

Amaltar dismissed him, and Tol departed.

Alone at the massive council table, Amaltar reached for a goblet of wine. His fingers trembled as they closed around the golden stem. As he brought the goblet to his lips, dark objects darted around the edges of his vision.

He flung the cup down. Red droplets flew, and the golden goblet clattered loudly on the polished tabletop.

“Ants!” he cried, pushing himself up from the chair with his hands. “I see you there! Ants!”

Shiny black insects the size of his fist hurried out of the light, under the table. Their scissor-like jaws could take off a man’s finger or toe with one snip.

Amaltar let out a shriek and climbed onto the table. He poured forth obscenities at the vermin.

At the far corners of the chamber, the guards did not move to assist their master. No ants, giant or otherwise, were visible to them. They had witnessed the emperor’s bizarre behavior before. The imperial physician’s orders were not to intervene unless the emperor was in peril of hurting himself.

“Ants! Ants!”

In the anteroom outside, Nazramin poured himself a glass of wine. He raised it in silent salute toward the closed doors of the room where his brother screamed at invisible tormentors then drained the glass. Setting it down with careful precision, Nazramin chuckled quietly.