Page 216 of The Cradle of Ice

Tazar slid a palm down her leg, settling his fingers in a manner meant to encourage her to relent. “There are some areas they won’t inspect.”

With a great deal of regret, she pushed his hand away. “I wouldn’t be so certain of that.”

He smiled in defeat and rolled away. He crossed to his pile of clothes, turning enough to show the firmness of his disappointment—which was prominent in its statement. He donned his robes, hiding the run of hard muscles and downy glisten of his skin.

She slid out of bed as he finished. She crossed to join him as he pulled the byor-ga headwear in place. She lifted to her toes and kissed him deeply, bruising those lips more, leaving her mark on him.

She settled back to her soles with a sigh. “If all goes well, I’ll see you in Kysalimri by the end of the day.”

“I will do my best to be ready by then.”

She reached down and grabbed him. “You seem ready enough to me.”

He groaned. “You’ll make for a wicked empress.”

She let him go and drew the coif of his headgear over his handsome features. “Do well in rousing the Shayn’ra, and I will show you how wicked I can be. But for now, go. Llyra is surely pacing a hole through the deck of the arrowsprite.”

“Very true.”

Once in Kysalimri, Tazar and Llyra had work of their own to do. The guildmaster would rouse the low army that she recruited from the city’s thieveries, taverns, and dark dens over the past year, while Tazar gathered his Shayn’ra into a larger, harder Fist.

Much depended on the days ahead.

Knowing this, Tazar turned and headed toward a balcony door. He gave a final glance back, then leaped over the rail outside and vanished. The drama of his exit was more artifice than stealth. One had to go through the motions of secrecy to maintain some semblance of decorum when it came to such dalliances.

But for what must be accomplished in the next bell, such feigned pretense would not suffice.

Aalia stared into the mirror leaning on a wall. Naked and unabashed, she straightened her shoulders and stood taller.

I must be the empress.

* * *

JUBAYR SETTLED WITH the others in the small dining hall in the emperor’s palacio. He had visited here often enough to tell the room had been prepared for this tense gathering.

The large table had been shifted to face the balcony that overlooked the villa’s grounds and out to the Bay of the Blessed. The Stone Gods stood tall, casting their august shadows across the water. Five seats had been positioned along one side, facing that view.

Clearly the staff had been alerted to the number of councillors who would be attending. There was also a sixth member. Chaaen Hrash. But the man was not officially a part of the imperial council, so he would remain standing. Still, Jubayr had asked Hrash to come with them. If anyone knew Emperor Makar the best, it was his father’s most adored and esteemed friend and adviser. If they were to evaluate the emperor’s temperament and fitness of mind, Hrash’s insight would be useful.

As they waited for Aalia, Jubayr did his best to judge the mood in the room.

Wing Draer and Mareesh, both of the aerial fleet, stood with arms crossed, wearing matching frowns. They seemed equally set against Aalia, refusing to even unbend those stubborn limbs to accept a dram of wine or a crumpet of brined eel on toast.

On the other side, Shield Angelon had his head bowed with Sail Garryn, in midargument with each other, weighing or dismissing the merits of such a radical course. Angelon leaned away and Garryn toward Aalia. Still, like any sail in a tempest, their positions tipped in all directions.

The only neutral party seemed to be Chaaen Hrash, who looked pensive and worried—not about the decision to be weighed this morning, but about an emperor whom he loved dearly.

Finally, a small horn sounded. The master of the palacio—a spindle of a man in an ankle-length gray shift and crimson belt—requested they all take their seats. As they did, a flurry of servants swept in and cleared the table of plates, platters, and other detritus of the small morning repast that had welcomed them. Every crumb and droplet of spilled wine was wiped away, leaving the table as pristine as it was priceless.

Its timber had been hewn from the rare fall of a dead branch from the Talniss groves of X’or. Its surface was as black as ebony and grained in bright silver. The wood was so dark that it looked like the table had been sculpted out of those shining filaments. Talniss wood was prized above all, valued a hundred times its weight in gold. The table alone would finance an entire warship.

Jubayr ran his palm over its surface as he crossed to his seat. Once there, he kept the imperial cloak clasped about his neck, but he tossed its length over the low back of his chair. The embroidered Haeshan Hawk with its diamond eyes and gold claws glinted brightly, as if trying to compete with the rich table.

The others settled to either side. The Wing and Mareesh to his left and the Shield and Sail to his right. Hrash stood behind Jubayr’s shoulder, ready to offer support. Still, seated at the table’s center, Jubayr felt the weight of this responsibility. His father had left him this cloak and the leadership of the imperium while he was gone. Jubayr would honor that blessing by not relinquishing it without cause.

The horn sounded again.

An expectant silence settled over the room.