The Lord Roland fixed a demeaning stare on his sovereign and childhood friend.
“When we were lads, I remember you saying once that there were leaders, and there were politicians,” he said in a surly tone, “distinguishable by whether they looked inward or outward to find the courage of their convictions. I am sorry to see which one you have turned out to be.”
“I agree that a monolithic Sorbold is more stable,” Rial inserted hastily, hoping to forestall the response he saw brewing. “But there are some legitimate points raised by the nobles. The needs of some of the larger city-states sometimes have gone unmet in the game of power the empress played with some of the smaller ones. The One-God knows that the outlying states with a shipping concern need more military might, more naval support; the pirate and slave trades have flourished in Sorbold for years, the gladiatorial arenas grown in scale and popularity as blood sport becomes more and more brutal. It’s an atrocity that Leitha turned a blind eye to; I don’t blame Damir, whose lands border Tyrian, for his concern.”
“Though Kaav’s protestations are disingenuous,” Ashe said. “His central lands are the largest mining regions, anthracite and silver, sulfur and salt. Where do you think he gets his workers for those terrible places?”
“From the slave trade,” Rial agreed.
“Perhaps we have coddled them too long,” said Tristan Steward. “Ever since it broke away from the Cymrian Empire at the end of the war, Sorbold has been like a great, looming blight to the south, a nest of scorpions and Gray Assassins hiding in the rocks, biding its time. A more sensible tack to take would be to begin the process of reabsorbing them into the Alliance, rather than trying to make peace accords with them.”
“And how would you enforce such a reabsorption, should they not wish it to happen?” Ashe asked disdainfully. “Their army is five, perhaps six times the size of the united forces of Roland—
“But is dwarfed when you add Tyrian and Ylorc.”
Ashe put out his hand quickly to stop Rial’s acid reply.
“Let me not hear such talk again, especially while we are guests in this place,” he said with a terrifying softness, his voice quavering with the multiple tones of the dragon in his blood. “You are putting ideas on the wind that have no support, but those words have power, and may bring about unintended consequences. What you are advocating is a return to days that are gone, and for good reason.”
“Why do you fear that?” Tristan shot back. “Why do you not wish to annex what is unstable, to make it a part of the whole, where we would be safe from it?”
Ashe drained his glass and stood up from the table.
“Because, unlike you, I have no desire to rule the world. Sooner or later, the world comes to resent it.”
The colloquium reconvened at sunset.
The various factions of Sorbold had gravitated toward each other, so that the inner table was divided into four distinct groups—the nobility of the nine large city-states Tryfalian had listed as worthy of independence; the counts of the remaining states, sitting silently and smoldering across the table from them; the Mercantile in the presence of Ihvarr and Talquist; and the army, whose sole representative was Fhremus.
Nielash Mousa had, by his appearance, gotten no sleep the night before. His face, which normally bore the puffy wrinkles under the eyes of a man of his years, sagged under the weight of the import of the proceedings, his dusky skin flushed and sweaty. He stepped into the center of the square, cleared his throat politely, and then spoke as the silence deepened.
“Before we set about the task of another Weighing, I ask if anyone present has a concern or objection that they wish to voice.”
No one spoke.
The benison nodded. “Very well. Since I am to conduct this Weighing, with the aid of Lasarys in the keeping of the records, I feel that I should submit myself to the Scales for their judgment beforehand. The Scales detect more than the eye can ever see, more than the mind can rightly know. They know a man’s heart, and a man’s destiny; if they adjudge me to be false, I have no defense against it.” He fingered the holy symbol around his neck, a representation of the Earth. “My office resides in this symbol. If I am not worthy of it, if I have violated any of my vows or compromised my holy oaths, I will be found wanting.” He eyed the crowd as a smile took up residence at the corner of his mouth. “Bear this in mind for yourselves as well.”
As the assemblage exchanged nervous glances, the benison removed the chain from his neck and handed it to Lasarys. The priest walked hurriedly to the top of the steps where the Scales loomed and reverently set the holy symbol down in the western plate. Then he stepped aside and nodded anxiously to Mousa.
The Blesser of Sorbold mounted the steps to the top of the platform, his back straighter than Ashe had seen it since arriving in Sorbold. He closed his eyes and stepped carefully onto the other plate.
For a moment the Scales did not move. Then, with a creak of the great wooden arms, the chains that held the plate rattled, and the benison was lifted aloft, then balanced perfectly with his holy symbol.
Ashe, watching from the outer circle, felt a swell of amazement. It never ceased to impress him, the sight of a man’s weight balancing in the air against a tiny symbol like the ring, a sign of the power of the ancient Scales. He thought back to their history, how Gwylliam had valued them enough to bring them across the sea from Serendair, rescuing them from being obliterated in the cataclysm. It was one of the truly great accomplishments in his grandfather’s sordid life.
Nielash Mousa remained still for a moment, his eyes closed, as if listening to voices no one else could hear. Then he opened his eyes, inhaled deeply, and stepped down from the Scales, sanctified by the Earth, and prepared to conduct the Weighings. He collected the holy symbol, which he kissed and returned to its place around his neck, then signaled for Lasarys to place the Ring of State in the western plate.
“Very well. Assuming no one wishes to dispute the findings of the Scales—He paused for a moment, then, hearing no comment, plowed on. “I invite the factions to present their cases. Once we know which faction’s vision for Sorbold the Scales determine to be the right one, we will weigh anyone within that group who wishes to present himself as emperor.”
“What if our faction disputes that there should be an emperor?” Tryfalian called out.
Mousa considered for a moment. “Then the vision articulated by the person chosen from the faction by the Scales will be enacted—whatever it may be.” He turned to Lasarys amid the murmuring that broke out at his words, then turned back to the assemblage.
“Who brings forth a symbol from the army?”
Fhremus pushed his chair away from the table and stood, taking a moment to stare at each of the other factions. Then he ascended the steps to the platform. He held aloft a shield that blazed with a golden sun; it glinted in the rays of sunset.
“This is the shield of the empress’s regiment, the column which has protected and defended the throne of Sorbold for three hundred years,” he said stiffly. “The army does not seek to rule, merely to guard and sustain whomever the Scales choose as the rightful voice of the realm.” He coughed, then met the eyes of the assemblage. “If the Scales select our faction, the vision will be to remain a single nation, with a leader selected by the Scales from the military, and coronated as emperor.”