Nielash Mousa motioned him to place the shield on the plate. The commander kissed the shield and set it down to be weighed.
The Scales did not move. The shield remained hovering at the place it had been, outweighed by the Ring of State.
“Your wisdom has been borne out,” said Mousa to Fhremus, who nodded and retrieved his weapon. “It is not from the military that the visionary who will lead Sorbold will come. Who is next?”
“I—we are next,” called Tryfalian, his voice booming over the square. He strode to the steps and mounted them without looking back, ignoring the whispering that had begun.
“What symbol do you present?” Mousa asked.
Tryfalian held up a large brass wax seal. “This seal was presented to my grandfather by the empress, for the purpose of stamping trade agreements on behalf of the Crown,” he said. “It is a symbol of the autonomy which she granted to the city-states, an autonomy that will be furthered should the Scales weigh in favor of the Greater Nobility, the counts who steward the nine largest states. Should this be the choice of the Scales, the empire will be dissolved; autonomy and freedom will be granted to the nine large provinces which between them comprise more than three-fourths of the landmass and population of the current state. They will absorb the remaining eighteen, after meetings to discuss the specifics.”
Mousa nodded and indicated the western plate. Slowly Tiyfalian approached the Scales, and knelt, laying the heavy seal in the plate to be weighed against the small ring.
The Scales tipped immediately, dumping the heavy seal out of the plate onto the reviewing stand, where it rolled quickly to the edge. Tryfalian lunged to keep it from falling onto the bricks of the square, and landed on his stomach, the seal banging against his knuckles with a crunching sound that made the onlookers wince.
“Perhaps the empress favored you, but the Scales apparently do not, Tryfalian!” one of the lesser counts shouted derisively over the laughter that bubbled up from his faction.
“Silence!” thundered Nielash Mousa. The assemblage froze at the steel in the benison’s voice; Mousa was generally a soft-spoken man with a famously long temper. “You dishonor the Scales.” He laid a hand on the shoulder of the Count of Keltar as he rose, glaring at the lesser counts, then waited until Tryfalian had taken his seat again.
“Who will present next?”
The Mercantile and the lesser counts looked at one another blankly. Finally Ihvarr stood.
“All right,” he said testily. “The Mercantile will go next.”
Quiet whispering rose up from the lesser counts as Ihvarr walked to the stand. Nielash Mousa met him at the top of the steps, then glared the lesser nobility into silence.
Ihvarr held up a single gold sun, the coin of the realm of Sorbold, imprinted with the empress’s face on one side and the sword-and-sun symbol on the other, larger and heavier than a gold crown of Roland.
“This simple coin is the symbol of commerce in Sorbold,” he said, his glorious merchant’s voice filling the square. “It represents the wealth and power of trade in Sorbold, shipping lanes, mining interests, and linen weavers that are known the world over. While the Mercantile does not seek to rule, it does seek to keep the nation together. The men who plough the earth and the sea, who ply the trades—these are the lifeblood of Sorbold. I speak for them.” He tossed the coin flippantly into the plate.
Slowly the Scales moved, scuffing the platform.
The arm raised to the inky sky, lifting the coin aloft, then brought it to balance with the Ring of State.
Ihvarr stepped back as if slapped. He looked quickly over at Talquist, who was similarly stunned, and then to the benison, who nodded gravely. “Take the coin off the plate,” Mousa instructed.
Quickly the merchant leader complied.
“There must be a mistake,” Tristan Steward whispered to Ashe, echoing the thoughts and comments of countless others in the factions and among the guests. “Surely the next emperor is not to come from the Mercantile?”
Ashe waved at him to be silent. “Why not?” he whispered. “You know the work of a head of state. Half of the time is spent in mind-numbing figuring of tariffs and grain treaties. These people live for that.” He inhaled deeply, thinking of Rial’s words earlier regarding the slave trade. “And perhaps with the Scales watching their movements, they will address the illegal trade that deals in human blood, lest they risk the ire of the Dark Earth.”
The benison raised his hand for the attention of the assemblage. “We shall weigh the symbol of the Mercantile again, so that there can be no doubt,” he said. “Ihvarr, place the coin in the plate again.”
The eastern Hierarch did as the benison instructed. Again the Scales lifted the coin high to the darkening sky, as if exalting it, then slowly settled down into an exact balance against the Ring of State.
“It is Weighed, and found to be in balance!” said the benison loudly, his excitement echoing in the stunned silence.
For a long moment no one spoke. Then a smattering of applause was heard, followed by a more rolling round of it. The eastern Hierarch looked out to his compatriot, who shrugged.
“Who will stand to be Weighed as a candidate for emperor?” Mousa inquired.
“Ihvarr!” Talquist shouted merrily. “If his illegitimate birth does not disqualify him, that is.”
“Blackguard!” Ihvarr shouted back. “If it does, we will surely be in difficulty, because you are a bastard, too, Talquist; a bigger one than I, by all accounts.”
“Step into the plate,” said Nielash Mousa impatiently. “Allow your amazement to render you speechless, rather than foolish, in the sight of the Scales.”
Abashed, the Hierarch stepped onto the plate.
Immediately he was upended. With a rush of air and a swing of the wooden arm, Ihvarr was violently thrown to base of the reviewing stand; he landed with a sickening crack of his neck, then thudded heavily to the ground.
Talquist shot to his feet, rushing to Ihvarr’s side, panic written all over his features.
“Help him!” he cried, shoving aside chairs to get to his comrade. “For the sake of the All-God-”
“Leave him,” commanded Nielash Mousa sternly. “The Scales have spoken. Mount the stairs.”
Talquist stopped in midstep. “What?” he asked incredulously.
“Present yourself for Weighing. It is the will of the Scales.”
“Don’t be a coward, Talquist,” sneered one of the lesser counts. “The Mercantile is to lead us, to take the throne from the hands of the nobility, where is had rested for centuries, and place it for safekeeping in the dirt-stained paws of a merchant. It might as well be you! Throw yourself into the plate. Perhaps you will only break a leg instead of your neck.”
Talquist, who had bent to close the glassy eyes of Ihvarr, stood again, his heavy features hardening into a frowning mask.
“Nobility, are you, now, Sitkar?” he said, staring into the ranks of the heads of the smaller city-states. “You only know one meaning of the word, apparently. There is far more nobility in the hand of a man who earns his bread, rather than stealing it from the mouths of those who do by a distant scrap of Right of Kings. Perhaps the Mercantile represent something that none in your faction ever could: an understanding that the Earth rewards the man who works it, honors it, respects it—not just feeds off it.”
Without another word he walked to the stairs and ascended the platform.
And stepped into the Scale plate.
And was lifted high above the red bricks of the square, over the heads of the other contenders for the throne, aloft, as if a precious offering the Scales were making to the moon above.