Not that Vash had been unable to ride or shoot a bow. He had always been just good enough to escape the worst bullying, never finishing among the leaders at the feast-day games, but never finishing last, never embarrassing himself. Thus it was that his peers had ended with middling commissions in the military or been condemned to idleness on their family’s estates while Vash had risen up beneath first one autarch then another, as scribe and accountant and bureaucrat, until he had reached the exalted position he held today, the second most powerful man in the world’s most powerful empire.
In practice, though, that only meant that he was the secretary to the world’s most dangerous madman.
Vash finished writing out his page and sighed. It was true these long days on shipboard had given him time to complete unfinished work, putting various political and economic affairs in order and answering his neglected correspondence, but even catching up with these tasks depressed Vash a bit: it felt as though he was preparing to die, readying his estate and selecting his bequests. He had been increasingly uncomfortable with his monarch for months now, but things had grown worse since the escape of the little temple girl whom Sulepis had bizarrely selected to be his hundred and seventh bride. Increasingly, the autarch seemed to be living in some realm that others like his paramount minister could only guess at but never enter—talking in disconnected sentences about odd subjects, often religious, and pursuing courses of action like this sea voyage north that Sulepis had not bothered to explain to anyone, but which would doubtless not have made sense even if he had.
Still, what was to be done? Many of the previous autarchs of Xis had been slightly mad, at least compared to ordinary folk. The generations of close breeding began to tell, not to mention that even the strongest and most sensible of men sometimes found it hard to deal with absolute power. A survivor of the reign of Vaspis the Dark had famously referred to living in that autarch’s presence being as unnerving as sleeping beside a hungry lion. But Sulepis seemed different even from the most savage of his predecessors. He gave every sign of some serious intent, but nothing could make sense of his actions.
Vash clapped his hands and stood, letting his morning robe slide from his frail old body. His youthful servants scuttled forward to dress him, their handsome little faces serious, as if they were taking care of precious artifacts. In a sense, they were, because the paramount minister’s power over them included the right to have them killed if they injured or displeased him. Not that he had ever killed anyone for displeasing him. He was not that type. A decade or so back he had even gone out of his way to choose boys with spirit, servants who would tease him or even occasionally pretend to defy him—knowing, mischievous, seductive boys. But as he passed four-score years Vash’s patience had dimmed. He no longer wanted the once enjoyable, but now only strenuous exercise of bringing such servants into line. Now, he gave any new recruit only two or three whippings to reform. Then if they showed no signs of learning the silent obedience he had come to prefer he merely passed them to someone like Panhyssir or the autarch’s current regent in Xis, Muziren Chah, someone who enjoyed breaking rebellious spirits and had no compunction about pain.
I have seen too much pain, Vash realized. It has lost its power to amuse or even to shock me. Now it just seemed like something to be avoided.
Vash pretended to meet Panhyssir by accident on the deck outside the autarch’s huge cabin. The heavyset priest and an acolyte had apparently just opened the Nushash shrine.
“Good morning, old friend,” Vash said. “Have you seen the Golden One today? Is he well?”
Panhyssir nodded, a movement that consisted largely of flattening the front of his several chins. In the greater informality of shipboard life he had stopped wearing his tall hat except during actual services; his head and wide face, now covered only by a simple coif, seemed curiously and obscenely naked. Panhyssir was, however, wearing a very impressive black robe. Instead of the autarch’s falcon or the golden wheel of Nushash, though, it was embroidered with a flaming golden eye.
“What is that?” Vash asked. “I have not seen that mark before.”
“Nothing,” said Panhyssir airily. “A fancy of the Golden One’s. He is sleeping in today with the little queens.” These were his hundred-eleventh and hundred-twelfth wives, two young noble sisters, nieces to the king of Mihan sent to Sulepis as tribute. His interest in them, as opposed to the escaped temple girl, seemed of the ordinary sort. Ordinary for the autarch, in any case: the music of their shrieks had kept the ship’s passengers from sleeping well the last several nights.
“Ah, good,” Vash said. “May the gods send him health and vigor.”
“Yes, health and vigor,” repeated Panhyssir. Ready to move on, he gave Vash another little squish of his chins.
“Oh, I had just one question more, good Panhyssir. Do you have a moment? Could we speak somewhere out of the wind? These old bones of mine take the chill so, and I am not yet used to these northern waters.”
The chief priest gave him a blank look but turned it into a smile. “Of course, old friend. Come to my cabin. My slave will make you some good, hot tea.”
The priest’s cabin was bigger than his, but did not have a window. After decades of doing the crucial social computations of court, Vash could not help considering what that meant, and was pleased to decide that it meant his own status had not dropped precipitously despite all the time Panhyssir had been spending with the autarch in the last half a year.
The high priest’s cabin did have a chimney, which was good, since it meant he could have a small stove. An acolyte began making tea while Vash lowered himself onto a bench, consciously avoiding the usual game of trying to make a social near-equal sit first. He wanted the priest of Nushash in a good mood, after alclass="underline" Vash was hoping for honesty, or something close to it.
“Now,” said Panhyssir when the bowls of tea were in their hands, “what can I do for you, my dear old friend Vash?”
Vash smiled back, thinking of all the times he had toyed with bringing one of his kinsmen in from the country to put a knife in Panhyssir’s eye. Court life made for both unexpected friends and enemies. Just now, he found himself thinking about the priest almost fondly. Panhyssir might be a self-serving dog, but he was one of the old crowd, and there were few enough left, especially after the carnage of Sulepis’ rise to power. “It is the Golden One, of course,” he said. “I worry night and day about how best to serve him.”
Panhyssir nodded sagely. “As do we all, may the Lord of Fire protect him always. But how may I help?”
“With your wisdom,” said Vash, and took a sip, deliberately slowing himself down. “And your trust. Because I would not want you to think I seek to pry into that which is unquestionably yours and yours alone.”
“Go on.”
“I mean of course your relationship with Golden One, and your counseling him in the ways of the gods. I do not wish to interfere in such an important stewardship, and of course I cannot even understand all the ways of the living god on earth, let alone the immortal gods in heaven.”
Panhyssir was half-amused. “Granted, granted. To what end may I lend you my… wisdom?”
“I will be honest, old friend. That is how I show you my trust and good faith. We both know that there are many in our court who would seek to exploit any sign of weakness or doubt on the part of another minister—denounce him, perhaps, or simply seek to blackmail him.”