And it gave her a choice, and therefore a problem; which way should she go?
The left-hand passage curved to the right; the right-hand passage curved to the left. Whichever of the three she took, she would be proceeding deeper in toward the center of the palace— in which case, there was no reason to prefer one over the other. She marched on straight ahead.
Now that the light was all behind her, shining over her shoulders, she could see more clearly what lay ahead. The corridor continued another forty feet or so, then ended in a dark open space—she could not judge its extent, only that its walls and ceiling were out of sight. All she could see, beyond the corridor’s end, was a set of broad steps leading up into the darkness, steps of polished yellow marble.
Where had the builders of this place gotten all this stone, Tabaea wondered; she hadn’t known there was so much marble in all the World.
She marched on to the end of the passage; there she paused and looked around. She sniffed the air, but caught no suspicious odors.
To either side, walls began at right angles to the corridor, then curved away into darkness; ahead, under the great staircase, were walls and, she thought, doors. There were carvings in niches and statues standing on pedestals here and there—one stood on either side of the bottommost step. Everything was of stone, in white and gold and maroon.
She let her gaze drift up the staircase; she had expected the top to be utterly black, like the unlit hallway of an inn late at night, but instead there was a faint glow, and she thought she could make out vague shapes. There was a certain airiness about it, somehow, and a hint of the pastel colors of moonslight.
She considered a warlock light, but decided against trying it; she hadn’t really learned how to do one properly yet, and she was very wary about overusing warlockry. Instead she waved the torchbearers back and let her eyes adjust. After all, she reminded herself, she could see as well as any cat.
She blinked and drew in her breath. “Come on,” she said, waving her little band forward and marching up the marble steps.
At the top she paused. The sensible thing to do would be to use the torches, but she couldn’t resist the more dramatic gesture; she waved, and her warlock fire-lighting skill struck a hundred candlewicks. Golden light flickered, then blazed forth, and Tabaea stepped forward into the Great Hall of the Overlord of Ethshar of the Sands.
She stood on a broad floor paved in tesselated stone, a square floor a hundred feet across. Far above, the palace’s immense dome curved gracefully through shadowed distance, too far up for the light of candles to illuminate it well; a hundred-foot ring of sixteen hexagonal skylights set into the dome gave a view of the stars.
Three of the four walls were broken at the center by a broad stair; Tabaea and company had just mounted one of these, the others lying to their left and directly across. To the right, the fourth wall had no stair, but instead an elaborate display of carvings, gilt, and scarlet draperies, all centered around an ornate golden chair on a wide dais. Magnificent golden candelabra, wrought in a variety of shapes, lined the walls to either side of this display, and it was these that now provided the light.
“The throne room,” someone murmured, as Tabaea’s followers emerged into this splendor.
“And the overlord’s throne,” someone else added, pointing at the golden chair.
Tabaea grinned, her enthusiasm suddenly returning.
“Wrong,” she said, bounding gaily to the throne. She leaped up and stood for a moment on its scarlet velvet cushion, watching as the last few stragglers trickled into the room.
“This is not the overlord’s throne,” she proclaimed, “not anymore!” She paused dramatically, then slid down and seated herself properly. “This is my throne now,” she said. “Mine! Tabaea the First, Empress of Ethshar!” She smiled—not at all a pleasant smile.
After a second’s hesitation, the little crowd burst into wild applause.
As they cheered, Tabaea ran her hands along the arms of the throne, enjoying the feel of it; the arms were of solid gold, she thought, worn smooth by centuries of use.
Under one arm she found a loop; curious, she tugged at it. It yielded an inch or so, then stopped. She could have forced it, but decided not to; there was no point in breaking something before she even knew what it was.
It occurred to her belatedly that the loop might have been a trap, something intended to dispose of usurpers like herself, but if so, it obviously wasn’t working.
She sat and looked out at the room, at the people cheering for her, at the dim soaring dome above, the shining stone floor, the gold ornaments and silken tapestries, and an immense satisfaction settled over her.
It was hers. All of it, hers. At least for the moment.
She sniffed the air, sorting out the scents in the room. Nothing was very fresh; no one had been in here for at least an hour before her arrival. The throne smelled of an old man—Ederd IV, of course; wasn’t he seventy or eighty years old? Tabaea had never paid much attention to politics.
However old he might be, he was still the only one who had sat in this throne—until herself, of course.
Others had come and gone, men and women of all ages. She could smell the cold stone, the dust on the tapestries, and the lingering scents of the overlord’s courtiers. They had stood and knelt on that vast expanse of unfurnished floor. They had been there just that day, Tabaea was sure—but now it might as well have been a century ago, because they were gone, their overlord overthrown. It was all hers now.
She heard footsteps on the stairs, and leaped down from the throne, snatching the Black Dagger from her belt.
A woman was on the stairs; Tabaea could smell her. A woman was approaching, and she was frightened.
Tabaea’s followers, the twenty or so that had made it this far, had heard nothing, sensed nothing, until they saw their leader jump from her throne and crouch, knife ready. Their babbling euphoria vanished; a few began to retreat toward the stairs by which they had entered, while the others stared nervously in every direction.
“What is it?” someone asked.
Then the woman’s head came into sight as she ascended the staircase to the right, as seen from the throne—the side opposite where Tabaea had entered. By her expression, she was utterly terrified; she hesitated at her first glimpse of the new masters of the palace, then continued up the steps.
She wore a gold tunic and a skirt of dark red, almost maroon, with a white apron protecting the front; her long brown hair was pulled back into a ponytail. She was not particularly young, nor particularly attractive. She looked harmless; what’s more, she smelled harmless. Tabaea relaxed somewhat, rising up from her fighting stance, but keeping the dagger ready in her hand.
At the top step the woman in the apron hesitated again, one hand on the rail. She looked over the ragged crew before her, then turned toward the empty throne and spotted Tabaea, in her fine embroidered tunic that was smeared with blood and pierced by holes and tears left by sword thrusts, and her long black skirt stained with mud from the Field.
The newcomer curtsied, catching her apron and skirt up and bobbing quickly.
Tabaea blinked; she had hardly ever seen anyone curtsy before, and certainly never to her. That was reserved for the nobility.
“Um... Your Majesty?” the woman said. “My lady? I’m sorry, I don’t know how to address you.”
Tabaea smiled. “ ’Your Majesty’ will suit me quite well,” she said.
“Very good, Your Majesty. You rang for me?” “I did?” Tabaea remembered the loop on the throne. “Ah, yes, so I did.”