Domes of Fire

Kalten’s shriek was strangled as his breath whooshed out, and the noise that came from his back was very loud, much like the sound which might come from a tree trunk being snapped in two. He lay face down, gasping and groaning.

‘Don’t be such a baby,’ Mirtai told him heartlessly. ‘Get up.’

‘I can’t. You’ve killed me.’

She picked him up by one arm and set him on his feet. ‘Walk around,’ she commanded him.

‘Walk? I can’t even breathe.’

She drew one of her daggers.

‘All right. All right. Don’t get excited. I’m walking.’

‘Swing your arms back and forth.’

‘Why?’

‘Just do it, Kalten. You’ve got to loosen up those muscles.’

He walked back and forth, swinging his arms and gingerly turning his head back and forth. ‘You know, I hate to admit it, but I do feel better – much better actually.’

‘Naturally.’ She put her dagger away.

‘You didn’t have to be so rough, though.’

‘I can put you back into exactly the same condition as you were when you came in, if you’d like.’

‘No. That’s quite all right, Mirtai.’ He said it very quickly and backed away from her. Then, always the opportunist, he sidled up to Alean. ‘Don’t you feel sorry for me?’ he asked in an insinuating voice.

‘Kalten!’ Mirtai snapped. ‘No!’

‘I was only –’

She smacked him sharply on the nose with two fingers, much as one would do to persuade a puppy to give up the notion of chewing on a pair of shoes.

‘That hurt,’ he protested, putting his hand to his nose.

‘It was meant to. Leave her alone.’

‘Are you going to let her do that, Sparhawk?’ Kalten appealed to his friend.

‘Do as she says,’ Sparhawk told him. ‘Leave the girl alone.’

‘Your morning’s not going too well, is it, Sir Kalten?’ Stragen noted.

Kalten went off to a corner to sulk.

The others drifted in, and they all sat down to the breakfast two crewmen brought from the galley. Princess Danae sat alone near the large window at the stern where the salt-tinged breeze would keep the smell of pork sausage from her delicate nostrils.

After breakfast, Sparhawk and Kalten went up on deck for a breath of air and stood leaning on the port rail watching the south coast of Cammoria slide by. The day was particularly fine. The sun was very bright, and the sky very blue. There was a good following breeze, and their ship, her white sails spread wide, led the small flotilla across the white-cap-speckled sea.

‘The captain says that we should pass Miruscum about noon,’ Kalten said. ‘We’re making better time than we expected.’

‘We’ve got a good breeze,’ Sparhawk agreed. ‘How’s your back?’

‘Sore. I’ve got bruises from my hips to my neck.’

‘At least you’re standing up straight.’

Kalten grunted sourly. ‘Mirtai’s very direct, isn’t she? I still don’t know exactly what to make of her. What I mean is, how are we supposed to treat her? She’s obviously a woman.’

‘You’ve noticed.’

‘Very funny, Sparhawk. What I’m getting at is the fact that you can’t really treat her like a woman. She’s as big as Ulath, and she seems to expect us to accept her as a comrade in arms.’

‘So?’

‘It’s unnatural.’

‘Just treat her as a special case. That’s what I do. It’s easier than arguing with her. Are you in the mood for a bit of advice?’

‘That depends on the advice.’

‘Mirtai feels that it’s her duty to protect the royal family, and she’s extended that to include my wife’s maid. I’d strongly recommend that you curb your instincts. We don’t fully understand Mirtai, and so we don’t know exactly how far she’ll go. Even if Alean seems to be encouraging you, I wouldn’t pursue the matter. It could be very dangerous.’

‘The girl likes me,’ Kalten objected. ‘I’ve been around long enough to know that.’

‘You might be right, but I’m not sure if that’ll make any difference to Mirtai. Do me a favour, Kalten. Just leave the girl alone.’

‘But she’s the only one on board ship,’ Kalten protested.

‘You’ll live.’ Sparhawk turned and saw Patriarch Emban and Ambassador Oscagne standing near the stern. They were an oddly matched pair. The Patriarch of Ucera had laid aside his cassock for the voyage and wore instead a brown jerkin over a plain robe. He was very nearly as wide as he was tall, and he had a florid face. Oscagne, on the other hand, was a slight man with fine bones and little flesh. His skin was a pallid bronze colour. Their minds, however, were very similar. They were both consummate politicians. Sparhawk and Kalten drifted back to join them.

‘All power comes from the throne in Tamuli, your Grace,’ Oscagne was explaining. ‘Nothing is done there except at the express instruction of the emperor.’

‘We delegate things in Eosia, your Excellency,’ Emban told him. ‘We pick a good man, tell him what we want done and leave the details up to him.’

‘We’ve tried that, and it doesn’t really work in our culture. Our religion is fairly superficial, and it doesn’t encourage the kind of personal loyalty yours does.’

‘Your emperor has to make all the decisions?’ Emban asked a bit incredulously. ‘How does he find the time?’

Oscagne smiled. ‘No, no, your Grace. Day-to-day decisions are all taken care of by custom and tradition. We’re great believers in custom and tradition. It’s one of our more serious failings. Once a Tamul moves out of those realms, he’s obliged to improvise, and that’s when he usually gets into trouble. His improvisations always seem to be guided by self-interest, for some reason. We’ve discovered that it’s best to discourage these expeditions into free decision-making. By definition, the emperor is all-wise anyway, so it’s probably best to leave these things in his hands.’

‘A standard definition isn’t always very accurate, your Excellency. “All-wise” means different things when it’s applied to different people. We have one ourselves. We like to say that the Archprelate is guided by the voice of God. There have been a number of Archprelates in the past who didn’t listen very well, though.’