The Emperor's Wolves (Wolves of Elantra #1) - Michelle Sagara Page 0,51

if one knows how to listen to its cadences. You think of your fiefs as separate kingdoms within the greater city, and this is materially correct. You think of Lord Nightshade as a distant power. To you, this is also wise. But he is a man, no more and no less.

“A very talented, very ruthless man. His wealth, such as it is, must come from somewhere, yes? It is the roots of that somewhere that define him.”

“Do you know?” Severn asked, unable to keep the bite of curiosity from his tone.

“I know of some of it, yes. Much would be considered illegal by the Emperor. But the fiefs stand, regardless. Do you understand why?”

“The Towers.”

Elluvian’s brows rose. “Do they speak of the Towers in your fief?”

“Castle Nightshade,” Severn replied, voice low.

“Yes. It is one of six, and it is a necessity. I am not always cognizant of what those without power think of the Towers; do you understand what Ravellon is?”

“It’s where the Ferals live.”

Elluvian was silent for three steps. “It is,” he finally said, “where the Ferals live. To you, that is dire enough. To those such as I, the Ferals are as dangerous as a starving wolf pack. They can, in the right context, present a challenge—but it is a challenge that can be met with simple weapons. Were Ravellon to contain only Ferals, the Towers would have been smoke and rubble in the wake of the Emperor’s ascension.

“The Ferals are animals. The borders that prevent the escape of far more deadly creatures cannot prevent their passage into the streets of the mortal fiefs. And were those creatures to escape, we would lose not only the city, but the world, in the end.” At Severn’s raised brow, he added, “It has happened.

“What is now impassible and deadly was once the heart of the world. Not just this world, but many. In ancient times—lost to us with the fall of Ravellon—we might enter a door into an entirely different world and learn much from the experience. There was art, music, drama of a kind that will never be seen again.”

“Why didn’t the Emperor destroy it?”

“Could he, he would have. There is not a man alive who could do that now.” Severn said nothing. “It has been tried in the past, and each attempt failed—but the cost of that failure was profound, and it haunts us all.” Elluvian’s expression, for one brief moment, was the essence of despair. He shook his head, and despair vanished.

“And that is irrelevant at this moment. You are mortal; you have not seen the cost, the things lost. You have seen loss, as all who live must; I do not mean to denigrate the importance of that. But my people have adjusted, and they have, in their fashion, thrived. It is the now of the political machinations that you must consider.”

“And this shop?”

“Part of the politics of appearance. If I am to obey the Wolflord, you are to be my human assistant. A servant, of a kind. And no servant of mine dresses in a fashion that evokes the most mundane of mortal streets.”

* * *

If anyone had told Severn that he would spend days being poked, prodded, and fitted, he would have laughed. Or, if the person were obviously powerful, acquiesced. Since Elluvian was the latter, he made no complaint—but he had been in Elantra for long enough that the expense of this awkward, invasive procedure was almost impossible to ignore.

During this time, Elluvian spoke of the High Court. He started at the top, with the High Lord—a man whose reign encompassed centuries—and from there moved down to those he considered of import. Severn did what he’d always done: he attempted to alleviate his ignorance. He didn’t trust Elluvian, but he seldom wasted trust. Elluvian had knowledge. He required Severn to learn some of it.

What he felt was appropriate for Severn to know was implied by the freedom with which information traveled, and during the days of endless fittings—and at that, for more than one day’s worth of clothing—Severn learned. He noted the gaps in information. He noted, more particularly, the gaps that Elluvian would not fill.

It was harder to remember names. Barrani names sounded similar to his ears, and for years, they could be pragmatically interchanged with avoid at all costs. Only Nightshade was different; no one avoided Nightshade if he wanted to speak with them—not and survive.

“It will become markedly easier to understand the politics of the court if you see them