The Rise and Fall of a Dragonking - By Lynn Abbey Page 0,6

his eyes might have marked him as a man of good humor, who enjoyed a frequent, hearty laugh—but they could as easily be the brands of a cruel nature.

A sword of steel so fine it shone like silver in the sun rested blade-up in an ebony rack behind the king. Two darkly seething obsidian spheres sat on cushioned pedestals, one at the sword’s tip, the other beside its hilt. Suits of polished armor in various sizes and styles stood ready on the backs of straw men. The armor showed signs of wear, but not a trace of the gritty, yellow dust that was the bane of Urik’s housekeepers, as if the king’s mere presence were enough to control the vagaries of wind and weather—which it was.

Hamanu blinked and stirred, shedding distraction as he rose from his chair. A balustrade of rampant lions defined the roof’s edge. He leaned his hand on a carved stone mane and squinted hard at his domain until he’d seen what he needed to see, heard what he wanted to hear. His face relaxed. His thoughts drifted to more familiar places: the mind of his personal steward these last hundred years.

Enver, it’s time.

The dwarf’s answer came in obedience, not words, as he abandoned his breakfast and hurried toward the roof, shouting orders left and right as he ran.

Hamanu smiled and patted the stone lion lightly on its head. He’d had a satisfying night, last night. This morning he was disposed to indulgence and good humor.

He was seated behind the marble table again when Enver made his appearance, leading a small herd of slaves bearing breakfast trays and baskets filled with petitions and bribes.

“Omniscience, the bloody sun of Athas shines brightly on you and all your domain this morning!” Enver announced with reverence and a well-practiced bow from the waist.

“Does it, now?” Hamanu replied with arch inflection. “Whatever has happened, dear Enver?” Indulgence did not preclude—and good humor well-nigh demanded—a taste of mortal fear before breakfast.

“Nothing, Omniscience,” the dwarf replied, flustered with piquant terror.

The slaves behind Enver clumped into a cowering mass that endangered the safe arrival of Hamanu’s breakfast. He didn’t need to eat. There was very little that Hamanu needed to do. But he wanted his breakfast, and he wanted it on the table, not the floor or splattered across the day’s petitions.

“Good, Enver.” Hamanu’s smile had teeth: blunt, human teeth, though, like everything else about him, that could change in a eye blink. “Exactly as it should be. Exactly as I expect.”

Enver bobbled a less-enthusiastic smile and the slaves shuttled trays and baskets to the table before scurrying to the far corner of the roof and the out-of-sight safety of the stairway. Hamanu caught their relieved sighs in his preternatural hearing. He could hear anything in Urik, if he chose to listen; his vision was almost as keen. More than that, he could kill with a thought and draw sustenance from a mortal’s dying breath.

And sometimes he did—for no reason greater than whim or boredom or aching appetite. But today, a loaf of fresh-baked bread was the only sustenance that interested him. With manners to equal the most pampered noblewoman’s, the king broke the loaf apart, then dipped a small, steaming chunk in amber honey before raising it to his lips.

Fear was intoxicating, but fear could not compare to the changeable taste and texture of a yeast-risen mixture of flour and water when it was still hot from the oven..

“Enver,” Hamanu said between morsels, “there’s a bakery at the northeast corner of Joiner’s Square—”

“It shall be closed at once, Omniscience, and the baker sent to the mines,” Enver eagerly assured him, adding another bow and an arm-wave flourish for good measure.

The dwarf was more than Hamanu’s steward; he was a templar, an executor, the highest rank within the civil bureau. Enver’s left sleeve was so laced with precious metal and silk that it fell a handspan beyond his fingertips as he remained folded in the depth of his bow. It was a ridiculous pose and a futile attempt on Enver’s part to hide his disapproval behind an obsequious mask. The fear was back as well, a fetid vapor in the warming air.

Hamanu ignored the temptation, trying instead to remember if he’d been either more capricious or predictable of late. He strove to remember each day precisely as it happened, but after thirteen ages it was difficult to separate memory from dreams. A man like Enver, or the druid-templar Pavek, or any one of his