assume him dead, but Eyul’s years of killing hung around him like chainmail. He might survive. The idea was pleasing.
He passed the guards, who bowed, and the slaves, who prostrated themselves; he paid no attention to either.
The doors to the throne room stood open. Tuvaini had liked the great doors very much, in Emperor Tahal’s time. It felt right for the gods to smile upon Tahal, who had earned the throne with both strength and spirit. But when Tuvaini realised the doors favoured all emperors indiscriminately, he became disenchanted. Under the aegis of those carved gods, the Boy Emperor had thrown tantrums in his chair, refused to listen to his adviser, and even struck his mother when she tried to whisper in his ear. That was when the nobles had first drifted away from the city, pursuing power in their own provinces, unhindered, while the boy pursued maturity in his.
It would be a long time coming. Even now, as Tuvaini approached, Beyon played a loud game with the slave children and his mangy dog. “Catch the ball like that,” he said, as a little brown-haired boy laughed. “Then— quick!—throw it and turn—”
The boy threw the ball towards a little red-haired girl; her hands darted out to catch it, but she missed. Squealing with laughter, she raced the shaggy dog for the prize.
“Get it, get it!” the boy called after her. But the dog got the ball, and Beyon and the slave boy collapsed with laughter.
“Your Magnificence.” Tuvaini made a quick obeisance. Beyon looked at him like a man coming awake, his eyes clearing, his smile fading. “Tuvaini,” he muttered. In a louder voice he said, “All right, children, have some honey-nuts—here; here—and now back to your master and the chores he has for you. I’ll see you again tomorrow.”
The children plodded away from the dais, their heads low, their shoulders bowed.
“Do you know, Your Majesty,” said Tuvaini, “that their master might well beat them for their presumption, interacting with you?”
Beyon raised his eyebrows as Tuvaini put on a look of concern.
“Then I would have their master killed,” said Beyon. “It is not for him to judge.”
“As you say, Majesty.” Beyon rarely had any other solution. It bored Tuvaini, but also he depended on it. “But remember, these slaves will grow up one day, and they will expect special favors from you.” Or me.
“Unlikely.” Beyon patted his dog and stood up, his gaze taking in the empty room. “By the time they’re grown, they’ll understand how things are. They’ll be all hollowed out.”
Are you all hollowed out, then, my emperor? Tuvaini cleared his throat. “Then why bother, Your Majesty?”
Beyon didn’t answer. He squeezed the red ball between his fingers. “The little red-haired one—her parents sold her. They came from the Wastes. She told me they were clanless, and had too many children and no food. They got a good price for her pretty face.”
Tuvaini thought of Lapella and looked out across the tiles.
Beyon continued, “How do you think they choose which ones to keep and which to sell? Do they choose the oldest? The youngest? Or do they decide which of the children is more useless to them?”
“What is useless to one family,” said Tuvaini, “may be of great use to someone else.”
“That comes later,” said Beyon, waving a dismissive hand. “I am interested in the choosing: how can you see potential in a child, or the lack of it? How can they be sure they made the right choice?”
“I suppose there is no point in dwelling on it once it’s done. That road leads to madness.” Tuvaini smiled to himself.
“It’s madness from any direction you come at it, to discard your own children.” Beyon looked down at his hands, turning them over to examine his palms. Tuvaini had noticed this habit in him of late. Perhaps there were some small marks appearing there.
Soon, now. Soon.
Tuvaini looked back at the doors, making sure there were no waiting supplicants. “Your Magnificence,” he said, “I came to speak of serious matters.”
“Oh?” Beyon sat down on the throne. He always looked too big for it, too broad in the shoulders and hips. His dog settled at his feet and pricked up its ears.
“You remember I spoke to you of Lord Zell, Magnificence, and his concerns about pirates beyond the western shore. He complains the White Hats of his province do nothing, and would raise his own army as in days of old. I have written strong words—”
Beyon waved a hand. “Lord Zell and his