Year of the Griffin (Derkholm 2) - Page 51

“Small men with swords. Angry mice,” it replied. “Stopping us from going with messages.”

“At the University?” Titus asked.

“Yes,” said the pigeon, and gobbled another piece of bread.

Dwarfs attacking pigeons? Titus wondered. If things like that were going on at the University, the wizards there were not keeping Claudia safe as they should. This put the final touch to Titus’s fury, which, because he had sat there containing it, was by now a smooth, calm, planning rage. He looked up to see the daily bevy of people approaching him. For a moment his eyes were so blurred with anger that he could hardly see them. He blinked firmly and focused his rage.

Most of those approaching were elderly scribes clutching armloads of scrolls. With them were the Steward of the Imp

erial Household and the Captain of the Emperor’s Personal Guard, and behind them came the Imperial Cook, to ask the Emperor what it was his pleasure to eat today, the Master of the Imperial Stables, the Imperial Tailor, the Master of the Imperial Wardrobe, the Imperial Lawgiver, and finally the Imperial Historian, who was supposed to record the day’s events. They were followed by six servants to clear away the Imperial breakfast.

Emperor Titus stood up to meet them, smiling his usual mild smile. The captain first, he thought, because the Personal Guards were all nephews and grandsons of senators. They usually had a lovely life getting drunk and idling about. Not today, though, Titus hoped. “Captain Postumus,” he said, “it’s just dawned on me that I haven’t inspected the Guard for over a month. Perhaps you’d better have them parade in the exercise court in—shall we say?—half an hour. I may be a little late getting to you there, but I’ll be along as soon as I’ve finished with these other gentlemen.”

A hastily muted expression of dismay crossed the aristocratic face of Captain Postumus, but he dropped elegantly to one knee, murmuring, “As my Emperor pleases,” and rose to leave.

“Oh, and Postumus,” said Titus, after the Captain had taken two steps, “while you’re on your way, could you ask General Agricola to step by here for a word with me? Tell him I’ve had an idea about the southern legions.”

“My pleasure, Imperial Majesty.” Postumus ducked a knee again and strode elegantly away.

Titus turned to the Imperial Stablemaster. “Eponus, I shall need my horse when I review the Guard, won’t I? Can you have Griffin and Tiberius saddled for me? I’ll choose which of them I’ll ride when I come to the stables.”

The Stablemaster ducked a stiff knee and left, too.

So far so good, Titus thought. Nothing had been out of the ordinary yet. The next part would be. Titus was relying on his usual mild, courteous manner to carry him through that. He beckoned the Imperial Steward aside and turned apologetically to the rest, all of whom, including half the scribes, were paid followers of the Senate. “Would you gentlemen mind waiting for me in the large office? I’ll be with you as soon as I can.”

Knees ducked. A chorus of “Pleasure, Imperial Majesty” was uttered, and everyone except the servants turned to leave. The servants hovered doubtfully.

“Please go on with your work,” Titus told them pleasantly. He swept the pigeon up into a fold of his wrap and approached the steward, while the servants busily cleared the table, well within hearing. “Sempronius,” he said to the steward, “would you mind terribly sending my healer to me?”

The steward went white with concern. “Your Imperial Majesty is unwell? I swear, Majesty, that the utmost precautions against poison are taken at all times.”

“I’m sure it’s nothing like that,” Titus said truthfully. “I just don’t feel quite the same today.”

“I’ll fetch the healer at once, Majesty.” The steward hurried away, bustling the listening servants with him.

Titus allowed himself a small grin. Now there would be an obvious explanation when he failed to turn up at any of his appointments. He strolled out of the arbor and along the garden in the mild autumn sunlight, while he waited for the healer and General Agricola, and his anger continued to grow. Claudia was practically his only friend in the Empire, and the Senate was trying to kill her! Titus had had a miserably solemn and lonely childhood until his Imperial father had married again and Claudia had been born. Titus could hardly remember laughing at all before he was nine years old, when the small greenish baby lying in the Imperial cradle had crowed with delighted laughter when he bent over her. And from the moment she was a year old, Claudia had been his friend and ally, the person he told things to, the person he could laugh with. For this he had forgiven her the fact that she came with a strange, discontented stepmother whom he still very much disliked. For this, too, he had covered up for Claudia when she was in trouble, particularly when her strange jinxed magic started to cause peculiar things to happen. Then he found that Claudia was covering up for him in return. By the time Claudia was grown up, they were firmer friends than ever. Titus had defended Claudia in the Senate when it tried to declare her a public enemy, with her jinx as its excuse, and had made sure that the Personal Guard held their tongues in front of her. The Personal Guard had total contempt for Claudia’s mixed blood and made no secret of it. And for this, Titus promised himself, his Personal Guard was going to stand waiting, to attention, in full polished kit, drawn up in ranks in the exercise yard, for as long as he could contrive to leave them there. He was glad to see that the day promised to be nice and hot.

The healer approached and coughed. Titus whirled around, with the pigeon clutched to him. Planning the sort of things he was planning made even an Emperor nervous. “Your Imperial Majesty asked for me?” the healer said.

Titus, who was hardly ever ill, barely knew the man. He had no idea if he was a follower of the Senate or not, but he had an idea that healers were forbidden to take sides, and he hoped this was the case here. The man was tall, thin, and haughty, which did not promise too well. Too bad. Reminding himself that he was still the Emperor, Titus said, “Yes, I did, but not for myself. I want you to heal this pigeon, please.”

The healer started backward, disdainfully. “Imperial Majesty! I heal people, not birds!”

“Well, it can’t be that different,” said Titus, “can it? And this is a valuable pigeon, one of Wizard Derk’s clever ones. I don’t wish the Empire to cause offense to Wizard Derk.”

The healer compressed his lips irritably. “This brings the gods into it, so I dare not refuse. Let me see the creature, Majesty.” Titus carefully passed the pigeon over. The healer took it in his cupped hands and bent over it. “But this bird is bleeding all over! It should never have been sent out in this condition.”

“My feeling exactly,” said Titus. “I shall send a strong reprimand to the Senatorial Office. Whoever sent it out is going to feel my extreme displeasure.” He thought the pigeon rolled an approving pink eye at him for saying this.

The healer brought the pigeon level with his chin and concentrated for half a minute. “There,” he said, clearly trying not to look surprised at how easy it had been. “No problem at all, Majesty.” He passed the pigeon back, brighter-eyed and no longer bleeding.

“Thank you,” the pigeon crooned.

The healer jumped. “I didn’t know they talked! Will that be all, my Emperor?”

“Yes, thank you,” said Titus, who could see General Agricola advancing through the garden. “And of course I won’t mention that you had to stoop to bird healing. People might laugh if it got about. Please feel yourself free to say that I had a trifling sore throat.”

“Thank you, indeed, my Emperor.” The healer bowed, most gratefully, and hurried away.

Tags: Diana Wynne Jones Derkholm Fantasy
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