Elric_ The Sleeping Sorceress - Michael Moorcock [73]
But Yyrkoon was not to be diverted from his object. “Surely, if his subjects are not to go away saddened and troubled that they have not pleased their ruler, the emperor should demonstrate his enjoyment . . .?”
“I would remind you, cousin,” said Elric quietly, “that the emperor has no duty to his subjects at all, save to rule them. Their duty is to him. That is the tradition of Melniboné.”
Yyrkoon had not expected Elric to use such arguments against him, but he rallied with his next retort. “I agree, my lord. The emperor’s duty is to rule his subjects. Perhaps that is why so many of them do not, themselves, enjoy the ball as much as they might.”
“I do not follow you, cousin.”
Cymoril had risen and stood with her hands clenched on the step above her brother. She was tense and anxious, worried by her brother’s bantering tone, his disdainful bearing.
“Yyrkoon . . .” she said.
He acknowledged her presence. “Sister. I see you share our emperor’s reluctance to dance.”
“Yyrkoon,” she murmured, “you are going too far. The emperor is tolerant, but . . .”
“Tolerant? Or is he careless? Is he careless of the traditions of our great race? Is he contemptuous of that race’s pride?”
Dyvim Tvar was now mounting the steps. It was plain that he, too, sensed that Yyrkoon had chosen this moment to test Elric’s power.
Cymoril was aghast. She said urgently: “Yyrkoon. If you would live . . .”
“I would not care to live if the soul of Melniboné perished. And the guardianship of our nation’s soul is the responsibility of the emperor. And what if we should have an emperor who failed in that responsibility? An emperor who was weak? An emperor who cared nothing for the greatness of the Dragon Isle and its folk?”
“A hypothetical question, cousin.” Elric had recovered his composure and his voice was an icy drawl. “For such an emperor has never sat upon the Ruby Throne and such an emperor never shall.”
Dyvim Tvar came up, touching Yyrkoon on the shoulder. “Prince, if you value your dignity and your life . . .”
Elric raised his hand. “There is no need for that, Dyvim Tvar. Prince Yyrkoon merely entertains us with an intellectual debate. Fearing that I was bored by the music and the dance—which I am not—he thought he would provide the subject for a stimulating discourse. I am certain that we are most stimulated, Prince Yyrkoon.” Elric allowed a patronizing warmth to colour his last sentence.
Yyrkoon flushed with anger and bit his lips.
“But go on, dear cousin Yyrkoon,” Elric said. “I am interested. Enlarge further on your argument.”
Yyrkoon looked around him, as if for support. But all his supporters were on the floor of the hall. Only Elric’s friends, Dyvim Tvar and Cymoril, were nearby. Yet Yyrkoon knew that his supporters were hearing every word and that he would lose face if he did not retaliate. Elric could tell that Yyrkoon would have preferred to have retired from this confrontation and choose another day and another ground on which to continue the battle, but that was not possible. Elric, himself, had no wish to continue the foolish banter which was, no matter how disguised, little better than the quarreling of two little girls over who should play with the slaves first. He decided to make an end of it.
Yyrkoon began: “Then let me suggest that an emperor who was physically weak might also be weak in his will to rule as befitted . . .”
And Elric raised his hand. “You have done enough, dear cousin. More than enough. You have wearied yourself with this conversation when you would have preferred to dance. I am touched by your concern. But now I, too, feel weariness steal upon me.” Elric signaled for his old servant Tanglebones who stood on the far side of the throne dais, amongst the soldiers. “Tanglebones! My cloak.”
Elric stood up. “I thank you again for your thoughtfulness, cousin.