Seven of Nine - Christie Golden [13]
Beytek entered in his customary manner: borne on a litter carried by four sturdy Imperial guards. Xanarit stiffened. This was an ancient custom recently revived by the young Emperor, and no one save Beytek himself particularly liked it. But the whims of a ruler of ninety-six worlds-ninety-seven not so long ago, but Xanarit wasn't even supposed to think about that-were as rigid as law.
The faces of the noble guards who carried him, rulers of their own powerful Houses, were expressionless. Their eyesacs were a neutral shade of purple, revealing nothing. Xanarit allowed his thin lips to curve in a slight, sardonic smile. One who served the Emperor learned the skill of cloaking emotions early on. But Xanarit knew that beneath the calm exterior of the guards' face-scales, anger burned at a fever pitch. It was an honor to guard the Emperor, to offer one's life in service, to perhaps sacrifice that life in battle or in protecting the man who was incarnation of the Empire.
But to carry around a young man with two perfectly serviceable legs?
That bordered on insult.
At least, Xanarit thought, Beytek had left the entourage of musicians back at the pleasure-room. That was something.
Beytek lounged on the litter, waving a small fan of rare kunnagit feathers. The room was climate controlled, set constantly at the precise temperature the Lhiaarians preferred. The air circulated freely for peak comfort. Beytek didn't need a fan to cool his blue-scaled face any more than he needed four large men to carry him, but it was part of the image he wanted to cultivate. Languidly, he reached down with the feathered fan and stroked the neck of the man bearing the back left portion of the litter. The guard flinched at the tickling brush of the feathers, and his pupils briefly dilated in a flash of anger that was immediately quelled.
"Down," barked the guard to his three comrades, and the Emperor's litter was lowered to the thick, soft carpet. Beytek stepped off and smiled at his guards.
His black tongue flicked out, scenting the air. He waved a clawed hand.
"Dismissed," he said airily, then went to his cushion on the highest her and curled up happily on it.
The thirteen members of the lora waited patiently for instructions that they might sit on their own cushions, positioned a respectful two tiers below that of their emperor. Languidly, Beytek hummed to himself as he examined a plateful of treats and selected the choicest delicacies.
Only after he had eaten three juicy t fruits and washed them down with a bowl of expensive voor wine did he flick his tail and order, "You may be seated."
Xanarit regarded his master-his god, according to religious tradition-with contempt. The Nak-Sur dynasty was an old and noble one.
Xanarit himself had served loyally and happily under Beytek the Sixth, an intelligent, humorous, and noble leader. Nearly a third of the present Empire was acquired under Beytek the Sixth's reign, and following the tradition of naming each emperor's reign, the late ruler's had been officially dubbed "The Peaceful and Profitable Reign of the Sky-Lord Joy-Bringer."
Idly, Xanarit wondered how history would remember Beytek the Seventh.
"The Squandered and Wasteful Reip of Pleasure-Loving Shame-Maker," perhaps? Or maybe "The Devastating and Frightening Reign of Non-Listening Division-Bringer."
Xanarit caught the eye of his Second, Mintik. She held his gaze a moment, then returned her attention to the slothful excuse for a leader who commanded their attention. Everyone present hated the emperor.
But at the moment, it would mean their lives and that of their whole families, down to the smallest child, to admit it.
"With your permission, 0 Great One?" Xanarit asked in a humble voice.
Pleased at the servile tone, Beytek nodded his head that the head of his Iora might proceed. "It pains me more than words can say to bring