The Caldera by John Flanagan
“Your excellency,” he stammered, “my apologies. I didn’t recognize you. I had no idea that you were—”
“If you had looked with a little more care, you might have,” Constantus said scathingly. “But you didn’t. You were arrogant and high-handed and you jumped to the first conclusion you could see.”
Arrogant and high-handed, thought Hal. The boy would know about that.
The colonel bowed his head in abject apology. “Again, your excellency, I beg your pardon. What can I do—”
“You can return to the palace, with your men,” Constantus interrupted him. “And tell my mother that Commander Olaf has returned and brought me safely home. Tell her to prepare a fitting reception for Olaf and his men here.” He gestured around the assembled crew.
Thorn shifted his feet. “Not sure if I like being referred to as one of Olaf’s men,” he muttered.
Hal grinned. “Never contradict an emperor. They don’t like it.”
“Of course, your excellency,” the colonel groveled, bowing deeply at the waist. “But perhaps you would allow us to escort you to the palace now—”
“Did you hear me?” Constantus interrupted again. “I will come to the palace escorted by my guard commander and his crew. Is that clear?”
“Yes, your excellency. Very clear.” The colonel bowed again.
Hal could see that sweat had broken out on his forehead during the exchange. He couldn’t help contrasting the young emperor’s manner with the way Erak, the Skandian Oberjarl, spoke to and, was spoken to by, his senior commanders. Erak would never treat his commanders with such disdain.
“Tell my mother—the Regent—that I will be there in an hour’s time,” Constantus said haughtily. He laid special stress on the word Regent.
The colonel nodded and bowed again. “Of course, your excellency. I’m sure she will be delighted to see you home safe.”
Watching the exchange, Thorn rolled his eyes. Constantus’s order for him to be silent still rankled. Hal glanced at him and guessed what he was thinking.
“Let it go,” he said quietly. “If you throw him into the harbor, it will just get us into more trouble.”
chapterforty-one
The reception hall of the Imperial Palace was crammed with courtiers and nobles eager to welcome their Emperor back from his ordeal.
It was a massive rectangular room with its walls hung with paintings of past emperors, and fantastical scenes from mythical stories and legends, depicting men and exotic beasts, often locked in combat. Thorn studied one of them critically. It showed a muscular warrior, clad in a loincloth, doing battle with a two-headed spotted lion. The warrior’s sword was drawn back and his shield held to the side to reveal his muscular bare torso.
“If he doesn’t get that shield across quick smart, that big cat is going to do him some terrible damage,” the old sea wolf said in a loud aside to Hal.
Hal grinned. Thorn was always unimpressed by rich surroundings like this, he knew.
“Keep it down,” he warned. “It’s art, and artists always take a lot of license in their work. They’re not paid to be accurate.”
Thorn shrugged. “Then why are they paid?”
The hall was brilliantly lit by hundreds of candles hanging in four huge chandeliers and in sconces around the walls. Beneath them, the crowds of imperial hangers-on, richly dressed and decked out with fabulous jewelry, swirled back and forth like the sea at the change of the tide. They moved from the massive buffet table—laden with delicacies and surmounted by a gigantic pie constructed in the shape of a volcano, with red-and-orange gravy spilling out of its top and cascading down its pastry sides—to the center of the hall and then to the far end, where the Empress Regent and the boy emperor sat in lavishly decorated thrones on a low platform. Empress Justinia’s throne was placed centrally, and was slightly higher than that which bore her son. Constantus, to judge by his sour expression, was less than impressed by their relative sizes, and the fact that his throne was offset to one side—a subservient position.
Hal and the rest of the crew were at the back of the hall, by a side wall. None of them felt comfortable in this sort of formal situation, but they had been commanded to attend and it had been made clear to them that when the Empress Regent Justinia commanded, it was wise to obey.
Olaf stood close to the sycophantic courtiers who were grouped at the foot of the dais, hanging on Justinia’s every word. From time to time, Justinia would beckon one of her followers to approach more closely, for a private word. When this happened, the favored one would step onto the dais and drop to one knee as he or she came closer to the imperial presence. In the event that Justinia chose to share a witticism with them, they would throw back their heads and roar with laughter. Immediately, all those around the dais joined in, whether or not they could make out the Empress’s words.
“At least Olaf’s not primping and preening like a trained monkey,” Lydia muttered to Hal. Their one-time shipmate was standing slightly apart from the silk- and satin-clad crowd. He was wearing highly polished dress armor and stood at parade ease. But he was intent on the Empress’s every word, and where the others guffawed, he allowed a slight smile to touch his features.
As they watched, Justinia beckoned him forward, calling his name in a clear voice. Olaf stepped to the dais, then sank to one knee in front of her. She held out her hand to him and he took it, letting his lips brush the massive ring on her second finger. Then, at her bidding, he rose and moved to stand beside her throne, between her and the boy emperor.
The crew of the Heron stirred uncomfortably as he went down on one knee. Skandians didn’t do that sort of thing.
“Should we kneel down if she calls on us?” Stefan asked in a low voice.
Hal turned to look at him. “We don’t do it for Erak. We won’t do it for her. We’ll bow, that’s all.”
Thorn grinned. “That should make things interesting.”
Now Justinia beckoned to her majordomo, who was standing to one side on the dais. He was a massively overweight man with numerous chins and a receding hairline. He was clad in a silver, shimmering, full-length robe and carried a steel-shod black rod a head higher than himself. He stepped closer to her. He had already made his obeisance earlier in the evening and had no need to continually bob up and down before her. He leaned down as she spoke briefly to him, then straightened, moved a few paces away and banged the heavy rod down on the marble of the dais.
“He’ll crack it if he keeps that up,” Ingvar murmured.
Hal tried unsuccessfully to hide a grin. His men weren’t impressed by pomp and ceremony. Few Skandians were—although it seemed Olaf might have adopted some of the local behavior.
“Silence! Silence for her Excellency the Empress Regent Justinia, paramount ruler of the eastern empire, sovereign of the middle sea, unchallenged ruler of the Northern Massif!”
“She’s quite small for all those titles, isn’t she?” Jesper whispered.
Hal glared at him. But Jesper was right. Justinia, when she rose gracefully from her throne, could be seen to be quite a petite woman. But she was unquestionably beautiful, with a heart-shaped face, full lips and a small, straight nose. Her hair hung in dark ringlets to one side of her head, and her eyes were dark and flashing. They moved constantly, checking the room and its occupants, never still for more than a few seconds.
She doesn’t miss much, Hal thought, as those eyes darted round the room. She held up her hands for silence, even though the hubbub of conversation had died away at the majordomo’s command, and began to speak. Her voice was clear and strong and carried to the far corners of the room, even though she didn’t appear to be shouting or straining.
“My lords and ladies, thank you for your presence here tonight. As you know, we are here to celebrate the safe return of my beloved son, the future emperor Constantus.”
She turned and gestured to
The assembled courtiers all applauded enthusiastically in the direction of the boy. He made a graceful gesture with his hand, acknowledging their applause.
“What are they clapping him for?” Ulf asked of no one in particular. “He didn’t actually do anything. He just got rescued.”
A richly clad noble standing close by shushed him violently. Ulf turned to him and went cross-eyed at him, waggling his head. The noble sniffed haughtily and looked away.
“We are also here,” Justinia continued, “to give heartfelt thanks to my faithful guard commander, Captain Olaf Attelson, who planned and executed the successful rescue operation.”
Olaf bowed deeply, to more applause, as Justinia waved a languid hand in his direction.
“He planned and executed the rescue?” Edvin said. “I must have missed that part. When did it happen?”
“To accomplish this,” Justinia continued, “he traveled far to the north to recruit a crew of brave sailors . . .”
“Because nobody in the south would have a bar of him.” That was Jesper again and he earned a shirty look from the man who had shushed Ulf earlier. Fortunately, the man couldn’t make out the actual words. He was simply outraged that anyone would speak while the Empress Regent had the floor.
“. . . and commanded them in the rescue.”
By now the Herons were beyond any further indignant reactions to this hugely inaccurate account of the expedition. None of them saw fit to comment. Justinia turned in her seat and motioned to Olaf.
“Captain, call your men forward,” she said.
“His men?” Lydia said indignantly.
Hal shushed her. “You might have known he’d give her a pretty colored account of what went on.”
She snorted. Olaf glanced down the long crowded room and saw the Herons standing at the rear.
“Crew of the Heron!” he called. “Step forward now!”
The brotherband exchanged a quick glance, then fell in behind Hal, Stig and Thorn as they made their way down the hall toward the dais.
They stopped at the foot of the throne platform. The assembled crowd eyed them curiously. They were used to Skandians, of course. There were several score in the Empress’s bodyguard. But they usually wore uniform, and that was styled in keeping with the ornate local fashions. These were sailors, dressed in simple but neat linen shirts and wool trousers, with high leggings bound to the knee. Most of them wore thin leather vests over the shirts. None of them carried a sword, but they all wore heavy, utilitarian saxes in scabbards. Lydia was the exception. She had her long dagger at her side. It had been suggested, when they entered the reception hall, that they might leave these weapons at the door. The suggestion had been ignored.
Olaf indicated Hal to the Empress. “Your serene highness,” he said, “this is Hal Mikkelson, skirl of the ship Heron. And this is his crew, who served me so well.”
A wave of his hand encompassed the rest of the Herons. Hal frowned slightly. He noticed that Olaf didn’t identify Stig, or mention that he was his son. The Empress was beckoning, her palm upward, her fingers coiled in a gesture for him to come closer.
“You may approach me, Hal Mikkelson,” she said.
Hal stepped up onto the dais and moved closer to her.
The majordomo intercepted him. “It’s customary to kneel before her serene highness,” he said in a lowered voice.
Hal glanced at him. “So I’ve noticed,” he said. Then he bowed his head stiffly from the neck, keeping his back straight and upright.
Two little vertical lines appeared in the Empress’s brow. She continued and her voice was a little colder, a little less friendly.
“You and your crew are welcome in my palace,” she said, holding out her hand to him.
Hal took it and bowed once more. He did not raise it to his lips. “Thank you, my lady,” he said.
The twin furrows deepened at the form of address, but Justinia decided not to notice it. He released her hand and stepped back half a pace as she continued.
“My commander tells me that you carried out his plan bravely and diligently, and we can thank you for the safe return of our son, and the destruction of the pirates’ base.”
“Well, we didn’t do it all, your empress-ship,” said Thorn in a friendly tone. “The volcano did a lot of the work for us.”
Several of the Byzantians close to the dais exclaimed at the familiar form of address, and at the fact that this bearded ruffian had dared to interrupt the Empress. Justinia again feigned not to notice, but the furrows, which had smoothed out, returned, deeper than before. The dark eyes darted toward Thorn, registering him for future reference.
This will be a good place to get out of, Hal thought, although Justinia’s next words suggested otherwise.
“Captain Attelson also suggested that I might offer you a place in the palace guard,” she continued.
Hal smiled briefly. “Under his command, no doubt?”
She nodded. “Of course.”
“It’s a great honor, my lady, but we’ll have to refuse. We have friends and family back in our homeland who will miss us.”
He saw the slightest expression of relief cross her face. “I understand completely,” she said. “In that case, let me waste no more time, but reward you for your service.” She stretched out her hand toward the majordomo, not bothering to favor him with a look. The official reached inside his robe and produced a purse, handing it to her.
“Well, my lady,” Hal said, “we didn’t do it all. As Thorn has said, the volcano helped a little.”
“Nonsense!” she insisted. “You were there to seize the moment and the advantage. And my gratitude is beyond measure. Here,” she said, holding a purse out to Hal. “This is for your wonderful crew, by way of thanks.”
He weighed the purse in his hand. Her gratitude might be beyond measure, he thought, but her payment was a different matter. He judged that the purse contained a generous, but not excessive, sum of money.
There was a smattering of applause from the assembled courtiers and nobles. Justinia made a small dismissive gesture with her hand, and Hal guessed, correctly, that their conversation was at an end. He bowed once more, then stepped back off the dais. The crew fell in behind him as he led them away to a spot by a side wall.
Constantus now half rose from his throne. “Mother!” he called, and she turned to face him. “Did you remember Captain Olaf?”
“Of course!” she said smoothly, and clapped her hands together. “Captain, stand forward, please!”
Olaf took two paces forward and turned to stand before her. She reached out with a golden pendant, and he bowed his head as she placed it around his neck.
“Captain, you are immediately reinstated as the commander of my son’s guard.”
“I thank you, your excellency,” Olaf said, head still bowed.
“Furthermore, it is my pleasant duty to reward you for your faithful service to our family and to the throne.” She turned and called to one side, “Bring the chest!”
Two servants entered, bearing an ironbound chest between them. It was a meter long and half a meter deep, but it was obviously heavy. They placed it down and threw the lid open and the weight was explained. Gold and silver and precious jewels sparkled out of the chest. The room gave an awed gasp of admiration.
“After some consultation, we have decided to award you half the amount that the pirate Myrgos was demanding as ransom,” she continued, and again a ripple of applause ran through the room. She made the statement as if it were a recent decision, although Hal seemed to remember that Olaf had been offered that reward previously.
Olaf raised his head and smiled at the Regent. “I thank you, your excellency, although you are far too generous.”
Hal looked at the open chest, with gold chains and precious jewels spilling out of it. There was a small fortune in there. He glanced down at the comparatively meager purse in his hand and shook his head.
“Let’s get out of here,” he said to the crew. He turned on his heel and led them out of the reception hall. None of those present seemed upset to see them go.
chapterforty-two
Later that night, long after the feast had ended and the guests departed, Olaf was in his suite of rooms—as commander, he was granted a suite. He sat back in a tub-shaped chair and looked with satisfaction at the rich fittings and furnishings that went with his position. On a low table to one side, the open chest of gold and jewels reflected the warm lamplight.
Things had gone well, he thought. Remarkably well. He was back in a position of power and influence. He was rich—richer than he had ever expected to be. The reward from Justinia made him a wealthy man.
And he had the confidence of the Emperor. That, along with the money, made his future secure. He poured himself a glass of wine, drank deeply and sighed in satisfaction. For the fifth time that night, he rose from his chair and walked to the table, running his hands through the wealth in the strongbox there.
There was a discreet tap at the door. He closed the lid on the chest and moved away from it.
“Who is it?” he called out.
“It’s Lacrimus, sir,” came the reply. Lacrimus was his personal orderly, a local-born member of the palace guard.
“Come in.”
The door opened, and the orderly entered. He was a middle-aged man, tall and stooped over. He was thin—obviously a servant more than a warrior—and his hair was receding from his forehead.
“One of the Skandians is here, sir,” Lacrimus said deferentially. “He says he’s your son.”
There was a question implied in the second statement, but Olaf disdained to answer it. He nodded curtly.