Pathfinder Tales--Reign of Stars by Tim Pratt

Author:Tim Pratt
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780765387271
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates

Chapter Sixteen

In the Court of the Black Sovereign

Skiver and Alaeron dressed in their best finery, packed away safely in the black box during the journey. Alaeron wore dark breeches and a white shirt, with a pale green jacket and high boots. Skiver opted for black clothes accented with silver, slicking his hair back with a sweet-smelling pomade, and even shaving thoroughly for the first time in Alaeron’s experience—normally the best Skiver managed was to shave well enough to make it look like he’d shaved yesterday.

Not long after nightfall a slave arrived to tell them it was time to attend the feast, and they left the Technic League compound for the more thorough decadence of the palace itself. The hallways were made of fine stone, alchemical lights hanging from the ceiling, and every niche and nook and cranny was stuffed with art objects and relics from surrounding countries. None of the art was offensive in and of itself, and some pieces would have been at home in any discerning art lover’s collection, but they were haphazardly arranged with no sense of harmony or coordination, and the overall effect was one of vulgarity and ignorance—someone who had no idea how rich people filled their homes, doing their best to work out the proper behavior from first principles.

Alaeron paused to marvel at the juxtaposition of a huge Osirian jar with handles shaped like curving serpents and a lid shaped like a scarab, placed beside a chipped ceramic swan with outstretched wings. “I think the Sovereign has displayed literally everything he’s ever been given as a gift by a foreign power, ambassador, or emissary, or looted during his wars of conquest.”

“It’s a bit like being in a junk shop, but better lit,” Skiver said agreeably.

After walking what seemed a mile, they finally reached the feasting hall, the doors attended by slaves in golden collars. They stepped inside, where a fair-sized crowd had already gathered, and simply marveled for a moment.

“You can put the barbarian in a palace, but he’s still a barbarian,” Skiver said, whispering from the corner of his mouth. In contrast to the alchemical lanterns that hung elsewhere, the walls here were crowded with flaming torches, giving the scene a flickering and wild quality. A garland of humanoid (and occasional monster) skulls hung from the high rafters beneath the dome, and axes and swords, notched and hard-used in battle, decorated the walls as the room’s only other ornaments. Long wooden feasting tables were lined up on a raised dais before the throne—a vast chair of pitted black metal, reputedly fashioned from a meteorite that had screamed out of the sky on the night of one of Kevoth-Kul’s great victories. The crowd mostly wore ornate fashion doubtless copied from the courts of other nations, apart from a healthy smattering of Kellids in more traditional garb, which was to say furs and leather, with jewelry leaning heavily toward fangs and carved bones dangling on metal chains.

The throne was presently unoccupied, the Sovereign nowhere in

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