She laughed, thinking he’d made a joke.
When “breakfast and lunch” arrived, however, he held her over to one side of the rippling disk of weird light that suddenly irised open, and she discovered it was not a joke as baskets and bags came flying through it, piling up at the foot of the thing. She realized in a moment they were coming too quickly for Isla and Hakkon alone to be throwing them through; they must have some servants in on the Plan now.
It was over so quickly she scarcely believed it, and the Gate vanished the same way it had arrived. “Our turn to be pack mules—” Jonaton said.
“Nah, I’m here to help,” said Ivar, coming over the hill behind them. “Strong like mule, dumb like ox, hitch to plow when horse dies.”
* * *
—
Kordas woke too early, as usual. Star brought him breakfast, and he pondered what he was going to do with the hours stretching in front of him.
“Can I go out in the city?” he asked, finally. He’d never seen the Imperial City. The hostages weren’t allowed off the Palace grounds, and they weren’t allowed to roam too much within those grounds, either.
“There is no reason why not,” Star said, after a moment. “But why?”
“Curious. Bored. Want to see what a city-dweller looks like. I always imagined, when I was being schooled here, that they were mythical.” He got out of bed and headed for the bathing room.
“They are not mythical, but they are . . . fewer than they were twenty years ago,” Star said, sounding as if the Doll was choosing words very carefully indeed. “Twenty years ago, when the Great Emperor in his wisdom decided it was time to expand the border to the south, there were many, many poor. Now there are no poor. The Emperor, in his wisdom, said that it is the duty of the Empire to give employment and food and shelter to all the citizens of the Empire. So he did.”
Star paused. Kordas felt a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. It sounded oh, so reasonable and benevolent. And knowing the Emperor, there was a dark, dark side to this. “And what did our great and glorious Emperor do?” he asked hesitantly.
“He gave all of the poor of the city employment in his legions,” Star said—exactly as he had thought the Doll would answer. “Men and boys are soldiers. Women serve as the support, in all ways. There are three legions in the south now, and have been for two decades. They have nearly permanent camps, with everything a city needs. Horses need tending, food beasts need tending, waste must be removed. There is everything from cooks to blacksmiths. And he allowed for childbearing, even planned for it. By now, the legions are well into their second generations born and bred to the conquests of the south. It is very efficient.”
“I’m sure it is.” He licked lips gone dry. “Is there anyone still actually living in the City?”
“Craftsmen, tradesmen, merchants,” Star replied. “And laborers to tend to the City itself. They have not yet been replaced by Dolls, because most of the Dolls are needed here, in the Palace. There are only so many mages to make Dolls, and Dolls need replacing when they are damaged.”
And the fact that there are just enough mages to replace broken Dolls, rather than continuing to replace people with Dolls, is the only reason why those folks haven’t been sent to the south as well. The thought was inescapable.
“I need some perspective. I’d like to see the City,” he said. “Do I ride, or do I walk?”
“A great Lord never walks except within the Palace,” Star said firmly. “We will go to the Gate Room. A horse will be ready for you when we reach the Courtyard. This one will be your guide.”
The waiting horse, held by yet another Doll at the base of the shallow stairs leading to the huge bronze doors, was one of his own Sweetfoot palfreys. She looked to be about eight years old, and, as far as he could tell, was healthy and well-tended. Just to be sure, he checked her coat, her ribs, her feet, and under her saddle for saddle-sores before he mounted. She was fine, and a good weight, her hooves were well-shod and properly tended, and she showed nothing in her behavior that she’d been mistreated.
Of course that didn’t mean she’d been treated well. He suspected that to the vast majority of the courtiers here, a horse was nothing more than a thing that took you from one place to another. Like a sort of Doll.
And if they weren’t so pretty, and if it was possible, and if there were enough mages, the Emperor probably would have replaced horses with Dolls too, by now. Now there’s a funny thought. If vrondi are captured and made into Dolls, what about all the other Unseen entities? What would they be made into? Hold up now. That’s me thinking like myself, not like Imperial Mages. I would explore and experiment, but they probably aren’t allowed to. The Empire has a streak of brutal, unchanging efficiency to it, and primary research takes time, effort, resources, and risks. Especially since my parents’ time, the Empire does not pursue new things, it strips them away.
The palfrey picked up her feet daintily and ambled off in the direction of the iron gates that stood in the wall around the Palace. Star kept up with no problem.
The City was . . . strange. For a place as big as it was, it was echoingly empty. No building was the height of the Palace, of course; the Palace loomed over everything, inescapable, the symbol of how the Empire controlled everything. He didn’t see much that was over three stories tall, and the buildings themselves were a mix of so many different materials and styles that it made his head swim. There were canals, as he expected; in times past, canals were not just practical, they were seen as a symbol of prosperity and prestige, and to his surprise, the canals here had a steady flow, sometimes as brisk as a horse’s canter. They were paired with canals flowing in the opposite direction. The streets, though, were arrow-straight, and paved with something like a sheet of solid stone—except that his horse’s hooves, and the hooves of the other beasts on the streets, made very little sound on it. And it seemed to have some give to it.
There were few horses or vehicles, few people afoot, and all of them seemed to be going someplace in a very great hurry. Buildings showed dark windows, like empty eyes. There were shops, usually attended by a single person, brightly lit, and generally with one customer or none. But there were also craftsmen in workshops, with goods showing in stalls to the side, and the workshops open so that you could see them working, and all of them seemed very busy, even frantically busy. Many—far too many—of them were weapons-makers, including ones making Spitters.
But as he approached one of those workshops, he discovered that there were also large versions of Spitters, something he had never seen before, things about as long as his arm and thick as his thigh. He caught sight of some of them being loaded onto a wagon, and stared.
“Poomers,” said Star, seeing where he was looking. “That is the largest practical size of Spitter. Anything larger, and defects in the castings often make them explode in the field, which is considered a waste of metal and soldiers. Each discharge requires seven pellets. Poomers rarely fire bolts. They fire wooden sabots packed with metal shot and weighted chains.”