"Will you accept?" the Gaje lordlings ask, astounded themselves by what is happening. "Do you yield to the will of the Fifteenth? The throne of the Imperium is waiting for you, Majesty. Say the word, and we will proclaim it: the Sixteenth has been chosen at last!"
"No," I say, and there is a terrible stunned silence.
"No?" they mutter. "No?"
A smile. "No, not the Sixteenth. That's an unlucky number, I think. Let
them
have been the Sixteenth, all three of them. The Sixteenth and the Seventeenth and the Eighteenth. We accept your homage, and we proclaim ourselves to rule from this moment forward as the Nineteenth of our line, and so be it."
"Long live the Nineteenth Emperor!" cry the peers of the Imperium.
"Long live the Nineteenth!" From Chorian, resonantly, joyously.
"Long live the Nineteenth!" From Julien, from Polarca, from Valerian. And then from all of them.
"We are greatly pleased," I say, benevolently waving the wand of office from one side of the room to another.
The royal
we
. How wonderfully silly that sounds.
I love it.
14.
BY THE TIME I HAD BEEN ROBED AND ANOINTED AND driven across the smouldering rubble-fields of the Capital to the imperial palace, which still stood intact despite all the carnage that had taken place in and around it, night was falling. On the horizon the sky-banner of a new emperor was aglow in every direction.
Once more I climbed the crystalline steps, huffing, I must confess, and puffing, all the way. No emperor waited at the top to hand me my cup of sweet wine. No loudspeakers boomed out my name as I ascended.
The peers of the Imperium clustered below me as the Nineteenth Emperor held the first procedural session of his reign.
I appointed Polarca and Julien de Gramont as my first two high lords. Polarca, of course. And Julien because a majority of the high lords would have to be Gaje, and he was
my
Gajo. The other one I would choose from that gaggle of masked monstrosities, as soon as I had had time to learn something about them.
When I was done with that, I issued some decrees having to do with the reconstruction of the Capital-we would do it in a somewhat less gaudy and grandiose way, but there was no need to say anything explicit about that just yet-and the reorganization of the imperial guard in the wake of the civil war. Then, in my capacity as Rom baro, I told Polarca to send word to the Rom star-pilots in every corner of the galaxy that the starships must start going forth again at once. How else would the joyful peoples of the Imperium be able to send their delegates to the Capital to celebrate the coronation of the glorious Nineteenth?
"All right," I said finally. "Enough of this. Help me down these goddamned stairs, you two."
Polarca blinked. "Did I hear you ask for help?"
"Crystalline steps are very goddamned slippery, Polarca. Do you want the Nineteenth to fall and break his ass right in front of the worshipful peers? Here. Take my arm. And you, Julien, you walk in front of me. If the Nineteenth
does
slip, at least his fall will be broken by the King of France."
Of course I wasn't all that worried about slipping. But I thought it would reassure them, knowing that I was at least beginning to take a few sensible precautions in deference to my age. You have to humor people, sometimes, or they'll drive you crazy with oversolicitousness.
"Who'd have imagined it?" Polarca murmured, for something like the ten thousandth time that day. "The Nineteenth Emperor descends the throne-platform, and who is he? Who is he? Do you believe you are emperor, Yakoub? Would you have thought such a thing was possible, that the Gaje would come to the Rom baro, that they would lie down in front of him in their masks and robes, that they would hold out the wand to him, that they would say-"
"I knew it all along," I told him grandly. "I saw it in the lines of my palm."
"And me a high lord of the Imperium!" Polarca cried.
"And you knew
that
all along, too, didn't you? Didn't you, you Polarca?"
Chorian was waiting below. He had that boy with him, the one who had been in my bedroom when I awakened. I wondered who he was. Some young brother of Chorian's, perhaps? No, there wasn't any resemblance. This boy had nothing like Chorian's long legs and slim, rangy build. He was short, deep-chested, fair-skinned; he didn't quite look Rom at all.
"Majesty?" Chorian called.
"To you I am Yakoub," I said.
"But… but…"
"Yakoub."
He nodded. "I have someone here I'd like you to meet."
I looked at the boy. "A friend of yours? A relative?"
"His name is also Yakoub."
"Not an uncommon name."
"He is the son of your son Shandor," Chorian said.
"
What
?"
"Majesty!" the boy said, and I thought he would cry. I thought I would, also. He dropped down before me and began kissing the hem of my garment in a disgusting way. I had to pluck at his hair to pull him up and away.
"Don't," I said. "Let me look at you, boy."
Not much Rom in him, no. Except in the eyes. Shandor's eyes, bright and fierce. My eyes. I felt a little shiver go running down my back.
I drew him close to me and held him, and kissed him in the Rom way.
Chorian said, "He was found on Galgala, in Shandor's camp. They shipped him here just before the starships stopped running, but there was no time to bring him before you until now."
"Yakoub," I said, trying out the name. It is not all that common, that name. It has an ancient heritage, yes. But there are very few of us today. He was smiling and crying at once. Named for me. What, I wondered, did that tell me about Shandor? A handsome boy in his way. Fifteen years old, maybe? Maybe younger. Shandor's son by that Gaje woman of his. A poshrat, a half-breed. Well, no matter. I was starting to feel half Gajo myself, now that I was their emperor. It was time to put aside some of the old prejudices. This boy united both the races in himself. Good. With my own name stuck to him. Good. I wondered how much Shandor there was in him. Shandor's energy and cunning, maybe, but none of Shandor's vileness, eh? One could hope. I smiled. "Come with me, Yakoub. And you, you Polarca. Julien. Chorian. I need some fresh air."
Out under the stars. That burning smell was starting to fade, now: it was days since the fighting had ended, and most of the fires were out. The sky was ablaze with light.
I looked up, searching for Romany Star.
"Can you see it?" I asked. "It should be there, somewhere off to the north, eh?" I narrowed my eyes, squinting, peering. Frowning. As I looked I said very quietly, "I went there, you know. While I was off ghosting. I went all the way back, and shook hands with the king. The last king of Romany Star, and what a great man he was!" They were all staring at me. "You don't believe me? Well, no matter. No matter. I was there. I said I wouldn't let myself die until I had been to Romany Star, and I have kept my vow." Odd that I couldn't find it up there, though, after having seen it almost every night of my life. That great red blazing thing. Where was it? More trouble with my eyes, maybe? "Do you see it?" I said. "Polarca? Chorian?"
They didn't seem to see it either. We stood there in the darkness, peering, frowning, squinting. I could hear the song of Mulesko Chiriklo, rich and strange in the night.
"I was there on the last day," I told them. "As the swelling of the sun began. And I said to the king that we would be back, that I would lead the return. That much I promised him. As I have promised myself all my life. As I promised you."
Polarca said, "Could we be looking in the wrong place, Yakoub?"
"It's usually… right… there," I said. "Ah, holy saints and demons!"
"What do you see?" Chorian asked.
"There," I said. "I see it now. Not red any more. There it is, that bright star there. The blue one, do you see? That's Romany Star. Changing. Swelling. The third swelling of the sun has started, do you see?"
"I don't see the one you mean," said Chorian.
"There. There." I pointed, and he stared, and Polarca stared. And my grandson stared. They didn't seem to see. I tried to guide them, describing the pattern of the constellations all around. It was unmistakable now. The great blue star shining where the red one had been. The third swelling was under way at last; and after that it would be safe for us to go back. Then I would send my people in ships, hundreds of ships, thousands of ships. How long would that be, before it was safe? Ten years? A hundred? Well, I would find out. I would ask the imperial astronomers tomorrow.
What if they said five hundred years? Well, no matter. No matter. Someone else would lead the return, I suppose. Chorian? I would like that, if it were Chorian. Or this young Yakoub, maybe. Or maybe
his
grandson. That would be all right. I had kept my vow. I had lived long enough to see Romany Star with my own eyes. And to set us upon the path that would take us home.
And now? There is work to do, for the king, for the emperor. Great tasks await, and I will do them, for I am the man for the tasks. I knew that all along. And now you know that too, for I have told you my story, which now is finished, though my work is not. What is still to come, we will see. This is my story, and I have told it. Chapite! A Romany word, which storytellers use, when they have come to the end of their tale. Chapite! It is true! It is all true!
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