The Hidden City

feet.
    ‘A word with you, Sparhawk?’ Patriarch Emban said as the others started to file out.
    ‘Of course.’ They waited until they were alone in the room.
    ‘What are we going to do about Vanion and Sephrenia?’ Emban asked.
    ‘I don’t exactly follow you, your Grace.’
    ‘This so-called marriage is going to put Dolmant in a very difficult position, you know.’
    ‘It’s not a “so-called marriage”, Emban,’ Sparhawk said firmly, cutting across the formalities.
    ‘You know what I mean. The conservatives in the Hierocracy will probably try to use it to weaken Sarathi’s position.’
    ‘Why tell them, then? It’s none of their business. A lot of things that our theology can’t explain have happened here in Tamuli, your Grace. The Empire’s outside the jurisdiction of our Church, so why tell the Hierocracy anything about them?’
    ‘I can’t just lie to them, Sparhawk.’
    ‘I didn’t suggest that. Just don’t talk about it.’
    ‘I have to report to Dolmant.’
    ‘That’s all right. He’s flexible.’ Sparhawk considered it. ‘That’s probably your best course anyway. We’ll take Dolmant off to one side and tell him about everything that’s happened here. We’ll let him decide how much to tell the Hierocracy.’
    ‘You’re putting an awful burden on him, Sparhawk.’
    Sparhawk shrugged. ‘That’s what he gets paid for, isn’t it? Now if you’ll excuse me, your Grace, there’s a family reunion going on that I should probably attend.’
    There was a melancholy sense of endings for the next several weeks. They were all fully aware of the fact that once the weather broke, most of them would be leaving Matherion. The likelihood that they would ever gather again was very slight. They savored their moments together, and there were frequent private little interludes when two or perhaps three of them would gather in out-of-the way places, ostensibly to talk at great length about inconsequential matters, but in fact to cement faces, the sounds of voices, and very personal connections forever in their memories.
    Sparhawk entered the sitting-room one blustery morning to find Sarabian and Oscagne with their heads together over a bound book of some kind. There was a certain outrage in their expressions. ‘Trouble?’ Sparhawk asked.
    ‘Politics,’ Sarabian said sourly. ‘That’s always trouble.’
    ‘The Contemporary History Department at the University has just published their version of recent events, Prince Sparhawk,’ Oscagne explained. ‘There’s very little truth in it—particularly in light of the fact that Pondia Subat, our esteemed Prime Minister, turns out to be a hero.’
    ‘I should have deleted Subat as soon as I found out about his activities,’ Sarabian said moodily. ‘Who would be the best one to answer this tripe, Oscagne?’
    ‘My brother, your Majesty,’ the Foreign Minister replied promptly. ‘He is a member of the faculty, and he has a certain reputation. Unfortunately, he’s in Cynestra just now.’
    ‘Send for him, Oscagne. Get him back here before Contemporary History contaminates the thinking of a whole generation.’
    ‘Maris will want to come too, your Majesty.’
    ‘Fine. Your brother’s too clever by half. Let’s keep Atana Maris nice and close to him. She might be able to teach him humility.’
    ‘What are we going to do with the Cyrgai, your Majesty?’ Sparhawk asked. ‘Sephrenia says that the curse that confined them was lifted when Cyrgon died, and even though it’s not actually their fault, there really isn’t any place for them in the modern world.’
    ‘I’ve been brooding about that myself,’ the Emperor admitted. ‘I think we’ll want to keep them away from normal human beings. There’s an island about five hundred leagues east of Tega. It’s fairly fertile and it has a more or less acceptable climate. Since the Cyrgai are so fond of isolation, it should turn the trick. How long do you think it might take them to invent boats?’
    ‘Several thousand years, your Majesty. The Cyrgai aren’t very creative.’
    Sarabian grinned at him. ‘I’d say that’s the perfect place, then.’
    Sparhawk grinned back. ‘Sounds good to me,’ he agreed.
    Spring came to eastern Tamuli in a rush that year. A sudden warm, wet wind blew in off the Tamul sea, cutting the snow off the sides of nearby mountains in a single night. The streams ran bank-full, of course, so it was still too early for travel. Sparhawk’s impatience grew