The Merchant Emperor Read Online Free PDF Page B

garments just above his heart. Its vibration had seeped into his core, changing the rhythms of his body to match its own. It had given him the throne of Sorbold, allowing him to brutally depose the Empress Leitha, the withered crone who had reigned undisputed for three-quarters of the past century, and her corpulent heir-apparent son at the same time, bringing to an abrupt end the three-centuries-old Dynasty of the Dark Earth, making way for his new one.
    The Empire of the Sun.
    In order to remain undetected as the usurper, however, he had modestly insisted upon taking on the title only of regent at first, to be crowned emperor on the first day of spring a year later. Even now, as light fled the sky and night took a more confident hold, the preparations for his coronation were being made in the streets of Jierna’sid.
    It would be a festival without precedent and beyond measure.
    Talquist.
    The voice from the bottom of the stairs leading up to the parapet top scratched against his eardrums, sending chills down the length of his spine. It was harsh and high-pitched, with a crackling edge to it. In that voice the echo of other voices could be heard, some low and soft, others shrieking, all brimming with a nascent and ominous power that never ceased to make the skin on Talquist’s neck prickle in fear.
    Bring me the scale.
    The words echoed up the stone staircase, carrying with them unmistakable threat.
    More than anyone in the entire world, Talquist knew that the threat was not idle, even though there was no way for the one issuing it to gain access to the parapet. Not wishing to pass the remainder of his life in the high tower, however, the Emperor Presumptive sighed again, took one last fond look at his life’s treasure, then turned away from the window and walked dispiritedly down the stairs.
    As he rounded the last turn of the winding staircase he passed a mirror that had been set up to allow guards to see what might be pursuing them down or up the steps. An ordinary man of Sorbold looked back at him from the reflective surface; Talquist paused long enough to return his gaze. Clothed though he was in finely tailored robes of heavy linen trimmed in gold, in truth by outward appearance he was nothing more than a swarthy-skinned, thick-bodied man, dark of hair and eye, with a workman’s callused hands and a face weathered by the sun and salt sea air. Not born to be a king, much less an emperor, whenever he beheld himself, Talquist saw the lie beneath the finery, the commoner in the garments of a masquerade.
    And it infuriated him to the core.
    He doubled his stride angrily, arriving at the bottom of the stair with a resounding thump.
    The staircase opened up to the wide Great Hall of the palace’s third floor, an opulent room of high angled ceilings painted in grand frescoes above a polished floor where more than a million small pieces of multicolored marble had been inset into an exquisite design, unparalleled in the Known World for its beauty. Long, thin windows of colored glass reflected the light of the burning torches that lined the walls, making the room shine as bright as day.
    Standing just inside the room was an immense statue of a soldier, mammoth in size and heft, its features as detailed as life, down to the stone eyelashes and individual creases in each knuckle of its hands. The titan, more than the height of two men, was rendered in primitive armor and garb from a time before the Cymrians came to this land, ruining it forever, in Talquist’s opinion. The primal, indigenous nature of the time was captured perfectly in the stone man’s flat brow and broad face, with a strong, square jawline and sinewy limbs that ended in warrior’s hands and feet. Most remarkable of all were the eyes, clear and cloudless as a summer day, blue as the sky would be.
    They were open and watching him intently.
    “There is no need to summon me like a fishwife, Faron,” Talquist said smoothly, but with an undertone of anger. “I