‘That must have been a fair-sized oyster,’ Ulath noted.

Oscagne smiled. ‘No, Sir Ulath. They cut the shells into little tiles and fit them together very tightly. Then they polish the whole surface for a month or so. It’s a very tedious and expensive process. Anyway, the second Micaen emperor took it one step further and sheathed the columns in the throne-room. The third sheathed the walls, and on and on and on. They sheathed the palace, then the whole royal compound. Then they went after the public buildings. After two hundred years, they’d cemented those little tiles all over every building in Matherion. There are low dives down by the waterfront that are more magnificent than the Basilica of Chyrellos. Fortunately the dynasty died out before they paved the streets with it. They virtually bankrupt the empire and enormously enriched the Isle of Tega in the process. Tegan divers became fabulously wealthy plundering the sea floor.’

‘Isn’t mother-of-pearl almost as brittle as glass?’ Khalad asked him.

‘It is indeed, young sir, and the cement that’s used to stick it to the buildings isn’t all that permanent. A good wind-storm fills the streets with gleaming crumbs and leaves all the buildings looking as if they’ve got the pox. As a matter of pride, the tiles have to be replaced. A moderate hurricane can precipitate a major financial crisis in the empire, but we’re saddled with it now. Official documents have referred to “Fire-domed Matherion” for so long that it’s become a cliche. Like it or not, we have to maintain this absurdity.’

‘It is breath-taking, though,’ Ehlana marvelled in a slightly speculative tone of voice.

‘Never mind, dear,’ Sparhawk told her quite firmly.

‘What?’

‘You can’t afford it. Lenda and I almost come to blows every year hammering out the budget as it is.’

‘I wasn’t seriously considering it, Sparhawk,’ she replied. ‘Well – not too seriously, anyway,’ she added.

The broad avenues of Matherion were lined with cheering crowds that fell suddenly silent as Ehlana’s carriage passed. The citizens stopped cheering as the Queen of Elenia went by because they were too busy grovelling to cheer. The formal grovel involved kneeling and touching the forehead to the paving-stones.

‘What are they doing?’ Ehlana exclaimed.

‘Obeying the emperor’s command, I’d imagine,’ Oscagne replied. ‘That’s the customary sign of respect for the imperial person.’

‘Make them stop!’ she commanded.

‘Countermand an imperial order? Me, your Majesty? Not very likely. Forgive me, Queen Ehlana, but I like my head where it is. I’d rather not have it displayed on a pole at the city gate. It is quite an honour, though. Sarabian’s ordered the population to treat you as his equal. No emperor’s ever done that before.’

‘And the people who don’t fall down on their faces are punished?’ Khalad surmised with a hard edge to his voice.

‘Of course not. They do it out of love. That’s the official explanation, of course. Actually, the custom originated about a thousand years ago. A drunken courtier tripped and fell on his face when the emperor entered the room. The emperor was terribly impressed, and characteristically, he completely misunderstood. He awarded the courtier a dukedom on the spot. People aren’t banging their faces on the cobblestones out of fear, young man. They’re doing it in the hope of being rewarded.’

‘You’re a cynic, Oscagne,’ Emban accused the ambassador.

‘No, Emban, I’m a realist. A good politician always looks for the worst in people.’

‘Someday they may surprise you, your Excellency,’ Talen predicted.

‘They haven’t yet.’

The palace compound was only slightly smaller than the city of Demos in eastern Elenia. The gleaming central palace, of course, was by far the largest structure in the grounds. There were other palaces, however – glowing structures in a wide variety of architectural styles. Sir Bevier drew in his breath sharply. ‘Good Lord!’ he exclaimed. ‘That castle over there is almost an exact replica of the palace of King Dregos in Larium.’

‘Plagiarism appears to be a sin not exclusively committed by poets,’ Stragen murmured.

‘Merely a genuflection toward cosmopolitanism, Milord,’ Oscagne explained. ‘We are an empire, after all, and we’ve drawn many different peoples under our roof. Elenes like castles, so we have a castle here to make the Elene Kings of the western empire feel more comfortable when they come to pay a call.’

‘The castle of King Dregos certainly doesn’t gleam in the sun the way that one does,’ Bevier noted.

‘That was sort of the idea, Sir Bevier,’ Oscagne smiled.

They dismounted in the flagstoned, semi-enclosed court before the main palace, where they were met by a horde of obsequious servants.

‘What does he want?’ Kalten asked, holding off a determined-looking Tamul garbed in crimson silk.

‘Your shoes, Sir Kalten,’ Oscagne explained.

‘What’s wrong with my shoes?’

‘They’re made of steel, Sir Knight.’

‘So? I’m wearing armour. Naturally my shoes are made of steel.’

‘You can’t enter the palace with steel shoes on your feet. Leather boots aren’t even permitted – the floors, you understand.’

‘Even the floors are made of sea-shells?’ Kalten asked incredulously.

‘I’m afraid so. We Tamuls don’t wear shoes inside our houses, so the builders went ahead and tiled the floors of the buildings here in the imperial compound as well as the walls and ceilings. They didn’t anticipate visits by armoured knights.’

‘I can’t take off my shoes,’ Kalten objected, flushing.

‘What’s the problem, Kalten?’ Ehlana asked him.

‘I’ve got a hole in one of my socks,’ he muttered, looking dreadfully embarrassed. ‘I can’t meet an emperor with my toes hanging out.’ He looked around at his companions, his face pugnacious. He held up one gauntleted fist. ‘If anybody laughs, there’s going to be a fight,’ he threatened.

‘Your dignity’s secure, Sir Kalten,’ Oscagne assured him. ‘The servants have down-filled slippers for us to wear inside.’

‘I’ve got awfully big feet, your Excellency,’ Kalten pointed out anxiously. ‘Are you sure they’ll have shoes to fit me?’