"04 - Emperor and Clown 1.0" - читать интересную книгу автора (Duncan Dave)

And Moms had warned him: Ythbane was running out of patience with Shandie's
continual fidgeting at state functions. Princes must know how to behave with
dignity, Ythbane said, not twitch and shuffle and pick their noses on the steps
of the throne. If he couldn't learn how to stand for a couple of hours, at least
he would be stopped from sitting down for the rest of the day. Not that Shandie
had ever picked his nose on the steps of the throne. He didn't think he really
fidgeted enough that any of the audience could see. He didn't think he'd earned
his last few beatings, but Ythbane had thought so, and Moms always agreed with
anything the consul said. And Grandfather didn't even know who Shandie was now.
Grandfather was on his throne, so he was the center of the rotunda, and the
palace, and the city, and the Impire, and the world. From the sound of his
breathing, he was asleep again. Moms was on his far side, also on the first
step; but she had a chair to sit on.
Dad had stood here once, he remembered. Where he was. Moms didn't talk about Dad
now, not ever. Keeping perfectly still would be much easier if you could sit
down to do it. Shandie's knees were shaking. His left arm was a torment of fire
ants from staying bent, holding up his toga. If his arm fell off, would that be
counted as moving?
Ythbane would probably beat him anyway. He was still sore from last time.
Grandfather snorted and snuffled in his sleep. Lucky Grandfather!
One day I will sit on that throne, and be Imperor Emshandar V.
Then I will kill Ythbane.
That was a wonderful thought.
What else should an imperor do? First, have Ythbane's backside beaten-right
there, on the floor of the rotunda, where the fat delegate was still kneeling,
reciting his nonsense. In front of the court and the senators. Shandie caught
himself about to smile, and didn't.
Then be merciful and cut off his head. Second, abolish these stupid, stupid
togas!
Why should formal occasions require formal court dress, togas and sandals? No
one wore them any other time. What was wrong with hose and doublet and shoes? Or
even tights, which were the latest craze. Ordinary people never had to wear
these ridiculous, scratchy, uncomfortable bed sheets. Sane, ordinary people
hadn't worn things like these for thousands of years. Oh, my poor arm!
Abolish togas, that was certain.
And abolish all these dreadful formal ceremonies! Why bother with them?
Grandfather certainly didn't want them-he'd been weeping when they'd brought him
in. The birthday homages had just started, too. They would be going on for
weeks. What sort of a way was that to celebrate a birthday, even a
seventy-fifth?
A birthday was one day. That's what the word meant. Birthday!
Shandie's tenth birthday was just a month away, and he was going to have a
one-day birthday. Mostly awful ceremonial, too, but a party with some other boys
if he was good, Moms said.
The toga was hot and heavy. Sunlight blazed down from the windows in the high
dome, casting his shadow at his feet-but he mustn't look down.
The fat delegate from wherever-it-was came to a stuttering end at last,
obviously as relieved as Shandie. He bent forward to place his offering beside
the other offerings, then crawled back a pace and touched his face to the floor.
Everyone looked up at Grandfather, and Shandie froze. Even his eyes. Don't blink