by Andre Norton
Though he knew little of air distances from one city to another, he was a little startled at the short duration of their flight. Perhaps Ochall had given orders that their craft be pushed to the utmost. For Ramsay was still trying to marshal his chaotic thoughts into order when the signal flashed as the flyer spiraled downward.
The richly paneled walls of the cabin had no windows. Ramsay sat tense and stiff. They could be alighting in the midst of enemies waiting to ring them in. Ochall seemed to read his mind then; perhaps Ramsay’s own posture gave him away. For the High Chancellor said: “Though it would seem that the talk-wires could not carry a message into Vidin”— his tone was sardonic—“our own clearance call has been openly broadcast, Supreme Mightiness. Be very sure that Lom knows who arrives—openly, with only his suite about him—coming as a rightful lord and no invader.”
That that was any great condolence at the moment Ramsay doubted. But he had chosen to play this role, and he would not allow the High Chancellor to see him flinching from it.
“Rightfully done,” was his comment.
“We set down,” Ochall continued, “in the Four Square of Heros. There is no landing stage, but our forecast will have cleared the necessary space. Then you have only to mount to the Place of the Sovereign Flags and show yourself—”
Ramsay thought he caught a flicker of a glance in his direction. Did the High Chancellor hint that so showing himself might well make him a target, providing some action that would totally settle once and for all who would be Emperor in Ulad?
The flyer touched earth, the vibration of the flight ended. Ramsay unbuckled his safety belt with hands he was glad to see did remain steady. After all, he had been through a similar experience before, when he had emerged from that other flyer on the roof in Vidin.
He arose as those of his following filed through to the narrow exit. The guard, now under command of Jasum, was first. The guardsman snapped to attention on the pavement below, forming an aisle through which Ramsay could walk.
Deliberately he descended. They had indeed set down well within Lom. Buildings arose about them as thickly as those trees that embowered the Grove dwelling of the Enlightened Ones. The natural rusty red or dull gray stone walls were veiled and draped with brightly colored banners and swatches of cloth. Streamers, ribbonlike in their length and light weight, stirred in breezes that swirled them outward through the air.
Immediately before him was a pyramid of the red stone he had come to associate with the remains of that legendary Great World which had been. This structure was truncated, so that its top was like a triangular platform. About its rim were six sturdy poles from which billowed, in that same movement of air, five flags. The sixth pole was bare. Leading up to this was a flight of steps, hollowed and worn, as if the Place of Flags had stood there for more centuries than perhaps Lom itself had had existence. Among these other bannered buildings, this did have a curious barren look.
Deliberately Ramsay set foot on the hollow curve of the first step. Though he looked neither to left nor right, possessed by his own sense of what Kaskar, Emperor of Ulad, must do at that moment, Ramsay was aware that Lom’s streets were not deserted. There was a multitude gathering closer. None of those who had come with him from Vidin were following. Perhaps only his Supreme Mightiness (what cumbersome titles they chose) dared make this climb.
From below the sound of voices grew from a gabble into nearly a roar. Ramsay climbed on. He planted each foot precisely and unhurriedly, refusing to allow himself to look right or left. That gathering below might be getting ready to mob him. A bead of sweat loosened from the line of his black hair on the forehead, trickled slowly down his cheek. He kept his face impassive and climbed.
Now he reached the top. To his right, before he turned, was the pole of a yellow banner, one centered with a geometrically lined criss-cross of a violently vivid green. To his left was the pole that bore no banner at all.
As deliberately as he had climbed, Ramsay now turned, to gaze over that city Kaskar had meant to rule. His head was bare except for a silver circlet tight across his forehead. There was no hood, no mask, to hide him now. And he stood, his feet a little apart, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword of ceremony, looking out and down.
What he saw was a massing of faces, all turned in his direction. Even the windows of the neighboring buildings were packed with people crowding each other to look upon him. The effect was like a blow, yet he knew he must stand impassively under it.
They were shouting now, and from the din of sound rolling about the four-cornered Place of Heroes, seeming to echo from the buildings, he could pick out his borrowed name:
“Kaskar, Kaskar!”
It took him a second or two to realize that there was no threat in that recognition. Amazement, yes. Even if Kaskar had been so disliked by the court and those of his own blood, this city seemed not to have shared those sentiments. When he raised his hand in acknowledgment it appeared that his liege men were not limited to Vidin—for there was a roar of cheering that must have reached even to the walls of the somewhat distant palace.
Someone else now moved up the worn steps. Ramsay saw a man wearing a brilliant short tunic, fashioned so the fierce bird of Ulad’s crest hovered over the upper half of his body. He carried a horn of such length that he needed to balance it over his shoulder carefully as he made the ascent. Behind him a second similarly attired and burdened trumpeter emerged through the thin line of guardsmen to climb in turn.
Ramsay stepped back a little when those two reached the summit of the pyramid. They bowed to him, then swung around, resting the bell mouths of their trumpets against the ancient stone, putting the mouthpieces to their lips.
Above the roar of the crowd sounded deep grumbling notes. They might have issued from clouds as thunder, except that there were no clouds; Ramsay stood in full light of a brilliant sun. Three times those notes were repeated. The cheering faded away, a silence fell. Still all the faces were raised to Ramsay. They were waiting, and he did not know for what! His hand twitched with a touch of panic—this was all part of an old ceremony. Courts and kings were enveloped, made secure in part, by the uses of ceremony. But he did not know what to do now—
To his vast relief, and in that moment he forgot his distrust of the High Chancellor, Ochall had climbed behind the trumpeters, though he did not join Ramsay at the summit of the pyramid. Instead he swung about, not too easy a maneuver on that narrow, worn step, to speak.
“Hear you, all liege men! In this, the Square of Heroes, on the summit of the Place of Flags, which point lies in the very heart of Ulad, is now proclaimed our lord paramount and reigning—under whose rule shall we be as fruitful land well watered, warmed by a sun of glory. By the right of the House of Jostern, bearing the true blood of that same Jostern of old, comes now Kaskar—his birthright unquestioned. Pyran who was has passed through the Final Gate—may all the Watchers, the Comforters”— Ochall bowed his head and paused for an instant, his gesture of conventional reverence echoed by all in that throng—“bear him forth quickly to eternal life, joy, and blessing. In life he acknowledged Kaskar, Prince of Vidin, as his true heir of body and line. Therefore now this same Kaskar stands before you, as Supreme Mightiness, Guardian of Ulad, Watcher and Comforter this side of the Gate, for all his people. The Emperor is gone, the Emperor has come again!”
Four times the thunder of the trumpeters sounded in nearly deafening blasts. Then the cheering broke out anew.
A shiver ran up Ramsay’s back. He had heretofore looked upon this as a dangerous piece of playacting. But this—it was real! Far too real! He was not Kaskar; he wanted to run and run from those cheers. What new net was he caught in now? He swallowed. The cheers were lessening—They must expect something from him.
Almost against his will his hand went up. In answer to that nearly involuntary gesture quiet fell even as it had before the proclamation made by Ochall.
He had to say something— But nothing in his past had prepar
ed him for such a moment. The real Kaskar would have been carefully trained for this hour, so any fumbling on his part might now be remarked upon. Once more the weight of his masquerade pressed upon him. Liege men—the term had a definite meaning in this world—it was a bond of honor. If he accepted their offering, then he must give something in return to keep the balance. He had begun all this thinking only of himself, his safety, of a private struggle against those who had used him. If he accepted what these now offered him—then he was tied. Already he had gone too far, there was no going back unless he denied he was what his appearance labeled him. And that he could not do.
“Liege man also is your Emperor.” Ramsay tried not to fumble for words as he searched to express emotions he had not had time enough to label or even fully understand. “Liege to Ulad. No more than that can any of the House of Jostern swear. For the safety of Ulad and those within its borders is the first duty of him who is proclaimed.”
A short speech, perhaps an awkward one. But at that moment Ramsay meant it as he had never meant anything before in his life. There was a moment of silence. Ramsay began to wonder if that abrupt speech had been the wrong thing, after all. Then the cheering began—
But also noted a flurry in the mass of crowd below. A party of guardsmen pushed forward, urging a path through the throng. Men and women were giving way to the determination of that group. And within the ring of guardsmen Ramsay thought he saw the elaborate clothing of courtiers. At last the Palace must be on the move. Though Ramsay could not believe that the intriguers would attempt any counterstroke in this open and very public place.
At the foot of the stair his men from Vidin closed ranks a little. But Ramsay sensed some uneasiness in their stance. The purposeful approach of the other party began to make itself more strongly felt. Already the crowd drew farther apart, letting them through. When they reached a point where they faced the guard from Vidin, they drew up in a similar line, as if prepared to go into combat. Ramsay took a step forward, knowing that by all possible means he must prevent such a confrontation. Then almost instantly he realized there was no need for intervention, at least not on the level of the opposing guardsmen.
From their group the civilians whom they had escorted across the square now advanced. Berthal— and Osythes. The Prince wore scarlet and gold, bright enough to issue challenge by color alone, while the Shaman was almost a shadow of ill omen in his black-and-white, which, next to Berthal’s ostentatious magnificence, was more black than white.
The Shaman’s old face was as impassive as ever, but Berthal’s was flushed to a degree that nearly matched the scarlet of his trappings. Though Osythes put out a hand as if to dissuade him from any imprudent move, the Prince avoided the Shaman with a twist of the shoulder, and sprang for the steps that led to the Place of Flags.
The noise of the crowd had faded to a murmur. It was plain that they expected drama to come and were not to be denied any of the action they could witness between the rivals to the Throne of Ulad.
Ramsay remained where he was. Berthal was the embodiment of rage. They might even meet in physical combat, certainly an edifying sight for Lom. Ramsay was sure he could handle the irate Prince without any interference from the guard. But he hardly wanted to be so publicly entangled in an undignified scuffle.
Berthal fairly leaped up those age-worn steps. Osythes, in spite of his years and the hindering long skirts of his robe, was only a little behind the Prince. Berthal, his eyes blazing, his mouth a crooked grimace of hate, had barely reached Ramsay’s level when the Shaman joined them.
“Imposter!” Berthal was breathing so heavily that he gasped rather than shouted his accusation as perhaps he wished to do. “You thing of dreams! Think you to rule here? I say no! And with my body shall I make it so!”
He whirled out his sword of ceremony. Ramsay made no move to draw his own weapon. With narrow eyes he watched the Prince, now foaming spittle at the corner of his lips. If Berthal was wild enough to rush him at that moment, the Prince would have to take the consequences.
But that knife was not pointed toward Ramsay’s body. Berthal had grasped the point instead of the haft of his weapon and flipped it through the air. Not at Ramsay, but rather so that the blade crashed to the stone of the pavement and slithered across, until it lay, point foremost, at Ramsay’s feet.
FIFTEEN
The sound now—not the cheering of moments earlier—rather a sighing that might be produced by the indrawn breath of hundreds. This was surely some kind of formal challenge, but Ramsay, again caught in the net of his own defeating ignorance, was at a loss. Yet, if he hesitated, the Shaman did not.
His robes swirling about him, Osythes pushed between the two, planted his booted foot directly on the sword blade.
“No.” A single word to erect a barrier, but it did. Berthal’s color heightened, if that was possible; his hands twitched. To Ramsay’s eyes the Prince was fast losing self-control. He looked as if he were about to elbow past Osythes in order to leap directly for Ramsay’s throat.
“It is my right!” choked out Berthal.
Osythes nodded. “Your right, by the code set by Jostern at the birth of your House. But this is not the time or the place.” His hand closed about the Prince’s right wrist and, though his thin fingers did not look to have such strength, Ramsay saw that Berthal could not break that hold.
However, it was to Ramsay that the Shaman now looked as if Berthal were no longer of consequence.
“You have returned.” Osythes stated the obvious. “For what gain, dreamer?”
So simple was his question that Ramsay suspected some hidden guile. Yet it appeared that the Shaman actually wanted that answer.
“Perhaps,” Ramsay answered, “because I am not yet ready to be a dead Kaskar as it was your will that I should be. There is that in all of us, Enlightened One, that will always struggle against death.”
There was a faint frown, a very shadow of expression on the Shaman’s face. His eyes probed Ramsay, who made himself face that searching gaze squarely. He sensed that he presented a problem the Shaman found baffling. And, in that bafflement, Ramsay himself discovered a small strength which made him add: “Your Heir has challenged me. Why not let us then settle this matter here and now—openly before what seems to be most of Lom—? I have had my fill of masked assassins ready to cut me down without warning. And I do not think that my sudden death from any cause will aid you now, not after this public affirmation of my right—”
“Your right!” cried Berthal, his voice scaling upward in his anger. “You have no rights at all—you barbarian out of—”
Perhaps Osythes then applied some punishing pressure to the wrist which he still held, for Berthal’s protest ended in a grunt of pain. He shot a fierce look at the Shaman, but he was quiet.
Osythes was once more impassive. “Kaskar has been proclaimed, it would seem,” he remarked tonelessly, though Ramsay had no faith in such sudden and complete surrender. “It is fitting that His Supreme Mightiness now appear before his court, having already been hailed by his people.”
Enter the palace? Yet that, too, would be expected of him, and Ramsay believed he had no choice. He had already delivered a warning, one he knew would be enforced by those of Vidin, maybe also by at least some of these who had cheered him in Lom. Let him die for any cause now and there would be too many questions asked. If he must fight Berthal he would, and he had an idea that custom would decree that to be a very open struggle with plenty of official witnesses.
“His Supreme Mightiness”—Ramsay took a small pleasure in using the grandiloquent title— “agrees.”
He glanced at Ochall, who had taken no part in this small flurry of rivals for the throne. In fact, Ramsay decided, the High Chancellor’s attitude was one of strict neutrality. But Ramsay was not about to leave Ochall loose to give any orders, not if he could help it.
“His Dignity, our very worth Chancellor, will accompany us,” he stated firmly.
So it came about that
a meeting, which had begun as a duel, ended—perhaps to the disappointment of many of the spectators—in a uniting of parties. By signal, and with much labor on the part of the combined guards to clear sufficient space, the flyer from Vidin once more set down, and Ramsay, followed by Ochall and, at a slightly increased distance, by the Shaman, who still had his hand on Berthal (now wearing a sulky, much-baffled look) embarked. Moments later they settled on a roof landing, and the Palace of Lom welcomed them with a turnout of the guard.
As Ramsay acknowledged their salutes, Osythes saw fit to abandon his guardianship of Berthal to join the newly proclaimed Emperor. This time he addressed him shortly, without any of the honorifics one might expect.
“Her Splendor Enthroned would speak with you,” he stated.
Ramsay smiled. “It is indeed gracious of her,” he returned. “But perhaps it is even more gracious of Kaskar—”
For the first time he saw what could only be anger flash momentarily in the Shaman’s eyes.
“You have a free tongue!” he snapped.
To that observation Ramsay nodded. “But still I live. Very well, the same trap cannot work twice.”
“I do not know what you mean—” Osythes replied.
Ramsay laughed openly. “I did not think you would, Enlightened One. By what I have heard, you folk deal in obscurities upon obscurities. All I would have you understand now is that I shall march to no foretelling of yours.”
Now he turned his head and spoke to Ochall. “I am summoned to my grandmother, High Chancellor. Her Splendor Enthroned must not be kept waiting. Whatever matters are of import, those we shall discuss later.”
Ochall bowed. Berthal might have made some comment; he had opened his mouth. However, a quelling glance from the Shaman kept him mute. Berthal marched on their very heels as they entered a lift that carried them downward into the Palace that had so many secrets.
