Favaronas watched curiously as the Lioness prodded her mount to a trot. Her back was straight and her chin outthrust. In the time he’d been with her, the archivist had come to know that posture, that look. She was controlling her anger. Only two things in the world could make her so furious, could reduce her lips to that tight, white line: the gnawing loss of Qualinesti to their enemies, and disagreement with the Speaker. He wondered which was consuming her now.
Chapter 7
The afternoon repose of Khuri-Khan was first broken by the jangle of sistrums and the clash of cymbals. Housewives lifted the shades covering their window openings and peered outside to see what the noise was about. Soukats, taking a respite from the morning’s trading, pushed back their hats or came out from under their awnings. Anticipating an event, wine merchants in the Grand Souks reopened their stands. The street dogs of Khuri-Khan, always alert, began barking.
The deep thump of a drum sounded, two slow beats followed by two quick. A quintet of guards appeared. Their helmets were askew, armor straps flapping, for they had been sleeping, too. They made a ragged line and ported arms, standing as much at attention as the Khan’s soldiers ever did. Someone was coming-someone important.
The curious Khurs first saw a double line of elf maidens, twenty strong. Each wore a white, knee-length silk gown and, as a concession to the punishing sun, a matching scarf tied around her head. Golden girdles draping their slim hips sparkled, as did the garland of golden leaves twining their necks. They carried white baskets, strewing the contents on the street before them. At home, this would have been flower petals. Here in Khuri-Khan it was white sand, washed and polished until it glittered like silver.
Behind the twenty maidens came thirty young elf males, also clad in white. Hands, feet, and faces were browned by years of desert life, but arms and legs were still pale as the forest shade had made them. Each elf wore abroad belt made of jointed golden plates. In the center of each plate flashed an enormous flat jewel, peridot or aquamarine. Each of the thirty elves held aloft a pole, laminated with gold. Ten poles were topped with the golden sun symbol, and ten with a stylized silver star. Atop the poles of the final ten was a flat plaque of lapis lazuli on which appeared a gold sun and silver star of equal size. The Khurs couldn’t know it, but the precious metal on these standards was only thin plating over common brass or copper. Still, they made an impressive display.
By now Khurs of all ages were spilling out of their houses to see this wondrous parade. For years, they’d sold meat, meal, cloth, and soap to the laddad, and nothing dispels mystery like such humble, practical transactions. The elves they’d met were nothing like the tales said. They were a somber people of few words, with reddened faces and dirty nails. Not so the glorious apparitions promenading down the street today. These were the elves of legend!
Trailing the elf maidens and standard bearers were musicians. Four pairs of tympani strode down the center of the road, flanked on either side by a dozen white-robed youths either shaking sistrums or clanging cymbals. The rhythm was insistent: two slow beats followed by two fast, again and again. On the heels of the drummers were twelve older, brown-skinned elves dressed in green. They were Kagonesti pipers, carrying twinned flutes of silver and brass. Not yet playing, they walked with proud precision, dark hair hanging loose below their shoulders, their heads covered by leather skullcaps.
The parade penetrated the wide Street of Salah-Khan, which ran along the western end of the Grand Souks, and the pipers raised their instruments. A trill of notes floated over the desert city. Elf voices answered, crying, “Esh! Esh!”-the ancient greeting elves made to the sun each morning. The thirty standards, of sun, of stars, and of the two conjoined, were lifted skyward.
After the pipers, Hamaramis and fifty warriors of the Speaker’s guard marched into view. They were arrayed in their best armor, with plumed helmets and brilliant green mantles. Boors might have noted the scuffs and dents in the armor, and how some plumes were broken, but such imperfections did not detract from the spectacle. Each warrior’s short sword was sheathed and slung over his back, a traditional method of indicating peaceful intent. Each soldier held a brass and iron buckler to his chest with his left hand, and in his right gripped a ceremonial mace made of ivory. The heads were shaped like a sun or a star.
In the last rank of these warriors marched a watchful Hytanthas. He’d been attached to the Speaker’s guard so he could point out the phantom he’d seen in the Speaker’s tent, should the creature make an appearance.
In the soldiers’ wake came a delegation of Silvanesti, led by Lord Morillon Ambrodel. They were dressed as Silvanesti lords had been for centuries, in deeply pleated robes of sky blue, sun yellow, or star white. Disdaining to mar their ensembles with practical headgear, the Silvanesti went bareheaded. They would pay for their pride later with bouts of sunburn and prickly heat.
Last of all came the Speaker himself, on foot. He could have ridden, but with every horse precious to his army, he chose not to. The way wasn’t long from Khurinost to the palace. Not nearly as long as from Qualinost to Khur.
He did not wear his best robes-the cloth-of-gold and fire-knap in which he’d been crowned-but a simple white gown, with elbow-length sleeves, which brushed his ankles. A rope of woven gold strands was tied around his waist, a collar of lapis bars encircled his throat, and gold bracelets decorated each wrist. He also had chosen not to wear a crown, neither the sun diadem of Qualinesti, nor the star circlet of Silvanesti. He was a Speaker in exile. Wearing crowns while homeless seemed to Gilthas the height of hubris.
Four favored senators walked around him, carrying poles supporting a light linen canopy. This spare shade was his only protection from the sun. Planchet walked at his left elbow. Where his consort should have walked, Gilthas deliberately left an open spot, honoring Kerianseray.
The end of the parade was composed of dignitaries of all kinds. Each elf carried some sign of his or her office: a senator’s baton, a courtier’s medallion, a scholar’s scroll, a healer’s vial, and so forth.
Not all the Khurs watching the procession were charmed or dazzled. Some glowered, and a few shook fists at the elves, who marched solemnly ahead. Only once, as they were passing through the Grand Souks, was anything thrown. A few overripe fruits pelted the ceremonial guard. They never broke step, and the Khan’s soldiers charged into the crowd. They found the young offenders and dragged them away, beating them with olivewood staves.
The most direct route from the elves’ camp to the Khuri yl Nor was all narrow, winding alleys and shade-darkened lanes. Gilthas’s grand parade deliberately took a different way, following the widest streets in the city to give scope to his faded grandeur. In the great days of Sithel or Kith-Kanan, a Speaker’s royal procession would have numbered many thousands. Today it contained fewer than three hundred.
Only one other notable incident occurred during the elves’ passage, near the great Nak-Safal artesian well. The Street of Salah-Khan crossed the Temple Walk by the well. In a very real sense, this was the true center of Khuri-Khan, more sacred than any temple, more vital than palace or granary. Never in the harsh history of Khur had the well gone dry. When Malystryx scourged the city, it was to the Nak-Safal that the poor and destitute ran, knowing that whatever else befell them, they would not lack for life-giving water. Vexed by this display of faith, the red dragon tore a boulder from the city wall and flung it into the well. The great rock had been swallowed up by the white sand at the bottom of the well, and only a single corner showed above the water’s surface. The Nak-Safal overflowed for five days, gently washing the cobblestones of the square. Still imbedded in the sand, the boulder was known among city folk as Malsh-mekkek, Malys’s Tooth.
As the Speaker’s parade wound past the well, Hytanthas Ambrodel saw a hooded, rag-draped figure standing at its edge. The hood turned toward him, and the elf suddenly felt dizzy. Framed by moldering cloth was the face of the strange apparition he’d glimpsed in the Speaker’s tent the night before. T
he bizarre, solidly brown eyes locked onto Hytanthas’s own. His step faltered. Drums, pipes, and cymbals sounded far away. He felt a strange twisting sensation in his stomach, as though the ground had unexpectedly fallen away from his feet, and all at once he seemed to be standing outside his own body, watching himself walk shoulder to shoulder with the honor guard. The effect of seeing himself walking was utterly disorienting. Hytanthas began to fall.
A strong hand caught him by the back of the neck. “Steady, lad,” Planchet said, holding him upright. “Remember where you are!”
“He’s here!” Hytanthas gasped. “The ghostly spy I saw in the Speaker’s tent! He’s by the well, in the ragged brown robe!”
Planchet squinted against the glare. “But that’s no ghost. I can see him myself. Are you certain?”
“That’s him.”
As Hytanthas fixed his gaze on the ground, seeking to regain his balance, Planchet looked again at the scruffy figure in brown. He was still there, facing away from the valet. Then, seemingly from one heartbeat to the next, he vanished. Planchet blinked and stared, but the hunched fellow was gone. The valet shook his head. It took little imagination to think the fellow most likely a sorcerer or a mage. Perhaps even the mysterious Faeterus himself.
“Do you think so?” Hytanthas asked, looking more himself, and Planchet realized he’d voiced his speculation aloud.
“It’s possible,” the valet said, pushing Hytanthas back toward his place in the procession.
The parade of elves reached the square before the Khuri yl Nor and found Sahim-Khan’s household guard awaiting them, turned out in full regalia. While they lacked the grace and style of the elves, the Khan’s elite possessed a barbarous splendor of their own. Handpicked for height and physique, the guardsmen made an imposing show in their tall, spiked helmets, articulated breastplates, and panther-skin mantles. Arrayed outside the main gate of the citadel in two blocks, the guards struck the ground with their halberds, and shouted, “Sahim-Khan!”
The elves halted between the blocks of Khurish soldiers. The maidens and standard bearers stood aside, allowing the remainder of the procession to advance. Soon, Gilthas was being greeted at the palace gate by Sahim’s vizier, Zunda. A relic from the days of the dragon, Zunda had retained his place as vizier by being the oiliest, most obsequious courtier in Khuri-Khan. The tightly curled hair which fell past his shoulders was an obvious wig, and the flat black color of his elaborately curled beard was just as obviously due to dye.
“Greetings, O Light of the Elven Nations!” Zunda intoned loudly, bowing as low as his belly allowed. “The Great Khan of All the Khurs, Lion of the Desert, Vanquisher of Dragons, Sahim, son of Salah, welcomes you!”
Gilthas lowered his eyes briefly in acknowledgment. At his gesture, Lord Morillon stepped forward and answered the vizier.
“The noble Speaker of the Sun and Stars, Gilthas, of favored name, earnestly desires an audience with the Great Khan.” The Silvanesti would not be outdone by a mere Khur when it came to flowery speech.
“The glorious Sahim, Father of Khur and Fount of All Justice, has heard of your coming. He bids me, his most unworthy vizier, to convey you to his awesome presence.”
All eyes but the Speaker’s switched back to Morillon.
The Silvanesti pressed a hand to his chest and bowed his head, smiling with magnificent condescension. “Gracious Vizier, we are awed by the generosity of your Great Khan. I, Morillon Ambrodel, son of Kenthalantas Ambrodel and councilor to the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, beg you to lead on, and we shall enter with gratitude into the presence of your mighty lord.”
Everyone looked back to Zunda. This was obviously a battle to the death.
“My heart overflows, noble Morillon! Should I perish at this moment, I would die in blissful content to have known the celebrated personages of my Great Khan, Sahim son of Salah, the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, and your most noble self! You have but to follow, and this auspicious audience shall commence!”
Immediately, Zunda backed away, bowing three times as he went. Hamaramis gave the command and the honor guard started after him.
As he passed the red-faced Morillon, Gilthas murmured, think he won.”
The Khuri yl Nor was still in poor shape, though repairs continued day and night. The inner yard had been swept clean of debris, but the restored facades of the Nor-Khan and the Khanate (Sahim’s private residence) still were marked by large sections of unglazed brick and raw timber. The banner of Khur, with its pair of rampant golden dragons, hung from the battlement of the Great Keep, flapping slowly in the hot breeze. It had been rent by Malys’s claws, giving it the look of a pennon.
Straining guards opened the heavy bronze doors. Within the keep, the air was pleasantly cool. On the seaward side of the palace, enormous canvas funnels channeled sea breezes inside. This cooled the palace and filled it with the scent of the ocean.
The Nor-Khan was a maze of broad, high-ceilinged halls and long, low-roofed corridors. In part this was intentional, to confuse intruders, but it also reflected the varied history of Khur. Khans with money built lavishly. Those who were poor did not. The result was a hodgepodge palace, which only experienced lackeys and courtiers like Zunda could navigate successfully.
During their journey through the hallways, Planchet realized they were passing beneath the same area of cracked ceiling plaster for a second time. He murmured, “Sire, they’re leading us in circles.”
Gilthas smiled. “Sahim-Khan needs time to prepare his welcome.”
When at last Zunda conducted the elf delegation into the audience hall, Sahim was seated on the Sapphire Throne, waiting. He wore a splendid gown of dark blue silk; along its hem were embroidered dragons in red and gold. The red crown of Khur sat upon his head, and his beard had been combed and arranged in neat curls. He smiled broadly when Zunda announced the Speaker of the Sun and Stars.
“My brother!” he proclaimed, rising to his feet. “To what do I owe this inestimable honor?”
Gilthas halted at the foot of the throne dais. He did not bow. As heir to two of the oldest monarchies in the known world, he took precedence over an upstart like Sahim. However, protocol was not as important as diplomacy, so he found a way to pay homage to his host. With an outward sweep of his arm, Gilthas managed to convey the spirit of a bow without actually performing one.
“Great Khan, I have come to confer with you about the troublesome situation growing in your city,” he said. As you know, my consort, Lady Kerianseray, was set upon in the Temple Walk. Two days after that, a mob of Khurs rioted in the markets, seeking out elves to beat and kill.”
“Ah, yes.” Sahim sat back down. “The perpetrators are known to me, and are being rounded up for punishment even now.”
Most of the elven delegation silently fumed at seeing their Speaker forced to stand before the Khan like an ordinary supplicant. For his part, Gilthas adopted the bland mask he’d worn for so long during Marshal Medan’s occupation of Qualinost.
“Who are these people? Criminals?”
“They are now!” Sahim said, and laughed unpleasantly. “They’re fanatics, religious fanatics.”
“How have my people offended them?”
“Only by your existence, Great Speaker. Worshipers of Torghan love their country, but the presence of”-he almost said laddad-”elves in Khur is seen by them as an affront to the nation and their god.”
The exchange between rulers, polite on its surface, went on, with the Speaker seeking assurances that no further attacks would be made on his people, while Sahim eluded any promises. Planchet used the time to study the inhabitants of the throne room, those he could see without turning his head. The most glaring absence was that of Sahim’s heir. Prince Shobbat had not been glimpsed in public for some time. It was rumored he was quite ill. The walls of the room were lined with a motley collection of Khurs, city folk and nomads. Nobles from Delphon and Kortal were identifiable by their distinctive fashions: flat-topped, conical hats on the Delphonians and
the western-style attire worn by those from Kortal, a territory situated near the border with Neraka.
“Some of the miscreants have in fact confessed,” the Khan said, and Planchet’s attention snapped back to him. Given the sort of persuasion meted out in the Khan’s dungeon, his prisoners would confess to anything.
“To a man they insist the trouble began when elves paid for goods using debased coinage.”
The soft background chatter ceased throughout the hail. Sahim had just accused the elves of passing coins made of inferior mixtures of metal rather than pure steel, gold, silver, or copper. The Speaker’s slender brows drew together. Those who knew him well recognized the stirring of anger.
“I know nothing of this,” he said tersely.
Sahim leaned forward, his expression one of concern. “Traders in the Souks are shrewd, but many live on the knife-edge of ruin. A day’s wages lost in bad coinage can mean starvation for their families. I am told that word of the false coins reached the Sons of the Crimson Vulture, and they sought to make the offending elves pay in genuine metal.” He leaned back again, spreading his hands expansively. “Alas! They could not tell the guilty from the innocent, and waylaid all elves they found. But be assured, Great Speaker, the matter is resolved. The offenders will pay with their heads.”
He announced this with the same casual air another man might adopt when promising a simple favor. The Speaker’s entourage wore grim expressions. Sahim, while vowing to punish the rioters, plainly blamed the elves for the trouble and was daring the Speaker to contradict him.
A faint smile crossed Gilthas’s lips. “The Mighty Khan’s justice be done,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Might I make an offer, in the interest of good relations between our peoples?” Grandly, the Khan waved for him to continue. “Let me repay those vendors who lost money, and the families of the men who face your judgment. This I will do out of my own treasury.”
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