'Erimenes,' Fost said sharply. Moriana turned away, color burning high on her cheeks. Ziore reached with an insubstantial pink hand and tweaked one of the philosopher's ears. 'Ouch!' he exclaimed. 'How could you do that, woman?' She leered.
'The same way I can do this,' she replied, and reached for the front of his loincloth. 'You don't have to go,' Moriana said quietly.
'Huh?' was Fost's confused reply. His mind churned, as he tried to figure out what she meant. Her shoulders rose and fell in a sigh.
'You don't have to come with me. I'm the one who loosed the Fallen Ones on the world. I must deal with them or fail in the attempt. That's my destiny. This is no fight of yours.'
Fost turned a foreboding thunderhead of a look upon Zunhilix. A query died in the chamberlain's throat and he hurriedly gathered up the skirts of his robe and his covey and underlings and fled. When the doors had shut behind them, Fost turned to Moriana. 'It's my fight, too,' he said, low-voiced.
She shook her head, and her eyes were jewel-bright with unshed tears.
'I've lost too much already by letting those I care for follow me into peril.'
His heart thrummed like a bowstring, and though he knew he should not, he blurted, 'Is that why you've been so cold to me? Because you're afraid of drawing me into danger?' She nodded and turned away.
'First I feared you would reject me because of my… my heritage. Then it came to me that I was a bane to all I've loved, or who have loved me. Darl died on my behalf, along with so many fine men and women. Brightlaugher the Nevrym boy, and poor old Sir Rinalvus, and before that Ayoka my faithful war bird, and Kralt'i and Catannia whom Rann tortured to death to torment me… and you, whom I loved most of all!'
'And me,' Fost said, nodding. 'Alone of all those, I died by your hand, and for my death alone you bear responsibility. And yet here I am.' He raised his brawny arms to shoulder height and made a deep, courtly bow. His eyes remained fixed on Moriana's slender frame. He saw a delicate shiver of dread pass through her and the silent word 'why?' form on her lips.
He straightened and laughed softly at his own tangled, often confused motives. A question Erimenes asked beside a campfire in the days before Chanobit and the treacherous battle there – a question he had since asked himself a hundred times in a hundred different ways with no better answer than the one he had given the sage.
'I could be romantic and say that I would rather die at your side than live without your love. And -' With a surprised twitch at the corner of his mouth, he finished, '- and that would be true, oddly enough.' He looked quickly away. Such words embarrassed him. 'But let's be practical. If you fail, neither I nor any other human of the Realm will long survive you, save for ones like Fairspeaker and others who play traitor for the Dark. And even they wouldn't last for long, not if they depended on the sufferance of the Dark Ones. Let me put it this way. I'd rather be with you than away from you, and I'd be in no more danger at your side than anywhere else.' He smiled, regaining some of his composure. 'And perhaps I can even be of service to you, milady.' She stretched out a hand to him.
'Never call me that. To you I am Moriana – or, if you will, love.' She smiled through tears running down her cheeks and spoiling Zunhilix's carefully applied makeup. 'And you have done much to help me already.'
He went to her, mouth pressing to hers, tongue questing. He felt her cool fingers moving urgently against his thigh. He drew his face back from hers. 'Much as I hate to gratify Erimenes by following his advice…' Her mouth muffled his words.
With a brave shout and a clash of spears on bronze round shields, the Twenty-third Light Imperial Infantry marched in review past the wooden bleachers that had been erected in Piety Plaza. Squinting against the glare of the afternoon sun, Fost was able to conceal his reflexive grimace of distaste. They made a brave show with their brightly feathered round helms and their shield devices of a fist gripping a barbed spear, and their hobnailed boots rang in perfect unison on the broad blocks of blue-veined marble. But at the Battle of Black March they had bolted like frightened lizards, tails high and elbows pumping. They were typical Imperials: parade ground beauties.
The four-story structure vibrated in sympathy to the measured tread of the regiment. Instinctively, Fost clutched at the bench beneath him.
'I hope this damn thing doesn't collapse,' he said sidelong to Moriana. She cocked a brow at him. 'It's happened before,' he said defensively.
She shrugged slightly and turned her attention back to the parade, but not before giving him a smile that caused a comfortable warmth to grow in his groin. When they had permitted Zunhilix and his attendants back into their apartments, the chamberlain's emaciated features had crawled with horror and his hands fluttered like agitated white birds when he saw the dishevelled condition his charges were in. He had only a half hour before the investiture ceremony to patch up the damage. Nonetheless, he had rapped out brisk orders to his underlings, and by the time the brightly-plumed officers of the Life Guards had arrived to escort them to the Plaza, they both looked as good as new. Zunhilix might have been effeminate and prone to twitter, Fost reflected, but he got things done. All things considered, he might do a better job commanding the Imperial armies than the officers now in charge.
Fost glanced to his left, where Teom and Temalla sat side by side, a particolored parasol shading the stinging sun from their pasty white skins. The Emperor and his sister-wife smiled and waved at the marching troops from the midst of a flock of courtiers and dignitaries, all as brightly hued as so many tropical birds, and chattering as loudly. Temalla noticed Fost and favored him with a lewd wink, at the same time dipping one pale shoulder slightly so that her milky gown exposed an ample, burgundy-tipped breast to his view. He swallowed and looked across the square, over the heads of the marching troops.
A detachment of the Watch tramped by beneath. These were special riot troops, as well-trained as the regulars and vastly more experienced, given the Medurimins' penchant for rioting. They sported burnished blue plate armor, short swords at their hips, small spiked target shields on left forearms and over each right shoulder lay a halberd with an eight-foot ironshod haft.
'Weren't these the men who killed your parents, dear Fost?' came Ziore's tentative, curious, soft words.
He glanced at the satchel resting on the bench by Moriana's hip. All had agreed, Erimenes with the worst possible humor, that it would be best for the genies to remain out of sight today. The city was feverish with talk of magic; to have a ghost hovering in the bleachers would do nothing to calm the dangerous passions of the anti-Moriana faction and might even incite to violence those favorably disposed toward her. Fost shrugged.
'I don't really know,' he said in a voice equally soft, but laden with emotion. 'I was only eight when it happened. I never got a clear account of how they died. It was during festivities like this, only grander. Teom was being crowned. The mob caught the rumor that their dole would be reduced to pay for the celebration and rioted. But who killed my parents? The guard, the mob, what difference?'
Lacking telepathic skills, Fost was unable to read any unstated response on Ziore's part, and she made no attempt to broadcast it. He guessed the cloistered genie was shocked at his apparent callousness. But the death of his parents had been history for twenty years, and he had cried all the tears he had for them long since.
'One thing the death of my father and mother taught me,' he replied to the still silent nun, 'later, when I had the chance and maturity to think it over. The fact that a group is oppressed doesn't mean it's any better at core than its oppressors. If the rioters killed my parents, they did so no less heedlessly than the guardsmen would have done.' He flicked sweat from his forehead where it threatened to bead and roll into his eyes. 'This transition from guttersnipe to noble of the Empire makes little impression on me.'
He looked around at the panoply of fabulous costumes, a profusion of gilt so extreme it transcended bad taste and achieved silliness. He thought of melting down any five hangers-on and
getting enough gold to keep the entire Imperial Navy afloat for a whole year. He smiled mirthlessly. He knew how things were done in High Medurim. The state of their army showed that all too clearly. All things considered, the gold was probably better off where it was. At least, it wasn't going to finance further bloodthirsty follies on the Northern Continent.
Off to the south, slate-blue clouds hung over the foothills of Harmis. Flashes of yellow heat lightning played among them with a dull rumble. Fost thought he caught the scent of ozone mixed with the aromas of the day. Nearby vendors fried sausage and sold it wrapped in paper with hot mustard and sweet seaweed. The men and women around him were drenched in the rarest perfumes, some sweet, some tart, only a few exotic and elusive, wordless. Intermixed with these heady odors came the rank smell of war dog droppings, the heavy smell of farmed land south of the city, the pressing intrusive odor of unwashed bodies. They kept Fost's memory turning ever backward to his childhood, for smell is the most reminiscent sense of all.
A heavy gonging rattle like giant coins shaken in a sack drew him back. Sensing a shift in the crowd noise, a note of subdued hostility like the warning hum of a beehive when an intruder nears, he looked down at the street. A strange, outlandish sight greeted his eyes. A full troop of Highgrass Broad dog riders rode by at a trot, colored streamers flying from the spires of their helms, their scale armor ringing to the tempo of their war dogs' gait.
'I've heard of these,' Fost murmured to Moriana, seeing her puzzled frown at the presence of the Highgrass mercenaries. 'They just got back from serving out a contract in the Sword Kingdoms, battling the southern Northern Barbarians.' The Sword Kingdoms lay above the equator, in the northern half of the Northern Continent. 'Teom heard about them when their ship landed here in Medurim and hired them for the city's defense. Wise move, too.' Moriana looked skeptical.
'They do have an impressive collection of trophies,' Erimenes said. Fost's companion had been unable to stay in his jug like Ziore, but in the babble of the crowd no one was likely to notice either words or a partially exposed blue head peering from the satchel.
The genie was correct. Every other dog rider held lance couched in a stirrup with one hand and a captured banner or insignia proudly aloft in the other. There were bicolored, slender pennons of rival Highgrass units, flags worked with the devices of a score of small cities and minor nobles, and the beaten-brass plaques the Northern Barbarians used in place of banners.
'There,' gasped Moriana, pointing. 'See that white, spiralled staff hung with human skulls? It's the tusk of a thunderflash. That was the sacred war totem of the Golden Barbarian horde we fought in the savannas west of Thailot six years ago.' She shifted her hand, now pointing to other units. 'Red and black streamers – that would be Captain Mayft's troop.'
'The Gryphons,' Fost added. 'It's easy to see why they call themselves that.' It was indeed. Like their riders, the big, thick-legged Grassland war dogs were all encased in scale armor. Each beast's head was covered with a steel mask worked in the shape of a beaked, sharp-eared face which gave the animals the appearance of wingless gryphons. Most of the riders had mask visors as well, but rode with them raised to reveal the typical broad, sun- and wind-tanned Grasslander features.
'They're a free company, aren't they?' asked Moriana, with a trace of distaste. At Fost's affirmative, she shook her head. 'I don't see how one can hope for discipline from such as those.'
There were dozens of bands of Grasslander mercenaries, from small squads up to regimental size. They were formed to a dizzying array of models. Some were based on clan affiliations, others on village of birth, still others on religious creed. Some were wholly communal, sharing rations and booty and bodies, as well, in great orgies. Others were stern and abstemious. Captain Mayft's Gryphons were one of the least interesting varieties, a purely volunteer company raised at its commander's own expense.
'Obviously one can,' Fost replied dryly, 'since here they are, still together six years after you first encountered them. And they've done pretty well for themselves. I doubt they paid klenors for those trophies.'
'Bought with blood and life,' cackled Erimenes from his satchel. 'Obviously. Oh, what battles they must have fought!'
Moriana turned away. The dog riders clattered on past, lance heads winking in the sun, heavy unstrung bows riding in dogskin cases beneath the skirt of each saddle, to take their place in ordered ranks among the other troops assembled at the far end of the broad avenue. The native soldiers drew away from them; the foreign mercenaries were little loved by their ostensible comrades in arms.
Fost smiled grimly. With the exception of a few truly tempered units such as the Imperial Life Guards, the Grasslanders were unquestionably the finest troops on hand. For precisely that reason they were hated. He would not have ridden in Captain Mayft's saddle for anything, and not only because he was a poor dog rider.
Diplomacy had failed, so Fost had finally come out and flatly refused Teom's offer to become Grand Marshal of the Imperial
Armies. Moriana would have made a better commander; she was trained to war and well seasoned in battle strategies both physical and magical. In High Medurim, women fighting masters were accepted out of necessity, since many masters of the first quality hailed from locales in which women were not raised as docilely as they were within the Empire. For that small concession, the City States reckoned Medurim decadent. Certainly, they would accept no woman as general over them.
As for Fost, he had no desire to commit suicide. He had been resented enough when Teom had named him mere marshal, and that was a position without power or influence. The lords of Imperial arms would sooner have a foreign barbarian from the North or a hairy, uncouth wild man from the Isles of the Sun placed over them than a commoner bred in the gutters of their own city.
Finally, the parade was over. The great gates – gilded, of course – of the temple across the Plaza swung open. Out marched the bull-necked, heavily bearded Patriarch, Spiritual Protector of the Empire, clad in vestments of cloth of gold. On his head he wore the tiara, a three foot, gem-encrusted golden cylinder, surrounded by flying buttresses and less functional protrusions of silver. After him in bright array came the lesser prelates. Last of all came the Sexton, more profoundly bearded than the Patriarch, his whiskers as white as sea foam and stuffed into his girdle to keep him from stumbling over them.
He was a full one hundred thirty-eight years old, emaciated, and somewhat befuddled by all the hoopla around him this day. He had an uncanonical pushbroom propped over one skinny shoulder, not knowing what all these people were doing tracking up his pristine Plaza but sure that a broom would be needed before the ceremony was over. An alert acolyte relieved him of the implement after only a brief scuffle, and the ceremony resumed.
Ignoring the byplay, the Patriarch launched into his benediction in a voice remarkably shrill and thin for one so stoutly built. His voice reminded Fost of a mosquito's whining as he went through the liturgy. Fost was thankful for the annoying voice; it was all that kept him from falling asleep. A half-dozen spearmen had collapsed in ranks from heat and ennui before the Patriarch, with a final flourish of his golden staff, announced his blessings on High Medurim and the proceedings.
Temalla's sharp elbow nudged Teom awake. He blinked and shook his head, confused as to his surroundings, causing Fost to reflect that truly rank hath its privileges. The Emperor stood, cleared his throat, then fumbled for his notes stashed away in the front of his immaculate gold-trimmed robe.
'Thank you, Holy One.' He clapped his hands. At once, a stream of nearly naked dancing boys and girls poured into the streets from beneath the bleachers, strewing flowers and marring the mood of chaste piety, though by the way the Patriarch's black eyes glittered beneath beetling black brows it was clear he didn't take the interruption amiss.
Teom paced down the tiers of bleachers with a servant trotting at his heels keeping the parasol between sun and Emperor. Though the Imperial party sat at the midpoint of the bleachers, Teom did
n't have to fight his way through a horde of notables. A broad, clear swath ran down the center of the stands, with the nobles seated on either wing. He had made it down only one flight of steps when it became apparent to all that the Emperor had been taking counsel with a bottle, and the Imperial tread, while grand, was none too steady.
In the center of the wide wheel of the Plaza, a small kiosk had been assembled hurriedly after the troops passed in review. An avenue crossed the Plaza left to right, running between high, stately, marble edifices. The troops were drawn up in armed array to either side. The hewn granite walks flanking the street were thronged with thousands of Medurimins, jostling, shouting, haggling with vendors. Young boys and girls dressed in identical white robes circulated throughout the mob, their skirts hiked high to reveal plump, rouged buttocks. As Teom wove through the bleachers, a cry rose from the crowd. The Emperor acknowledged it with a fond nod and a wave of his pale hand. But something in the sound caused Fost to tense.
'My word, this is tedious,' grumbled Erimenes. 'When do we get to the good part?'
Teom mounted the dais where he was being embraced and kissed on both cheeks by the bristly bearded Patriarch. 'This is as good as it gets, I'm afraid,' Ziore answered peevishly.
'Perhaps there'll be a riot,' Erimenes said hopefully. 'Medurim is famous for the fine quality of its riots, I understand. Sometimes they rage for weeks, with considerable looting, burning and raping. Now that would be a sight to see, especially after this.'
Fost shivered despite the heat that sent rivulets of sweat steaming down the back of his armored shell. 'Don't say that,' he muttered.
Preliminaries over, Teom began to announce the names of those who should step forth to be recognized. Though this ceremony had been decreed expressly to honor those who had distinguished themselves in battle, Fost didn't know most of the names called out by the red-faced herald at the Emperor's side. Not even their faces were familiar. He did recognize Foedan, a tall, knobby man with high-domed forehead and deeply sunken brown eyes. And Ch'rri, the mutant cat woman, who at the call of her name shook out her broad wings with a thundercrack and glided down to stand before the dais, her long hair streaming behind. A rumble rose from the crowd. Whether in approval for her voluptuous nudity or out of superstitious dread of her strangeness, Fost couldn't tell.
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