by Dave Duncan
“No, no, no!” an angry herald proclaimed, striding by with an entourage of harassed-looking footmen. “The temporary seating will come out farther than that.” He and his complaints seemed to fade away quickly, as if the fogs of history had swallowed them already. A troop of Praetorians marched in, heading for the center, rapidly becoming trivial also.
Most of the inhabitants were Praetorians, standing in to represent senators, ministers, and many others. The Rotunda was bitterly cold. She thought the air inside was colder than the air outside. The guardsmen had bare arms and legs.
“Aren’t you cold?” she asked Ylo.
He glanced down at her without seeming to move his head, amusement gleaming under dark lashes. “I’m not allowed to be cold! The Imperial Army never lets climate interfere with discipline. I wore the same outfit in Zark and was cooked. I expect I would have to wear it in a winter campaign against goblins and lose all sorts of things to frostbite.”
“That’s not very sensible, is it?”
“An army isn’t a very sensible organization. Its purpose is to fight wars, and wars are a form of madness to start with.”
“Does Shandie agree with that?”
“I don’t know. I’m only his signifer.”
The jibe was cruel, but perhaps not undeserved. She took a moment to let the pain subside, then said, “I don’t think he’s here.”
“Will somebody please tell me where the buglers are supposed to stand?” an angry male voice behind her demanded. She heard the slap of many military sandals going past, but she did not look around.
“The last time I was here,” she said, “the Opal Throne was facing east.”
“They give it a quarter turn every day, so as not to play favorites. Today is a north day. Tomorrow will be east again.”
The Opal Throne was a very ugly thing, a massive stone chair of indeterminate color, but mostly green. She remembered it as being more blue. She was in no doubt that it must weigh tons.
“Good exercise for somebody.”
“I wonder if they use trolls?” Ylo mused. “Or would that be sacrilege, do you suppose?”
“Or sorcery? They must use sorcery to clean the windows, anyway.”
“Trained bats.”
She was making idle chatter to keep up her spirits. Ylo was playing along to humor her. Ashia would tell her outright to pull herself together and look happy. Shandie… Shandie would not notice.
“There he is,” Ylo said. “In the group by the Red Throne.”
She saw him then. She should have remembered that he’d gone off in doublet and hose that morning, not uniform. Swathed in a gray cloak and a floppy plumed hat, he was being remarkably anonymous amidst a dozen or so soldiers and civilians. They seemed to be consulting a chart, and there was a heated discussion in progress—as much as anything could be heated in this ice house, she thought.
She was about to walk, when Ylo’s hand touched her arm. “He’ll send for you if he needs you.”
“He may not know I’m here.”
“Don’t be absurd. You light up the place.”
She looked at him for a moment, then said sadly, “Thank you, Ylo.”
“Any man knows that a woman needs regular compliments.”
“Not any man.”
“Most, then. Come, here’s someone you must meet. I told you about them, remember?”
He led her over to an elderly couple standing by themselves. The man was tall, but so stooped that he seemed to be permanently half into or out of a bow. He had feathery white eyebrows, and his wrinkled face wore a wry, gentle smile. His companion was short but extensive in other dimensions, wrapped in a voluminous sable coat about the same shape as the sacks of beans that sat on the floor in grocers’ stores, but considerably larger, with her smiling plump face centered on the top of it. A diminutive matching sable cap perched improbably on her curly white hair.
Of course these would be Proconsul Ionfeu and his wife. Eshiala braced herself to play her usual fraudulent royal role. As princess, she must lead the conversation—she had been given lessons in how to put people at ease, select suitable topics, make sure nobody got left out… and so on. She hated the whole hypocritical procedure. And in this case, something went wrong very quickly.
Ylo had said that Lady Eigaze twittered, and so she did. She also chattered, babbled, and prattled nonstop, but none of her talk held the acid spite so familiar around the court. She decried the unseasonable weather, she made naughty little jokes about the gooseflesh on the Praetorians and the noise their armor made when they shivered. She conjured up improbable images by suggesting that they ought to be allowed to wear long woolly underwear on such a day. She pointed out that she and Eshiala were almost the only women in the whole place, asserting that if there were more of them around, they would certainly speed up the proceedings and let everyone go home. And then she suggested that Shandie ought to make everyone run around the Rotunda three times to warm up.
By that time, Eshiala was laughing. It was she who had been put at ease. She was enjoying herself, a stunningly unfamiliar experience. Had she not been given those lessons, she would never have recognized the skill involved. The consul-elect listened to his wife’s performance with a smile of amused resignation.
Eigaze revolved her bulk to face Ylo, smiling tolerantly in the background. Apparently he was an old friend, because she demanded imperiously that he lend the princess his wolfskin. Ylo shot Eshiala a glance full of risqué overtones and offered to exchange garments with her.
“I do so want to meet your daughter!” Eigaze continued. “I adore toddlers! Oh, may I come around one afternoon and be presented to the next princess imperial? All my grandchildren are taller than me now, but I still have a while to wait for the next generation, thank the Gods. Do have a chocolate, my dear.”
She offered a large box of expensive candies, although where it had come from was a complete mystery to Eshiala. She accepted, feeling rather bewildered and almost believing that Lady Eigaze was sincere in her desire to meet Maya.
“The only good thing about all this nonsense,” Eigaze remarked between chocolates, “is that it is keeping me from an excessively dull tea party. I know I should have been given fifteen seconds to describe our experiences in Pithmot and then everyone else would have taken an hour apiece to tell me everything that has happened in Hub for the last two years, which I know already. What would you have been doing? Do have another chocolate.”
“I should have been sitting for my portrait,” Eshiala admitted.
“How awful! Dressed up in leagues of hot robes and smothered in tons of jewels? Rigid like a statue?”
“Exactly.”
“Dreadful! Who is the artist? Try a round one, they’re ginger.”
“About twenty artists. They complain about the light all the time.”
“Elves!” Eigaze commiserated. “Charming people, but they can be tiresome at times. Was there a jotunn there?”
“Jotunn? A jotunn artist?”
“Yes, dear. He’s the best of them all. A very short jotunn—I think he must have elvish blood in him. What is his name, Ion?”
“Jalon,” her husband said.
“That’s right, Jalon! We had him paint all our children when they were small and all our grandchildren, too.”
Jalon? Why did that name seem familiar? “He must be quite elderly, then?” Eshiala said.
“He doesn’t look it. That’s another reason to suspect he’s part elf, I suppose.”
“Beg pardon, ma’am,” Ylo said sharply. “Is he by any chance the artist who painted that seascape in the Throne Room?”
Eigaze blinked and popped two more chocolates in her mouth, probably to give herself a moment to think. She eyed him appraisingly. “I haven’t been in the Throne Room since we returned, and they change the pictures all the time. But I don’t see why not. There couldn’t be two artists with jotunnish names, could there?”
Ylo was looking excited. “No, I suppose not. Was he
one of the group, Highness?”
“I did not notice any jotnar,” Eshiala said. “But I am supposed to keep smiling at a very ugly marble urn, so I can’t be sure.”
“Something special about this man?” Ionfeu inquired softly.
Ylo nodded. “I need to speak with him.”
“Do you recall where he lives, dear?” the old man asked.
Eigaze frowned. “I could look it up. Acacia Street, I think. Number seven, or nine? That’s down around the Temple of Prosperity, as I recall.” Obviously Eigaze’s well-rounded exterior concealed sharp wits.
“Thank you very much!” Ylo beamed at Eshiala as if she ought to understand his obvious excitement.
“Oh, bother!” Eigaze complained. “We’ve finished the chocolates! Dear, do you suppose we could send someone out to the coach… Mmm… The prince!” she added hastily. The empty box vanished behind her back and she curtseyed with her mouth full.
Shandie looked harassed. He acknowledged the other’s salutations, gave Eshiala a fleeting smile of greeting, then addressed Ylo. “Can you see Sir Acopulo anywhere?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fetch him, will you? Proconsul, Countess… I’m sorry this is taking so long.”
“We shall be running out of light soon, sir…”
Eshiala watched Ylo striding off across the great hall. Now she remembered the significance of the artist Jalon—the picture in the Throne Room was the one that showed Shandie’s vision in the preflecting pool. She would much rather have that whole macabre incident forgotten. Especially the daffodils.
Now the rehearsal was about to get underway at last and all her terror of pomp and ceremony came flooding back. An uncomfortable-looking chair had appeared on the dais beside the Opal Throne. That was her place. The banked seats around the Rotunda seemed to fill up with ghostly faces, and imaginary sorcerers occupied the vacant thrones, all staring disdainfully at the grocer’s daughter.
An elderly herald came shuffling up to join the group, looking crushed by the weight of his ornate costume. Ylo returned with little Acopulo beside him, beaming his benevolent, retired-priest smile at everyone. Eshiala distrusted him, although she was not sure why. He ignored her most of the time, and when he did speak, it was usually to preach.
“We are ready, your Highness,” the herald wheezed painfully.
“One last thing,” Shandie said sharply. “Unless the weather improves dramatically, I shall stipulate contemporary court dress.”
The old man flinched as if he had heard an obscenity.
“Well?” Shandie demanded. Eshiala had never seen him look fierce before. His eyes blazed. This was Shandie at work, ruling.
“But… But formal court dress, your Highness… It’s traditional!” The herald seemed ready to weep.
Shandie showed his teeth. “I detest it!” he snapped. He spun around to Acopulo. “What do you say? Togas are not too unreasonable, I suppose, however ludicrous they look, but I don’t want my wife freezing to death in one of those stupid chitons!”
Eshiala gaped at him and everyone else was looking equally surprised, although perhaps for slightly different reasons.
Acopulo coughed politely. “I agree that the customary garments are impractical for winter, sir, but tradition has its values.”
“Such as?”
The little man assumed an expression of weary tolerance. “Such as ostentation. The ceremony will become a Winterfest ball, with everyone outdoing everyone else in sumptuosity. The ladies, bless them, will be much more interested in one another’s costumes than in the solemnity of the occasion. Formal court dress keeps everyone more or less equal. It reminds us that we are all equal before the Gods.”
Shandie scowled darkly.
“And the current styles!” Acopulo added, undeterred. “No disrespect, sir, but every lady of quality will require three times as much room to sit down. Space is already inadequate.”
“I detest togas!”
“Then why not wear your uniform as Commander in Chief, sir? I’m sure the College of Heralds can have no objection to that.”
“The College can…” Shandie pouted, then shrugged.
“Very well. Uniform would be quite appropriate, I suppose. Carry on then, my Lord Herald.”
Eshiala wondered what had happened to her death-by-freezing in a chiton. Shandie had apparently forgotten that part of the problem quite quickly.
Ironically, the dress style was the least of her worries. A chiton was a simple thing, not unlike her customary wear. She would be much less discomfited by formal court dress than any other woman in the Rotunda.
4
Ylo had been growing very bored with a wasted afternoon. He was consoling himself by noting that the rehearsal could last no more than another hour at the most; after that the Rotunda would be completely dark.
The next item on the program involved moving everybody out into the south corridor to Line Up for the Procession. The south corridor was nearly as black as a cellar already, which was no help to the flustered heralds trying to organize things, all of whom seemed to be either experienced and senile or too young and ignorant to be trusted by the others. As most of the notables who would participate in the ceremony were being represented at the rehearsal by Praetorian guardsmen, he was strongly reminded of his long-ago life in the Praetorian barracks. In any army Pandemia had ever known, Lesson One had always been Waiting in Line.
Lesson Two was Advanced Waiting in Line.
Heralds appeared and disappeared in the gloom, struggling to read their lists. They moved Ylo to and fro several times. Then the babble of confusion crept farther back along the corridor, and he decided that he was probably in his correct place.
“May I inquire to whom I have the honor of addressing the question of whom I have the honor of addressing?” he asked the two large guardsmen ahead of him.
The larger regarded him with disapproval. “If you were a man of better character, who attended temple as regularly as he should, you would have instantly recognized the saintly demeanor of the Archbishop of Ambel.”
“Your Holiness, I am mortified with consternation. Actually, I had always believed that your Holiness was a woman.”
“He is,” the other said. “And the same goes for the Sanctified Abbess of the Sisterhood of Purity, namely me, and what are you doing tonight, Good-Lookin’?”
Tribune Uthursho was out of town again. His wife had the most incredible breasts. Tonight Ylo was going to renew their acquaintance.
“I plan to spend the night in worship,” he explained regretfully. “Perhaps some other time, your Profligacy—preferably not quite so long after you shave your legs.”
“Ah! I knew I’d forgotten something this morning.”
“I believe we met in some unpleasant surroundings once, Signifer,” the archbishop said.
“Very good for our souls, I expect,” Ylo agreed. He had done time in the brig as a green recruit, which was presumably what the other was referring to. Now that he was a celebrity, anyone who had known him before was anxious to demonstrate the fact.
“Tell me —“ The guardsman lowered his voice. “I understand that Centurion Hithi has returned to normal duties.”
“That’s correct,” Ylo said happily.
“There’s an extraordinary rumor going around,” the abbess said in even lower tones.
“What rumor is that, your Virginity?”
“It is said—and I stress that I am merely repeating hearsay and put absolutely no credence in such fables—it is said that in order to win his release from temporary assignment to the Bureau of Correspondence, the centurion had to kneel down and lick someone’s sandal.”
“Not a word of truth in it!” Ylo said. “Flagrant falsehood. You did say one sandal?”
“I may be mistaken on the number. Two sandals may have been mentioned. One left foot, one right foot. Would you believe such a story?”
Ylo sighed regretfully. “I am afraid I am most solemnly sworn not to comment on t
he matter, ladies.”
The guardsmen exchanged glances, pursing lips in silent whistles.
Ylo had spread the story widely beforehand, so it really didn’t matter whether Hithi had actually groveled to win his release or whether he hadn’t. Everyone was going to assume that he had. Hithi hadn’t seen that until it was too late.
How sweet it had been!
Shouting up front suggested that the procession would soon begin to move. Ylo turned around and introduced himself to the two men behind him, who were civilians, and apparently exalted members of the aristocracy with the hereditary right to carry Emine’s sword and buckler whenever they were brought out for public display, as now.
“You mean those are the real things?” Ylo exclaimed, looking in disgust at the battered bronze relics the noble lords were holding.
The sword bearer bristled and explained how his honor would be sullied were he required to carry a mere replica. That might make sense to some people—elves, perhaps—but it didn’t to Ylo.
Then the shouting became louder and the procession straggled into motion. The Rotunda was very dim now. He wondered if a truly heavy snowfall could blanket the dome windows completely. In that case the hall would be unusable, for it was far too large to illuminate artificially. At the entrance the line divided. He was directed to the right. Soon progress stopped while the leaders were led to their stations, and thereafter the columns moved erratically.
He gazed approvingly at Princess Eshiala, leading the far line in her ermine cloak, looking exactly like the Ice Impress of her nickname. She was an incredibly gorgeous girl, still barely twenty years old. He knew how nervous she must be, but he doubted that few others did. If only she realized how well she deceived everyone! Her qualms did not show.
She was far too good for Shandie, who had no inklings about women. If he had any subtlety at all, his wife would not be responding so well to Ylo’s blandishments. She was coming along very nicely and he had every confidence that she would be his for the taking, come daffodil time. His flesh quivered with anticipation. He often wondered whether he would have made the effort had the preflecting pool not promised her to him. Probably not—far too dangerous and far too much work. He had never spent so much time on one woman before. By the Gods, though, she was going to be worth it!
