While the servants scurried, a guardsman entered, saying: "A courier named Zerlik would fain see Your Majesty."
"Send him in," said Jorian.
The young man entered and dramatically dropped to one knee. "Your Majesty!" he cried. "I have just returned from bearing the king's letter to Othomae. Nominating you was the best thing King Ishbahar ever did. My sword is at your service; your every wish is my command!"
"That is fine, but I fear I shan't be here long enough to profit from your loyalty."
"You are leaving? Take me with you as your s-squire!"
"Alas, our vehicle cannot carry three. Colonel Chuivir is my deputy and chosen successor, so transfer your loyalty to him."
"But there must be something, sire—"
"I will tell you. You have a big house. Set aside one small room as a refuge for me, should I ever have to flee Novaria and go into hiding here."
"It shall be done! May the gods bless Your Majesty!"
"Better ask them to bless Chuivir; he will need it. Farewell!"
An hour later, the streets of Iraz resounded to the tramp of feet, the roar of mobs, the clash of arms, and the screams of the stricken. Chuivir and several of his guardsmen stood on the roof of the palace, watching the bathtub carrying Jorian and Karadur wobble off into the heavens. The rays of the setting sun gleamed redly on the copper of the tub. The vehicle shrank until it became a mere crimson spark in the deepening blue of the heavens.
Chuivir, wearing the serpent crown of Penembei instead of his helmet, sighed and murmured: "There goes the man who should really have been king, were he not debarred by popular prejudice. Ah, well." He turned to the officers around him and began to receive reports and issue commands.
The Clocks of Iraz Page 17
