Tol said to the Dom-shu, “Whatever happens, guard your own lives. Protect the chest, but don’t sell your safety for it.”
“What will you do?” Kiya asked.
He shrugged. “Get through.”
Slipping past the mounted Relfas, Tol approached the edge of the surging mob. People of all ages and many races cheered frantically as he came nearer.
“Good people, let me through!” he shouted. “I must pass! The emperor expects me!”
He repeated this several times, until his words finally had an effect. Those nearest him complied and gradually a way was cleared. He waved for Relfas and the Dom-shu to follow him.
Striding through the narrow lane in the mob, Tol saw that not all the expressions were welcoming. A few stood out, like stones in a bowl of cream. The unsmiling ones wore armbands or headbands in black, blue, or white. He knew there were daggers under the cloaks of these hard-faced men, yet he felt strangely safe passing among them. Like Relfas, they were hostages to their own good behavior. If they dared strike at Tol, the mob would tear them to pieces.
Beyond Dermount Square, the low wall that demarcated the Old City channeled the crowd up the hill toward the imperial palace. For the first time Tol saw the shining white Tower of High Sorcery rising over the lesser rooftops. The elegant spire was wide at the base and narrowed as it rose. Small cupolas sprouted from its sides. The tower had been completed not long after the chief of the college, Mistress Yoralyn, had died, worn out by years of labor on the structure. Her successor, Oropash, was well-liked but a weak man. Under his leadership, the legitimate wizards and spellcasters of Daltigoth had lost ground to unscrupulous, unregulated practitioners who sold their magical skills to all comers.
Below the walls of the imperial Inner City was an open boulevard half a bowshot wide. Six companies of the Horse Guards were drawn up in a double line four deep, stretching all the way from the Inner City gate to the mouth of Saber Street, the thoroughfare Tol was ascending.
He emerged from the row of temples surrounding the Inner City into the boulevard, ahead of his ostensible escort. Behind him, the excited crowd halted. Numbering in the tens of thousands, they could have flooded the street, sweeping aside the six companies by sheer weight of numbers, but the same respect that moved them to part for Tol now stopped them at the edge of the Imperial Plaza.
Tol drank in the view as he walked. The grandeur of the walled Inner City was as he remembered, save for the mourning banners draped over the wall and flying from the tower tops. Instead of the usual flare of Ackal scarlet, the white of lifelessness dominated the scene. The Horse Guards wore white mantles, and the officers had white plumes on their helmets rather than red ones.
Five warriors on horseback rode slowly to meet him. In the center was Draymon, commander of the Palace Guard. Older, heavier, his sweeping mustache sprinkled with gray, Draymon was still imposing on his tall charger.
“Greetings, Draymon, son of Gouran! I come in victory!” Tol called.
“Greetings to you, Tolandruth of Juramona, Bane of Tarsis!” the commander replied. “Your coming is like the breaking of a storm-we heard you from far off!” Folding his arms across the pommel of his saddle, Draymon leaned forward. “What is this mob on your heels?”
“A few friends and well-wishers. I’ve been away a long time.”
Relfas, the Dom-shu sisters, and the treasure bearers emerged from the throng. When Relfas reached him, Draymon’s welcoming expression drew into a fierce scowl.
“Idiot! How could you allow this to happen?” he snapped. “Your company swamped by rabble! The honored general forced to proceed on foot! You have disgraced the Horse Guards!”
“There was little Relfas could do about the crowd,” Tol said mildly.
“He should have taken a closed coach to fetch you.” Draymon waved a dismissive hand at Relfas. “Get out of my sight, dolt!”
White-faced, Relfas turned his elegant mount and cantered briskly through the Inner City gate. It was plain he did not appreciate Tol’s attempt to defend him.
“If he weren’t related to half the court, I’d post him to a rock overlooking the western ocean and let him guard the empire from stray seabirds,” Draymon grumbled. Tol shared the commander’s opinion of Relfas but disapproved of humiliating a proud warrior in public.
One of Draymon’s aides yielded his horse to Tol. Once mounted, Tol asked that Kiya, Miya, and the treasure be escorted to whatever quarters were set aside for him. He took his leave of the sisters then followed the commander to the palace. Draymon had been ordered to bring Tol to the emperor at once.
Time had not dimmed the magnificence of the Inner City. A thousand white pennants stirred in the warm breeze. They floated above the gigantic mosaic pavement that depicted the life and deeds of Ackal Ergot in millions of tiny colored chips of stone. The southern half of the Inner City was filled by the garden of the wizards’ college, now dominated by the enormous Tower of High Sorcery rearing up from its center. This great spire needed no mourning wrap, as it was faced from foundation to pinnacle in translucent alabaster.
Opposite the garden was the palace, a complex of buildings wrought in marble, gold, and warmer tones of alabaster, grown together over the centuries into a single sprawling structure. After the vibrant greeting given Tol by the common folk of Daltigoth, the Inner City seemed oddly lifeless. The large honor guard drawn up in the Imperial Plaza was completely silent.
Grooms ran to hold their horses, and Tol and Draymon dismounted. They ascended the broad steps to the palace doors. The massive bronze portals, ornamented with silver wreaths and golden suns, swung back on iron tracks set in the marble floor. When Draymon and Tol entered the hall, two hundred guards arrayed in funereal white snapped to attention, their iron-shod heels clanging in unison.
“Hail Tolandruth, victor!” shouted the warden of the guard, and the warriors replied in unison, “Victory! Victory!”
As Tol and the commander passed through the facing lines of soldiers, each pair of men drew their sabers and saluted. Tol was unaccustomed to such pomp. It took effort not to flinch as naked swords flashed on either side, and the rattle of blades made his own empty sword hand itch.
They passed through a series of antechambers occupied by uniformed servants, idle courtiers, and elaborately dressed ladies of the court. Although it was still early in the morning, the inner chambers were already full of favor-seekers, ambassadors, priests, and ranking officers of the Great Horde. These last bowed as Tol passed. By custom, he ignored their tribute.
The passage jogged right. It had been Emperor Ergothas’ idea that no corridor in the palace should lead straight into any room. Ackal Ergot’s grandson was a master tactician and his notions of architecture were not mere eccentricity. Dog-legging the corridors made them easier to defend in case of attack.
Mighty doors ahead of them were closed. The warriors guarding them crossed their halberds before the portal.
Halting, Draymon said, “I bring Lord Tolandruth, by the emperor’s command!”
The captain of the audience hall guards went to announce them, entering the hall through a small side door. Moments later he returned, and the huge golden portals parted.
Warm, scented air washed over Tol. At the far end of the room, the golden throne of Ergoth stood on a raised dais. Between the throne and Tol was a crowd of richly dressed folk. All had turned and were regarding him expectantly, whispering among themselves.
Tol felt his heart begin to pound. He flexed his fingers over palms suddenly grown sweaty. “It’s only an audience, not a battle,” he muttered, trying to calm his nervousness.
Draymon heard him. Keeping his eyes forward, the commander whispered, “Battle would be easier.”
Tol glanced at him in surprise, but questions were forestalled as Draymon unhitched his sword belt and drew his dagger, handing both to a waiting lackey. Tol did the same, yielding his saber to another uniformed servant.
A gong was struck, silencing the assembly,
and a herald boomed out, “Silence! Attend upon His Excellency, Lord Tolandruth of Juramona, General of the Army of the North, Chosen Champion of the Regent of Ergoth!”
Tol and Draymon entered the great hall, walking in step, their footfalls cushioned by thick carpet: As they traversed the distance between door and throne, whispers of “Is that really him?” “He’s so short!” and “He’s back” mingled with the oft-repeated word “farmer.”
Two decades had passed since Tol had left his family’s farm as a child, yet in Daltigoth, a man was always identified by his father’s profession. To many of these people, no matter how many signal victories Tol won, he would always be nothing more than the son of a farmer.
The hall was warm, stiflingly so. The tall windows were shut and covered with white draperies, in honor of the deceased Pakin III. Bronze braziers, styled to resembled torches, blazed in wall sconces. In spite of the close atmosphere, clothing tended toward heavy velvets and brocades, and the predominant color was white. The current fashion for women was to wear a stiff, starched headdress that wrapped around the forehead and pulled long hair away from the face to cascade down the back, exposing the ears and neck. Even in mourning, court dandies managed to indulge their love of jewelry; Tol had never seen so many pearls and diamonds in his life.
Amaltar was the only one in the room not wearing white. Clad in scarlet robes, the new master of Ergoth stood out like a splash of blood on a snowy field. The throne sat at the end of the hall in a semicircular area thirty paces wide. On each side were ranged Amaltar’s closest advisors. The warriors stood out by the glint of the iron they wore; the others were civilians and priests.
Behind the advisors were the members of Amaltar’s household. His eldest wife, matronly Thura, stood closest to her husband. The other wives were arranged in strict order of precedence. Tol’s heart found a new reason to pound as he sought out Valaran, Amaltar’s fifth wife.
She appeared, still distant, as a slender figure in a proper white ensemble. A few paces closer, and Tol realized her gown and headdress were somewhat improperly trimmed with green. How like her that was! Val had never cared for the pointless whims of fashion, but she couldn’t completely ignore the rules of protocol. The highlights of vivid green certainly matched her eyes. He could never forget those eyes.
When they had first met, she’d been reading a scroll in an alcove, away from the prying eyes of the court ladies who felt such bookishness unbecoming. Now she stood tall and straight, swathed in voluminous waves of white silk. Her stiff headdress curled back from her temples and around her ears, holding the long hair that fell past her shoulders. Unable to see her face clearly as yet, Tol found himself staring at Val’s hair; pulled forward over one shoulder, the sleek mass gleamed a rich chestnut color in the torchlight.
Forcing his attention back to the emperor, Tol saw that Amaltar leaned hard on the right arm of his golden chair. His face was startlingly pale; against the scarlet of his robes, his skin had the pallor of marble. By tradition, he did not yet wear the imperial circlet on his brow, but his prince’s crown, a simple ring of gold set with two large rubies. His black eyes were shadowed by dark circles and his shoulders hunched. He looked as though he hadn’t slept in many nights.
When Tol and Draymon were six steps from the throne, a quartet of burly guardsmen stepped out, barring the way. The guardsmen were weaponless, of course, but had been carefully chosen for their imposing height and muscle. Draymon and Tol stopped.
“Here I leave you,” said the commander with a nod. “May fortune continue to favor you, my lord.”
Draymon withdrew. A chamberlain-it was Valdid, Valaran’s father-bade the guards stand aside, and gestured for Tol to come forward.
Tol slowly advanced. Lacking a dagger, he struck his heels together and raised an empty hand in salute to his liege. Chamberlain Valdid’s brow furrowed.
“Kneel,” he hissed, tapping his gold-capped staff agitatedly on the floor.
“What?”
“Kneelbefore the emperor!”
Tol was taken aback. Kneel like a slave? He’d never been asked to do such a thing before, not before Amaltar, nor even before his mighty father.
The four burly guardsmen regarded him coldly. Perplexed, Tol sank to one knee. Pressing his sword hand to his breast, he said, “Forgive me, Majesty. I’ve been away so long I don’t know proper manners.”
“Rise, Lord Tolandruth. Approach.”
Amaltar’s voice sounded dry and hoarse and much older than his actual age. Tol stood and came forward.
“Great Majesty, I have come as you bid.”
So intent was he on keeping his eyes away from the emperor’s left, where Valaran stood, that his gaze shifted to those on Amaltar’s right, and he spotted a familiar face.
Mandes!
The threadbare rogue wizard Tol had rescued from a band of wild bakali had certainly come up in the world. Looking sleek and well-groomed in his mourning robes, Mandes radiated success. A heavy silver chain lay around his neck, and a second silver band encircled a waist trimmer now than when Tol had last seen him. Although the top of his head was bald, his brown hair was long on the sides, pulled back and braided into a queue.
Hands tucked into his sleeves, Mandes regarded Tol with serene indifference. Tol forced himself not to stare at Mandes’s left sleeve; that was the arm he had lost in the battle with the monster XimXim. He must have contrived some artifice to give himself the appearance of having two good limbs.
It was not lost on Tol that Mandes stood within reach of the emperor, while Oropash, head of the White Robe wizards, was nearer the back. The positioning was a clear indication of who had Amaltar’s ear and who did not.
“Valiant general,” Amaltar rasped, “you’ve been away too long.”
“That was not by my choosing, sire.” Tol threw a stern glance at Mandes. “Enemies kept me away.”
Assuming he meant the Tarsans, the emperor nodded. “But you overcame them. You are the great sword of our empire, and we rejoice to have you at our side again.”
Tol found it difficult to hide his surprise at Amaltar’s condition. It was plain he was an unhealthy man. His Ackal face, with its strong chin and aquiline nose, had gone round and soft, while the rest of him seemed whittled to bone and sinew. Was it the burden of rule that wore a man down like this?
“I would hear of your final battle before the gates of Tarsis, and your journey here,” Amaltar said. “I’m told you arrived by boat, sailing an oceangoing ship up the Dalti Canal.”
“It was a pirate galleot, Majesty.” Tol explained that a sizable portion of the Blood Fleet had pledged loyalty to Ergoth.
“Pirates?” said the officer nearest the throne. “The emperor’s name cannot be stained by an alliance with bandits!”
Tol did not know the man. He was not one of Pakin III’s old lions, but a youngish fellow, clad in glittering court armor and bearing a scar across his upper lip.
“I speak not of alliance, but submission,” Tol replied tartly. “Sixty-six ships have pledged loyalty to the empire.”
The sneer deepened. “And what is a pirate’s oath worth?”
“More than the word of nameless palace heroes.”
The officer’s hand went to his hip, but of course he wore no sword in Amaltar’s presence. Gilded armor clattered as he drew himself up.
“I have a name-an old and respected one,” he said haughtily. “I am Pelladrom, son of Enkian Tumult.”
Lord Enkian, Tol’s old commander at Juramona, had been a remote, calculating man. His son was more of a hothead.
Pelladrom would have continued the exchange of insults, but Amaltar interrupted.
“Be still, young Tumult,” he said hoarsely. “This is the time for my noble father’s funeral, not yours.”
Amaltar’s advisors fell to debating the merits of the empire’s new navy. The notion was raised of an expedition to Kharland, to colonize the hinterlands and exterminate the pirates who remained there. Kharland was la
wless territory, claimed by a hundred petty local lords and chieftains. Ergoth would have seized it much earlier had not Tarsis insisted Kharland remain a neutral buffer between them. With the victory over Tarsis, Tarsan wishes were no longer relevant.
While the councilors wrangled, the royal consorts stood patiently, each with her respective offspring ranged behind her. For a man with eight wives, Amaltar had relatively few children. Pakin III, his father, had sired two dozen. The new emperor had only seven, and Tol noted with guilty relief that none stood behind Valaran.
She met Tol’s eyes for the first time and he thought he would shout for joy. In ten years she had indeed changed-she had grown more beautiful. The slender, tomboyish girl he’d known had given way to a woman’s figure and face, her cheekbones high and chin finely molded. Her gown was cut lower than those worn by the other wives and revealed a breathtaking view of creamy skin. However, her most arresting feature was still her eyes. Where once they had sparkled with youthful wit, like sunlight on new spring leaves, they now seemed cold and hard as emeralds. Her icy expression reduced him to the level of an insect crawling across a scroll she was reading.
It didn’t matter. Just to see Valaran again was worth any amount of anger she might feel for his long absence.
The emperor stood slowly, his shoulders bowed down as though by an invisible burden, and put an end to the wrangling among his advisors.
“These discussions are better vented in council, not in court,” he said.
The men bowed obediently. Tol caught a glimpse of Mandes’s hands as the wizard made his obeisance. Alone among all the hundreds of people in the room, Mandes wore gloves. The thin white gloves were just visible at the ends of his long, flowing sleeves.
Chamberlain Valdid announced that other warlords returning from Tarsis were expected in five days, and upon their arrival, Pakin III’s funeral would be held, followed by Amaltar’s coronation. Only then, when he was officially crowned, would Tol’s patron be fully master of Ergoth.
The Wizard_s Fate e-2 Page 18
