A warrior's joyrney

Chapter 12

A cold drizzle had been falling all night and day. The paved road made traveling easier, but there was no shelter for those on foot. Tol tramped along at the head of his men, cloaked to the eyes, his whole body soaked. There seemed little prospect of getting dry short of Daltigoth.

The Juramona delegation reached an enormous stone bridge spanning the eastern tributary of the Dalti River. Twice the width of the road, the bridge was nonetheless clogged with anxious and irritated travelers. Horses, mules, oxen, and people struggled in the chill rain, trying to force (in both directions) three hundred carts and wagons through a space meant for a third that number. On the walls along both edges of the bridge, men of high rank stood, shouting orders at the teeming mob at their feet. They might as well have tried to command a cloudburst; no one paid them the slightest heed.

Lord Enkian was losing his temper. Normally cool-headed, his impatience at the delay was exacerbated as he was pressed on all sides by soldiers, traders, emigrants, and foreigners of every race. He was about to order his riders to draw swords and force their way through when he spied Tol and waved him over.

“The whole world comes to Daltigoth!” Tol had to shout above the melee.

The marshal was not amused. “The doings of peasants and riff-raff do not concern me. I must enter the city before nightfall. I may have come the furthest distance, but the emperor will not be told Enkian Tumult was the last of his lords to arrive!”

“Perhaps if you took only a few retainers you could work your way through.”

“The Marshal of the Eastern Hundred does not enter the imperial capital like a Caergoth clerk, with only a handful of lackeys at his heels! I will enter with my full escort!” Enkian fixed him with a hard, unfriendly eye and added, “See to it, Tol. Disperse the mob.”

Tol knew better than to ask how he was to cleave through a crowd of harmless, quarrelsome folk without causing dangerous panic or bloodshed. “I shall do my best, my lord.”

He wended his way back to his motionless men. Miya and Kiya, in grass capes and hats, offered him a steaming cup of cider. The resourceful sisters had found someone in the supply wagons with a charcoal burner. Tol sipped the warm brew gratefully.

“What are our orders?” Narren asked.

Tol regarded his friend over the rim of the cider cup. “Lord Enkian says we must part the crowd for him, but how? We can’t go through with leveled spears!”

“Too bad that Morthur Grane fellow is dead,” Miya said. “He could magic these folk asleep, like he did us.”

Her words sparked an idea. Tol dug in his belt pouch and fished out Morthur’s sapphire ring. He was about to slide it on his finger when Kiya stopped him.

“Don’t. It is an evil ring.”

“How evil can it be? You only slept. Truly evil magic would have killed you.”

Kiya was adamant. “There are worse things than death.”

He ignored her and pushed the ring onto his finger. Holding out his hand, as he’d seen Morthur do, he waited. Nothing happened.

“Maybe there must be words spoken,” Narren suggested.

The crowd rippled, forcing Tol’s group to step lively to keep their balance on the wet pavement. Kiya climbed on a wagon wheel and peered over the heads of the mob.

“More warriors arrive,” she reported. “Their banner has two blues-one dark, one sky.”

“The Marshal of the Northern Hundred,” said Tol, removing the ring from his finger. Lord Enkian would be pleased to know he was at least ahead of them.

Miya took the ring from him, and Kiya barked, “Sister! Beware!”

The younger Dom-shu grinned, saying dismissively, “Faw, grasslander magic. This ring is as lifeless as its former owner. And it’s pretty!”

She slid the ring on over her gloved finger. It was a loose fit.

“A very fine stone,” she said smugly, and brought her hand up to admire the jewelry. She had to clench her fingers into a fist to keep the ring from sliding off and being lost in the mud underfoot.

Without a sound, Narren and Kiya collapsed, along with fifty or sixty of the nearest people. Tol caught Kiya, staggering under her weight. He propped her back against the wagon, as the ox team sighed and laid down in their traces.

A momentary hush fell over the crowd, then a woman screamed. In a circle twenty paces across centered on Miya, every living thing had dropped unconscious. Men and women, a cart full of gnomes, two kender (their hands still in others’ pockets), horses, oxen, a poulterer’s caged chickens-all lay inert. Only Tol and Miya remained upright.

Cries of “A curse!” “Poison!” “Plague!” began, low at first, then rising in volume. Panic erupted as those not stricken struggled to escape whatever baleful influence had struck so swiftly. Carters lashed their beasts, turning away from the bridge. Ahead, terrified folk trapped on the bridge leaped into the Dalti. Fortunately, though the river here was deep, it was also placid.

“Put your hand down!” Tol said sharply to Miya.

Startled by the efficacy of the magic ring, she complied immediately.

A shout went up from the west bank as the bottleneck broke open. People on horseback, in wagons or carts, and on foot burst off the end of the bridge and fanned out across the riverbank. Over the heads of the stampeding crowd, Tol could see Lord Enkian, vainly shouting orders at his mounted escort. No discipline could be maintained in such a rout. The marshal and his retainers were swept away by the rushing tide of people and wagons.

Tol took Morthur’s ring from Miya and put it away. Once the ring was safely tucked into his pouch, his comrades began to stir.

Miya squatted down by her groggy sister. “I hexed you!” she announced happily. “You went down like a rotten elm!”

“Shut up,” Kiya growled.

The others roused too. By the time they had collected themselves and shaken the wagon drivers awake, the great bridge was temporarily clear of traffic.

Tol looked back at the eastern shore. The men of the later-arriving marshal of the Northern Hundred were scattered to the horizon. It would take them half a day to regroup. To the west, toward Daltigoth, Lord Enkian had vanished from view. At least the stampede had driven them in the right direction. Despite the strangeness of their success, Tol couldn’t help but grin.

“Men of Juramona, forward!” he called to his foot soldiers. The rain still fell, but the day now seemed brighter.

The peninsula between the two branches of the Dalti was low and flat, covered by a patchwork of rich farmland. Imperial roads had been built on causeways above the fields, orchards, and pastures, so traffic to the capital would not damage the lush cropland below. Already the neatly ruled plots of black earth were streaked with fresh green sprouts. The paved causeways were wide enough for one wagon to pass another unimpeded. Tol was amazed to see the hard stone was rutted with the imprint of the hundreds and hundreds of wheels that had passed over it.

To the southwest the sky lightened, clouds thinning and rain easing. When they came to the west fork of the river, the Juramona contingent was relieved to see ten broad bridges spanning the waters. Traffic streamed freely across the gleaming white stone bridges toward the city, now only nine leagues away.

A rider in Enkian’s retinue was waiting on the far shore to collect the baggage train, and Tol’s escort. As he led Tol to where Lord Enkian waited, in a grove of pines alongside the Ackal Path, the rain finally ceased.

Tol saluted the marshal. Enkian pointedly did not ask how he had broken the bottleneck on the eastern bridge. “I want the baggage train to stay close behind us from now on,” he said. “The streets of Daltigoth teem with thieves, and I don’t want to lose any property before we reach the Imperial Palace.”

The only way for Tol’s foot soldiers to keep up with horsemen was to ride, so he divided his men, ten to a wagon, and bade them climb aboard. He and the Dom-shu sisters rode in the lead wagon.

Enkian’s escort removed their wet cloaks and donned clean, blood-red capes. They fixed scarlet horsehair plumes to the combs of their helmets and to their horses’ bridles. Finery in place, they set off.

The valley opened before them. Like the peninsula, it was bursting with abundance. On the north side of the road were endless rows of fruit trees-apple, cherry, pear, and a host of others. The rain-freshened air was scented with the perfume of the flowering trees.

On the south side of the road, the valley floor was dotted with herds of shaggy red cattle. Hundreds grazed behind stout timber fences. All bore the same brand on their hips: a curved line with a simple cross at one end. Parver, the wagon driver, explained that the saber symbol was the emperor’s own brand. The entire vast herd belonged to the lord of all Ergoth.

An arrow-straight canal paralleled the road. Long stretches of it were banked with slabs of granite. According to Parver, the Dalti river had been diverted into the canal, which ran all the way to the city. Rafts and barges (some visible as he spoke) traversed it to the main river, and thence all the way to the Gulf of Ergoth and the sea.

They rolled past a monumental pillar engraved with many lines of hieroglyphs. Atop the marker was the bust of a stern-looking man with a square-cut beard and a tall, conical helmet. The glyphs identified him as Ackal II Dermount, son of Ackal Ergot and the builder of this section of the road..

More statues appeared along the imperial way, each at least four times larger than life: emperors, empresses, famous generals, and heroic warriors. Miya and Kiya were quite fascinated. In the forest, only gods merited images, and the women asked if the sandstone and marble effigies were the gods of Ergoth. Tol, whose rudimentary reading skills were overtaxed by the flowery language beneath the names on the memorials, lied a little and said they were.

They came abreast of two rather ominous statues whose heads had been struck off, the names on the bases effaced. Tol didn’t need labels to guess these had been images of Pakin Zan and, most probably, his son Emperor Ergothas III.

As they passed the last of the statues, the sky suddenly cleared and sunlight flooded down. Tol could see a distinct line of light and shadow on the ground behind them. The sky overhead showed the same sharp delineation; the gray clouds did not thin gradually, but rolled solid as a ceiling up to a line beyond which was only clear, brilliant blue sky and gentle spring warmth.

The wizards of Daltigoth must be great indeed to command the clouds and hold back the rain, Tol mused.

The sunlight illuminated a great mass of mellow white stone rising ahead from the surrounding fertile fields. Daltigoth, capital city of the empire, filled the valley from the canal in the east to the foothills of the Harkmor Mountains on the south and west. Tol and his people were still two leagues away, yet the city spread from horizon to horizon, blotting out everything else. A constant haze hung over it-smoke from a prodigious number of inns, taverns, temples, and family hearths-but this faintly blue pall did not dim the gleaming expanse of the imperial city.

The first things Tol noticed were the towers. A profusion of lofty pinnacles jutted skyward, in every shape and color. About half boasted high, pointed roofs covered in green copper or gray lead. The rest were flat-topped with crenellated parapets, like the wooden watch towers of Juramona. A few towers-the very tallest, gathered in a group at the center of the city-were made of a polished white stone, and their conical roofs were gilded with pure gold. Seeing them flash in the sun, the Dom-shu sisters finally lost their tribal stoicism and began to point and exclaim with excitement.

The gray stone city wall came into view. It was many times the height of Juramona’s wooden stockade, yet even this prodigious barrier was dwarfed by a truly massive white curtain wall that encircled the inner grouping of those tallest, gilded towers.

Other roads converged on the Ackal Path. From his perch on the wagon seat Tol could see streams of mounted warriors approaching on every side. Thousands of fighting men surrounded them, each with a crimson plume attached to his polished helmet. Tol recognized hordes from every far-flung corner of the empire-from the borderlands of the north, the great cattle estates of the south, and the woodlands in the east. Each contingent bore its own banners and standards. Every color in the world was represented, and the standards depicted creatures mundane and fantastic-serpents, panthers, wolves, great birds, griffins, and even dragons.

In spite of this mighty and glorious panoply, Tol knew his party was the equal of any. Ahead of the creaking wagon, Lord Enkian and his escort rode at a stately walk, the breeze filling their crimson capes. Arrogant and conniving though the marshall might be, at that moment Tol was proud of him, proud of Juramona, and proud to be a part of the magnificent procession making its way to Daltigoth.

Looking beyond the marshal at their intended destination, Tol saw the Ackal Path led straight to a massive fortified gate in the outer wall. He could scarcely credit his eyes-the gate alone was a hundred paces high, twice the height of the wall it pierced. Huge, terraced columns flanked the entrance, the arch of which was heavily carved with weathered figures intertwined in complex ways. The gate’s swinging doors were only half the height of the arch, but were still quite impressive. Tol asked the knowledgeable Parver about the fantastic portal.

“It’s called the Dragon Gate. The great hero Volmunaard fought a black dragon, Vilesoot, on this spot,” said the wagoner. “The gate was erected to commemorate Volmunaard’s defeat of the evil beast.”

“A man beat a dragon?” scoffed Kiya, and Miya snorted her disbelief.

The garrulous driver raised his eyes heavenward. “By Draco Paladin, it’s true! He dealt Vilesoot a deathblow, but Volmunaard died too, consumed by the monster’s vitriol.”

Closer, they could see the frieze encircling the Dragon Gate, which told the story. Volmunaard, twice life size, rode out from Daltigoth in old-fashioned banded armor. Pictures showing his battle with the dragon were carved sequentially around the arch. The last detail on the right side of the gate showed the dragon dead and the hero perishing in a cloud of Vilesoot’s acid-breath.

As three great roads converged here, the structure was not wide enough to handle the traffic flowing in and out of the city. Tol resumed his seat by Parver as the wagon entered the shadow of the monumental portal.

The gatehouse was a small fortress of it own, garrisoned by bored-looking men in dusty iron breastplates and short kilts. Tol nodded to them. A few returned the gesture. They were commoners, foot soldiers like his men.

As he wondered how even a gang of men could close such ponderous metal-clad gates, he saw the answer: an ogre. Twice Tol’s height and twice his girth, the ogre stood just inside the swinging doors of the gate, wearing an iron collar affixed to three heavy chains secured to the stone city wall. A human with a sharp goad stood by him, ready to prod the hulking creature into action.

Tol was amazed that an ogre would work for humans, chained and guarded though he was. Parver sagely pointed out the reason for the ogre’s acquiescence: His eyelids were sewn shut. To control their powerful captive, the Ergothians had blinded him.

Once inside, the caravan from Juramona became embroiled in a fresh snarl of traffic. Tol quickly quashed Miya’s suggestion that she use Morthur’s ring again. Fortunately, Lord Enkian hadn’t been stopped long before a gang of guards charged out of the Dragon Gate armed with cudgels. They waded into the crowd and, with well-placed blows, got things moving again very quickly. It was a harsh but effective tactic, and Tol had the feeling it happened often.

He ordered his men off the wagons. Spears in hand, the footmen kept gawkers and pilferers back as the caravan crawled through the streets at a slow pace.

Tol tried not to stare at all the sights; he was on duty now, with the good reputation of Juramona at stake. Still, it was impossible not to notice the tall dwellings lining both sides of the street, four and five stories high. At street level were artisans’ shops, vegetable sellers, sausage and cheese vendors, bakers, petty diviners, and wineshops. Where two roads met, larger establishments loomed: full-fledged taverns, inns, and houses of healing.

“What noise!” Kiya called, still riding on the lead wagon. “Why does everyone talk at once?”

Tol had once thought Juramona noisy and impossibly busy. As a boy riding into town behind Egrin, he’d nearly panicked at the commotion. Yet compared to Daltigoth, provincial Juramona was quiet as a cemetery. The sheer number and variety of people to be seen were amazing. Lowly beggars in dirty rags jostled with prosperous merchants in leather and high-horn ladies in sumptuous velvet. The wealthy went about with armed escorts and haughty retainers, parting the crowds of half-naked seamen, gnomes, dwarves, and kender who the filled the wooden walks lining both sides of the street and spilled into the roadway. A cacophony of languages assaulted the ear.

Rolling past a whitewashed inn called The Four Winds, Tol saw two shaggy male centaurs involved in a raucous conversation with a red-bearded dwarf and a handsome black-skinned woman. The woman was dressed in leather breeches and a leather tunic, with a knife nearly as long as a sword hanging at her waist. Her thick braid of hair reached nearly to her knees. He hadn’t realized he was staring until the woman turned and regarded him with hands on hips and a measuring expression in her eyes. Flushing, Tol looked away-

— and found that he himself was the object of several other pairs of eyes, unfriendly ones. Three men were idling in the doorway of the inn. Lean types, with scarred faces and tight-fitting clothes, they each wore slender swords hanging from leather baldrics. Egrin’s warning about duelists came to mind, and Tol shifted his gaze quickly ahead.

After what seemed an age, the caravan at last reached the high white wall they’d seen from the valley. This turned out to be the boundary of the inner city. From ground to parapet, the wall was covered with low-relief carvings-coronations, entire battles, and enormous images of the gods, with Corij, Mishas, and Draco Paladin predominating. Within the wall were just two households: the emperor’s palace and the college of wizards. The future Tower of Sorcery would rise from the grounds of the wizards’ enclave.

The caravan halted before a closed gate in the inner city wall. Guards handsomely bedecked in black iron armor and scarlet tabards came out to confer with Lord Enkian. The exchange went on for some time, with much nodding and pointing from the guards. At last, Enkian sent the bulk of his entourage away, to be quartered in local inns with warriors from other provinces. Tol, his footmen, and the wagons remained, waiting.

Enkian waved Tol forward. He jogged to the marshal, followed as always by the Dom-shu sisters.

“Master Tol, your men are to seek accommodation in the Canal Quarter, by the river,” Enkian said.

“Are any hostels set aside for us, my lord?”

“No, but all lodging houses in Daltigoth are required to accept provincial troops wherever they can fit them in. Your room cost will be borne by the Juramona treasury, but food and drink are at your own expense.”

Not exactly a generous arrangement, Tol thought, knowing his men would grumble, but it was better than sleeping in the street. He saluted smartly and made to leave. Enkian cleared his throat, halting his departure.

“You, Tol, are to enter the Inner City with my retinue-by the crown prince’s order.”

He stifled an urge to whoop. Kiya tugged his sleeve, prompting him to ask, “And the Dom-shu, my lord?” Two years he’d lived with them, and he still couldn’t bring himself to call them his wives.

“Oh, bring them. I daresay they can bed in the scullery or kitchens. Take the wagons with my baggage to the Riders’ Hall and see to their unloading.”

Enkian’s baggage filled four of the twenty wagons. Tol split the guarding of the rest of the wagons between the escort riders and his footmen. When all the wagons were emptied, their drivers would be paid off and dismissed.

Thinking it unmartial to enter the palace grounds in an ox-drawn wagon, Tol walked ahead of the four bearing Enkian’s baggage. Kiya strode along on his right, Miya on his left. The imperial guards, with their black armor, red scarves, and brightly polished poleaxes, watched the trio curiously as they passed through the gate.

“This is the heart of the empire,” Tol murmured to the sisters. “Mind what you say and do!”

The inner city wall was enormously thick-Tol counted sixteen paces before they emerged into daylight again. On the other side, he stopped, blinking in surprise. Surely this was the most amazing place in all the world!

Stretching before them was the Imperial Plaza, a courtyard seemingly larger in area than the whole town of Juramona. It was paved, not with ordinary stone, but with small colored blocks arranged in beautiful patterns. Red granite, blue slate, and buff limestone framed the great mosaic images rendered in chips of turquoise, agate, onyx, coal, and shell. Here, where Tol had entered, was a panorama depicting Ackal Ergot’s victory over the Pakitene tribes two centuries earlier. He could easily spend hours staring at the vibrant, colossal pictures.

As awesome as the plaza was, the landscape of the inner city was even more breathtaking. To the left of the gate stood the Imperial Palace, a complex of buildings and towers which had grown up over the years into a massive single structure. A great staircase rose from the plaza to the main doors, pausing twice in broad landings large enough to drill an entire foot company. The palace gates were sheathed in gold, and the hundreds of windows in the thick stone walls were equipped with gilded shutters. Expanses of sloping roof were sheathed in hammered lead plates, and rainspouts shaped like open-mouthed dragons perched on the corner of every gutter. Towers even taller than the inner wall shone white in the sun, while the rest of the inner city lay wreathed in the shadow of its own wall.

On Tol’s right, in a graceful park of trees, was the college of wizards. More modest and elegant than the palace, the college itself was a four-story building shaped like a squared horseshoe. Each floor of the building was faced by a colonnade, the columned walks overlooking a courtyard at the center. In that courtyard, just visible above the trees, a complicated wooden scaffolding rose. Tol realized the platforms must surround the site of the future Tower of Sorcery.

Two other buildings were visible from Tol’s vantage in the Imperial Plaza. One was a large timber frame hall directly ahead. Judging by the warlords entering it, this was the Riders’ Hall, where the emperor’s chief vassals were lodged. The other building was just inside the gate, a severe three-story stone structure with a flat roof. It had the look of a stronghold, and Tol took it to be the barracks of the Imperial City Guard.

The vast plaza teemed with activity. In addition to guards and servants in imperial livery, there were lords and ladies of the court strolling about in the latest city fashions-the women wearing tall hats shaped like curly rams’ horns, their bright gowns with long trailing hems; the men in richly colored cloaks; and both sexes dripped with gems. People in plainer dress, with little or no jewelry, Tol took to be members of the sorcerers’ college. Enormous wolfhounds bounded across the mosaic pavement, chasing a leather “fox” dragged by a fleet servant boy. When the wind stirred the trees in the college garden, flower petals took flight and collected in sweet drifts around statues and along walls.

Miya prodded him in the back. “If you don’t close your mouth, birds will nest on your tongue,” she said.

Tol shut his mouth with a snap. “Wagons, forward!” he ordered, lowering his chin to hide his flushed face.

He had the laden wagons draw up at the Riders’ Hall for unloading. From the hall came an army of lackeys, clad in matching leather jerkins and baggy trews. They swarmed over the Juramona wagons like ants and emptied them in short order.

Taken aback by the swiftness of the operation, Tol looked at the lead wagoner and shook his head. Parver grinned and doffed his cap, exposing his bare, sun-browned pate.

“Watch yourself, young master,” he said, as the wagons departed.

Tol was uncertain what to do next, but the Dom-shu sisters were looking at him expectantly. He squared his shoulders and mounted the steps to the Riders’ Hall, Kiya and Miya following. At the top, guards at the doors barred the way.

“Only Riders of the Horde may enter,” said one. The nasal of his helmet mashed his nose flat and made his voice sound odd.

“I am a rider, Tol of Juramona. These are my wives.”

“You arrived on foot-you can’t he a rider,” said the second guard.

Tol tried to convince the guards, but their logic was inflexible and unanswerable: He’d arrived on foot, therefore he was no rider; if he was no rider, he couldn’t enter the Riders’ Hall.

Tol and the Dom-shu withdrew to the bottom of the steps.

“We could rush them,” Kiya murmured, brown eyes narrowing as she studied the foe.

“No, no fighting!” Tol hissed. “Lord Enkian will vouch for us. I’m here at the order of the crown prince himself.”

“Lord Enkian may not come out for hours,” said Miya.

“And I’m hungry,” added Kiya.

Tol looked across the plaza at the wizards’ college, then at the palace. He was much less unnerved by the pomp of the royal residence than by the unknown mysteries lurking in the sorcerers’ garden, so-

“To the palace,” he said.

The sisters gave him identical questioning looks, so he winked, saying, “The food’s probably better there anyway!”

Unfortunately, when they drew nearer, they realized that the monumental entrance to the palace was patrolled by no less than three dozen guards, half of whom were mounted. If Tol couldn’t bluff his way past the guards at the Riders’ Hall, it seemed unlikely he and his Dom-shu companions could wander into the Imperial Palace unchallenged.

Striving to look like he belonged there, Tol walked boldly down the alley between the palace’s west wing and the inner city wall. It was a rather pretty shaded lane, though the palace loomed overhead like a mountain of marble and gold. Trailing red roses spilled from terraces over their heads, and to their ears came the sweet music of pipes.

The palace wall slanted in, mirroring the lozenge shape of the surrounding curtain wall. At the rear of the imperial enclave, the gentle, rose-scented atmosphere gave way to smoke and noise. Here was where the real work of the enormous household went on-smoky kitchens, a smithy, and wagons waiting to haul away the offal and slops. Cooks, servants, and artisans scurried to and fro. A few glanced at Tol and the Dom-shu, but no one paused long enough to challenge them.

Following her nose, the hungry Kiya walked up a ramp, leading the other two into a fantastic kitchen. Four great hearths were roaring. Turbaned cooks stirred cauldrons and basted a savory phalanx of chickens and ducks roasting on an iron rack. Whole oxen rotated on spits turned by gangs of boys nearly naked against the searing heat. A lordly white-robed cook raised a dipper the size of a wine keg and basted an oxen, drenching the simmering carcass in golden butter.

“By my ancestors!” Kiya exclaimed. “All I prayed for was a joint to gnaw and a tankard to wash it down!”

A burst of laughter erupted behind them. Under a low-beamed ceiling, some kitchen workers were gathered around a long trestle table. They passed trenchers laden with capon and round loaves of bread, tops snowy with flour.

Kiya grinned happily. She beckoned Tol and Miya to follow, but only her sister did. They eased themselves up to the table. Miya cracked a joke and set the workers roaring. The Dom-shu were made welcome.

Tol found he was simply too excited to eat. He wanted to see more of this fantastic place and to present himself to Prince Amaltar. After all, the prince had personally requested his presence in the inner city.

He left the Dom-shu sisters in the kitchen and slipped between the blazing hearths until he reached a cooler, quieter room beyond. Here, utensils were stacked on shelves from floor to ceiling: silver trenchers, pewter cups and bowls, forks and table knives. Tol kept moving. With no idea where he was going, or where he’d end up, he followed a narrow corridor in the general direction of the center of the palace.

He came to a pair of heavy velvet curtains. Parting them, he stepped out into a wide hall. Oil lamps burned in wall sconces, but the corridor was dim. Trying not to seem furtive, Tol walked down the hall toward a lighted chamber ahead.

“-worthless imbeciles!” someone shouted-a male voice, very angry. Tol heard the unmistakable sound of a blow against flesh. He halted.

“It’s bad enough the city is flooded with provincial nobility, but now the palace reeks of country gentlemen, too!” Another ugly impact, followed by a grunt of pain.

“Gracious prince,” a second voice gasped, “I do but obey the will of your imperial father!”

Intrigued, Tol peeked around the corner. The next room was an antechamber where three corridors intersected. An atrium allowed sunlight to penetrate, illuminating the scene. Groveling on his face was a richly dressed man of middle years. Standing over him was a younger, taller man with a fiercely upswept mustache and hair the color of a sunset. His scarlet robe was weighed down with huge golden medallions, and belted with a wide black leather strap.

“How dare you invoke my father against me!” said the strange noble, driving his booted foot into the cowering man’s ribs. The man rolled away from the blow, and Tol saw his face. He was Valdid, chamberlain to Crown Prince Amaltar, the same man who had guided Lord Odovar and his lieutenants into Amaltar’s presence at his camp outside Caergoth.

“Prince Nazramin,” the chamberlain managed to say, “I will keep the conclave guests away from your quarters-”

“And my garden too!” snarled the prince. “If I find anyone in my sanctum, I’ll slit their worthless throats.”

“It shall be done, Your Highness.”

“Cross me, you fool, and I’ll have your hands cropped off!”

Prince Nazramin stalked out of the room. Tol shrank back into the shadows. Valdid scrabbled on the floor a bit, retrieving his gold-capped cane, and used it to brace himself to his feet. Tol remained hidden, not wishing the older man to know that the prince’s cruelty to him had been witnessed.

After straightening his robe and smoothing his hair, Valdid limped away, but Tol hesitated still, worried now what else he might blunder into. Perhaps he should find his way back to the kitchen.

Turning to go, he glimpsed a set of steps ahead. Sunlight filtered down the plain stone stairwell, beckoning him upward, teasing him with thoughts of the marvels he might find. He hesitated only a moment before giving in to his curiosity.

At the top of the steps he found himself on a columned walkway between two wings of the palace. Below was a sea of rooftops and chimneys. Above were more walkways and soaring towers. He heard a hum of voices at the end of the walk and moved cautiously toward the sound. Several times servants popped out of side passages, bearing linens or trays of empty wine cups. They glanced him at him curiously, but no one questioned him. Prompted by their stares, he suddenly realized that he still wore his saber and dagger. Even the smallest weapons were forbidden in Prince Amaltar’s presence, and here he was loose in the Imperial Palace, girded for battle!

Casting about for a place to store his weapons, he noticed a passage on the right. A light curtain screened it. The curtain stirred gently near the floor, teased by a draft. Tol swept the curtain aside and ducked in.

He wasn’t in a passage, but a niche, about six steps deep. And he was not alone.

Seated on a marble bench was a girl with an open scroll in her hands. A circle of daylight fell on her from a small skylight. At Tol’s entrance, she looked up with a gasp of surprise.

“Forgive me,” he said. “I didn’t know anyone was here.”

“I forgive you,” replied the girl. “No one knew I was here.”

She looked to be somewhat younger than Tol-fifteen perhaps, sixteen at most. Her straight dark brown hair was waist-length and parted in the middle. She wore it loose, but looped behind her ears. Her pallor proved she didn’t spend much time outdoors. That, coupled with her simple gray gown, led Tol to conclude she was a servant, hiding to avoid her chores.

“Weapons are forbidden in the palace-are you an assassin?” she said calmly, gesturing at his sword.

“No!” He unbuckled his belt and stood the saber in the corner. Adding his dagger, he straightened his tunic and said, “It was a mistake. I didn’t mean to come here armed. I’m from-I’m from the provinces.”

“Obviously. Well, I hope you don’t get caught. Even without weapons, you’ll be flogged for entering the private wing of the palace.”

The sound of voices came to his ear, and he exclaimed, “Someone’s coming!”

She listened a moment, then said, “No. That’s only the Consorts’ Circle in the empress’s garden.” She waved a hand vaguely behind her, adding with a grimace, “Wives of the emperor, princes, and high lords of the court-they gather there daily. Chatter, chatter, chatter. What a bore!”

He smiled. Looking at the scroll in her lap, he asked, “What’s that you’re reading?”

“The Chronicle of Balif. Do you know it?”

He said no, and she explained that Balif was a Silvanesti noble and general who had lived during the time the elf kingdom was established. He helped found the Sinthal-Elish, the great council that chose Silvanos Goldeneye as first Speaker of the Stars. Balif could’ve been Speaker himself, she said, but chose instead to support Silvanos.

“Why?” Tol asked. Having read little himself, he knew nothing of the history of the Silvanesti. The only elf he’d ever met was the one he’d captured in the Great Green.

She pushed an escaping strand of hair behind her ear again. “He was shown his future by a sorcerer named Vedvedsica, and realized he could never be Speaker of the Stars,” she explained. “Elves are very concerned with how they look and sound. Balif learned he would be stricken by a loathsome curse. In the end, it was so awful, he had to flee the country under cover of darkness.”

Tol heard voices again, this time unmistakably male and growing louder. The heavy tramp of booted feet was plain in the corridor.

“The armed man entered this passage, sir!” a voice whined.

The booted feet halted seemingly just outside Tol’s niche. “Search the side passages!” ordered a stern voice.

Tol flattened himself against the wall, his saber within reach. If it came to being arrested, he wondered if he should fight rather than meekly submit.

A gauntleted hand grasped the curtain screening the niche. The girl let out a high-pitched scream.

“Stay out!” she cried.

The hand was withdrawn. “Beg pardon, my lady. Who are you?”

“Princess Carafel! Don’t come in-I’m not clothed!”

Tol blinked and swallowed hard. Had he been sharing the niche with a daughter of the royal house?

“A thousand pardons, Princess!” said a deeper, more imposing voice. “It’s Draymon, captain of the guard. We are searching for an armed man seen in the palace.”

“Do you think he is in here with me?” the girl said shrilly. “Go about your business, Lord Draymon, or I shall mention this incident to my father!”

“My humblest apologies, Highness. We’ll continue our search elsewhere.”

Tol crept to the curtain and listened. He heard the heavy footsteps diminish with distance. Turning to the girl, he found her shaking with silent laughter.

“Are you really Princess Carafel?” he asked, intimidated.

“That soaphead?!” She rolled up the scroll. “I’m Valaran, fourth daughter of Lord Valdid and Lady Pernina. Most people call me Val.”

He sighed with relief. “I’m Tol of Juramona,” he said. “Most people call me Tol.”

Valaran smiled. She had an intriguing smile, with a dimple just under the left corner of her mouth. It made her look even younger than he’d guessed. Her eyes were green, like the weathered copper roofs of Daltigoth.

“You’d better get out of here, Tol of Juramona,” she said. “Draymon may yet wonder what a royal princess would be doing in here unclothed.”

“How do I get back to the kitchens? I left my friends there.”

She slid off the high bench, showing a bit of pale calf as she did so. Unselfconsciously, she smoothed her gown and retied the pearl-beaded sash around her waist. Plainly dressed or not, Tol knew he wouldn’t have mistaken her for a housemaid if he’d noticed that expensive sash. She was shorter than he, but only barely.

“I’ll lead you to the kitchens. You’ll have to leave your sword and knife here,” she said, and handed him the thick scroll. “If anyone stops us, you’re escorting me to the temple library.”

Tol nodded. Valaran lifted the curtain and peeked out. Satisfied no one was around, she waved Tol out They went quickly down the corridor. Her step was light and fast. Tol commented on her confident navigation of the confusion of twists and turns.

“I should know the way; I’ve lived here forever!”

Her vexed tone made him smile. She was rather pretty. If she were a little older, he would be tempted to court her. He was a Rider of the Horde after all, he reminded himself, appointed by Prince Amaltar himself.

“Why were you in that cubbyhole?” he asked.

She frowned, crinkling her nose. “They don’t like to see me reading. Sometimes the ninnies of the Consorts’ Circle snatch the scrolls right from my hands!” She adopted a nasal, mocking tone: “ ‘Reading isn’t good for women. If you’re smarter than a man, he won’t like you.’ ”

“That’s not true. Nothing’s more boring than an empty head.” He glanced at her. “Why did you save me from the guards?”

Once a passing trio of servants moved out of earshot, she said flatly, “If they’d found you with me, I would’ve been whipped.”

Tol’s buoyant mood collapsed. She’d done it merely to save herself. He suddenly remembered the ugly scene he’d witnessed between the angry prince and Valdid. The hapless chamberlain was Valaran’s father. If such beatings were common in the Imperial Palace, he couldn’t fault her for wishing to avoid one. Her next words restored his good humor.

“Besides, you’re the first provincial to make it this far into the palace. You’ve got nerve.” She favored him with another dimpled smile, adding, “Or you’re stupid. I can’t tell yet. Anyway, I like to talk to people who have experienced the world outside the city. I want to hear everything about the world-and you.”

He stopped in his tracks. “You want to see me again?”

“Certainly. How else could we talk?”

They resumed walking, and Valaran said sternly, “You can’t come here, though. Are you lodging in the Riders’ Hall?” With nothing else definite, Tol nodded. “Good. We can meet in the wizards’ garden-at the fountain of the centaurs. I go there to read sometimes. The mages don’t mind.”

“I don’t know what my duties may be,” he said doubtfully. “If I am free, I’ll come.”

“I’m usually there four marks before sunset,” Valaran said, explaining that time in the Inner City was marked by the procession of the highest tower’s shadow across a set of lines carved into the inner wall.

They had reached the sweltering kitchens, and Tol’s adventure was over. He wanted to say something gallant, as he imagined a seasoned warrior would do, but Valaran didn’t linger for his goodbye. She plucked the scroll from his hand and darted away. Opening the fat cylinder of parchment, she was soon engrossed once more, reading as she walked.

Kiya and Miya were still seated at the table. Red-faced from wine and heat, they hailed their wandering companion. He sat down heavily between them. Miya pushed a plate of seared chicken in front of him, and filled a clay cup with dark red wine.

“Have some grub,” she said, sounding more rustic than usual. “It’s good! They treat you right here!”

Tol thought about his close call. Whether she’d been saving only herself or him, Valaran had a quick wit and courage enough to face down an irate captain of the guard. He looked forward to seeing her again.

He clinked his cup to Kiya’s, then Miya’s. “That they do,” he said.