The Unforsaken Hiero

I. THE KINGDOM OF THE EAST

Golden sunlight streamed through the narrow windows of the palace, and a great gong boomed, announcing that day had come again to mighty D’alwah. The sound was echoed and re-echoed from far and near as the watch on the walls and the patrols along the bridges and covered ways answered with their smaller strikers of ringing metal The whole walled city pealed and rang, a vibrant diapason of challenging sound. Hiero sat up in bed with a jerk, covering his ears against the clamor and muttering darkly.

“You do that every morning,” Luchare’s voice said. “After all the time we’ve been here, I should think you’d be used to the gong.”

He pried his eyes open to see her dressed and seated at her mirror, coloring her lips and her eyelashes with the bluish paste which was currently the height of fashion at court. He pursed his lips and made a light spitting noise.

She looked around and grinned merrily. “Don’t be so stiff. I have to look my best when I’m officially entertaining the noble ladies at breakfast. And what kept you up till all hours last night? Talking religion with our high priest again?”

“Umm.” He’d found the breakfast she had ordered for him on a tray beside the bed and he began eating. “Old Markama isn’t bad for a high priest—for a D’alwah high priest, that is. But, my God, what has happened to the church down here? Celibate priests! And all these so-called monasteries where the nobles send their unwanted young of both sexes to paint wooden pictures or sew and pray all day—and to live in silence and chastity! It’s as if the Unclean were already in control and determined to make people go crazy.” His face became suddenly serious. “And I can’t be sure that this isn’t a hotbed of the Unclean with their minions all wearing mechanical mind shields.”

“Hiero!” Her face grew troubled as she stared at him. “I know you really believe that. You may even be right. But you haven’t found any proof—just a few people whose minds you can’t read. And you told me when you were training me that a lot of people have natural screens, people who are unaware of it themselves.”

He sighed and dropped the subject, while she turned the conversation to the Court Ball that was being given in the palace that evening. But after she left for her official duties, he dressed and moved slowly out of the palace and into the maze of the city, still brooding as he exercised his legs.

There was something ugly and dangerous going on in the royal castle. He could feel it, though no clear thoughts came through to him. But there was a deep undercurrent of hatred, impossible to disguise from someone who had been through all he had with the Unclean and their allies.

Yet he had been treated very well. When he and Luchare appeared on Klootz, the guard at the main gate had saluted, let them through, and given her full royal honors. An hour later, he had been closeted with Luchare and her father, Danyale IX, hereditary ruler of the sovereign state of D’alwah.

To Hiero’s surprise, he liked the king, and Danyale made it plain that he liked his new son-in-law.

The king was a large, heavy man, still muscular, but inclining a little to fat, now that he had passed the half-century mark. His curly, graying hair was worn short, and his face was handsome and open over his mustache and beard. His kilts and robes were of a magnificent weave and color, and he wore many rings and pendants. But he was never without a long, two-edged sword whose handle was plain and worn. His handgrip was firm and hard.

Was this the brutal tyrant whose only daughter had fled into the wilderness to avoid a marriage foisted upon her by her dynastic-minded father, as Luchare had claimed?

Danyale brought the matter up while he and Hiero sat on the edge of a parapet of the palace. The ever-present guards had been waved out of earshot and lounged some distance away, conversing in low tones and watching both their ruler and their new prince.

“Look, Hiero, I know what Luchare must have told you about that business of marrying her off to Efrem. But all my nobles insisted—the whole council, including the church fathers. What was I to do? God knows, we must have allies. Chespek was all there was. Efrem is afraid of me, and I thought I could control him, see that he didn’t harm the girl. I know the bastard’s reputation as well as she does. But, damn it, this kind of thing is part of being a king. And with my only son dead…” He looked into Hiero’s eyes and said nothing further for a moment.

“I understand,” the Metz priest said quietly. “The realm has to come first, all the time.” He rather admired the older man. It couldn’t be easy for the king to apologize for something he saw as a vital, standard matter of politics.

There was no trouble in communication. Hiero was a master linguist, and Luchare had coached him in the speech of D’alwah for weeks as they journeyed toward her home.

“What will Efrem do now?” Hiero’s question was only partly idle. The priests, awed by his powers and knowledge of the past, had told him much, and he had learned more by mind search. But, as a matter of honor, he could not probe Luchare’s father. And he needed to know what the man thought, how his mind worked, and what his capabilities were. If D’alwah were to be protected from the Unclean and their grim allies—if it were to be enlisted on the side of the Abbeys—then much still had to be learned.

Danyale’s answer was a snort of contempt. “Hell fume in private, then do whatever the priests tell him when he goes to confession for half-murdering some slave girl. Forget him.” He eyed Hiero, his wariness apparent all at once. “You seem to have pull with the Church Universal, my boy. Do the nobles up your way control the priests? Down here it has been a long, constant struggle to keep the power in my hands and out of theirs—or worse, from some puppet whom they might raise up against me. You seem to know all their priestly secrets and a lot of your own as well. You could be of much help to me,” he added. The attempt was regrettable, Hiero thought; Danyale was no intriguer, but a decent, if not-too-bright, soldier, trapped in a decadent court and surrounded by schemers, both civil and ecclesiastic.

“We do things differently,” he evaded. “Our nobles and gentry are so busy fighting the Unclean that we learned long ago to be one pillar of the state and support the church as the other. And,” he added, as if in afterthought, “of course we have no actual king, but only a noble, supreme Council with both church and civil members,” It was only half a lie, since the Abbey Council was actually that. The fact that there were no nobles could wait until Hiero and the Metz Republic were ready.

“Well,” Danyale said heavily, “I suppose you have secrets, too. I find the world harder and harder to understand.” He looked up, a smile tugging at the corner of his full lips. “One thing, though. I’m damn glad to have you as a son-in-law, prince or no prince. Oddly enough, I love my daughter and I’m glad to see her happy. But more than that—” He leaned over and tapped Hiero’s knee. “I think you’re going to be valuable to me, my boy—to me and to D’alwah.”

He rose, clapped the Metz on the shoulder, and strode off to his day’s duties. He was not an unkingly figure, Hiero reflected, and perhaps somewhat more clever than he appeared.

There were other meetings of a similar nature and meetings with the great men of the kingdom also. Markama, the archpriest, was a decent enough old man and could have exerted great power, had he possessed the basic ability to lead. But he was obsessed with ritual and hieratic obscurantism. But at least he was no enemy, being in awe of Hiero’s knowledge, both of church secrets and of the Unclean, whom he truly feared and detested.

Most of the work of the church—the accounts, administration, schools, and such—seemed to be in the hands of one Joseato, a priest just below the archpriest in rank, a thin, colorless bureaucrat who always carried bundles of parchment and had a perpetually distracted air. Hiero found nothing special to dislike about the man. But Joseato had a shielded mind, which was a big factor to consider. Could he have a bluish metal locket under his robes, a mechanical mind screen of the Unclean? Of course, as Luchare had pointed out, the shield could be innate, as many were, or the result of the sketchy mental training which even the southern church had not completely lost. There was no way of telling what power, mental or physical, impelled a good mind shield, and he could hardly ask the priest to strip. Joseato simply had to be watched, as far as that was possible.

He was still pondering as he ceased wandering and turned back toward the palace stables. There were too many shielded minds that needed watching. There was Count Ghiftah Hamili, for instance, a fine soldier as well as a great noble and landowner. The youngish, quiet man had been a suitor at one time for Luchare’s hand and was much at court. Although friendly enough, he had a disconcerting gaze which the Metz priest found fixed on himself far too often for his liking.

But at least Hiero had found one sure friend. A senior lay brother of the Eleveners had approached him, alerted through the agency of Aldo and the underground network of the Brotherhood. The fact that Mitrash was a lieutenant of the palace guard made things even better. Day or night, he could come and go without suspicion within the well-protected precincts of the inner fortress. The balding, middle-aged veteran exuded competence. Already, he and Hiero had held several conferences late at night.

The trouble was that Mitrash did not know very much. While eager to be helpful, he was simply a good, honest soldier who had been recruited as an acolyte by the Order and placed in the palace as an observer. He was deeply worried about the inner rot and subversion he saw about him throughout the kingdom, but he was not a mental master like Aldo. He had many contacts and could reach other members of the Order, but this took time. And he was mind-shielded—a good thing in his case. Hiero had requested that Mitrash be assigned as captain of his bodyguard, but the military red tape of D’alwah was no different from that of any other army. Meanwhile, the man was near at hand to guard Luchare if her spouse were called away.

Then the stables were ahead, and it was time to exercise Klootz and Hiero’s new mount, a hopper named Segi.

The giant morse was pleased to see Hiero and butted him playfully while being led from his stall by awed grooms. No one in D’alwah had ever seen or heard of a morse, and the great, antlered creature filled everyone with astonished respect, much of which accrued to his rider. Well aware of this, Hiero took every opportunity to display himself on the huge, swart back before the crowd that usually gathered at the exercise grounds to see them.

Behind the morse came Segi, ridden by a groom. At the appearance of the jumper, the mighty barrel of Klootz swelled in rage; had the morse been able to catch Segi alone, he would have made pulp of his rival, since the idea of Hiero on another animal’s back was intolerable, Segi seemed well aware of this feeling and gave Klootz a wide berth.

Segi was a hopper, the chosen mount of the cavalry of D’alwah, another mutated replacement mankind had found for the long-extinct horse. Friendly and mild-mannered, Segi towered over his rider by a good six feet. He stood balanced on two giant hind legs and a long, columnar tail. His small forefeet, each no longer than a tall man’s arm, were tucked up high on his broad chest. Clothed in smooth, tan fur, with a white blaze on his forehead and great, erect ears cocked first one way and then another, he looked what he was, the prize of the king’s stud and a much-valued wedding present to Danyale’s new son-in-law.

Hiero knew nothing of the ancestry of the hoppers. But he loved the incredible motion they gave their riders and was determined to learn the complex movements which made mounted drill on hoppers the most fantastic sight that could have been dreamed of by any cavalryman. Segi bore a heavy, almost right-angled saddle high on his back, and its broad girth passed just below his forearms. His jaws carried a snaffle bit, and twin reins led back to the rider. But instead of the conventional stirrups, such as those worn by the morse, a hopper’s rider placed his legs in long, stiff sheaths, not unlike expanded versions of the saddle sheath for Hiero’s lost thrower. These in turn were secured to the saddle’s base and also, by swivels, to a second girth, which was buckled below the first. While difficult to get out of, which was a drawback, these stirrup-boots were absolutely vital. The new prince soon saw why when a guard put a hopper through his paces for the first time. The very high back brace of the saddle also assumed new meaning.

Any ordinary hopper, and Segi was the best, could jump almost fifteen meters from a resting position. Further, the jump could be angled in midair, the mighty tail providing the leverage. At a dead run, or a series of bounds on level terrain, a “full-out” hopper moved at breathtaking speed. Watching a squadron of the household troops drilling at their fastest took Hiero’s breath away. Moving in perfect unison, line after line charged, changed direction in the air, and landed in the same matchless formation, never breaking ranks or pausing until the blast of a small brass horn signaled an equally abrupt halt. The long, pennanced lances rose, came to a salute, and were leveled, all in one beautiful fluid motion. Highly trained soldier that he was, Hiero had been enthralled on the spot. With a division of these wonderful creatures and their veteran riders as light cavalry and yet another on the giant morse behind in close support, what an army might one have!

He could have spent the entire day with the hoppers, had he not had a thousand other calls on his time. But he only allowed himself an hour or so, sharing the time exactly with the enraged morse, who paced up and down, snorting with contempt and anger while his master leaped Segi through his exercises under the correction of a time-expired sergeant who now served as royal instructor.

The speed with which their new and exotic prince had mastered his strange mount both amazed and delighted the men of D’alwah. They knew nothing of the mental orders which Hiero used instead of the countless hours they themselves had needed on the drill ground. Segi was by no means as intelligent as Klootz, but he was far from being stupid and took to his new rider at once.

When the exercises were done, Hiero usually took a ride on Klootz, and he always tried to go through the city. D’alwah City was far larger than Kalina, the only other city of the realm, lying many leagues to the south. From his studies and the incessant questions he asked, aided by a fair share of mental eavesdropping, Hiero had managed to acquire a considerable amount of knowledge about his new country. He had taken one all-too-brief trip to the coast and seen for the first time the great, white-topped breakers of the Lantik rolling in to the beach under the high, green dunes. It gave him a strange feeling to think that he was almost certainly the first man of his race ever to have seen both the great ocean of the East and that of the West. Across that foaming sea lay the ultimate in mysteries, Europe, the lost motherland of culture, the home of the original church, long sundered from the children of the western continent. But there was not much time for musings of this nature, on that day or any other.

As he rode through the crowded streets on the great morse, with two hopper-riding guardsmen in front and two behind, the crowds fell back respectfully and caps and helmets were doffed in salute to his rank. Indeed, he looked like a prince, for he was garbed now in purple silk, both the short blouse and the gold-embroidered kilt, while his leather boots were scarlet, as were the supple riding gloves. His beloved short sword hung on his back, but was held now by a cross-belt of gold links. A thin gold coronet supported the purple cap of maintenance. One snow-white osprey plume nodded above his head, secured to his cap by a gemmed brooch of great price. The D’alwahns liked color and what was new and interesting. Their pride was stirred by their new prince and by the bazaar gossip of his adventures and the manner in which he had appeared out of nowhere, bringing their lost princess back to them.

As he acknowledged the salutes by touching his cap, Hiero wondered who in the sea of dark faces did not mean the cheers and the congratulations hurled from every street and balcony. Among those white-toothed smiles and behind some of the shuttered windows lurked enemies, the more dangerous for being unknown. Of that he was certain. Try as he would, he could detect no worse thoughts than the usual leaven of envy from some of the poor and sneers from certain of the nobility who were obsessed with their own ancestry. This was only normal. Where are the real baddies, boy? he said to Klootz, who was preoccupied with picking his way over ancient cobbles slippery with modern refuse. Where are the Unclean? They’re here, Klootz, they’re here, that’s for certain. How do we find ’em, how do we smoke ’em out, before they come out and get us first?

A laughing, half-naked girl shouted something funny and coarse about a possible heir. Hiero shrugged helplessly in mock puzzlement, and the crowd screamed with laughter. Yet all the while, he never really relaxed. The enemy was clever, but not perfect. If he watched without ever letting down his guard, and if Luchare did the same, as he had carefully taught her, sooner or later a break might come. Meanwhile, he could only wait and observe.

There was much to observe. Now crossing a plaza before him were men of a religion other than Christianity—something he had not known, except for the Unclean. They worshiped God, but through another prophet, and they revered the crescent moon. They were Mu’amans, dressed in snowy white and with green, flat-topped conical hats. They had a big colony on the southwestern fringe of the kingdom and mostly stayed within it, being great herdsmen and famous breeders of the kaws, the long-horned cattle of the kingdom. For some reason, they despised the hoppers and would have nothing to do with them. But they were mighty runners and made up a fine corps of light infantry, being master bowmen and swordsmen of skill. With their kilts looped up, they could outrun even their own kaws and could keep up the pace for many hours.

Despite their alien rites, their loyalty had never been questioned. Aside from their clothes, they looked like any other D’alwahns, with tight curls and dark faces, sometimes broad of lip and nostril, at other times lean-faced and aquiline. They bowed as Hiero passed, but there was nothing subservient about them, and their sharp eyes carefully appraised him, his weapons and mount, but not his finery.

When they had passed, another company approached, this time a caravan of gaudily clad merchants newly come from the South and stained with travel. Some bore the marks of recent battle, and Hiero knew they would report, as all travelers did, to the court newsmen, whose business it was to know and collate whatever passed throughout the kingdom. Many of these newcomers bore a six-pointed star as a symbol, and Hiero knew them for Davids, the other odd religion of his new country. They seemed identical to all their fellow citizens, being both rich and poor and occupying all places in society. But, though believers in the one God, they had no prophets or saints at all, their priests relying only on certain secret books, never shown to any but coreligionists. Both they and the Mu’amans held high places at court, and some were hereditary nobles; but in private life they kept much to themselves and seldom intermarried with the mainstream of Christianity. Yet Lu-chare and Danyale trusted them implicitly. “I wish I could be as sure of my fellow churchmen as I am of the Davids and the Mu’amans,” the king had said bleakly. And indeed, many of both were in the royal guard and the local militia units which made up the realm’s army when assembled.

The street narrowed ahead, and Hiero saw that they were coming to one of the many high-walled bridges which crisscrossed the city. These bridges spanned the numerous canals which ran through the city and far inland as well, linking up a dozen sleepy rivers and also leading to the coastal marshes and estuaries of the Lantik itself. As he approached, Hiero again saw yet a fresh reason for the stone walls of these bridges and the similar ones which lined the canal system. A hideous scaled head, at least two meters long, with fanged jaws still agape in death agony, was thrust on a great iron spike at the bridge’s edge, the severed neck dripping scarlet blood into the gutters of the street. As he reined up, Klootz snorted in distaste, stamping his great hooves until the stones rang. One of the rearguard rode his hopper alongside and spoke with the easy familiarity of the long-service man.

“May be a new one to you, Highness. That’s a grunter and a damned big one, begging your pardon. I’ve heard ’em bellowing at the moon in the swamps so you’d think you’d go deaf. Funny, but there weren’t so many when I was a lad, or so I remember. Must be the bloody things are breeding more. We’ll have to build new walls, even in the out-districts, if all I hear be true.”

“Have they any use?” the Metz asked. “They look nasty as hell.”

“Well, the meat’s not bad if you cure it, though it tastes of fish. And the hide makes good shields and such, though it takes a powerful lot of curing. Whether it makes up for the folk and the cattle and hogs the buggers snatch up is something else. If the country folk don’t have a well, getting water’s a problem. Even a little grunter, not a third that size, can take a kid. I lost a young cousin off a barge some years ago; opened a hatch to look out and the grunter’s head come in instead. Hell of a thing, the way they keep swarming into the cities now. Gets worse every year.”

Studying the brown, reptilian head and the glassy eyes, Hiero pondered. The guardsman saw no further than effect. But could there be cause as well? If the water and boat guards had to be doubled to fight off these deadly vermin—only one of several equally inimical types—would not the kingdom be effectively weakened, with no trace of the directing minds behind the assault? That the Unclean Masters were capable of such a hidden and subtle attack he had no doubt at all. He had seen too much in the North and on his most recent journey not to know better. It was one more factor to ponder over in a complex and chaotic situation.

He crossed the bridge with his little entourage and went on, looping about the city in a lazy arc on his way back to the palace. He was supposed to review the guards in the late afternoon, and there were envoys from the far South to be seen as well. Danyale had been delighted to have his new son-in-law take such an interest in things and was insistent that as many of his subjects as possible both see and hear Hiero. Then there was the great Court Ball to get ready for, the first of the summer ceremonials, with this one being used as well to put the new prince on display.

The thin mouth under Hiero’s black mustache curved in a wry smile. To think that he had been forced by Luchare to take dancing lessons! Fortunately, he was not likely to shame her. He had been born with a sense of rhythm, and the dances of the Metz Republic were something he had always excelled at.

Now, as he crossed yet another square, nodding and touching his cap to the continual salutes, a broad smile came to his face. A wildly ridden hopper was bounding toward him from the other side of the plaza. A gaudy figure was waving from its back, maintaining easy but perilous control as the creature leaped over clothing stalls and farmers’ wains. The panting animal came to a halt with a thud not an inch from Klootz’s disdainful muzzle, and a laughing face under the rider’s scarlet turban flashed white teeth in greeting.

“Salutations, most noble prince from the land of ice dragons.”

This was Duke Amibale Aeo, Luchare’s young cousin, come from his great southern fief only a week ago, but already a favorite of Hiero’s, as he was of the whole city’s. The son of the king’s dead first cousin, only nineteen and still sprouting a first, thin mustache, the boy wore his honors lightly. When not galloping his hopper along the battlements of the castle for a bet, he was hunting the wild river beasts in a one-man canoe. A string of broken hearts lay behind him despite his age, and he could take the strong D’alwahn wine as well as any veteran of the guard. Under the laughter and the bubbling spate of conversation, jest, and gossip, Hiero knew there was a man, if a young one. The slanting black eyes were full of intelligence and wit, and the Metz had noted that when the face was in repose, strong lines etched the narrow, dark features. As he rode along, gossiping gaily, bare to the waist and wearing only a scarlet kilt and boots, Amibale made a fine complement to his companion. The slender, curved sword and dagger at his side proclaimed that he could fight if called upon at a moment’s notice.

“All ready for the big ball, Hiero?” he asked. “Wait until you see what I’m wearing. I’ll show these stuffy old types around the palace what a Prince of the Blood ought to look like for a change. I hope you and Luchare have something special to knock their eyes out with. Not that I worry about her. But you, you drab northerner, I hear it took the guard to get you out of that leather suit you arrived in.”

“We’re coming as man and wife in the Metz dress costume,” Hiero said, staring straight ahead. “White linen robes with no jewelry. It keeps off evil spirits.”

Amibale swerved his hopper neatly to catch a bunch of scarlet orchids a giggling girl had tossed him from a low balcony. He tucked one behind his ear and the others in his mount’s harness before turning back to Hiero, his face a blank mask of dismay. At the sight of the broad grin on Hiero’s face, the boy exploded in a volley of profanity, ending in more laughter.

“Damn you! That iron face of yours would fool anyone. For all I know—for all any of us knows—you might just do it. Seriously, what are you really wearing? It’s a masked ball, you know—an old tradition, they say, from the days when everyone was afraid of being assassinated at parties or afterward. Come on,” he wheedled. “I won’t tell anyone, honest.”

“Well, Luchare said I was to surprise people, but I suppose you don’t count, as usual, you scamp. Luchare wouldn’t even show me hers. I’m going as one of the Blue Men, but in silk and with a gold border. Be damned if I’d wear anything more elaborate than that. You people have a mania for fancy dress down here in the swamps. I believe most D’alwahns would rather starve than go without pretty clothes, especially on a feast day.”

The young duke did not deny the gibe. “It’s our warm southern blood, which you ice people can’t understand.” He looked thoughtful as they approached the main gates of the palace and the guard began to turn out. “Blue Man, eh? The veiled folk who live on the edges of the western desert. Pretty good disguise, that. They say they took the blue color from the Deserts of The Death, since they were the first to move back into those areas after The Death. It’s claimed they can detect the fires of The Death in their own bodies and avoid the places that are still dangerous.”

As Hiero returned the guards’ salute, reining Klootz to a walk, he reflected that there was no point in telling his companion that he too could avoid such places of peril by the same methods. Idly, he mind-probed Amibale, confirming again that the lad had a mind screen as good as his own. The high nobles were often taught the technique in the monastery schools they attended when young, though the practice was falling into disuse, since the church saw no need for it any longer.

Hiero threw him a farewell, then forgot Amibale as he dismounted and headed for his own quarters, his mind burning with this new thought. No need for mental training? And this at a time when the Unclean were putting forth their greatest effort! The rot was deep in D’alwah, deep indeed. A lot of grubbing and wrenching would be needed to tear it out in the face of ignorance and superstition, especially if the mental masters of evil were actively on the scene, as he and Brother Aldo suspected. The Metz priest was still fuming inwardly as he came into his apartment, his expression as he passed the guard in the corridor making that experienced courtier refrain from greeting him.

“Well,” his wife said brightly. “We’re alone. I could feel a black cloud coming up the stairs; from your face, I see its origin. What has the mighty master of the marvels and mysteries of Metzland found to annoy him this time?”

Hiero smiled in spite of himself as she kissed him. “Call it the murk and mire of maleficent, monstrous, and malign motivations. Allied,” he added, drawing breath, “to the marble-brained moronity and mind-bending muddleheadedness of your—” Here, a small palm covered his lips.

“I know, I don’t even have to guess. The stupidity of the local church, the decay of moral fiber among the priesthood and nobility, the unwillingness to face facts and see how the enemy has moved among us. Right on all counts, am I not?”

“On all. And more. But I shouldn’t bother you on party night.

It’s mid-afternoon already. Is that your party dress?” he asked, visibly admiring the semitransparent white shift which appeared to be her sole garment.

“You idiot! This is a house robe! Party dress indeed! Why did I yoke myself to a barbarian peasant who wouldn’t notice if I wore rags instead of proper clothes?”

“Well,” Hiero said, “you were hardly wearing even that when I first saw you. One look at all that smooth skin, indecent though it was, and I said to Klootz, ‘Klootz, old boy,’ I said, ‘who needs clothes?’ Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me.”

He dropped into a broad chair and she came and plumped herself into his lap. Sometime later, she sat up and looked serious. “Is there something new bothering you? Have you learned anything today?”

“No.” He rose and walked to the narrow window, to stare out over the city, whose noise reached their tower suite in a muted hum, before he answered.

“But I saw a fresh head of one of the river monsters on a spike. Old Jabbrah the guard said that the things are much more numerous and more dangerous in recent years. Could be the Unclean are behind it. Nothing there they couldn’t handle in some dirty way or other. That’s not the real problem, though, at least not at the moment. What bothers me is the increasing feel that there is something at work right here, under our noses. I even felt suspicious of that young ape Amibale for a second. But there’s something going on and I can’t find it, despite all I’ve learned.”

“A lot of it is probably nerves, plus having to wear what you think of as silly costumes and be on display all the time. Though,” she added, “if you were a local, you wouldn’t jib at being suspicious of Amibale. He’s a young brat; but after all, he is also next to me in the royal succession, you know. My father has a lot of plans for him, if we can ever get him to grow up a little. Thank goodness, he doesn’t take after his mother. The father was a bit dumb—cousin Karimbale, that is. But Fuala—whew!”

“What was her problem?” Hiero asked idly, still staring down over the distant streets. “I mean, she’s dead, isn’t she? And the father, too?”

“Very,” was the dry answer. “A lover, one of many, stabbed her while in the ducal bed. He was pulled between two mad hoppers until he came apart. Lese majeste and all that. Frankly, my father was relieved. She never came to court much. Too many eyes. But I remember her well. God knows, she was really beautiful, but there was something purely evil about her. She spent lots of time off alone somewhere in the forest when she was down south, and she used to take Amibale off with her for weeks at a time with almost no attendants except some scary jungle folk who were her family’s personal pets. She may have been just a nasty slut, but I never trusted her, nor did Dad. He always felt she had political ambitions. She really ran the duchy, and that fool of a husband did whatever she said. Some of her punishments for slaves were drastic. No, Fuala was not nice. Amibale is far better off with her dead. If she is dead.”

“You just said she was very dead indeed. What kind of a remark was that, may I ask?”

It was Luchare’s turn to look away, and Hiero realized with some amusement that she was actually embarrassed.

“More than a few people thought she was a witch, and of course they can’t be killed, except in special ways.” Luchare turned to look him in the eye. “If you must know, she made my skin crawl. I’m not afraid of very much, but I was terrified of her. Of course she’s dead, but she radiated such intensity, along with so much nastiness, all as smooth as ice, that she, well, she still makes me nervous, that’s all. Karimbale died a month after she did. They said it was disease,” she added with seeming inconsequence.

“Well,” her husband said soothingly, “we all have a few people who get our backs up. And speaking of getting backs up, I had better see to that inspection of the guard detachment, or the southern traders’ delegation will have theirs up when I’m late to receive them in audience with your father. See you back here at dress-up-and-be-a-fool time.”

She threw a pillow at him as he went out the door.

The ball was indeed a thing of splendor and color such as Hiero could never have imagined. The Great Hall was lighted with lanterns and cressets and filled with a thousand fragrances. His azure and gold robes and hood were drab compared with most of the costumes. The king was all in purple and white, with a blaze of great gems. Luchare was sheathed in emerald green, almost without jewels, save for the great bracelet of the tree women flashing on one bare, dark arm; a green half-mask accentuated her lovely face. The priests of the Church Universal attended in their magnificent robes, since this was a state occasion to be blessed. And clad, masked, and jeweled in the colors of the rainbow, the nobility of the realm spun and wheeled to the beat of the drums and horns playing the exotic southern music. The women were no more colorful than the men.

Hiero had little opportunity to do more than gain a general impression. He was leaning against a marble pillar, studying the scene in real wonder, when an upper servant touched his arm.

“Pardon, your Highness, but there is an urgent message. You are wanted in the hall at once. It’s from one of your guardsmen, I gather.”

Wondering what this might mean, Hiero followed the man, whose face was vaguely familiar. As he left the vast ballroom, he sent a thought to Luchare. She was out in the middle of the floor, apparently being dutifully attentive to some well-connected idiot whose family controlled something important.

A message from some guard, my love, supposed to be urgent. Back soon.

There was a sense of laughter and warm love in her answer. Take your time, but not too long, love. There are five fat ladies you must dance with before you can really leave—all for the honor of the kingdom!

He grinned and followed the man through a door into a small side room off the main hall, his mind still on Luchare. He was suddenly conscious of quick movement to his right, but he had no time to turn. Then the blow struck his head, and his consciousness departed.