heat and ennui before the Patriarch, with a final flourish of his golden staff, announced his blessings on High Medurim and the proceedings.
Temalla's sharp elbow nudged Teom awake. He blinked and shook his head, confused as to his surroundings, causing Fost to reflect that truly rank hath its privileges. The Emperor stood, cleared his throat, then fumbled for his notes stashed away in the front of his immaculate gold-trimmed robe.
'Thank you, Holy One.' He clapped his hands. At once, a stream of nearly naked dancing boys and girls poured into the streets from beneath the bleachers, strewing flowers and marring the mood of chaste piety, though by the way the Patriarch's black eyes glittered beneath beetling black brows it was clear he didn't take the interruption amiss.
Teom paced down the tiers of bleachers with a servant trotting at his heels keeping the parasol between sun and Emperor. Though the Imperial party sat at the midpoint of the bleachers, Teom didn't have to fight his way through a horde of notables. A broad, clear swath ran down the center of the stands, with the nobles seated on either wing. He had made it down only one flight of steps when it became apparent to all that the Emperor had been taking counsel with a bottle, and the Imperial tread, while grand, was none too steady.
In the center of the wide wheel of the Plaza, a small kiosk had been assembled hurriedly after the troops passed in review. An avenue crossed the Plaza left to right, running between high, stately, marble edifices. The troops were drawn up in armed array to either side. The hewn granite walks flanking the street were thronged with thousands of Medurimins, jostling, shouting, haggling with vendors. Young boys and girls dressed in identical white robes circulated throughout the mob, their skirts hiked high to reveal plump, rouged buttocks. As Teom wove through the bleachers, a cry rose from the crowd. The Emperor acknowledged it with a fond nod and a wave of his pale hand. But something in the sound caused Fost to tense.
'My word, this is tedious,' grumbled Erimenes. 'When do we get to the good part?'
Teom mounted the dais where he was being embraced and kissed on both cheeks by the bristly bearded Patriarch. 'This is as good as it gets, I'm afraid,' Ziore answered peevishly.
'Perhaps there'll be a riot,' Erimenes said hopefully. 'Medurim is famous for the fine quality of its riots, I understand. Sometimes they rage for weeks, with considerable looting, burning and raping. Now that would be a sight to see, especially after this.'
Fost shivered despite the heat that sent rivulets of sweat steaming down the back of his armored shell. 'Don't say that,' he muttered.
Preliminaries over, Teom began to announce the names of those who should step forth to be recognized. Though this ceremony had been decreed expressly to honor those who had distinguished themselves in battle, Fost didn't know most of the names called out by the red-faced herald at the Emperor's side. Not even their faces were familiar. He did recognize Foedan, a tall, knobby man with high-domed forehead and deeply sunken brown eyes. And Ch'rri, the mutant cat woman, who at the call of her name shook out her broad wings with a thundercrack and glided down to stand before the dais, her long hair streaming behind. A rumble rose from the crowd. Whether in approval for her voluptuous nudity or out of superstitious dread of her strangeness, Fost couldn't tell.
Fost ran a finger around the inside of his linen collar beneath the cuirass. The armor sweltered fearsomely.
'I know more of those who aren't here,' he said in an aside to Moriana, who nodded, busily mopping her own brow with a cloth from a bowl of scented water brought by a page.
Harek was absent, the small argumentative Assemblyman from Duth; he had fallen under the blades of the Zr'gsz. The immense bulk of Magister Banshau of the Wirix Institute of Magic was conspicuously absent, fortunate in the light of the bleachers' continuing threat to collapse. He still lay recovering from wounds received during the abortive coup. Nor was the Dwarven Jorean Ortil Onsulomulo on hand. The half-breed captain was on board his ship making preparations to sail with a cargo of Medurimin patricians who were less than optimistic about the outcome of the new War of Powers and thought this a propitious time to relocate to Jorea or the Sword Kingdoms.
Also missing was the gaunt old knight, Sir Tharvus, last of the three Brother Knights of the Black March. He had disappeared after the victory in his home country. Dark, dire rumors were whispered about his current doings.
The first to the platform were duly honored. Ch'rri accepted the rank of marquessa by seizing Teom's head with both hands and kissing him deeply, so that he flushed red from lack of air. Lascivious hoots rose from the crowd. This being High Medurim, such doings were not wholly alien even to the elaborate Imperial punctilio, so proceedings were not delayed, though it looked as if Teom wished they could be to pursue Ch'rri's further gratitude.
The herald cleared his throat. His eyes darted over the bleachers and signalled to Fost an instant before the call went out.
'Fost, called the Long-Treader, Marshal of High Medurim, arise and come forward,' he intoned in a voice several sizes too large for him. Fost managed to grimace only slightly at the mangling of his name, got to his feet, crossed his arms and waited.
The herald blinked myopically. This was irregular, but Fost was not going to walk down in front of all those people alone. It had been arranged in advance that he and Moriana should go forward together. Obviously, arrangements had been mislaid.
The waiting game stretched on for long seconds. Fost began to regret the whole thing, particularly since he roasted inside his armor. At last, the herald blinked, cleared his throat again, and boomed, 'The Princess Moriana, Pretender to the Throne of the City in the Sky, step forward and be recognized.'
Moriana rose and the two went down hand-in-hand, she tight-lipped at being called second. They were halfway down when Fost became aware of the weight bumping at his right hip. 'Damn,' he swore. Moriana squeezed his hand.
'It's all right. I forgot to leave Ziore behind, too.'
'Just as well we brought them, I suppose. Erimenes would probably heckle me from the stands.' 'Very perceptive, friend Fost,' the genie tittered.
'Quiet!'
They approached the kiosk and, after a slight hesitation, fell to one knee before it. 'Fost Long-Treader,' the herald said again.
'Longstrider, you dunce!' hissed Erimenes.
Paling at being corrected out of thin air, the herald cleared his throat again. 'Fost Longstrider, rise and approach the Presence.'
His hand itching to clout the spirit's jug, Fost rose, stepped forward the requisite three paces and went to one knee again, thanking Zunhilix silently for providing padded greaves.
'For Honors Won and Services Rendered on the Field of Battle,' the herald began, his words ringing with pomposity, 'it pleases his Sublime and Imperial Majesty, Lord of All Creation, Conqueror of the Barbarians, Caster- down of the presumptuous Fallen Ones -' Erimenes snickered. Fost squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to be struck by lightning. '- to invest you Archduke and Knight of the Empire.' Fost started up but the herald droned on relentlessly.
'As such you are elevated to the highest ranks of Imperial patrician. Know that from this day forth you shall receive all perquisites appurtenant to your exalted rank: the right to stand between Sub-Archdukes and Grand Archdukes in the bedchamber of Their Imperial Majesties -' 'Is that good?' whispered Erimenes. 'It means I outrank the boy who empties the chamberpots.' 'I thought the Palace had waterclosets?'
'The Guilds won't let them abolish the job. Now shut up!' Fost felt a million eyes on him. He was sure that the herald heard the byplay but the man plowed ahead with his recitation. '- and of droit de seigneur -'
'That's promising,' said Erimenes, this time not even bothering to whisper. 'Hush!' '- and to administer the High Justice, and the Low Justice -' 'What's that?'
'It means,' said Fost, exasperated, 'I can hang thieves and collect taxes. Or maybe hang tax collectors. Same thing.'
'- and to be immune to seizure of person and all real property without direct order of His Celestial Majesty, wherever the Writ Imperial shall run.'
'Ought to be safe as long as you don't wander off the Palace grounds,' Erimenes said. Fost shook the satchel. Erimenes's words were cut off by his sputtering attempts to avoid the buffeting.
The herald's words droned to an end. Fost felt the heavy jeweled scepter Teom held thump him on first the
