from Silvanost, roast meat, trinkets and trifles, amulets to heal wounds, ointments to sooth saddle sores, linen scarves, woolen leggings, silken smallclothes, and a host of other goods.
The nearer they got to Crown Prince Amaltar’s dwelling, the calmer the camp became. The wide lanes were patrolled by pairs of footmen in polished cuirasses, with battle-axes on their shoulders. Tol saw three such guards subdue a drunken warrior who’d wandered too close to the imperial enclave. The drunk was a brawny fellow, but the guards clubbed him quickly to the ground and dragged him away.
The men of Juramona paused to allow the burdened guards to cross in front of them. Odovar, taking a deep pull on the flagon he carried, said, “There you see the folly of vice, young Tol. Take heed.” The marshal belched.
Tol inclined his head. “Yes, my lord.”
Directly ahead was the enormous imperial tent, ringed with banners and standards. At the entrance, armed guards halted Odovar’s party with crossed weapons.
“Who would enter the house of Amaltar, first prince of Ergoth?” demanded the watch commander, a towering warrior with an elegant, drooping, dark mustache. “Name yourselves!”
“I am Odovar, marshal of the Eastern Hundred, and these are the masters of my hordes!” For a moment, the old bark returned to the marshal’s voice.
“I am Wanthred, son of Orthred, lord of Six Pines.”
“Egrin, son of Raemel, warden of the Household Guard.”
Pagas was unhappy at having to speak, but said firmly in his high voice, “Pagas, son of Janjadel, master of the Plains Panthers.”
The watch commander nodded. “Disarm, my lords.”
The men were taken aback. Odovar spoke for all. “You ask Riders of the Horde to surrender their swords? Why? We are free and loyal men!”
“It is the will of Crown Prince Amaltar. He remembers too well the fate of his uncle, Emperor Pakin II, assassinated in his own hall by ‘free and loyal men.’ ”
Everyone knew the evil tale. The late emperor had been widely admired for his skill in ending the civil war and preserving the empire. For this he’d been dubbed “the Conciliator.” In spite of his successes, a cabal of lords from within his own house had murdered him, touching off the rebellion that had sent Odovar into battle and ultimately brought him to the onion field and Tol.
Although they understood Prince Amaltar’s caution, the Juramona men still felt it was unseemly to ask warriors to give up their swords. However, the watch commander’s iron gaze was steady on them. Odovar glared back.
Egrin broke the impasse by unbuckling his sword belt, and handing it to the nearest guard. One by one they submitted. Even Tol had to surrender his saber. But where his betters had taken affront, he found the requirement curiously pleasing. In this small way, he was his masters’ equal, considered as dangerous as these accomplished warriors.
They entered the tent and left the coarse outside world behind. Under their feet was a thick carpet the color of old wine. The tent’s side walls were a loose weave to let in the daylight. From deeper within the structure, hidden by the interior cloth walls, an oddly cool breeze wafted over the startled warriors.
Odovar paused, eyes closed, leaning on his crutch. The others hovered behind him.
“What is it, my lord?” asked Wanthred, concerned.
“Nothing… a memory from long ago.” Odovar looked at the flagon in his hand as if seeing it for the first time. He flung it out of the tent.
“When I was not much older than you, boy,” the marshal told Tol, “I was taken before Emperor Dermount III. I received my honor dagger from his own hands. He was served by a corps of magicians who surrounded him with sweet, cool air like this. Strange how one remembers small things from so long ago.”
Easing Felryn’s makeshift crutch out of his armpit, Odovar leaned it against the tent wall. “I’ll not go before Dermount’s grandson a cripple,” he vowed. He squared his heavy shoulders, his face white from the pain of standing unaided.
Egrin signaled Pagas, and the two warriors took up positions close on either side of Odovar. The marshal glared at them.
“Peace, my lord,” Egrin said. “Grant us the honor of walking by your side.”
Odovar’s cheeks took on new color as they bolstered him. “Right,” he growled. “Follow me!”
The cloth corridor wound ever inward in a left-hand spiral. At one point the men of Juramona heard gentle, tinkling music. Further along the curving path, they found a wind chime stirring from the cool outward flow of air. Shards of clear crystal hung on pale threads fine as hair. The crystals touched lightly, playing the tune. Tol was delighted. He had never seen such a thing.
A small room opened in front of them. In it, a mixed group of warriors awaited the crown prince’s pleasure. There were seafarers from the north, black-skinned like Tol’s friend Crake, and dressed in white silk and peaked iron caps; bare-chested Wind Riders, their skin painted with mystic signs; Imperial Guards, with clean-shaven chins, and wearing crimson cloaks; and a lone kender. Dressed in fringed buckskins, the kender was telling jokes to the assembled warriors, who were laughing uproariously.
An Imperial Guardsman with gold chevrons on his helmet saluted by clanging his iron-shod heels together.
“Lords of the Eastern Hundred? You are expected. Follow me.”
He held open a flap, and they passed through into a larger room, likewise carpeted from wall to wall. An assortment of dignitaries and favor-seekers waited here, sipping wine from golden goblets and conversing in low tones. All wore civilian dress. Three were dwarves with elaborately curled beards and rich, heavy robes of black and gold brocade. A singular trio, two men and a woman, were dressed in billowing trews, wide sashes, vests, and flat cloth hats. Tol had seen merchants in Juramona dressed in similar fashion and knew the three hailed from the city of Tarsis, far to the south of Odovar’s domain.
The Tarsans fell silent as the Juramona men passed by. The woman’s eyes, Tol noticed, were the deep, rich color of honey. She was twice his age and exuded an air of worldly charm he could sense as clearly as he smelled her perfume. She didn’t lower her eyes, like the girls in Crake’s tavern did, and her frank perusal made him uncomfortable. He looked ahead and tried to ignore her knowing gaze.
Once they were in the next room, their escort said, “You’ve just seen Hanira, ambassador from Tarsis.”
“The lady?” asked Odovar, and the guardsman nodded. “I’d heard Tarsan women share rule in their city-a foolish indulgence,” the marshal said firmly.
“But a handsome woman,” said Wanthred, stroking his silver whiskers.
“And ruthless, they say,” murmured the guard.
This third chamber was like the one they’d just left, a waiting room for those seeking an audience with the crown prince. Folk even more exotic to Tol’s eyes were gathered here-a gaggle of six little men, bald as eggs but bearded. All were talking at once and waving little wooden tablets at each other.
“Gnomes. A delegation from Sancrist Isle,” said their guide.
The gnomes were shorter even than kender, coming barely up to Tol’s waist. Their skin was a warm brown, and all had large noses and curly white beards. Their clothing was as peculiar as their appearance: each wore cloth trews stitched to a sleeveless top, with straps crossing over the back and buttoning at the shoulders. Squares of cloth were sewn to the front of these garments, and the squares bulged with slivers of chalk, snarls of string, and oddly shaped metal instruments.
“…it’s as simple as hydrodynamics!” said one gnome in a rapid, high-pitched shout.
Odovar looked questioningly at the Imperial Guardsman, but he only shrugged and said, “Gnome-speak.”
Leaving the babbling little men behind, the Juramona delegation and their escort entered a fourth room. It was the largest of all, ten paces wide at least, and the ceiling rose twice the height of a man. A buzz of conversation permeated the room, which was crowded with richly dressed folk of many nations and races. By this time Tol was growing accustomed to exotic strangers, but his mind reeled at the spectacle overhead.
At the peak of the canvas roof a flock of birds circled. They were shaped like geese, but weren’t like any birds Tol had ever seen. They were transparent! Solid and clear as spring water, their wings wafted up and down as they endlessly rounded the room, sending a cool downdraft over the assembly. As they passed beneath them, Tol saw the transparent geese were dripping water from the flapping wings. A droplet fell on his cheek. It was very cold. At
