Tol asked who the fellow was, and the captain said, “Graybardo, fifth-or maybe sixth-chamberlain to the prince. Vain little weasel…”
Graybardo came hurrying back, quite red in the face. “This way, this way!” he said. “Hurry, please! The prince doesn’t like to be kept waiting!”
The armed guards remained at the door. Draymon unhitched his sword belt and handed it to his corporal, then he and Tol followed on the anxious Graybardo’s heels. They made an imposing pair, cleaving through the crowd like a couple of wolfhounds through a flock of brightly plumed birds.
Prince Amaltar was concluding a conversation as they arrived. Facing him was a delegation of three richly dressed Tarsans, two men flanking a woman. She was tall and raven-haired, wearing a tunic and trews of sky-blue silk. Her face and figure were at odds with the masculine cut of her clothing. Staring at her seductive profile, Tol had the feeling he’d seen her before.
“Gracious prince, those are the wishes of the Syndics,” she was saying, her voice smooth and rich as honey. “May I convey to them your answer?”
“Lady Hanira, decisions this weighty must be considered at length. My imperial father needs to be told of your proposals, and the Council of Companions must be consulted,” Amaltar replied coolly.
The ambassador from Tarsis bowed like a courtly swain. “I shall remain in Daltigoth four days,” she said. “I pray the gods counsel you to an answer before I must depart for home.”
She turned with a flourish and glided away. Onlookers gasped at the woman’s impertinence, turning her back on the crown prince. Her male comrades departed in the proper fashion, backing away, eyes lowered.
As Hanira swept by, Tol remembered her now from the tent at Caergoth-how she had stared so boldly at him. In passing, she did so again, and Tol thought he saw a flicker of recognition in her honey-colored eyes.
With the Tarsan delegation gone, Amaltar beckoned Draymon and Tol forward. He took a silver goblet from a tray borne by a waiting lackey.
“Draymon. Good, I’m glad you’re here. Welcome, Master Tol.” Amaltar suddenly seemed all kindness, but Tol was not relieved by his reception. Too often he’d seen Odovar or Enkian sentence prisoners to death with a smile and a gentle word. Those who exercised power often learned to put a soft face on their harshest rulings.
“That woman!” Amaltar exclaimed, once he’d drunk from the goblet “She has more”-he checked himself-”more
“Will there be war?” asked Draymon carefully.
“We shall see. Many crave war with Tarsis, if only to cleanse their influence from Hylo and the north.” Shifting his attention, the prince said, “You seem to he healing well, Master Tol. Doing better than the other fellow, eh?” Amaltar leaned forward and adopted a confidential tone. “You know,” he added. “My informants tell me this Crake had killed twenty-four opponents single-handed, including ten city guards. Tell me-how were you able to best him, Master Tol?”
Tol found such numbers impossible to credit, but he kept a calm face. “I was lucky, Your Highness. I lost my sword, but someone threw me another.”
The prince shot a glance at Draymon, noting the captain had colored like a handmaiden.
Amaltar smiled. “You’re just the sort of man I need. Skillful and lucky-an unbeatable combination.” He cast about, and not seeing who he wanted, shouted, “Valdid? Where’s Lord Valdid?”
Valaran’s father shouldered through the crowd behind Tol. “Here, Your Highness! I have the casque. I had to hunt all through the imperial stores to find it.”
Under one arm Valdid carried an old wooden box, the corners of which were reinforced with tarnished bronze medallions. He presented the dusty box to Prince Amaltar, who set it on his lap and raised the lid.
“Come forward, Tol of Juramona.”
Tol glanced at Draymon for elucidation. The captain of the guard was staring straight ahead and said nothing. Tol took a step closer to the prince, and was commanded to kneel. He sank to one knee.
Amaltar handed the box to Valdid and rose to his feet. When the crown prince stood, all conversation in the hall died. Tol felt several hundred pairs of curious eyes fixed on the back of his head.
“For outstanding service to the throne of Ergoth, by exposing Silvanesti plots in the Great Green and the capturing the chief of the Dom-shu tribe; for the defeat and death in single combat of the traitor Morthur Dermount, and for ending the career of the arch-criminal known as Crake, I, Amaltar Vorjurn Ackal Ergot, first-born son of His Imperial Majesty Pakin III, do hereby bequeath upon Tol of Juramona the Order of the Silver Saber!”
From the box, Amaltar lifted a heavy silver chain from which hung a thick silver disk. He draped this around Tol’s bowed head.
“I meant to give this to you at the great banquet,” the prince whispered, “but you were having too much fun in the courtyard to attend, eh?” Too stunned to reply, Tol gazed at the heavy silver medallion resting on the breast of his borrowed finery.
Amaltar stood back, and Lord Valdid indicated to Tol he should stand and face the throng. He did, and they broke out in applause.
Lord Draymon stepped forward and offered his hand. They clasped arms like old comrades.
“I thought I was going to be punished!” Tol said over the cheering.
“Just wait,” Draymon said wryly. “You have been!”
Amaltar sat down and called for a commission in the city Horse Guards. A blank parchment was found. Tol’s name was about to be filled in when Valdid stopped the scribe.
“Your Highness,” he said. “Master Tol is of common birth.”
“So? Every bull has the horns his father leaves him.”
“Of course, mighty prince, but the law enacted by Ackal II Dermount states no person of common birth may enter the Horse Guards.”
“Such laws do not apply to me!” Prince Amaltar declared. Valdid maintained his long face.
“They do, gracious Highness. Only the emperor is above the law.”
Murmured commentary among the onlookers increased, much to the crown prince’s annoyance. He stood. “Ridiculous!” he said. “Am I not my father’s co-ruler? Still, if they want the emperor’s hand on this act, they shall have it! Come, Master Tol!”
Above the crown prince’s throne, hanging from gilded ropes, were a series of curtains and tapestries which walled off the rear half of the massive hall from view. Dragging Tol along, and with a frantic Valdid in close pursuit, Amaltar charged through the hanging curtains, swatting them aside.
“Wait, Your Highness! Please, wait!” Valdid called in vain.
Amaltar perused the nest of cords and poles over head, then commanded, “This way!”
Baffled but obedient, Tol stuck close behind him. He found himself in a maze of rising platforms, each no more than a pace deep and separated from its neighbor by a shifting, soft fabric wall. As they climbed layer after layer, the curtains became progressively lighter, more sheer, until finally they were as filmy as clouds.
Tol looked at the ceiling. Below, it had been a good twenty paces away. Now that they had climbed up innumerable platforms inside the maze of hanging curtains, the roof was only half as distant The layers of curtains deadened the noise from the hall below, lending the high platform an eerie, isolated feeling.
Amaltar parted the last gauze curtain to reveal a large and ornate table, long and narrow, with at least fifty high-backed chairs along each of its two long sides. The air was warm and muggy, tinged with the acrid smell of incense.
“Father?” said the crown prince. “Father, it is I.”
Seated in the tallest chair at the end of the table, his back to Amaltar and Tol, was Emperor Pakin III. Tol went to his knees.
“Father?” said Amaltar, gently nudging the figure nodding in the chair. Pakin III stirred.
Tol stole a look. He could hardly credit that the gray-faced old man he saw was the vigorous ruler who’d received the adulation of the crowd in the palace courtyard just days before. His beard was whiter than Tol remembered, his face dry and colorless. He was still a large man, but in the courtyard had seemed powerful and strong. Up close he looked bowed by years and the weight of command.
