carried a large knapsack; a floppy, broad-brimmed hat shaded his face, and his feet were ensconced in large, well- worn boots. As for Alorria, while she was not dressed for serious travel, she wore three assorted pouches on her belt; both were probably better equipped than she was herself, Sarai thought wryly.
Together, the three of them strolled northeastward on Wizard Street, moving at a leisurely pace so as not to tax the pregnant Alorria. The sun was bright, and Sarai quickly regretted not having a hat like Kelder’s. When she had left the palace in the middle of the night she hadn’t worried about sunlight.
They crossed North Street and a block or so later moved on from Nightside into Shadyside—but it was hardly shady today; the shadow of the palace dome could never have reached this far out; the name was more symbolic than descriptive.
“Warm,” Alorria remarked. She pulled a gauzy red kerchief from one pouch and draped it over her head, then secured it in place with her coronet. Sarai admired the effect—barbaric, but not unattractive.
She glanced enviously at Kelder’s hat—that wasn’t exactly barbaric, but it was rather outlandish. There was nothing unreasonable about that, since he was an outlander.
The two foreigners made rather a striking contrast—Kelder in his rough and practical attire, Alorria in her barbarian Small Kingdom splendor of silks and gold. The coronet and kerchief might be pretty, but on the whole, Sarai thought she would prefer Kelder’s hat.
And thinking about Kelder, something struck her.
“You said you don’t know where the house is,” she said accusingly, “but of course you do.”
“I do?” Kelder asked, startled.
“Certainly! You’ve been there.”
“I have? No, La... no, I haven’t.”
“You said you had been there. Did you lie to me?”
“No! How did I lie? I haven’t been to the wizards’ Guild-house, and I never claimed I had.”
“Yes, you have, if you really did the investigating you told me about. It’s the old wizard’s house. Serem’s.”
“Ah,” Kelder said, nodding. “I see. Then it stands at the corner of Wizard Street and Grand Street, and we are now on Wizard Street, are we not? Need we just follow this right to the door, then?”
“If we want to take all day, we could do that,” Sarai agreed, “but Wizard Street turns south and makes a long detour, through Morningside and Eastside, before it comes back north through Midway to Grandgate. We’ll be turning and following Harbor Street from Shadyside to Midway, then Gate Street from Midway to Grandgate, and then we’ll meet Wizard Street again for the last few blocks.”
“Ah,” Kelder said. “I see. The streets of Sardiron are not so complex.”
“Sardiron isn’t as big.”
Just then a pair of spriggans ran across the street in front of the threesome, shrieking. Someone shouted imprecations after the creatures. Alorria sighed. “I wish Tobas had never invented those things,” she said.
“Did he really?” Sarai asked.
“Not on purpose,” Alorria explained. “A spell went wrong. But yes, it was really his doing.”
Sarai looked at her, then around at the shops, at the signboards promising miracles of every sort, at the window displays of strange apparatuses or stuffed monsters, at the posted testimonials from satisfied customers.
Magic really could do amazing things. If anyone could ever get it all organized, all working toward the same end, who knew what might be accomplished?
And of course, who knew what might go wrong?
“Harbor Street,” Alorria said. “Isn’t that where most of the fighting was last night?”
“I think the worst was on Quarter Street,” Sarai said, “but yes, there was fighting there. We’ll be reversing the route of Tabaea’s march for about half our journey—the entire time we aren’t on Wizard Street, we’ll be on the streets she used.” She had not really thought about that before; it would be interesting to see if there was more obvious evidence of Tabaea’s accession than there was on Wizard Street.
Alorria shuddered. “I’ve never been on a battlefield before,” she said.
“A battlefield?” Sarai had never thought of any part of Eth-sharof the Sands as a battlefield. Battlefields were far-off places, in the Small Kingdoms or on the borders of Sardiron, not here in the heart of civilization. But what else was Tabaea’s route from Grandgate to the palace, but a battlefield?
“We’ll see it soon enough,” Sarai said. “We turn at the next corner.”
CHAPTER 28
At first, when Tabaea awoke, she didn’t remember where she was. She looked up at the ornate canopy, the incredibly high, elaborately painted ceiling with its gilded coffering, and wondered what sort of an inn she had found this time.
The bed was broad and long and soft, the coverings rich and luxurious—a bed fit for the overlord, she thought.
And then memory came back. It was a bed fit for the overlord—or for the empress who had deposed him.
But it couldn’t be real, she thought, sitting up. It must have been a dream. Even with all her magic, she couldn’t have overthrown the overlord in a single night...
Could she?
A bellpull hung by the bed; she jerked at it, then slid out from under the coverlet and onto her feet.
She was wearing a red silk gown that she had never seen before—no, she corrected herself, she remembered changing into it last night. The chambermaid had tried to take away her old clothes, and Tabaea had refused.
Sure enough, draped across a chair was her skirt, still muddy; hung on the back was her embroidered tunic.
A dozen holes had been punched through it, it had been slashed several places, and dried blood had stiffened it horribly. It looked like ancient scraps of untanned black leather.
Tabaea shuddered. Those holes and slashes had been made by swords and spears and arrows, and they had gone right through her, as well. That was her own blood that stained the fabric. She looked down at the robe she wore, then tore it open.
Faint scars traced across her breast. No one would ever have believed they were the remains of wounds less than a day old.
Tabaea blinked. Were they less than a day old? How long had she slept?
A door opened, and a young woman leaned in. “Yes, Your Majesty?” she asked.
“What time is it?” Tabaea demanded. “And what day is it?”
“It’s midday, Your Majesty, or close to it, on the sixteenth of Harvest, in the Year of Speech 5227.”
Tabaea relaxed slightly. She had marched to the palace on the night of the fifteenth, she was fairly sure. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Lethe of Longwall, Your Majesty. Your morning maid.” She curtsied, still half-hidden by the door. Tabaea noticed that she was wearing the same gold tunic, red skirt, and white apron as the woman last night, Ista, who had given Tabaea a tour of her new home.
But this was definitely not Ista. Lethe was younger, shorter, and plumper. Ista worked at night. Lethe, it seemed, worked mornings.
“My morning maid.” Tabaea grinned. “Fine. Excellent.” She glanced around the room, and then down at the robe she had just torn.
“Fetch me some clothes, Lethe,” Tabaea said. “Clothes fit for an empress. And rouse my court—the ones I brought with me and anyone who didn’t flee with old Ederd. I intend to hold audience in half an hour, and I want them all there.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.” Lethe vanished, closing the door behind her.
Tabaea hopped back onto the edge of the bed and sat for a moment, swinging her feet and looking around
