desert was death.
'Six hours?' the commander muttered. The surrounding troopers were pursing lips and exchanging looks.
'Well?' Pontly barked. 'Why did you delay so long after you received the writ?'
'Court dress, my lord,' Sald said desperately. He tried to explain quickly that he did not own court dress. Only the nobility ever needed it. Boots, hose, breeches, doublet, cloak, plumed hat--some of those he had scrounged from neighbors in a hasty flight around the local manors and castles, and the rest his father had rummaged out of the attics. But the coat of arms--his mother and sisters had worked all through third watch, while the rest of the world was abed, sewing, embroidering, cutting, and stitching.
'Why would His Majesty summon a--a mere ensign in the Guard to an Investiture?' the commander asked softly.
That was a very good question, and Sald would dearly have loved to know the answer. He could not expect an honor or a title or an award, certainly; therefore he must have been called for an appointment of some sort. The courier had told Sald all he knew. The Investiture had been a surprise to the whole court, but Prince Shadow was dead, killed by a wild in the line of duty. His most probable replacement was Count Moarien. That would leave a vacancy in the king's bodyguard...and so on. Obviously the required shuffle had turned out to be large enough to justify a General Investiture, and when everyone had rolled one place up the bed, there was going to be a gap at the bottom, some very humble slot into which Ensign Sald Harl would apparently fit. Assistant Bearer of the Royal Chamber Pot, perhaps?
Pontly looked at the commander. The commander looked at Pontly.
'I think he might just make it, my lord, on wheels.'
His lordship's mustache curled in anger. Reluctantly he nodded: His prey was going to escape him. The couriers were evidently not at fault, and if there was a court-martial, then he might be asked why he had delayed the accused.
'Get him there!' he barked.
The next passing landau was halted, and its protesting occupant summarily evicted. Sald Harl went roaring off along the avenue, wheels drumming on the paving, hooves clattering, coachman's whip snapping, and pedestrians bounding to safety. Sald leaned back, clutching his bouncing bundle, sweat still running down his ribs. He looked at the commander, who had boarded beside him.
'Thank you, sir,' he said.
He knew the commander also. An elderly man, close to retirement, he lectured on pathfinding in Training School; Sald had flown with him a few times. He was studying Sald now with a quizzical expression. 'How many hops?' he demanded.
'About twelve, sir,' Sald said uneasily.
'And who chose the thermals--you or your mount?'
'I did, sir.'
The commander hung on tight as the landau went around a corner. He looked thoroughly disbelieving. 'Six hours from Rakarr?'
Sald hoped that his face was already red enough that a blush would not show. 'Er...I did let him give me a few hints, sir.'
The commander shook his head angrily. 'I warned you about that a dozen times, Harl! And just because he didn't kill you this time, don't think he won't try in future!' He scowled. Then he smiled admiringly. 'Six hours, huh?'
'More or less, sir,' Sald said.
It had been much closer to five.
He made it with minutes to spare, reeling into the robing room with his bundle, heart thundering and the inside of his head hammering like a smithy.
The room was packed with nobility being groomed and preened in front of mirrors by teams of valets. The only space he could find was next to an elderly and obese duke, whose cloak was being arranged by his attendant as though it were a priceless and timeless masterpiece of sculpture. Sald started to strip, ignoring both amusement and disapproval among the onlookers. Full court dress was not designed to be put on without assistance; tight hose would not pull over sweaty legs. He grabbed a passing page, a spotty youth a full head taller than himself, and ordered him to fasten the buttons on the back of his coat.
Then he crumpled his flying suit into a bundle and stuffed it behind the mirror and looked at himself.
It was even worse than he had imagined, from antique boots and wrinkled hose all the way up to tousled curls and a hat which fortunately he need only carry, as it fell over his ears if he tried to wear it. And the coat of arms--not all the red in his face was from hurry. The workmanship would probably pass, but the heraldry it displayed was ludicrous in this company: He had only two quarterings. The fat duke next to him had at least thirty, his coat a kaleidoscope of minute armorial symbols, an ancestry stretching from the Holy Ark itself.
Two quarterings! He was a molehill among mountains. His left side was just passable, four quarterings. His mother had once been a lady-in-waiting to the queen herself, qualified by that breeding, but on the right, his father's side, there were only two. Sald Harl was privately convinced that this whole horrible experience must be the result of some error by a palace scribe who had somehow put the wrong name on the writ. Even Lady Harl had admitted that she had never heard of a man with only two quarterings being presented at a formal court function.
He was apparently the youngest man summoned to the dubbings, which could be a source of pride if the summons were not an error. He was also the shortest, which was equally gratifying. But he was by far the most lowly.
Mirrors did not normally bother him. He was young, slim, and fit--and short. But what he could see in this mirror was going to create a scandal if it were allowed into the Great Courtyard. He had not even thought to bring a comb.
The valet beside him had a portable table littered with all sorts of equipment, including at least three combs. Sald braced himself to address a senior peer, and at that moment the duke decided that he was perfect. He turned from the mirror in Sald's direction, and Sald bowed.
It was as if he were not there. The noble eyes passed right through him as their owner continued his turn and then moved off toward the center of the room. The mirror showed Sald's face turning even more furiously red than before.
The valet was an elderly, wasted, and elongated man, but he had noticed. Watery old eyes gleaming with amusement, he produced a damp cloth and silently wiped the goggle marks from Sald's face; Sald had not seen those. Then he splashed some liquid into his hands and applied it to Sald's hair, briskly and efficiently.
A door opened, and the noisy hubbub died a lingering death. Out of the corner of his eye Sald saw that Feather King of Arms had entered with followers. God! They were ready, then. The valet started doing hasty things with a comb--evidently this ramshackle young trooper was an interesting challenge for him.
And all this for what? Ever since the courier had burst in on the Harls' dinner, Sald had wrestled with that problem, and he kept coming back to the same answer: He was about to be named equerry to some snot-nosed juvenile aristocrat, some duke's grandson who fancied himself as a skyman and wanted a private instructor on hand. Yes, my lord, no, my lord, may I kiss your arm, my lord. Royal appointments could not be refused.
Yet such a trivial indenture would normally rate only a line in the court gazette, not a dubbing at a General Investiture. It just did not make sense!
King of Arms was lining them up by rank.
The valet was struggling with the coat, pursing his lips and still not saying a word. Then he stepped back, his face inscrutable. Sald opened his mouth to speak, but stopped when he heard his own name spoken.
'Ensign Harl?' It was Feather King of Arms, supreme heraldic officer of Rantorra; with parchment face and glacier eyebrows, he was stooped and ancient and dignified as death itself. His livery outshone anything else in the room.
Sald bowed and received a barely visible nod.
King of Arms swept his eye over that despicable coat. He could have recited every family represented after that glance, minor though they all were.
'Five, four, three, king, queen, prince, king again, one more; the reverse on the way out?' King of Arms
