Five, then, until the sixth. A man should learn and grow and do better, but his mistakes seemed to have become progressively worse.
His sixth error had been his decision in the aerie, when the upstart serf Shadow had called on him to choose between Vindax and Jarkadon. He had been defending Elosa, true. He had ignored Aurolron's verdict, true. But what man of honor could move to place his own by-blow on another man's throne? That had been his reason, had it not? Honor?
Another bottle or another girl, whichever was closer to hand and mouth.
That sixth error had been the worst--ten minutes with Jarkadon had shown him that. As premier noble, having the senior prince alive again, Foan could have turned the wind and put Vindax on the throne. Instead he had abandoned the kingdom to a sadistic despot, an obviously unstable juvenile who dispensed floggings at random and cavorted with underage girls.
Jarkadon probably thought he could seduce Elosa, but her father was certain she would refuse him. The king would be disappointed there.
After ten days or so of frustration and debauchery, the duke sobered and checked the date. He humbled himself to pen a groveling letter to the king, begging that he might visit the palace for his daughter's coming of age. The reply came again from the marchioness: The king was planning a surprise party for Elosa's birthday; it would be an intimate little affair, reserved for a few friends of about her own age. He was not invited.
He was pleased to hear that she was making friends. He sent her his best wishes by letter but received no reply.
The next day he discovered two things. First, that there were guards at the doors, refusing him both passage and explanation; second, that the aeries were rapidly filling with new birds. His apartment had a good view, and he watched them streaming in at all hours.
It was not hard to guess what was happening, although there had not been a general muster of the skymen in many reigns. He waited hopefully for a summons to help--anything would be better than inaction--but it did not come, and he went back to the girls and the bottles in despair.
He awakened in the middle of the third watch when something passed between his window and the sun. He looked out and saw the eagles rising like smoke--the smoke of a funeral pyre?
The rebels were coming then, certainly. Vindax maybe. Unsure which side he wanted to cheer for, the duke went back to bed with two bottles and no girl.
When he awoke, there was a strange silence. He could see only a handful of birds in the aeries, and the roads were empty. The guards had gone from his door. He shaved and washed and dressed and found some food for himself--there were no servants, even.
Then he walked to the nearest of the aeries. He had a choice of birds--ancient or gravid types, not fit for battle--but finding a saddle and helmet took much longer than did his ensuing flight to the palace.
He was challenged, of course, but when he showed that he was unarmed, he was waved through. He could see only five guards over the whole palace, so evidently Jarkadon believed in betting everything on one roll.
The duke flew in to perch on the lowest level of the great aerie.
He made it with two minutes to spare.
There were no grooms in sight. While he was hooding his bird to undress it, he saw the great transformation take place. He saw the guards' eagles snap their bindings and dive. He saw the guards die. He saw the birds land on the grass below and bite off the harnesses.
He had known the truth about the eagles long before Schagarn, ever since Ukarres had escaped over Dead Man's Pass with news of the rebellion and the plight of the nobles trapped in the palace in Allaban. He knew that the birds' communication was almost instantaneous, and he guessed the truth at once.
What he had just seen happen to five guards had certainly just happened also to the royal army. The rebels had won without losing a man or a bird--Karaman's rapport with the eagles would have been enough, with that trick.
But it would have taken a skyman to think of that one, an unusually alert skyman.
When he had fired that arrow at Shadow, he had missed. That had been the seventh error, and the worst of all.
He went in search of Elosa and could not find her. The palace was rapidly degenerating into madness. There might have been a dozen eagles around when he left the aerie; very soon after, there were a hundred. In another hour, the sky was black with them.
The whole maze of balconies, terraces, gardens, and courtyards was open to the air and now open to the birds. The siege was solid; no man could reach a gate alive. The few covered passages and hallways could hardly contain the frenzied crowds milling through them. The troopers had all gone to battle. The duke knew that none would return.
So there were no guards, no fighters. Many of the enclosed rooms and halls had huge, high windows leading from the courts outside; a few ravening monsters came straight through glass and woodwork, snapping gigantic beaks like scissors. Those died on swords eventually, and the other uncounted thousands outside seemed content to wait before trying such suicidal attacks. Men and women fled to cellars and cupboards and servants' quarters, while the vengeance of the ages descended on the palace of Ramo.
Rocks fell.
The roofs had been built to withstand nothing heavier than sunlight. Some shots went through floors as well, to the levels below. The cannonade echoed continuously, rattling the whole palace complex. More death. More terror.
And the projectiles were not merely rocks. Anything an eagle could find and could lift was used: benches and wheelbarrows and grindstones, small statues from the gardens, chimney pots and butter churns, all falling from an incredible height; even a few headless bodies, which were the worst of all, exploding on impact, but those soon stopped coming, as though an order had been given.
He had to fight his way through service passages and cellars, but eventually he found the government: an ice-white boy cowering at a desk in a big egg-shaped room, surrounded by a dozen or so old men, all shaking and most looking ready to die of fear. From the smell of them, several had lost control of their bodily functions. The lord chancellor, the archbishop, the lord chamberlain, supreme air marshal, ministers of this and that...
Foan pushed through them and walked around to stand beside Jarkadon. He folded his arms and waited, and no one spoke.
So he said, 'God save King Vindax.'
They mumbled it back at him.
He took hold of Jarkadon's hair and twisted his head around. 'How were you told to surrender?'
The mad-wide blue eyes stared up at him, and Jarkadon started to scream obscenities. The duke silenced him with a slap.
'I am quite prepared to torture it out of you myself,' he said. 'What is the signal?'
'We all saw the letters,' King Shadow said, and told him.
The duke of Foan found his way through cellars and shattered hallways to the aerie. He climbed up three levels before he found any birds. There were six--and six men of Allaban also, with drawn bows aimed at him as he reached the top of the stairs.
'Want something?' their leader asked. He sounded young, he sounded like a peasant, and his tone was contemptuous. Both he and his men were indistinct against the light shining through the bars behind them, but they were slouching, and their arms trembled as they held the bowstrings. They must be exhausted if they had come from Ninar Foan in eleven days or so.
'I came to release the eagles, as King Vindax commanded.'
'You're too late.' The man spat at the floor.
It had come to this? 'I wish to surrender the palace.'
'Who are you?' the man asked, but then he did order his men to lower their weapons.
Foan told him who he was.
'Right!' the peasant said. He raised his hands and signaled to the birds watching on their perch. A few moments passed, then the noise of destruction died away. The rocks had stopped.
'The boss'll be here shortly,' the peasant said to the duke. 'Go and wait in the courtyard. Move!'
