‘Almost there, praefector,’ said Pelon, voice muffled.
‘Very good, Pelon,’ came Valerius’s tinny reply.
The Therion servant pulled up the lapels of his heavy coat and adjusted the cord under his chin that kept his broad hat from being whisked away by the wind. It was not an ideal arrangement, but Valerius had been adamant that they depart for his father’s palace as soon as possible. The rare storm had prevented them taking an airfoil, and a noble of Therion would never be seen travelling in a gascart, leaving the far more traditional means of the coach as the only option.
Broad-tyred wheels hissed through the puddles as Pelon slowed the carriage to negotiate a small bridge that humped over a foaming stream. The hippocants were controlled by a small box set into a pedestal beside the driver. As his deft fingers moved the levers, pressure bladders in the creatures’ harnesses reacted to the radio signal, inflating or deflating in sequence to guide the creatures left and right, urge them on or quell their momentum.
The gate ahead was open already and they passed beneath the arch of silver wrought as two coiling serpents: the ruling crest of Therion.
‘Take us straight to the west entrance,’ Valerius instructed over the tannoy.
Pelon steered the carriage over the gravel of the compound, the clawed feet of the hippocants throwing up stones to clatter against the bottom of the driving board. He brought them to a halt and then guided them forwards step by step until the carriage door was level with the raised brick walkway that led up to the columned entrance to the Great Conservatory.
Many of the windows were open despite the tempest. Pelon saw the telltale glimmer of weathershields glowing around the open frames. The sound of music and conversation could just be heard over the rain. Pelon engaged the brakes and dropped the anchor lines over the haunches of the hippocants before twisting in his seat to disengage the door lock. With a puff of pneumatics, the door swung out. Pelon dragged out a large rain canopy from under his seat and jumped down to the walkway in time for Valerius to step out under the vast umbrella.
‘Seems there’s a bit of a party going on,’ remarked Valerius as he strode up the rain-soaked pathway, Pelon trotting along beside, struggling to keep hold of the red and white canopy acting as a sail in the wind.
‘Your niece’s birthday, praefector,’ said Pelon.
‘Which one?’
‘Darius’s youngest, Nisella,’ replied Pelon.
‘Oh, her,’ said Valerius. ‘Such a pretty young thing.’
‘Not so young now, praefector,’ said Pelon. They reached the short flight of steps that led up to the entranceway. ‘She is six years old now. A woman, not a girl.’
‘What’s that in Terran?’ said the praefector as he mounted the steps. ‘I don’t see why you insist on using the old calendar, Pelon.’
Because it served us well enough for eighty generations before compliance, thought Pelon, but instead he said, ‘That would be roughly seventeen Terran years, praefector.’
‘Time passes so quickly,’ observed Valerius as they passed under the glass awning of the entrance.
Liveried servants took the umbrella from Pelon and sponged down Valerius’s moist uniform without comment. They carried themselves with the easy manner of men who had served in the Cohort and the skull buttons on their lapels attested to the fact. They made no inquiry of the new arrivals and silently stepped aside to allow the pair entry. That Valerius wore the red sash of the Therion elite was proof enough of his right to attend the function. For an imposter to wear the red was the only capital crime left on Therion.
Pelon led the way across the deep carpets, the rain rattling on the canopy of glass above their heads. More attendants waited at the doors to the conservatory with gold trays holding spiral-stemmed glasses of wine. Pelon appropriated one for his master, but the praefector declined the drink with a wave of his hand and stepped through the door. Pelon downed the glass’s contents in one gulp and placed it back on the tray with a wink, earning himself a scowl of disapproval from the servants. Valerius’s manservant was not the least worried about their disapproval. As simple household servants they were far below an attendant to a praefector in the informal hierarchy of the serving class.
He followed a respectful distance behind Valerius as the praefector made his way across the conservatory. The festivities were in full swing. Gaily dressed women with jewelled hairpieces twirled and curtsied as they danced with men decked out in their fine uniforms braided and brocaded with gold, a whirl of sparkling colour and gems. Chandeliers hanging from the white-painted iron of the conservatory lit all with a soft blue glow, adding to the unreal atmosphere.
On a small side stage a quintet played a tune on hunt-flutes and rhintars, the slow tempo of their piece dictating the whole rhythm of the partygoers. Even those not dancing seemed to congregate and separate in time to the beat, taking measured paces with each skirl and strum.
Valerius was not in time to this rhythm, hurrying towards a set of spiral stairs that led to a gallery overlooking the proceedings. The praefector kept bumping into people or dodging to avoid them at the last moment, so his progress became a series of faltering steps punctuated by bowed apologies. Pelon closed the gap and assisted his master, picking up dislodged hats, dropped scabbards and canes, and smoothing ruffled skirts and jacket sleeves in Valerius’s wake.
A broad-chested man with thick sideburns and beetling brows emerged from the throng just in front of Valerius. He wore a red and black sash over his blue uniform, indicating he had served with the Cohort but was no longer a licensed officer. He slapped a hand to Valerius’s shoulder, almost knocking the surprised praefector from his feet.
‘Marcus!’ boomed the man, who Pelon now recognised as Raulius Tabalian, one of the distant family cousins. He was much larger of gut and jowl than when Pelon had last seen him, which had been at least five Terran years before.
‘I’m sorry, I have to speak urgently with my father,’ said Valerius, pushing past. Tabalian turned to one of his companions with a scowl.
‘Apologies, Equerre Tabalian, my master has very pressing concerns to discuss with the Caesari,’ Pelon said hurriedly as he came level with the man. ‘I am sure the praefector will find time to reacquaint himself with you soon.’
Valerius’s progress had caused quite a stir, rippling out from his path like a bow wave of distraction. Tabalian and several others followed him to the spiral stair, the crowd growing to nearly a dozen by the time the praefector was mounting the wrought iron steps. Pelon made his way through the press with as little shoving as possible and ran up the stairs to catch his master.
The ruling dignitaries of Therion sat on low couches overlooking the floor of the conservatory, even more marvellous in their finery than those below. The band finished playing and the half-dozen members of Valerius’s family rose to their feet with polite applause.
‘Look, father, Marcus is here!’ This came from a woman a little older than the praefector, his sister Miania. All eyes turned towards him as he stepped up to the gallery balustrade, tucking his helmet under one arm as he presented himself with a short bow.
‘Caesari,’ said the praefector, eyes fixed on the plushly carpeted floor.
‘Praefector,’ replied his father with equal formality.
Caesari Valentinus Valerius was one of the youngest to hold the office, just over seventeen years old; in his late fifties as Terrans measured time. He was even shorter and slighter than his eldest son, clean shaven and with thinning blond hair that was pulled back in a short knot at the base of his skull. His uniform was bedecked with frogging and medals; honours he had rightfully earned in the Therion Cohort alongside the Emperor and Raven Guard.
The Caesari extended his hand in greeting, the thumb and two other digits replaced by mechanical augmetics. Likewise his right ear was a prosthetic device, and he stood slightly lop-sided on his bionic leg. Marcus took the hand and briefly pursed his lips to his father’s knuckles before straightening.