Like all Witnesses trained in the Ivory Cloisters, Mist had been repeatedly warned of the fate that befell the seers of Jat-Nogul. Trapped in the city during the sack, they had been driven raving mad by the horrors, and so had any other Witness who went near them thereafter. Even some tough survivors of Stralg’s massacre at Bergashamm had succumbed to the emotional storm of Jat-Nogul.
Celebre was not at storm level yet, but winds were rising to dangerous levels. The trumpets had proclaimed the news of Piero’s death, and Celebrians were notoriously demonstrative mourners. Defying curfew, citizens poured into the streets, wailing at the tops of their voices and hammering cook pots, drowning out even the trumpets’ ear-torturing wail. One of the city gates had been opened to admit a cavalcade of chariots bearing at least a full hunt of Vigaelian Werists. All those llamoids and ice devils were trying to force their way through a grief-maddened mob, and there just was not room. Soon they would start hurting people, and then violence would erupt like a volcano.
One host-four sixty-was a strong force, but a very small part of the Fist’s horde. That it might be Stralg’s personal bodyguard made sense. But Marno Cavotti had both excellent sources of intelligence and extraordinary cunning. He had been smuggling men into the city all day, pod after pod of black seals swimming in through the secret gap in the siphon. He had set up Celebre as a trap. Stralg would never walk into a trap as long as he had his Witnesses to warn him, so Cavotti must have managed to pass along the news that Dantio and the others had brought from Vigaelia, that the notorious compact was broken and they were free to deceive the monster they had served so long. Dantio himself had set this pot a-boiling.
Whether Stralg himself had arrived or not, Liberators scattered in safe houses all over the city were gradually learning of the Vigaelian incursion and emerging to slake their bloodlust.
All of this was bad enough and promised to get infinitely worse when the fighting and arson began, but Dantio was also personally involved in the drama around his father’s bier. Orlad and Waels had found their way to the palace grounds and were lurking, naked and wet, in the bushes outside the pillars. They could see the ceremony under way, could see Oliva and her two newfound lambs struggling to restrain their reactions, could even see the bag of clothes lying just out of their reach within the hall. They could do nothing about that glowering, suspicious Huntleader Purque, Stralg’s commandant in Celebre, short of charging in and killing him. Purque had guessed that something significant was happening right under his nose and was trying to learn what it was.
Oliva was gamely fighting against hysteria, stressed almost beyond endurance by the events of the evening and the continuing threat of the peg-leg Werist. Their plans for a secret, confidential reunion had collapsed into this turmoil. Dantio was being pummeled by joy and grief, fear and frustration, from all directions.
Just as he braced himself to go and tell Purque that Stralg was looking for him-which must be true to some extent-he sensed agitation outside the north door, where the huntleader had left his escort. With an effort, Dantio unearthed the psychic clues of a Hero having just brought a message from the barracks in Wheelwrights’ Alley. After a moment’s hesitation, the ranking flankleader opened the door and peered in. The commandant frowned and stumped off toward him, thumping along on his spear. Saved! Sure enough, in a moment the Werist was gone, leading his troops back to the barracks.
Everyone else present smelled trustworthy.
“All clear for now, Mama.” Dantio trotted over to the bundle of clothes and hurled it out into the darkness. Waels saw it eclipse the candlelight, leaped up, and grabbed it.
Wiping sweat from his forehead, Dantio turned back toward the catafalque in its lake of candlelight. Completed or not, the ceremonial recording of the doge’s passing had obviously come to an end. The scribes were carrying away their tablets to be baked. Fabia and Mama were locked in a tearful embrace-which was wildly out of character, because neither was naturally demonstrative-and everyone else was staring in bewilderment either at them or at him, the eccentric bag-throwing seer. Neither Quarina nor Berlice had been told that Orlad might attend this meeting also.
But Dantio Celebre, heir presumptive, was home in the hall of his ancestors. This was the day he had dreamed of. He raised his voice and let it ring back from the vaulted ceiling.
“My lords and ladies! I am Dantio Celebre, eldest son of the late Doge Piero. This is my sister, Fabia. We have just returned from our exile in Vigaelia.”
The resultant rush of joy almost knocked him over. The elders curtsied, bowed, and cheered, all at the same time. He detected no hidden reservations at all, not one. Oliva came sweeping to meet him and they embraced. She was sobbing. Holy Mayn, so was he!
“Dantio! Dantio!..” she exclaimed. Then came the shock of finding unbearded lips on a man nearing thirty.
Before either of them spoke, someone cried out in fear. Two Werists came striding in through the pillars-Florengian Werists, unarmed and barefoot. Dantio led his mother forward to meet them.
“Mama, this is Orlad. And this is his liegeman, Waels Borkson.”
The dogaressa ignored the liegeman. She just stared in disbelief at her Hero son, as if petrified by that sinister collar. Orlad stared back with his emotional defenses higher than mountains. Since leaving Nardalborg, he had begun to shed his crust of enforced brutality. Hints of a decent human being were starting to emerge, but he did not know how to respond to a mother. Or any woman, for that matter.
“So big!” she whispered.
“You think that’s big, you ought to see Benard!” Fabia said. “Orlad, you chump, hug her until her ribs creak.”
Orlad forced a smile and did more or less that. The tension broke, if not the ribs. Oliva said “Oh, Orlando, Orlando!” about fifty times, kissing him as she did-his face did not lack stubble. Dantio and Fabia exchanged relieved smiles. Had there ever been so much joy at a lying-in-state? Were Benard there, he would be blubbering like the triple fountain. Somehow Dantio did not think his father would have regarded this celebration around his bier as disrespect.
“Oh, Orlando, my baby!”
Dantio caught Fabia’s eye and they exchanged grins.
The dignitaries were pushing forward to greet the revenants, giving Dantio precedence as the eldest, of course. He would certainly not be the heir, but he could not explain that now. It was all he could do to withstand the waves of riot and emotion washing in from the city. The first fires had started. Mobs of enraged extrinsics were savaging golden warbeasts but paying a terrible toll for their presumption. Black warbeasts were swarming out of hiding to aid them.
More palace officials streamed into the hall. So the news had escaped: The children are back! Elders of the council, summoned to the palace by the trumpets, were shoving to the head of the line to pay their respects. Heads of families famous in the city’s history: Giordano Giali, Ritormo Nucci… The temple of Ucr was burning. A seer was running along the corridor outside, and Werists were coming too. Vigaelian Werists.
Screaming gods!
Only one man could emit that fearful stench of death and evil. Dantio dithered in panic. Had he miscalculated? What if the Fist’s seers had not heard about the broken compact after all? Perhaps it was not a hunt for his Chies bastard that brought Stralg to Celebre this night, but a craving for revenge on the legitimate children! Therek, Horold, Saltaja all dead, and their killers gathered here?
“Out!” Dantio yelled at Orlad. “Stralg’s coming. He’s almost here! Hide!” The rest of what he tried to say was lost in screams of alarm. Half the assembly thought he was addressing them. They bolted for the pillars and disappeared into the night and the rain. Then the rest had second thoughts and followed.