The escort troops looked at one another, then halted and dismounted quickly.
“Send an advance guard up the Marketway to the town square, meet up with the second division and bring back enough troops to open a corridor,” Tariz ordered his soldiers. “Push the peasants back; try not to bloody the fools too badly.”
Achmed’s eyes narrowed in annoyance. His personal reasons for coming to Yarim, Rhapsody’s assumptions of his altruism aside, had been to seek her assistance with translating the manuscripts and to find a stained-glass artisan who was a sealed master. In a city known for its tile manufacture, he reasoned, it was not impossible that one might be for hire. He had been assured by Omet that there were many masters from the old school, now scratching out their livings in more humble labors, longing for a return to the days when Yarim had supplied the ceramics, tile, and glass for the great cathedrals and buildings of state, back before the Cymrian War had put an end to all such things. With the swirling chaos filling the streets, however, it would be nearly impossible to find the opportunity to locate such an artisan.
He looked back over his shoulder at his own troops. The Bolg were standing at attention in their simple garb, which seemed grotesquely primitive by comparison with the red tunics, articulated leather armor, and horned helmets of the Yarimese army. Every Firbolg face was set in a mask of stoicism, their eyes directly ahead, disregarding the uproar before them, but he could tell that they were unnerved by the wriggling mass of humanity crowding the streets, shouting and laughing and fighting for the chance to catch a glimpse of them.
Outside the enormous tents that surrounded Entudenin, Rhapsody was growing anxious.
“It’s a spectacle gone mad,” she said nervously to Ashe. “I am not certain they will be safe in the crowd, even with the guards. Right now the townspeople are just curious, but what if the atmosphere turns violent? If either group becomes more afraid than curious, there’s no telling what could occur. If the citizens swarm them, the Bolg may panic, and they will be crushed.”
Ashe nodded in agreement, then turned and pulled the tent flap open and went inside. He came back a moment later, a length of rope in his hand.
“Ihrman,” he said to the duke, whose eyes were glazing in alarm, his skin molded with sweat, “there is quite a bit of rope in this tent. Lash the lengths together—probably at least four street lengths here—and give it to the soldiers to demark a corridor through the city; open it right through the crowd, wide enough so the Bolg can pass comfortably. Position the soldiers inside the rope, and make the closest townspeople help them hold it. Beg the Firbolg king’s pardon and indulgence; tell him we will have this problem cleared up in a few moments.”
The duke signaled to his captain of the guard, who carried the Lord Cymrian’s orders to the rest of the troops. Ashe turned to Rhapsody.
“Step back inside the tent, Aria. There will be a good deal of shifting and pushing for a moment, but it will settle into a controllable chaos shortly.” He pulled the tent flap aside.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s impossible to quell the curiosity that has been sparked by trying to hide the Bolg; they have become an irresistible attraction, thanks to Ihrman’s bungling. But we can use it to our advantage.” He turned to the captain of the guard unit that was forming a barrier between the dais on which they stood and the crowds. “Captain, summon your best hornsman.”
A chain of shouted orders rippled over the building din, swallowed as it moved through the air. Within a few moments a trumpeter had appeared.
“M’lord.”
“Hornsman, make ready,” Ashe addressed the soldier. “Play a volley of welcome for a head of state.”
As the hornsman prepared himself, Ashe turned to the Duke of Yarim again.
“Once the Bolg have come into the work tent, have the original contingent of soldiers continue to ring it, but keep adding as many as you can, gradually. If you gently insert a few troops here and there, the circle will expand slowly but resolutely, without necessitating any confrontation with overeager onlookers. Keep expanding the ring until the crowd is two street corners away from the work site. Then announce the times of the changing of each shift.”
Karsrick’s mouth dropped open. “Is that wise, m’lord? The townspeople will know when the Bolg are arriving and leaving, and will gather at those hours in these same unwieldy numbers.”
“Yes,” Ashe agreed, “and they will go back about their business during all the other hours. At first many of them will stay, hoping to catch a glimpse, but, being dissuaded that this will come to pass, they will settle for watching the changing of the guard. After a short time, even this will cease to be interesting to all but a few.” He clapped Karsrick on the shoulder encouragingly. “Buck up, Ihrman; this is temporary, though Rhapsody was right when she told you if you had just treated them like guests, instead of like monsters that needed to be guarded, and guarded against, this would not be a problem. Had you done that, you would never have incited this level of curiosity in the first place.”
“Yes, m’lord,” Karsrick muttered.
“All right, hornsman, set to,” Ashe instructed. “Play a lively tune that will make the Bolg feel welcome.”
Peering through the tent flap, Rhapsody chuckled.
“I suggest a rousing instrumental of ‘Leave No Limb Unbroken,’ ” she said. “Last I knew, that was their favorite march.”
Once the roped corridor was opened in the sea of onlookers, and the townspeople themselves enlisted in holding the barrier lines, the Bolg were able to hurry quickly into the work site without incident.
When the flaps of the enormous tents had closed behind them, muting the noise of the rabble, and the soldiers established in a ring around it again, Achmed turned to the Lord and Lady Cymrian and the duke.
“Perhaps I misunderstood the invitation,” he said angrily. “I was under the impression you were hiring us to work on your dried-out shell of a geyser, in the hope that bringing our skills to bear on it might rescue your withering province from dying of thirst. Had I known you were recruiting for your menagerie, or a traveling circus, I would have remained in Ylorc and left you to shrivel in the heat. There are far more interesting freaks among your own subjects, Karsrick; you certainly don’t need our help to fill your sideshow.”
“My deepest apologies, Your Majesty,” the duke said, bowing from the waist and struggling to appear sufficiently contrite. “We could not have foreseen the interest that the townspeople of Yarim Paar would have in the arrival of their—neighbors from the southeast. Please forgive the rudeness of our welcome; it was not intended. Tell me what I can do to make it up to you.”
The Firbolg king’s expression shifted slightly in the flickering shadows from the torches outside the tent, the light changing in his mismatched eyes. He lingered for a long, uncomfortable moment in silence before the duke; then finally, when he spoke, his voice was calm.
“You can find me a stained-glass artisan, a sealed master, who is willing to be hired at an extremely generous rate to work on a project in Ylorc.” He turned away from the duke as he took a few steps toward the Bolg assemblage, then looked back over his shoulder. “No ninnies. I’ve had enough of those today.”
The Duke of Yarim exhaled, looking doubtful. “I will put the word out to the guilds, sire, though I can’t guarantee an artisan will come forward.”
Achmed walked over to Grunthor. “How do you want to proceed?” he asked the Sergeant.
The giant Bolg considered for a moment. “Clear the tent o’ all unnecessaries, and let me examine the dry wellspring.”
Achmed walked back to the royal couple and the duke. “Get everyone out of here,” he said curtly, “except for yourselves.”