The crowd had made their own substitutes. Amongst the waving bouquets and hastily-daubed signs he saw rag dolls of red-dyed wool being vigorously waved. Here and there redpainted straw effigies burned atop poles, hung with tin coins on slender chains.
In the crowd were many off-duty legionnaires and a fair number of veterans. Their close-cropped hair and scars marked them out amongst the mass, and Ullsaard took care to smile and wave at each of those he saw.
The parade continued past the market forum, which had been emptied of its stalls save for a few licensed traders selling food, beer and wine. Here the street opened out into a vast cobbled square, packed with humanity. The windows of the upper storeys of the surrounding buildings were packed with the shopkeepers and their families; children excitedly waved bunting made from dyed twine and papyrus, their shrill cries cutting through the throatier roars of their elders. Buoyed up by the crowd's appreciation, Ullsaard beamed back at them, shaking his spear triumphantly.
From the forum, the Royal Way continued upwards, straight into the heart of Askh, past the three-storey homes of the noble families, with their semi-circular facades and steepling roofs. Here the tumult was lessened, though servants packed the doorsteps of the street, while their masters and mistresses crowded balconies and roof terraces to wave appreciatively; more at Erlaan than Ullsaard, the general noticed.
Ahead rose the Royal Hill, the highest point of the city, where centuries before Askhos had been born and founded his empire. The palaces sat like a crown atop the mount, surrounded by a white wall. A maze of flat roofs, towers and domes could be seen above the wall, flags of red and black hanging limply from dozens of poles. Wooden scaffolding obscured the dawnward wing of the main palace and several other buildings; Ullsaard had lived in the city for thirteen years and never known a time when there was not some construction work being undertaken.
To coldward and duskward of the palaces, on top of a secondary crest just below the palaces, stood the Grand Precincts of the Brotherhood. The grey edifice was built on five levels, a ziggurat of drab stone surrounded by a flat plaza reached by winding steps that traced back and forth along the duskward side of the Royal Hill. The precinct was older than the city, the ancient centre of the Askhan tribes' culture, the hub around which their civilisation had revolved. Smaller versions of the temple could be found in all of the other cities of Greater Askhor, physical extensions of the power of the Brotherhood. It was from here, not the palaces, that the true power of Askh was wielded. The Grand Precincts had created the first laws of Askh, formed the first courts, kept the Archive of Ages; all of the foundations of the empire that Askhos had taken across the lands behind the spears of his legions.
Half a mile more brought them to the central area of Askh, where a wide road encircled the landscaped palace grounds and gardens. The group turned dawnwards, to come around the palace past the bloodfields and racing track. More companies of soldiers stood to attention along the roadside, icons freshly polished, commanders calling them to attention. Their shields were etched with the device of a crown; the famous First Legion, bodyguard to the Blood. In a long ripple, spearpoints were dipped in salute and raised again when the pair passed by. The procession continued around the circuitous avenue, heralded by a clarion of horns when they came to the fields of Maarmes, where duels were fought and athletes contested in feats of speed and skill.
Here the crowds ended. Instead there stood long lines of the Brotherhood, heads bowed in solemn silence; row upon row of shaven scalps and black robes. The higher Brothers stood at the end of each line, eyes ahead, faces hidden behind blank silver masks. After the earlier furore the quiet was profound; not even the birds stirred in the trees that lined the Maarmes circuit.
Finally they came to the palace steps and dismounted. Dozens of functionaries flocked around the arrivals, to take the ailurs, offer wines and meats on gilded trays, and escort the pair up the long flight of stairs to the coldward gates of the palace. Ullsaard took a cup of light beer from one of the trays and downed the draught in one long gulp. With the note of a solitary gong, the gates opened into the palace's interior.
Erlaan was the first to pass the threshold, as was his right by tradition and his rank. Ullsaard was happy to hang back as more flunkeys bustled around. The hall within was lit by a few oil lamps placed in front of curved mirrors, while the last of the sunshine trickled through narrow windows in the ceiling paned with thick triangles of glass that broke the light into dim rainbows.
A clapping of hands sent the horde of servants scurrying to the sides of the hall, revealing a tall, slender man who looked a little older than Ullsaard. His hair was greying but still thick, cut straight at his shoulders. He was swathed in a long robe of vermillion, a sash of white embroidered with golden spirals across his chest. He sported long sideburns plaited with red and green beads, though his lip and chin were clean-shaven.
"Erlaan!" The man welcomed the prince with a hug. He turned to Ullsaard. "My good friend! It is a pleasure to see you."
"You also, Uncle," said Erlaan.
Ullsaard and Prince Aalun gripped wrists in a warrior's greeting. The general said nothing, but nodded his head and smiled.
"My father?" asked Erlaan, his voice breaking suddenly. Ullsaard realised that for all his own impatience, the young man must have been even more frustrated by the delays in organising the procession.
"He is in the king's throne room, with your grandfather. Run along and see them now; we'll have important business shortly."
The youth smiled his thanks and headed quickly up the hall, a swarm of servants descending upon him as he reached the arch at the far end.
"You should have some time to see your family," said Aalun, turning his attention back to Ullsaard. "Come to the throne room in the last call before Howling."
"Thank you, Prince," replied Ullsaard. He waited for Aalun to turn away and head after his nephew before crossing the hall to his right and pushing through a curtained doorway into the corridors that led to the apartment wing. He walked quickly, exchanging nods and smiles with a few familiar faces until he reached the wooden doors of his chambers.
He hesitated, taking a deep breath.
II
"He'll be here soon and Luia hasn't even dressed!" Meliu slapped her hands on her thighs in frustration.
"Sit down for a moment," soothed Allenya, guiding her youngest sister to the low couch by the window. "If Luia wants to play her silly games, let her."
"But it reflects badly on us as well," Meliu said, tears forming in her eyes.
"Stop that," said Allenya, snatching up the hem of her long yellow dress to dab at Meliu's cheeks. "You being all puffy-eyed is not going to help." Meliu huffed indignantly. "Luia always wants to spoil everything."
"Yes, and now you're acting spoilt. The last thing our husband wants to come back to is one of your tantrums."
"I suppose you're right." Meliu beckoned to one of the maids, who approached with a bowl of white powder and a fine brush. She dusted Meliu's cheeks heavily. "It's not fair, is it? Luia has skin like snow and here's me stuck with the ruddy cheeks of a farm girl. It's wasted on her!"
"Believe me, Ullsaard will be just as happy if you were as red as a beet. Just smile and let those sweet dimples do the rest."
Meliu couldn't help but comply, her smile hesitant.
"Why is he keeping us waiting?" snapped Luia from the next room. She stalked through the door, her dark blue robe still unbelted, open at the front, servants trailing behind forlornly. "Noran said he'd be here by noon. It's just typical. The food will spoil and he can strut off to see the king, leaving us with mouldy scraps."