It was a miracle, he thought, that a planet so vast and populous had managed so well to live at peace with itself, at least until these troublesome recent times. And would live peacefully again, he swore, once the poisonous irruption of evil into the world that Mandralisca and his ilk represented had been contained and cauterized away.
“This is Gourkaine,” said Septach Melayn one bright cloudless morning, as yet another river town came into view.
“And of what significance is Gourkaine, then?” Dekkeret asked, for Septach Melayn had uttered the name with a certain emphasis and flourish.
“Of none at all, my lord, except that it is the town just downriver from Salvamot, and Salvamot is where our friends the Five Lords of Zimroel await us. So we are almost at our goal.”
Salvamot was a town just like all the others, except that no throngs of eager citizens had gathered at the piers to hail the Coronal when his armada was nearing their city, as had been the case everywhere else thus far, even at nearby Gourkaine. Nor were there any banners flying that bore Lord Dekkeret’s portrait on them and the royal colors. Only a small group of municipal officials could be seen, collected in a tight and uneasy-looking knot by the main quay.
“It is as though we have crossed some sort of border,” said Dekkeret. “But we are still thousands of miles from Ni-moya. Does the power of the Five Lords reach all the way down to here, I wonder?”
“Bear in mind, my lord, that Dantirya Sambail was a frequent visitor to his lands here,” Septach Melayn said, “and his kinsmen also, I’d wager. These people here must feel a special loyalty to that tribe now. And also, look you there—”
He indicated a quay just upriver from the town. A dozen or more big riverboats were docked there, and from their masts fluttered the long crimson banners of the Sambailid clan, with their blood-red crescent-moon emblem emblazoned upon them. It appeared that other such ships lay just to the north, around a slight bend that the Zimr made here. So the Five Lords, or some of them, at any rate, were already on the scene here in Salvamot, and with an armada of their own. Small wonder that the local citizenry would greet the arriving Coronal with some degree of restraint.
A detachment of the Coronal’s guard preceded Lord Dekkeret ashore. Soon the guard-captain returned accompanied by a short, thick-necked man in black robes and a golden chain of office, who announced himself to be Veroalk Timaran, the Chief Justiciar of the Municipality of Salvamot—“I would hold the title of mayor, in another place, my lord,” he informed Dekkeret gravely—and expressed his great delight and satisfaction that his city had been chosen as the site of this historic meeting. He bowed so extravagantly to the Lady Fulkari that veins bulged out on the broad column of his neck and his face turned red. He would, he said, escort the Coronal and his companions to the estate of the Lord Gavahaud in person. The Lord Gavahaud had provided floaters for the royal party, said the Justiciar Veroalk Timaran, and they were waiting a little way beyond.
There were just three small vehicles, with a capacity of perhaps fifteen occupants, and scarcely any room for the Coronal’s bodyguard.
Dekkeret said amiably, “We have brought our own floaters, your honor. We prefer to travel in those. I would be pleased to have you ride beside me in my own.”
The Chief Justiciar had not been prepared for this, and he seemed flustered, perhaps not so much at the distinction of being asked to ride in the Coronal’s personal floater as at the realization that the day was already departing from the script that had been provided him. But he was in no position to place himself in opposition to the Coronal’s wishes, and he watched in what seemed to be mounting consternation as Dekkeret’s men proceeded to unload a score of floaters from the flagship, and as many more from the second vessel, and went on to unload still more from the third: enough vehicles to transport the Coronal’s entire corps of guardsmen, and a good many of the imperial troops as well.
“If you will, your honor,” said Dekkeret, beckoning the Chief Justiciar Veroalk Timaran toward a floater bearing the starburst crest.
Salvamot—city, town, whatever it was—thinned out swiftly once they were away from the river, and very shortly Dekkeret found himself riding through flat open country studded with sparse stands of slender trees that had russet trunks and purple leaves, and then making a winding ascent in more heavily forested terrain toward a low plateau to the east. The domain of the Lord Gavahaud, said the Justiciar, lay up there.
Fulkari rode at Dekkeret’s side, and Dinitak also. Dekkeret would gladly have left her behind to wait for him at Piliplok, for he had no idea what danger awaited him at this conference, or whether it would end in some sort of armed conflict. But she would not hear of it. The Five Lords, she said, would not dare touch an anointed Coronal. And even if they attempted any violence, she said—and it was clear that she saw the peril too—what sort of royal consort would she be, to shrink back into safety while her lord was at risk? She would rather die bravely with him, she said, than carry a cowardly widowhood back with her to the Castle.
“There will be no widowhoods for you just yet,” Dekkeret told her. “These are men who lack all courage, and we will quickly have them kneeling to us.”
Privately he was not so certain of that. But that made no difference. Fulkari would not be denied, and, come what may, she would be with him to the end of this.
Septach Melayn was in the second floater, and Gialaurys in the third, and the others followed close behind. It was a considerable force, hundreds of armed men, and others ready at the pier should any signal of distress go up. If we are riding into ambush, Dekkeret thought, we will make them pay a good price for their treachery.
But all seemed peaceful enough as the floaters entered the great arched gateway of Mereminene Hall. There were crescent-moon banners galore here, and a host of men in the green Sambailid livery, some of them armed, but only in the ordinary way of men-at-arms who guard a great estate. Dekkeret saw no lurking battalions, no cache of waiting weaponry.
A tall thickset red-haired man, strikingly ugly, a preening strutting figure in sweeping maroon cloak and foppish yellow tights that were much too tight, came forward with a clanking of golden spurs. He made a grand excessive bow to Dekkeret and Fulkari, culminating in exaggerated starburst salutes as he straightened up. “My lord—my lady—you do us great honor. I am the Lord Gavahaud, whose pleasure it is to show you to the accommodations that will be yours during this your stay. My lordly brother will be pleased to greet you afterward, when you are installed.”
“What kind of accent is that?” Fulkari asked, under her breath. “He utters everything through his nose. Is that the Ni-moyan way of speech? I’ve never heard the like.”
“False grandeur is what they speak here,” said Dekkeret. “We must be careful not to snicker, whatever the provocation.”