The carriage driver scampered down from his seat, opened the passenger door and lowered the footstool. The red-bearded man paid no attention. After a moment a servant came from the inn bearing a tray. Upon the tray, a dish, and within the dish the falcon saw four of the tiny, sky-blue eggs of milop birds. The bearded man scooped them into his hand. The servant waited, the horses stamped, the carriage driver stood in the rain, but the man had eyes only for his eggs. With great patience he lifted each one, rolled it in his palm, and then with a surprisingly delicate motion cracked it between his teeth and drank it raw. He did this four times. Then he passed the eggshells to the servant and lumbered toward the carriage.
Now the falcon saw it: the odd, toe-pointing twitch in the man's left foot. Not quite a limp, but unmistakable-his master had demonstrated. Beard, eggs, twitch. It was enough.
The carriage door closed. The driver took his seat and whipped the horses into a trot. Nearly a mile away, the falcon leaped from the mast with a warrior's cry, startling the prisoner so badly he scalded his leg with tar. The ship was already forgotten: the falcon shot like an arrow into the thunderheads, beating west and screaming defiance of the wind. Shedding rain, delighted to be under way, he climbed until land and sea vanished utterly beneath the clouds, and then higher still. At last he burst through to sunlight, and skimmed low over a wild, brooding cloudscape, a kingdom of his own.
All day the bird flew west, hardly changing the tempo of his wingbeats. Toward evening a cloud-murth on a horse like white smoke chased him, leering and waving an axe, but the falcon beat the demon to the edge of the cloudlands, and taunted it with a corkscrew dive at the setting sun. Before dark he saw a pod of whales surging east, and a ship in pursuit.
Under the moon, his name-father, the bird flew faster than ever, and at midnight with a thrill of joy he felt the wind shift behind him. I shall be early, early! He passed gulls, terns, cormorants as if they were standing still. Now and then a wander-star crossed the heavens: one of the metal eyes the ancients hung over Alifros to spy on their enemies.
By the second day the wind tasted of Etherhorde. Marsh gases, city smoke, the sweet reek of farmland. At last it came: a bright coast, ships beyond counting, harbor bells and the barking of dogs, the rumbling, gabbling noise of the afternoon market, the children laughing in the slums, the fortresses, the black parade of the Emperor's Horse Guard. Etherhorde was the mightiest city in the world, and one day (so his master whispered) would be the only city where power dwelled, all others made its vassals.
Being a woken animal, the falcon lacked his wild brethren's terror of cities. Still, he could not ignore their dangers. Men fired arrows, boys threw stones. Thus the falcon took the same course always to his master's window: up the River Ool, past the cargo piers in the estuary where ships from all Alifros docked, past the marble mansions and the Queen's Park, the ironworks where cannon were made for the fleet, the home for veterans maimed by cannon fire, until at last he reached a grim stone compound at the river's edge.
Travelers on the Ool mistook the place for a prison; in fact it was an academy for girls. The unfortunate creatures trapped inside those walls knew the falcon by sight. One-the fair-haired girl who tended to sit alone by the catfish tanks-was looking up at him now. Too clever, that one. She watched him with an awareness that made the bird uncomfortable, as if she guessed his errand, or his master's name. But no matter. She was under the eye of the Sisters, and would never dare to throw a stone.
The far edge of the Academy grounds touched the wall about Mol Etheg, the sacred mountain. Etheg had long since been engulfed by the city, but the ancient pines covering its slopes were unchanged from the time of the Amber Kings, when Etherhorde was a mere collection of huts on the edge of a boundless wood. Today Etheg was under the direct protection of His Supremacy the Emperor. So dire were the punishments for harming its trees that mothers forbade their children to play with pinecones that fell outside the wall. The falcon loved this forest, devoured its rabbits and snakes, dozed in its sunny branches.
Not now, though. Up the mountain he flew, beyond exhaustion, announcing his coming with ragged shrieks. Cliffs appeared, and a lone lake, and then on the broken summit rose the huge, wet bulk of Castle Maag. The oldest structure in Etherhorde, Maag was the ancestral home of the ruling family, a darker and more private place than the five-domed seat of Empire in the city below. There the Emperor stunned his subjects with opulence: the crown of rubies, the throne cut from a single pale purple crystal. Here a pair of bejeweled concubines swatted beetles on a terrace, and an ancient gardener raked lilac petals into drifts, and the Queen Mother walked a white boar on a chain about the soggy grounds.
Above them all, in the Weather Tower, shutters flew open. Sandor Ott, Spymaster of the Imperium, held a gloved hand from the window. He was an old man, and rather short, but his body was lean and strong. Eagerly he watched the bird's approach. Below the glove the skin of his arm was a crisscrossed tangle of scars.
With a last flurry the bird alighted. The old man cooed to him and stroked his back.
"Niriviel, my champion! You'll rest, and eat from my own plate tonight! But what news, finest falcon? Tell me at once!"
Within the tower chamber, a group of younger men huddled, breathless. They were six in alclass="underline" poised and muscular, with wary eyes and handsome faces. Some wore heavy silk, others the jaquina shirts of snow-white cotton made popular by a visit from the Prince of Talturi. None carried weapons (only Ott had that privilege within the castle walls) but most carried scars. One had been tending the fire when the bird arrived, and stood gaping, the poker forgotten in his hand. Indeed, no one moved a finger as Ott cocked his ear close to that savage beak. The men had spent the night shivering and sullen, not believing any bird would come; they would have laughed at the old warrior if they dared. But here it stood. Would the rest of his tale prove true? Would speech come from a wild thing, here in their very midst?
No, it would not: Niriviel's voice was only a shrill whistle, the same as any bird of prey. But Sandor Ott listened motionless, so they did as well. The bird gave a longer trill, and then a curious hop on the spymaster's arm, as if attempting a demonstration.
Ott took a deep breath. Then he walked the bird to its perch, whispering and petting him all the while. Once the falcon was settled he turned to look at them, his face wild with something, and slowly pulled off the glove. The hand that emerged flexed once, then tightened into a fist.
"Rose is found," he said.
Abruptly the room fell so quiet they could hear the bubble of sap from a pine log in the hearth. Furtively, the men sought one another's eyes. Ott noticed the glances and raised his voice nearly to a shout.
"Do you hear? Nilus Rotheby Rose is found! In Sorrophran, fresh from the Narrow Sea, and he'll be here at the helm of Chathrand in four days' time. Open that wine, somebody, and let us drink to good fortune. At long last the game is begun!"
The men looked at the bottle of wine and did not move. One of them picked up the corkscrew from the table, unfolded it and glanced uncertainly at his fellows. Sandor Ott walked to the center of the room.
"It's the best of news, eh, lads? The start of your golden time. Just think: a year from now His Supremacy will count you all Defenders of the Realm. And centuries hence your family names will still be praised in song. You work in secrecy today, but your grandchildren will know that they are descended from the men who saved the Empire. More than heroes, you shall-Zirfet Salubrastin!"
At the sound of his name a very big man, easily the strongest in the room, gave a startled jump.