Studying the brown, reptilian head and the glassy eyes, Hiero pondered. The guardsman saw no further than effect. But could there be cause as well? If the water and boat guards had to be doubled to fight off these deadly vermin—only one of several equally inimical types—would not the kingdom be effectively weakened, with no trace of the directing minds behind the assault? That the Unclean Masters were capable of such a hidden and subtle attack he had no doubt at all. He had seen too much in the North and on his most recent journey not to know better. It was one more factor to ponder over in a complex and chaotic situation.
He crossed the bridge with his little entourage and went on, looping about the city in a lazy arc on his way back to the palace. He was supposed to review the guards in the late afternoon, and there were envoys from the far South to be seen as well. Danyale had been delighted to have his new son-in-law take such an interest in things and was insistent that as many of his subjects as possible both see and hear Hiero. Then there was the great Court Ball to get ready for, the first of the summer ceremonials, with this one being used as well to put the new prince on display.
The thin mouth under Hiero’s black mustache curved in a wry smile. To think that he had been forced by Luchare to take dancing lessons! Fortunately, he was not likely to shame her. He had been born with a sense of rhythm, and the dances of the Metz Republic were something he had always excelled at.
Now, as he crossed yet another square, nodding and touching his cap to the continual salutes, a broad smile came to his face. A wildly ridden hopper was bounding toward him from the other side of the plaza. A gaudy figure was waving from its back, maintaining easy but perilous control as the creature leaped over clothing stalls and farmers’ wains. The panting animal came to a halt with a thud not an inch from Klootz’s disdainful muzzle, and a laughing face under the rider’s scarlet turban flashed white teeth in greeting.
“Salutations, most noble prince from the land of ice dragons.”
This was Duke Amibale Aeo, Luchare’s young cousin, come from his great southern fief only a week ago, but already a favorite of Hiero’s, as he was of the whole city’s. The son of the king’s dead first cousin, only nineteen and still sprouting a first, thin mustache, the boy wore his honors lightly. When not galloping his hopper along the battlements of the castle for a bet, he was hunting the wild river beasts in a one-man canoe. A string of broken hearts lay behind him despite his age, and he could take the strong D’alwahn wine as well as any veteran of the guard. Under the laughter and the bubbling spate of conversation, jest, and gossip, Hiero knew there was a man, if a young one. The slanting black eyes were full of intelligence and wit, and the Metz had noted that when the face was in repose, strong lines etched the narrow, dark features. As he rode along, gossiping gaily, bare to the waist and wearing only a scarlet kilt and boots, Amibale made a fine complement to his companion. The slender, curved sword and dagger at his side proclaimed that he could fight if called upon at a moment’s notice.
“All ready for the big ball, Hiero?” he asked. “Wait until you see what I’m wearing. I’ll show these stuffy old types around the palace what a Prince of the Blood ought to look like for a change. I hope you and Luchare have something special to knock their eyes out with. Not that I worry about her. But you, you drab northerner, I hear it took the guard to get you out of that leather suit you arrived in.”
“We’re coming as man and wife in the Metz dress costume,” Hiero said, staring straight ahead. “White linen robes with no jewelry. It keeps off evil spirits.”
Amibale swerved his hopper neatly to catch a bunch of scarlet orchids a giggling girl had tossed him from a low balcony. He tucked one behind his ear and the others in his mount’s harness before turning back to Hiero, his face a blank mask of dismay. At the sight of the broad grin on Hiero’s face, the boy exploded in a volley of profanity, ending in more laughter.
“Damn you! That iron face of yours would fool anyone. For all I know—for all any of us knows—you might just do it. Seriously, what are you really wearing? It’s a masked ball, you know—an old tradition, they say, from the days when everyone was afraid of being assassinated at parties or afterward. Come on,” he wheedled. “I won’t tell anyone, honest.”
“Well, Luchare said I was to surprise people, but I suppose you don’t count, as usual, you scamp. Luchare wouldn’t even show me hers. I’m going as one of the Blue Men, but in silk and with a gold border. Be damned if I’d wear anything more elaborate than that. You people have a mania for fancy dress down here in the swamps. I believe most D’alwahns would rather starve than go without pretty clothes, especially on a feast day.”
The young duke did not deny the gibe. “It’s our warm southern blood, which you ice people can’t understand.” He looked thoughtful as they approached the main gates of the palace and the guard began to turn out. “Blue Man, eh? The veiled folk who live on the edges of the western desert. Pretty good disguise, that. They say they took the blue color from the Deserts of The Death, since they were the first to move back into those areas after The Death. It’s claimed they can detect the fires of The Death in their own bodies and avoid the places that are still dangerous.”
As Hiero returned the guards’ salute, reining Klootz to a walk, he reflected that there was no point in telling his companion that he too could avoid such places of peril by the same methods. Idly, he mind-probed Amibale, confirming again that the lad had a mind screen as good as his own. The high nobles were often taught the technique in the monastery schools they attended when young, though the practice was falling into disuse, since the church saw no need for it any longer.
Hiero threw him a farewell, then forgot Amibale as he dismounted and headed for his own quarters, his mind burning with this new thought. No need for mental training? And this at a time when the Unclean were putting forth their greatest effort! The rot was deep in D’alwah, deep indeed. A lot of grubbing and wrenching would be needed to tear it out in the face of ignorance and superstition, especially if the mental masters of evil were actively on the scene, as he and Brother Aldo suspected. The Metz priest was still fuming inwardly as he came into his apartment, his expression as he passed the guard in the corridor making that experienced courtier refrain from greeting him.
“Well,” his wife said brightly. “We’re alone. I could feel a black cloud coming up the stairs; from your face, I see its origin. What has the mighty master of the marvels and mysteries of Metzland found to annoy him this time?”
Hiero smiled in spite of himself as she kissed him. “Call it the murk and mire of maleficent, monstrous, and malign motivations. Allied,” he added, drawing breath, “to the marble-brained moronity and mind-bending muddleheadedness of your—” Here, a small palm covered his lips.
“I know, I don’t even have to guess. The stupidity of the local church, the decay of moral fiber among the priesthood and nobility, the unwillingness to face facts and see how the enemy has moved among us. Right on all counts, am I not?”
“On all. And more. But I shouldn’t bother you on party night.
It’s mid-afternoon already. Is that your party dress?” he asked, visibly admiring the semitransparent white shift which appeared to be her sole garment.
“You idiot! This is a house robe! Party dress indeed! Why did I yoke myself to a barbarian peasant who wouldn’t notice if I wore rags instead of proper clothes?”
“Well,” Hiero said, “you were hardly wearing even that when I first saw you. One look at all that smooth skin, indecent though it was, and I said to Klootz, ‘Klootz, old boy,’ I said, ‘who needs clothes?’ Ask him yourself if you don’t believe me.”