Once they left the canal district, the houses were taller and the streets narrower. Relfas’s troopers had to form a wedge ahead of Tol to part the growing crowds. Pale debris fluttering down on them proved to be flower petals tossed by onlookers in the windows overhead.
Miya laughed, lifting her hands to the yellow, red, and white shower. “Who is emperor here-Amaltar or you, Husband?”
“Mind your tongue,” he replied severely. “Things are very delicate just now. Don’t upset the balance with ill-chosen words.” Chastened, for once Miya did as he asked.
By the time they reached Dermount Square in the Middle City, the throng numbered in the thousands. Although peaceful, the press of bodies was so great Relfas’s escort could no longer make any headway, and the procession was forced to halt. Tol planted his hands on his hips and turned in a circle, taking in the immense crowd. Seeing him notice them, the people closest let out a roar, which echoed through the multitude.
Relfas rode back to Tol. “Make them cease these demonstrations!” he shouted above the din, working hard to keep his fractious mount under control.
The small clearing around Tol’s party, walled off from the mob by a thin line of horsemen, was shrinking. As people pressed in, the feel of too many unfamiliar hands caused the horses to prance and back away.
“Do something, or we’ll draw swords and cut our way out!” Relfas declared.
“Use your head!” Tol retorted. “Do that and we’ll be overrun!”
Relfas made no reply, but his hand dropped to his sword hilt. Tol’s one-time comrade was frightened. If pushed too hard, he would resort to swords, and the crowd’s mood would shift from joy to fury with the first stroke.
Tol said to the Dom-shu, “Whatever happens, guard your own lives. Protect the chest, but don’t sell your safety for it.”
“What will you do?” Kiya asked.
He shrugged. “Get through.”
Slipping past the mounted Relfas, Tol approached the edge of the surging mob. People of all ages and many races cheered frantically as he came nearer.
“Good people, let me through!” he shouted. “I must pass! The emperor expects me!”
He repeated this several times, until his words finally had an effect. Those nearest him complied and gradually a way was cleared. He waved for Relfas and the Dom-shu to follow him.
Striding through the narrow lane in the mob, Tol saw that not all the expressions were welcoming. A few stood out, like stones in a bowl of cream. The unsmiling ones wore armbands or headbands in black, blue, or white. He knew there were daggers under the cloaks of these hard-faced men, yet he felt strangely safe passing among them. Like Relfas, they were hostages to their own good behavior. If they dared strike at Tol, the mob would tear them to pieces.
Beyond Dermount Square, the low wall that demarcated the Old City channeled the crowd up the hill toward the imperial palace. For the first time Tol saw the shining white Tower of High Sorcery rising over the lesser rooftops. The elegant spire was wide at the base and narrowed as it rose. Small cupolas sprouted from its sides. The tower had been completed not long after the chief of the college, Mistress Yoralyn, had died, worn out by years of labor on the structure. Her successor, Oropash, was well-liked but a weak man. Under his leadership, the legitimate wizards and spellcasters of Daltigoth had lost ground to unscrupulous, unregulated practitioners who sold their magical skills to all comers.
Below the walls of the imperial Inner City was an open boulevard half a bowshot wide. Six companies of the Horse Guards were drawn up in a double line four deep, stretching all the way from the Inner City gate to the mouth of Saber Street, the thoroughfare Tol was ascending.
He emerged from the row of temples surrounding the Inner City into the boulevard, ahead of his ostensible escort. Behind him, the excited crowd halted. Numbering in the tens of thousands, they could have flooded the street, sweeping aside the six companies by sheer weight of numbers, but the same respect that moved them to part for Tol now stopped them at the edge of the Imperial Plaza.
Tol drank in the view as he walked. The grandeur of the walled Inner City was as he remembered, save for the mourning banners draped over the wall and flying from the tower tops. Instead of the usual flare of Ackal scarlet, the white of lifelessness dominated the scene. The Horse Guards wore white mantles, and the officers had white plumes on their helmets rather than red ones.
Five warriors on horseback rode slowly to meet him. In the center was Draymon, commander of the Palace Guard. Older, heavier, his sweeping mustache sprinkled with gray, Draymon was still imposing on his tall charger.
“Greetings, Draymon, son of Gouran! I come in victory!” Tol called.
“Greetings to you, Tolandruth of Juramona, Bane of Tarsis!” the commander replied. “Your coming is like the breaking of a storm-we heard you from far off!” Folding his arms across the pommel of his saddle, Draymon leaned forward. “What is this mob on your heels?”
“A few friends and well-wishers. I’ve been away a long time.”
Relfas, the Dom-shu sisters, and the treasure bearers emerged from the throng. When Relfas reached him, Draymon’s welcoming expression drew into a fierce scowl.
“Idiot! How could you allow this to happen?” he snapped. “Your company swamped by rabble! The honored general forced to proceed on foot! You have disgraced the Horse Guards!”
“There was little Relfas could do about the crowd,” Tol said mildly.
“He should have taken a closed coach to fetch you.” Draymon waved a dismissive hand at Relfas. “Get out of my sight, dolt!”
White-faced, Relfas turned his elegant mount and cantered briskly through the Inner City gate. It was plain he did not appreciate Tol’s attempt to defend him.
“If he weren’t related to half the court, I’d post him to a rock overlooking the western ocean and let him guard the empire from stray seabirds,” Draymon grumbled. Tol shared the commander’s opinion of Relfas but disapproved of humiliating a proud warrior in public.
One of Draymon’s aides yielded his horse to Tol. Once mounted, Tol asked that Kiya, Miya, and the treasure be escorted to whatever quarters were set aside for him. He took his leave of the sisters then followed the commander to the palace. Draymon had been ordered to bring Tol to the emperor at once.
Time had not dimmed the magnificence of the Inner City. A thousand white pennants stirred in the warm breeze. They floated above the gigantic mosaic pavement that depicted the life and deeds of Ackal Ergot in millions of tiny colored chips of stone. The southern half of the Inner City was filled by the garden of the wizards’ college, now dominated by the enormous Tower of High Sorcery rearing up from its center. This great spire needed no mourning wrap, as it was faced from foundation to pinnacle in translucent alabaster.
Opposite the garden was the palace, a complex of buildings wrought in marble, gold, and warmer tones of alabaster, grown together over the centuries into a single sprawling structure. After the vibrant greeting given Tol by the common folk of Daltigoth, the Inner City seemed oddly lifeless. The large honor guard drawn up in the Imperial Plaza was completely silent.
Grooms ran to hold their horses, and Tol and Draymon dismounted. They ascended the broad steps to the palace doors. The massive bronze portals, ornamented with silver wreaths and golden suns, swung back on iron tracks set in the marble floor. When Draymon and Tol entered the hall, two hundred guards arrayed in funereal white snapped to attention, their iron-shod heels clanging in unison.
“Hail Tolandruth, victor!” shouted the warden of the guard, and the warriors replied in unison, “Victory! Victory!”
As Tol and the commander passed through the facing lines of soldiers, each pair of men drew their sabers and saluted. Tol was unaccustomed to such pomp. It took effort not to flinch as naked swords flashed on either side, and the rattle of blades made his own empty sword hand itch.