After making sure Yeffrin was all right, Tol departed. He left Mandes a token of his visit, to make his feelings plain to the elusive sorcerer. In the entry hall were several fine statues depicting famous spellcasters of the past. Among them Mandes had immodestly placed an image of himself. With two strokes of his steel blade, Tol hacked the head from the bronze statue. It hit the floor with a loud clang.
Outdoors, morning sunbathed Tol’s face, soothing him like a balm. He had missed Mandes, but twice in one night he had dared death and twice survived.
Chapter 13
The villa was alive with activity when Tol returned. Egrin and his retinue, in full battle gear, were arrayed in the front court. The Dom-shu sisters had donned their best outfits and were pinning strips of white cloth to their sleeves.
“Where’ve you been, husband?” Miya demanded. “There’s much to do, and you go off wandering in the middle of the night!”
“What’s happening?” he asked.
“The funeral is today!” Kiya said. At the same time, Miya declared, “The coronation is today!”
A herald had come to the villa just after sunrise with a message for Lord Tolandruth. Egrin had accepted it in his stead. The message prompted the marshal to rouse everyone in the villa, ordering them to prepare for the grand dual ceremony.
Tol sought his old friend.
Egrin explained, “The emperor, in consultation with his privy council and the college of wizards, has declared this to be the day he will be crowned.” Looking somewhat embarrassed, he added in a lower voice, “It was felt the emperor would be safer if he is crowned before Enkian Tumult arrives.”
He handed Tol a flattened tube of parchment. “There was a personal message for you as well.”
By order of His Majesty Ackal IV, Tol read silently, Lord Tolandruth will present himself at the imperial palace at once.
Exhausted by the long and eventful night during which he’d slept only briefly, Tol stared blindly at the terse summons. What did it mean?
Egrin took the parchment from his slack fingers and said gently, “The women have prepared your gear. Go inside, my lord, and they will assist you.”
Miya and Kiya were in the entry hall, standing by neat piles of armor.
“Time to make ready, Husband!” Kiya boomed.
Wearily, he nodded. He started to undress, but was so listless and slow Miya clucked her tongue and took over the task herself.
She chided him for his gallivanting ways, then added more softly, “Did you do what you sought to do?”
Tol shook his head. “He wasn’t home.”
“Never mind. Justice will catch Master Mandes in time.”
Miya stripped him down to his breechnap, and Kiya took a wet sponge to his back. Tol felt like horse being groomed. He was so tired, his head swimming with thoughts of Mandes, Nazramin, and the coming coronation, that he bore the sisters’ ministrations in silence.
Soon they were buckling him into his newly polished armor. A kilt of mourning white was fastened around his waist, and a snowy mantle of gilt-edged silk secured to rivets on his pauldrons. Lastly, Kiya passed his sword belt around his waist and fastened it so the dwarf-forged saber hung at his left hand.
The sisters stood back to admire their work.
“His eyes are red,” Miya remarked, frowning.
Kiya shrugged. “Can’t help that.” She limped in closer and adjusted the drape of Tol’s mantle. Still not satisfied, she grumbled, “What can you do-one shoulder is bigger than the other!”
“His sword arm,” Miya agreed sagely. “Husband, in the future try to use your left arm more.”
He had to smile at that. “I’ll try.”
Egrin had promised to send a replacement from Juramona for Tol’s beloved mount Shadow. In the meantime, the marshal’s men had groomed and saddled their best horse for Tol. The Juramona contingent was drawn up in formation, one man holding the horse’s reins. With a clash of iron, they saluted and cried in unison, “Long live the Emperor!”
Long live Amaltar indeed, Tol thought. So much depended on his continued existence-not merely Tol’s life, but the lives of all his friends and companions, not to mention the stability and welfare of the entire empire.
He swung into the saddle. Kiya whispered to her sister, and Miya hurried to Tol, one hand concealed behind her back.
“Husband, this is-” She reddened. “This is for you!”
She held out a large, splendidly formed white rose, cut from the villa’s roof garden. Tol was touched, and amused. The Dom-shu were not the types to give flowers. He was sure they had competed to see who would present him with the rose, and Miya had lost.
He took the beautiful flower from her and slipped its shortened stem under one of his cuirass straps. The flower’s head was nearly as broad as his hand, yet its aroma wasn’t overpowering.
With a wave, he led his honor guard out of the courtyard into the sunny morning.
Every street, every lane in the city was alive with activity. Windows and doors bore twin swatches of colored cloth, white for the late Pakin III, red for the new emperor, Ackal IV. Detachments of City Guards had taken up positions along the route Amaltar would traverse from outside the walls to the Inner City, keeping the way clear of onlookers. Already an army of pushcarts had appeared, their owners peddling tidbits and trinkets to the gathering crowd. The air was alive with excitement, half-anxious, half-festive. It was a contagious feeling. By the time Tol had ridden a quarter-league, his fatigue was gone, vanquished by the tonic of this great event.
The gate of the Inner City was closed and barred. A small postern gate beside it was open and manned by Imperial Horse Guards, dismounted for the moment. They hailed Tol.
“Go at once, my lord!” said the captain of the guard. “His Majesty awaits in the Tower of High Sorcery!”
Tol rode on. Egrin and his men remained outside.
The Imperial Plaza was a forest of alternating red and white standards. The banners hung limply in the still air. A wide lane led through them, from the great gate to the center of the plaza. There the path forked, one branch leading to the wizards’ enclave, the other to the steps of the imperial palace. Guards marched and countermarched from the palace to the Riders’ Hall on the far side of the plaza.
At the Riders’ Hall, warlords from every corner of the empire were collecting; red, rather than white, predominated in their attire. The tide of observance was turning from mourning for the dead ruler to celebration of the living one.
Tol rode to the Tower of High Sorcery at a measured pace. This was due in part to the solemnity of the occasion, but also because the plaza’s mosaic pavement had been covered by white flower petals-not roses, as it happened, but narrow chrysanthemum and jasmine petals. The thick, soft layer made for uncertain footing for his horse. The heavy scent of jasmine, stirred up by his mount’s hooves, was nearly overwhelming to both man and beast.
Upon reaching the boundary of the wizards’ garden, Tol paused and looked back at the palace. The vast pile of marble and granite, surrounded by drifts of flower petals, resembled a mountain rising from a field of snow. A shadow moved slowly across the columned facade. Tol shaded his eyes, and looked up. A small grayish cloud was drifting over the Inner City.
Strange. The sorcerers always maintained tight control of the weather over the palace, banishing all fog, rain, snow, or clouds. A cloud over the imperial residence was like a smear of mud on a spotless mantle-it shouldn’t be tolerated. Why weren’t the wizards doing their duty?
Then Tol remembered. Mandes had sought sanctuary in the Inner City. The stray cloud could be his doing. He was certainly a blot on the coronation.