There was Sagorn, also. The old man was no sorcerer, but he was probably still one of the sharpest thinkers in Pandemia. Rap decided to write to Sagorn instead.
The stables were echoingly empty in summer, with most of the royal herd away cavorting on the hills, but they were always one of Rap’s favorite places in the kingdom, for he had spent much of his childhood here. At one time the horses had been his only friends. Even yet he often came to visit them when he needed peace to think. As he was rubbing down Patches, he considered the possible results of writing to Sagorn, and he discarded that idea, also. The scholar and his sequential companions might be traveling again, anywhere in the world, and a letter to them would be even more likely to be intercepted.
Rap could use sorcery, of course. He had no idea if his remaining powers were enough to fly him to Hub, but he could certainly rattle the ambience enough to attract the attention of the wardens. Now there was a crazy, suicidal idea!
Efflio had confirmed that Raspnex was the new North, which Rap had known for months. Raspnex had seemed like an honorable man once . . . but to trust a dwarf ? In his new post of warlock Raspnex might be much more eager to acquire votaries than he had been in Faerie, when he had just been granted his own release. And Rap, who had once been a demigod, more powerful than any sorcerer in the world, would be no match for Raspnex now.
As he led Patches to her stall, he knew he would have to go in person. He was a king, he knew people in Hub. He could. win admittance to Shandie and the prince would surely listen to him, for old time’s sake.
But not yet.
Rap’s place was here, in Krasnegar. The God had implied that nothing was going to happen immediately. The millennium was still more than a year away. A king’s first duty was to his people. Rap must see the harvest gathered and safely stowed. He wanted to keep an eye on Gath, too, and help the boy all he could as he adjusted to his occult premonition. Inos still had her hands full with a half-year-old imp named Holindarn. And little Eva was suffering from lack of attention.
Not now. He would go in the fall. There would still be time.
4
Hail the conquering hero comes!
There were two heroes. As the prince’s cavalcade roared along the avenues of Hub, the crowds’ cheers were all for Shandie. The soldiers’ salutes were all for Shandie. The flowers were being thrown for Shandie, the bugles played for Shandie. The rarely used Great Gate of the Opal Palace swung open for Shandie.
Ylo knew that, but in his own eyes he was a returning hero, also—and who else’s eyes really matter but one’s own? His transient Qobel fame had faded, as he had known it would. He was only the prince’s signifer and after today Shandie would have no military role to play; he would have small need for a signifer from now on.
So no one was especially noticing Ylo, except Ylo. Three and a half years ago he had left Hub as a virtual prisoner, being escorted south to the barracks of the XXth. Today he returned victorious. By courage and persistence and the grace of the Gods he had triumphed. In his heart, Ylo accepted the cheers as meant for Ylo. Ylo’s horse trampled the flowers first and was first through the Great Gate. Ylo brought Shandie home.
Someone in the chain of command could think. When Shandie had cantered up to First Post, which marked the start of the Great East Way, he found a company of Praetorian Hussars that had been standing by for the last week. As prince and companions attepded to their toilet, word sped ahead of them to the palace. It was the first time news of their coming had outrun them.
The Praetorian Hussars would escort the prince through the city no matter what anyone said, but even they could not take precedence away from the prince’s signifer. However much those lofty, dandified young men might hate it, they would have to let Ylo lead them. They were much less worried about the prince’s reputation than about their own.
They provided Ylo with a new standard, its emblems and battle honors wrought in real gold and silver, all polished to exacting Praetorian specifications, until even the wood shone and the metal had almost melted. They had brought experts along to make certain that the signifier was worthy of it, and he was treated like a child about to be put on display—stripped, washed, dried, perfumed, and then dressed again. He was given shave, shampoo, pedicure, and manicure, all at the same time. The effects of three weeks’ continuous riding were soothed away with a massage, so that he would sit straight in the saddle. Someone had even thought to provide the pure white wolfskin that only this signifer might wear. They threw in a jet-black horse to match. When the whole ordeal was over, everything about Ylo was brand new and every eyebrow-hair was in regulation position.
A guardsman cupped hands for his sandal when he mounted. No one had done that for him in years—not since the day he was thrown out of the Praetorian Guard, in fact.
Oh, how sweet it was!
The cheering began before they left the post. Rumors of the prince’s impending return had been circulating for weeks, and the crowds seemed to spring out of the stones. Word spread over the city like a peal of thunder. The demonstration was spontaneous, an outburst of relief. Hub was the nexus of the Impire, responsive to every nerve, tuned to every note and overtone. Hub knew that something was wrong, the center was failing. The old man’s grip had loosened at last. The tiller needed a new hand—and here it came! The aristocracy summoned its carriages and raced to the palace. The populace took to the streets and cheered. Hail the conquering hero!
West they rode, along the huge expanse of the Avenue Abnila, thronged with roaring multitudes, through the City of the Gods, the City of Five Hills. Soon Olybino’s palace came into sight on their right, glittering gold on its eminence. They passed below that, heading for the majestic Opal Palace itself, shining over them all, catching distant glimpses of sinister blue towers to the south and white to the north, the abode of other wardens. And the crowds surged everywhere, like a wild tide.
Ah, but then!
Then, after that ride of a lifetime through the cheering streets, came the march of a lifetime, as Ylo led the prince into the palace.
Fanfares of trumpets . . . Up the great marble steps . . . Guards saluting . . . Along the vaulted hallways . . . Gentlemen sweeping the floor with plumed hats in low bows . . . Ladies drooping submissively in curtseys, showing their cleavage and soft, round arms . . . The measured tread of boots behind him as Shandie followed with his guard . . .
How very, very sweet!
The Throne Room was the daytime heart of the Impire. Ylo had seen it only once. A few days before his eighteenth birthday, his father had brought him there to present him to the imperor. They had kissed the bloodthirsty old monster’s hand. They had received imperial approval for Ylo to join the Guard. Three days later he had done so. Three months later Emshandar had ground Ylo’s family into dog food.
The Throne Room was larger than most ballrooms. It sparkled with art and high windows and statuary and some of the finest frescoed ceilings ever conceived. Any day the imperor was in residence, a hundred ladies and gentlemen would be found loitering in the Throne Room.
There was a throne there, but it was rarely used, for the big events took place in the Rotunda. The Throne Room was where the everyday scheming was done. The imperor himself would certainly appear there at some point in the day. Important persons with petitions or appointments would await the imperial pleasure here in the Throne Room and not in any dingy antechamber with the common herd. Aristocrats departing or arriving would call to pay their respects, or just to see and be seen. Anyone without right of access to the Throne Room was no one.
As Ylo marched in, still bearing the standard, he was suddenly at a loss. Far ahead of him stood the throne itself, under a purple canopy, empty. On either hand, ladies and gentlemen were arranged in clumps as if they had been engaged in idle conversation. They bowed or curtseyed as he passed. There was no sign of the imperor. Shandie was at his heels and Ylo was lost. God of Sailors! where did he go from here?