“A great sight they was,” the boy said blearily, and drained his tankard yet again. He leaned back and peered hopefully at the listeners. His capacity was remarkable.
Umpily had finished his own beer. “Waiter!” he said.
The raconteur beamed as another stein was laid at his elbow. “Your health, my lord!” He was not so drunk that he could not recognize a gentleman. “Where was I?”
“The imperor himself ?” Umpily said sharply. He knew the sensational climax the storyteller was holding back, and he wanted to get it out of him to see how the audience would take it.
The lad frowned uncertainly. “Battle honors? Or the Praetorians was next?”
“No, the imperor! I mean, the imperor was there, wasn’t he?”
Hiccup! “Oh, yesh! His majeshty was there, Gods bless him, on a pure white horse. I saw the tears in his—”
“You’re certain?”
“Certain I’m certain! Think I don’t know Shandie, me who drove the first mule train into the camp at Fain?”
Umpily’s tankard slid from his fingers and crashed to the floor. An illusory imperor? A Shandie mirage?
Of course! What could be easier for Zinixo and his evil Covin to arrange? Rap, Raspnex, Ionfeu, Acopulo—none of them had thought of that obvious ploy!
2
The enthronement of the new imperor was to be held at noon on the following day. Umpily must be there. He knew he was crazy, but he could not force himself to stay away. If the sorcerers were going to produce a Shandie mirage convincing enough to fool the entire court and government, then he must see it for himself.
As soon as he heard of the imperor illusion, he rushed up to his room and wrote about it on the magic scroll. The message he had written earlier was still visible, meaning that Shandie had not unrolled his copy yet, but there was room on the vellum for more.
The enthronement was not the coronation. That would not happen for a long time, after the official mourning. A new imperor must be confirmed by the wardens, though, so mourning was traditionally suspended for a couple of hours to allow that unique consecration. The enthronement would be the last state ceremony for months, the last time the new imperor would appear in public. Umpily must attend!
He went back downstairs and tried to arrange transportation. That proved to be impossible. The city was in chaos. Some horses and carts were getting through, but not a coach could be found for hire, nor yet a horse. He even contemplated commissioning a boat, then remembered the wind and changed his mind. He decided to walk. Five leagues was not so far—legionaries marched that much day in and day out, every one of them loaded like a mule. Shandie had often led his men twice that far in emergencies, and on forced marches he did so in person, on foot.
Of course Umpily carried more weight all the time than a legionary ever did, and he had never walked a league in his life, but this was certainly an emergency. He would betray Shandie’s trust if all he reported was hearsay.
He could hire some locals as guards, but they would guess why they were wanted and therefore be more dangerous than stray footpads. He was an outlaw now; like a true conspirator, he must rely on stealth. With his magic scroll in his pocket and his bag of gold slung at his waist, he hugged his cloak tight about him and strode out the back door.
He realized eventually that the distance on the ground was much more than five leagues. The roads were thick with drifts and freezing slush, and they were mostly very dark. He set his teeth and prepared to face the worst night of his life.
Dawn found him close to the Gold Palace, already within the five hills that defined the ancient center of Hub. His toes were frozen, his feet chafed raw by wet boots, his ankles aflame. He wished he could cut off his legs at the knee.
Rain had started to fall, turning snow to slush and mud.
The time had come to choose a destination. When he had returned to the capital the previous summer as a widower, he had sold his home and moved into Oak House, residence of the prince imperial. To return there would be to capitulate to Zinixo. He had many acquaintances who would take him in, but none he would trust not to mention his presence. If Legate Ugoatho had been bespelled by the Covin, then the Praetorian Guard was hunting for Lord Umpily, and the Guard had many excellent informers within the aristocracy. It was aristocracy.
Inevitably, Umpily decided to find himself a rooming house. There were many of those around the palace, patronized by provincial officials when their duties brought them to the capital. Many of them were comfortable, even luxurious. As soon as the sun was up, he chose one with a VACANCY sign in a window, and invented a vague story about luggage delayed by the snow. He had gold, and gold solved all problems.
He ate a large breakfast of roast venison and brussels sprouts followed by rolls and honey, and felt better.
Common sense said that he should now catch up on his sleep. By evening, the events in the Rotunda would be general knowledge, and he would be able to find out everything he wanted in the nearest saloon. Common sense said that to enter the Rotunda would be disaster.
The magic scroll remained unchanged. Shandie had not yet read the message. That was unfortunate, for he might guess what his agent in Hub was planning and forbid him to take such an absurd risk. Umpily would welcome those orders!
Yet he was an imp—left to himself, he could not bear to stay away.
His first requirement was a toga, and that was not hard to find. A couple of bedsheets might have sufficed, but his new landlady was impressed to learn that her boarder was invited to the enthronement, and she had a nephew in the drapery business. Fortunately, Umpily had practiced with his valet only a few days before. He was confident he could wrap himself adequately.
With the capital in its present turmoil, transportation proved harder to arrange. Again his landlady proved resourceful, although the fee quoted would have purchased the vehicle and its horses outright in normal times, and probably the coachman as well, at least for a night or two. Another nephew, probably.
And then it was late arriving. Having had no chance to rest at all, Umpily found himself swathed in fine white flannel, sitting on the edge of his bed, eating a few precautionary ham and cheese sandwiches with a dry mouth. He was shaking, but how much from fatigue and how much from terror he could not tell. He was a listener, a talker—not a man of action! He had never considered himself a coward, merely cautious, but he had few illusions about being a hero. No matter how often he reassured himself that all eyes would be on the performers and none on the audience, he did not believe a word of it. Some of those Praetorians had eyes in the back of their helmets. Sorcerers could see around corners.
But he was too much an imp to stay away.
Then his jumpy gaze lighted on the magic scroll, lying where he had put it on the mantel. He rose and shuffled across the room in his ill-fitting ornamental sandals. The vellum bore a note in Shandie’s writing: Am advised that imposture more probable than illusion. Your information invaluable. Take no unnecessary risks. E.
Hooves splashed in the street outside the window, wheels rumbled. The rain was growing heavier.
Should he take the scroll with him or not? If he was apprehended, he might still have time to dash off a warning note. On the other hand, Raspnex had warned him that a sorcerer would see the spell on it. Discretion prevailed. In a shaky hand, Umpily wrote, Going to attend enthronement. Will leave this behind. He tucked the scroll under his pillow and went out to the coach.
The landlady and her household had assembled to applaud their distinguished guest. With one arm and both shins bare, he felt completely ridiculous. Shandie, he remembered, hated togas with a passion, and now he saw why.
Ten minutes later, his undistinguished common cab came to a halt at the end of a long line of splendid carriages waiting to enter the palace gates. The coachman tapped on the hatch. “What name, my lord?”
Only then did Umpily realize that he would not be admitted to the Rotunda without an invitation. He was completely unqualified for such deceitful business. A real spy would have foreseen this! Panic stabbed in his bowels like a sword.
“Praetor Umphagalo.” That was the name he had given at the rooming house, the name of a minor official he had met once in Pithmot. It satisfied the driver, who closed the hatch again, but it would not convince the guards without some credentials to back it up.