It was in keeping with the shows which Oldorando loved that two messengers clad in blue and gold should wait on JandolAnganol’s arrival at the south gate, with a coach in which to draw him to King Sayren Stund.
JandolAnganol refused the coach and, instead of taking the triumphal route along Wozen Avenue, paraded his dusty company into the Pauk. The Pauk was a comfortable, down-at-heels area of taverns and markets where there were traders who would buy both animals and protognostics.
‘Madis don’t fetch much in Embruddock,’ said one sturdy dealer, using the old country name for Oldorando. ‘We got enough of them and, like the Nondads, they don’t work well. Now your phagors would be a different question, but in this city I’m not allowed to trade in phagors.’
‘I’m selling only the Madis and animals, man. Your price, or I’ll go elsewhere.’
When a sum had been agreed on, the Madis were sold into captivity and the animals to slaughter. The king retired in satisfaction. He was now better prepared to meet Sayren Stund. Before the transaction, he had not so much as a roon piece on him. Phagors dispatched to Matrassyl for gold had not returned.
Moving in military order, the First Phagorian proceeded up Wozen Avenue, where crowds had assembled to watch them. The crowds cheered JandolAnganol as he strode along with Yuli. He was popular with the rabble of Oldorando, despite his championship of the officially deplored ancipitals. The common people contrasted a lively, eager man favourably with their fat, idle, domestic breed of monarch. The common people did not know the queen of queens. The common people had sympathy for a king whose bride-to-be had been brutally murdered — even if that bride was only a Madi, or half-Madi.
Among the common people went the religious. The clerics were out with banners. RENOUNCE YOUR SINS. THE END OF THE WORLD IS NIGH. REPENT YE WHILE TIME IS. Here as in Borlien, the Pannovalan Church played on public fears in order to bring the independent-minded to heel.
The dusty progress continued. Past the ancient King Denniss Pyramid. Through the Wozen sector. Into the wide Loylbryden Square. On the far side of the square, across a stream, Whistler Park. Facing on to square and park, the great Dom of Striving and the picturesque town palace of the king. In the centre of the square, a golden pavilion, in which was seated King Sayren Stund himself, waiting to greet his visitor.
Beside the king sat Queen Bathkaarnet-she, wearing a grey keedrant decorated with black roses, and an uncomfortable crown. Between their majesties on a smaller throne sat their one remaining daughter, Milua Tal. The three of them reposed in absurd dignity under an awning, while the rest of the court sweated in the sun. The heat buzzed with flies. A band played. The absence of soldiers was noticeable, but several elderly officers in resplendent uniforms marched slowly about. The civil guard kept the crowd in order along the perimeters of the square.
The Oldorandan court was known for its stifling formality. Sayren Stund had done his best to soften court etiquette on this occasion, but there remained a line of advisors and church dignitaries, many of them in flowing canonicals, drawn up severely as they waited to shake JandolAnganol’s hand and kiss his cheek.
The Eagle stood with his party of captains and his hunchbacked armourer, surveying them challengingly, the dust of his journey still about him.
‘Your parade would do credit to a museum, Cousin Sayren,’ he said.
Sayren Stund was dressed, as were his officers, in a severe black charfrul to express mourning. He levered himself out of his throne and came to JandolAnganol with arms extended. JandolAnganol made a bow, holding himself stiffly. Yuli stood a pace behind him, sticking his milt up alternate nostrils, otherwise motionless.
‘Greetings in the name of the All-Powerful. The Court of Oldorando welcomes you in your peaceful and fraternal visit to our capital. May Akhanaba make the meeting fruitful.’
‘Greetings in the name of the All-Powerful. I thank you for your fraternal reception. I come to offer my condolences and my grief at the death of your daughter, Simoda Tal, my bride-elect.’
As JandolAnganol spoke, his glance, under the line of his eyebrows, was ever active. He did not trust Sayren Stund. Stund paraded him along the ranks of dignitaries, and JandolAnganol allowed his hand to be shaken and his grimy cheek to be kissed.
He saw from Sayren Stund’s demeanour that the King of Oldorando bore him ill will. The knowledge was a torment. Everywhere was hatred in men’s hearts. The murder of Simoda Tal had left its stain, with which he now had to reckon.
After the parade, the queen approached, limping, her hand resting on Milua Tal’s arm. Bathkaarnet-she’s looks had faded, yet there was something in her expression, in the way she held her head — submissively yet perkily — which affected JandolAnganol. He recalled a remark of Sayren Stund’s which had once been reported to him — why had that lodged in his memory? — ‘Once you have lived with a Madi woman, you want no other.’
Both Bathkaarnet-she and her daughter had the captivating bird faces of their kind. Though Milua Tal’s blood had been diluted with a human stream, she presented an exotically dark, brilliant impression, with enormous eyes glowing on either side of her aquiline nose. When she was presented, she gazed direct at JandolAnganol, and gave him the Look of Acceptance. He thought briefly of SartoriIrvrash’s mating experiments; here if ever was a fertile cross-breeding.
He was pleased to gaze on this one bright face among so many dull ones, and said to her, ‘You much resemble the portrait I was sent of your sister. Indeed, you are even more beautiful.’
‘Simoda and I were much alike, and much different, like all sisters,’ Milua Tal replied. The music of her voice suggested to him many things, fires in the night, baby Tatro cooing in a cool room, pigeons in a wooden tower.
‘Our poor Milua is overcome by the assassination of her sister, as we all are,’ said the king, with a noise which incorporated the best features of a sigh and a belch. ‘We have agents out far and wide, pursing the killer, the villain who posed as a Madi to gain entrance to the palace.’
‘It was a cruel blow against us both.’
Another compendious sigh. ‘Well, Holy Council will be held next week, with a special memorial service for our departed daughter, which the Holy C’Sarr himself will bless with his presence. That will cheer us. You must stay with us for that event, Cousin, and be welcome. The C’Sarr will be delighted to greet such a valued member of his Community — and it would be to your advantage to pass time with him, as you will realise. Have you met His Holiness?’
‘I know his envoy, Alam Esomberr. He will arrive shortly.’
‘Ah. Yes. Hmm. Esomberr. A witty fellow.’
‘And adventurous,’ said JandolAnganol.
The band struck up. They proceeded across the square to the palace, and JandolAnganol found Milua Tal by his side. She looked up brightly at him, smiling. He asked her conspiratorially, ‘Are you prepared to tell me your age, ma’am, if I keep it a secret?’
‘Oh, that’s one of the questions I hear most often,’ she said, dismissively. ‘Together with “Do you like being a princess?” Persons think me in advance of my age, and they must be right. The increased heat of the present period brings younger persons on, develops them in every way. I have dreamed the dreams of an adult for over a year. Did you ever dream you were in the powerful irresistible embrace of a fire god?’
He bent to her ear and said in a ferocious whisper, playfully, ‘Before I reveal to you if I am that very fire god, I shall have to answer my own question. I’d put you at no more than nine years old.’