The herald cleared his throat. His eyes darted over the bleachers and signalled to Fost an instant before the call went out.
'Fost, called the Long-Treader, Marshal of High Medurim, arise and come forward,' he intoned in a voice several sizes too large for him. Fost managed to grimace only slightly at the mangling of his name, got to his feet, crossed his arms and waited.
The herald blinked myopically. This was irregular, but Fost was not going to walk down in front of all those people alone. It had been arranged in advance that he and Moriana should go forward together. Obviously, arrangements had been mislaid.
The waiting game stretched on for long seconds. Fost began to regret the whole thing, particularly since he roasted inside his armor. At last, the herald blinked, cleared his throat again, and boomed, 'The Princess Moriana, Pretender to the Throne of the City in the Sky, step forward and be recognized.'
Moriana rose and the two went down hand-in-hand, she tight-lipped at being called second. They were halfway down when Fost became aware of the weight bumping at his right hip. 'Damn,' he swore. Moriana squeezed his hand.
'It's all right. I forgot to leave Ziore behind, too.'
'Just as well we brought them, I suppose. Erimenes would probably heckle me from the stands.' 'Very perceptive, friend Fost,' the genie tittered.
'Quiet!'
They approached the kiosk and, after a slight hesitation, fell to one knee before it. 'Fost Long-Treader,' the herald said again.
'Longstrider, you dunce!' hissed Erimenes.
Paling at being corrected out of thin air, the herald cleared his throat again. 'Fost Longstrider, rise and approach the Presence.'
His hand itching to clout the spirit's jug, Fost rose, stepped forward the requisite three paces and went to one knee again, thanking Zunhilix silently for providing padded greaves.
'For Honors Won and Services Rendered on the Field of Battle,' the herald began, his words ringing with pomposity, 'it pleases his Sublime and Imperial Majesty, Lord of All Creation, Conqueror of the Barbarians, Caster-down of the presumptuous Fallen Ones -' Erimenes snickered. Fost squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to be struck by lightning. '- to invest you Archduke and Knight of the Empire.' Fost started up but the herald droned on relentlessly.
'As such you are elevated to the highest ranks of Imperial patrician. Know that from this day forth you shall receive all perquisites appurtenant to your exalted rank: the right to stand between Sub-Archdukes and Grand Archdukes in the bedchamber of Their Imperial Majesties -' 'Is that good?' whispered Erimenes. 'It means I outrank the boy who empties the chamberpots.' 'I thought the Palace had waterclosets?'
'The Guilds won't let them abolish the job. Now shut up!' Fost felt a million eyes on him. He was sure that the herald heard the byplay but the man plowed ahead with his recitation. '- and of droit de seigneur -'
'That's promising,' said Erimenes, this time not even bothering to whisper. 'Hush!' '- and to administer the High Justice, and the Low Justice -' 'What's that?'
'It means,' said Fost, exasperated, 'I can hang thieves and collect taxes. Or maybe hang tax collectors. Same thing.'
'- and to be immune to seizure of person and all real property without direct order of His Celestial Majesty, wherever the Writ Imperial shall run.'
'Ought to be safe as long as you don't wander off the Palace grounds,' Erimenes said. Fost shook the satchel. Erimenes's words were cut off by his sputtering attempts to avoid the buffeting.
The herald's words droned to an end. Fost felt the heavy jeweled scepter Teom held thump him on first the left shoulder, and then the right. The clanging seemed to fill the entire Plaza as his armor quivered under the onslaught.
'Arise, Sir Fost, O well-beloved subject and servant of the Sapphire Throne.'
None too thrilled at having attained the exalted rank of servant, Fost pushed himself upright. His left knee emitted a splitting crack. He wobbled to be caught and kissed full on the mouth by the Emperor. Released, Fost staggered backwards to Moriana's side. The Emperor's aphrodisiac perfume made him unsteady and decidedly aroused, even though this was hardly the time or the place for such things. Backing up a half pace, he stumbled again. Moriana's strong arm circled his waist and held him upright until he cleared the cloying perfumed vapors from his head and regained his balance. 'Well done, Your Grace,' Erimenes told him sarcastically.
'Moriana Etuul,' the herald roared, pointedly ignoring the extra voice chirping in from time to time, 'Princess and Pretender to the Beryl Throne, Mistress of the Clouds, beloved cousin of our Emperor Teom the Magnificent, arise and approach the Presence.'
Moriana did as she was bid, but before she could step forward, a loud rumble like an avalanche in progress rolled from left to right across the Plaza. 'Thunder?' asked Fost. 'We should be so lucky,' shot back Erimenes. 'Look to your left.' His heart nearly jumped free of his chest.
'Death!' shouted the mob as it crashed like surf against a line of blue-plated Watchmen, who stood their ground with halberds levelled. 'Death to the foreign sorceress!'
A sergeant rapped an order. The gleaming blue line of the Watchmen took a step back and prepared for the crowd.
Across the cordon of armored Watchmen a figure arthritically mounted the steps of the Ministry of Sanitation. A tall figure, thin almost to the point of emaciation, clad in torn and faded tunic and trousers that had once been as red as freshly shed blood threw up his frail matchstick arms and emitted a wordless screech of pure hatred. The crowd surged, rallying to him.
'Seize the witch, the traitress!' shrieked Sir Tharvus of Black March, flinging out an accusing arm and pointing straight at Moriana. 'Slay her, slay the betrayers of humankind who shelter her in their bosoms! They are traitors and deserve to die with her!' Roaring like a rabid animal, the crowd surged forward.
CHAPTER FIVE
The halberds flailed, blades rising to flash white-hot in the sunlight, rising again to the company of screams to gleam the dull red of blood. The mob faltered. It momentarily lacked a leader, someone to urge them forward into the face of death. The faint-hearted in the crowd began to edge away from the soldiers. But the crowd didn't disperse. In the back rallied tight knots of angry citizens. Parties of stout men in dusty aprons finally pushed forward, hauling great chunks of pale-veined white stone. The others in the mob heartened and began to chant cadence as their newfound heroes cast the hundredweight blocks. Unwieldy in their carapaces, a half-dozen Watchmen went down beneath the crushing chunks of marble.
It was enough. The crowd rushed forward again while Sir Tharvus's voice whipped it, crying out for blood. The remaining Watchmen fought, then vanished from sight as if they were sailors drowning in the vast Joreal Ocean. Teom stared, his eyes wide with terror at what befell his troops. Fost gripped the hilt of ceremonial sword and swore. Moriana had her own straight blade, but Fost's broadsword had been judged too unorthordox for the investiture. That left him armed with a weapon hardly fit for swatting flies.
The soldiers assembled down the avenue held ranks, though whether by design or confusion of their officers there was no knowing. Across the hundred yards of cleared space in the Plaza raced the crowd, waving sticks and bats and other makeshift weapons. Above their shrill cries came the shriller chants of Sir Tharvus. Madness had seized him and lent his frail frame power beyond reckoning. And that power transmitted to the crowd and fed their pent-up hostilities. There was carnage.