There were seven laps to the race. With each lap, the excitement waxed. As the chariots whirled past, men stood up, shaking fists, sobbing, frothing, and screaming.
When the cluster of vehicles rounded the first turn on the fourth lap, there was a crash and a glimpse of pieces of chariot flying. Two cars had collided. A detached wheel continued along the course on its own for half a bowshot before toppling over. When the dust had blown away enough for Jorian to see, he glimpsed a pair of stretcher-bearers trotting across the sand to pick up a victim. There was also a glimpse of an injured horse struggling to rise.
By the time the two surviving cars approached on their next lap, the service crew had largely cleared away the wreckage. The two survivors passed and repassed on the straightaway, neither able to gain a definitive advantage. On the last lap, they whirled to the finish line abreast. As they sped past the royal box, Jorian could not see that either had the advantage.
Officials huddled in consultation at the edge of the track. Then a pair of them hastened up the steps to the royal box. More consultation, and the crier shouted:
"Driver Paltoi, of the Pants, wins!"
The Pants applauded. Jorian noted that the Penembians applauded like Novarians, by clapping their hands, not by snapping their fingers like Mulvanians.
A growl arose from the Kilts. It grew, mingled with cries of "Foul! Foul!" The Pants shouted back.
"Was there a foul?" asked Jorian.
Karadur shrugged. "Alas, I am no expert on sports; nor are my old eyes up to detecting such irregularities. Natheless, methinks we had better make ourselves scarce."
"Why?"
"The races are over, all but the awards to the winners; but my spiritual senses tell me a riot is brewing. Besides, it looks like rain."
"All right," said Jorian, rising.
As he did so, a large beer mug, turning over and over in the air, flew from the bloc of Kilts towards the Pants. It struck Jorian's head with a crash and shattered. Jorian slumped back into his seat.
"My boy!" cried Karadur. "Are you injured?"
Jorian shook his head. "That does not seem to have split what few brains I have left. Let's go."
He rose again, staggering a little, and started for the exit. A trickle of blood ran down one side of his face.
More missiles flew over the central strip between the two blocs of factionists. As the gentry in this strip left their seats to run for cover, the two blocs rose and rushed at each other, drawing hitherto hidden daggers and short swords. Trumpets blew. The crier screamed. Whistles sounded.
Squads of glittering guardsmen clattered hither and yon, striving to beat the combatants apart with spear shafts. Others fought their way to the royal box to protect the king, who sat quivering and helplessly waving his fat hands. Fighting spread all over the Hippodrome, while the more peaceable members of the audience ran for the exits. The noise grew deafening.
Pulling Karadur by one bony wrist, Jorian forced his way through the crush at Entrance Four. In the concourse outside, knots of factionists were already hurling missiles, brandishing improvised clubs, kicking, punching, and stabbing.
Jorian tried to thread his way among the combatants to the main entrance without becoming embroiled. As he reached the gate, a fierce yell from behind made him turn.
"Kill the dirty foreigners!" shrieked a man. A flash of lightning revealed the man as Borai, the former director of the House of Learning. He was haranguing a group of armed Kilts. Beside him stood Yiyim, the former clockmaster. Thunder growled.
"The old witch cast a spell on our team!" screamed Borai. "That cost us our victory!"
"And the young one is his apprentice!" added Yiyim. "Slay them both! Tear them to pieces!"
The well-gnawed carcass of a chicken whirled through the air and missed Jorian; so did a horse turd. A paving stone, however, grazed Jorian's already bloody scalp and staggered him.
"Run, my son!" gasped Karadur.
"Whither?" shouted Jorian.
"The temple! To the temple of Nubalyaga! Demand sanctuary!"
The pair trotted across the street, just as rain began to fall. The gang of Kilts broke into a run behind them. As they reached the slope leading up to the temple, Karadur said:
"Go on, my son. I cannot run up yon hill."
"I won't leave you—"
"Go on, I say! I am old; you have many years—"
Without further words, Jorian gathered up the ancient bag of bones in his arms and ran up the hill carrying Karadur, despite the Mulvanian's pleas. Jorian slipped on the rain-wet cobblestones and fell; Karadur's bulbous turban came off and rolled away. Jorian scrambled up again with his burden and ran on. The mob behind them gained.
At the entrance to the temple, a pair of eunuch guards, standing inside the gate, crossed their spears to bar the way. Jorian, his red face streaked with mingled rain, sweat, mud, and blood, was too winded to speak. Karadur cried:
"Admit us in the name of the lady Sahmet, sirs! I am Doctor Karadur of the House of Learning!"
The eunuchs lowered their spears. As soon as Jorian and Karadur were inside, the eunuchs clanged the bronzen gate valves shut. Other guards hastened from other parts of the temenos. In a trice, a dozen eunuchs, with cocked crossbows, stood in a line behind the gate.
"Begone, or we will shoot through the bars!" they shouted.
The mob milled and screamed but made no effort to assault the gate. Jorian and Karadur hastened towards the main temple building.
"I owe you my life," said Karadur.
"Oh, nonsense! Had I thought the matter out, I should probably have left you. You almost deserve it for assuring me that Borai and Yiyim were harmless. Where's this Lady Sahmet?"
"I will send in our names. If she be not engaged in ritual, methinks she will see us."
Despite the drizzle, the mob of Kilts, under the leadership of Borai and Yiyim, had spread out into a cordon, which seemed to be extending itself clear around the temenos.
"They're laying siege to the place," said Jorian.
"I am sure the king's men will clear them away. If not, belike Sahmet can solve our difficulty."
"If we had one of those flying things you have spoken of, we could flit over their heads. But then, if we had a carriage, we should have a horse and carriage, if we had a horse. Isn't that a fire?" Jorian pointed to a column of smoke and sparks, which rose above the nearby roofs.
"Aye; the fools will burn down the city if given a free hand."
High Priestess Sahmet received Jorian and Karadur in her chamber of audience. She was a tall, large-boned woman in her forties, handsome but too massive of jaw and beaklike of nose to be called beautiful. Qad in a gauzy robe of pale gray embroidered with symbols in silver thread, she sat in a chair of pretence and stared with large, dark eyes at the disheveled fugitives. A couple of lesser priestesses glided about.
"It is a pleasure to see you again, good Doctor Karadur," she said in a deep, resonant voice, "albeit one could wish the circumstances less frantic. And who is the young man?"
"I am Jorian the Kortolian," said Jorian, "presently clockmaster to His Majesty. I am honored to meet Your Sanctity."
The woman gave Jorian a penetrating stare. She snapped her fingers. "Inkyara! More light, if you please." When a branched candlestick had been set on a taboret and lit, Sahmet said:
"Master Jorian, methought I knew you."
"Madam! I misdoubt I have had the pleasure—"
"I mean not in the sense of knowing you on this material plane. But I have seen you in visions."
"Yes, madam?"
"You are the barbarian savior!"
"Eh? Oh, come now, Madam Sahmet. I am no barbarian! I learnt my letters when I was but five, in school in Ardamai; and I have studied at the Academy at Othomae. My table manners may not be up to courtly standards, but I do not make a pig of myself. I am only an honest craftsman, and in any case I am unqualified to save Iraz from any doom. But what mean you to do with us?"