No wonder that Istar had hidden a legion in town.
Oh, no one had told him of the hidden legion. Indeed, he had not spoken of it either-not even to the trusted Arcus. Bomberus knew of the army's whereabouts only through instinct, through the inspired guess of a veteran constable who notices subtle changes on familiar streets: new hands with the calluses of crossbowmen, the unmistakable shape of a pike wrapped in canvas in a wagon bed, swords carried with quiet, respectful wisdom.
Standard security, to be sure. But more than that. He had never seen concealed troops in these num shy;bers, not even at the great festivals of five years past, whose opulence and magnitude dwarfed the sorry excuse for a Shinarion unfolding this first, unpromis shy;ing night.
What could they be planning in the Tower?
He shook his head, continued up the wide street, past the smithy and the Slave Market, to where the spellcraft flourished and the illusions stalked.
Translucent and flitting they were, like ghosts in search of solid flesh.
Slowly, in an almost stately dance, they cavorted on the battlements of the abandoned tower like cor shy;posants on a stormy mast, and the night air rumbled in accompaniment with the sound of fireworks and thunder, of the last combats in the raucous arena. Above the slack-jawed guardsmen the air crackled as the watery smell of lightning reached them through the smoke and powder and incense of the Shinarion.
Peter Bomberus reached for his sword, then laughed quietly, grimly. As if edged steel would fend off these mirages.
In the fitful firelight behind the burning gate, there at the base of the tower, the illusionists gathered for duels and enchantments. Artificial stars glittered above them, spangling the minarets of the tower with borrowed light.
It was a show, the best of the Shinarion. A second heaven formed around the deserted tower, and lan shy;guidly the constellations, drawn from the memories of the participating illusionists, wheeled about the spire of the tower as though a year were passing in little more than a minute, a century in two hours. Meanwhile, at the shadowy base of the tower a cho shy;rus of incantations rose on the air, a great choir in all the known languages of Ansalon, from the watery vowels of Lemish to the harsh Kernian brogue and the suave accents of Balifor.
As the guardsmen covered the burning gate with doused canvas, with earth, with ashes, smothering the strange flames of phosfire, Peter Bomberus watched the spectacle in the western sky. In unison, as a hundred languages choired below them, the imaginary stars and planets lifted into the higher regions of air, sputtering and fading as they caught a sudden wind and scattered, in a babble of fire and voices, over the bay of Istar.
They were always good, these illusionists, with their false light and treacherous mirrors. But this year, their flashy, empty show seemed to suit the city and its festival.
Peter Bomberus stood before the smoldering gate and watched the smoke trail into the heavy sky.
The festival was a showy failure. This year was the worst of them all-as many fires as pilgrims, it seemed. And beneath the smoke and incense and the smell of new wine, the pungent, unsavory odor of decay and death.
The Kingpriest himself watched the illusions sail out and crumble over the water.
Like dust, he reminded himself.
Like bright and magical dust.
Turning from the window, he closed the thin shades behind him and, oil lamp in hand, hastened to the table where he kept the long work of his dreams.
He was almost through with the gathering. The opal dust filled two large vials already, and the third and final receptacle was three-quarters full. But the mining was laborious, even under the skillful labors of the Lucanesti, and the great day of the ritual might still be months away.
Time enough for that mad Prophet to storm the city. To ruin everything.
His pale hand trembled as he touched the last vial. Oh, might the gods speed the harvest! But the Prophet… the Plainsmen and rebels …
'They will not be enough to harm you," a dark voice breathed from somewhere in his chamber.
The Kingpriest was suddenly tense and alert. He had heard this voice before-in the clerestory of the great encircling corridor, in the glossy dome of the council hall, and finally, most intimately, in his own private chambers. Yet it never ceased to surprise him, insinuating itself into the depths of his dreams, coming upon him always in solitary and unguarded moments like a thief to an unprotected house.
"T-To harm me?" he stammered, mining for a false bravery. "What have I to fear from. . petty bandits?"
"But there is one who is more than a bandit," the voice teased.
The Kingpriest glanced to the window he had just closed. A dark heart at the center of the opal sheet contracted eerily, like the eye of a reptile, and the voice trailed through the brilliant translucent pane, filling the room with melody and dread.
"This one is close to you, my friend, and it would not be well for you to see him … face to face and eye to eye. It would be a hall of mirrors, in which you might well become ensnared."
The Kingpriest frowned at the obscure threat. Then, dropping all pretense of courage and confi shy;dence, he faced the window and asked the question that had kept him sleepless for most of the week.
"If I cannot face him, who can? If five generals have failed, then who will stop him?"
"Your commander is coming," the voice soothed, a strange opaque flatness in its tone. "Rest easy, my friend. I shall let no rebellion touch you."
In the answering silence, the Kingpriest waited, attentive and expectant. What did it mean-this dark, ambiguous promise?
Soon it was apparent that the voice had left the window, that its last sentence had been these odd words of assurance.
Assurance, indeed. It would protect him, deliver him.
Then why did his hand still shake?
It was an odd officer who made his way into the quartermaster's offices on the following morning.
His uniform was a ragtag assemblage, mixing rank, regiment and legion with almost a clownish abandon. The lieutenant's tunic from the Istarian Twelfth Legion contrasted strangely with the violet cavalry cape left over from the Ninth Legion, which had been disbanded by the Kingpriest two years before. The green leggings the officer wore had come from the Ergothian infantry and the helmet, fashioned of ornate boiled leather, was a relic from some other time.
A mercenary, the quartermaster deduced, glanc shy;ing over his shoulder as the motley man entered the offices. No man to reckon with. Or cheat.
The quartermaster might have been more curious had he seen the officer emerge from a nearby alley not minutes earlier, rolling the end of the cape around his silver slave collar, effectively hiding it from curious eyes. He might have wondered who the man was, what was his business. And why he wore the mark of a slave in the first place.
Busy with his inventory, the quartermaster noticed nothing more about the man-not even that he spoke not a word to the other soldiers milling through the assembled supplies, but that his hands flashed secretly with ancient Ergothian numerical signs as he counted, tallied, and took his own inven shy;tory of the provisions gathered in the military offices.
The quartermaster scarcely took heed when the officer left, busy as he was with an order for a thou shy;sand pairs of legionnaires' boots and as many water-skins.
Nor did the armorer in the shop three streets away pause to notice when an acrobat entered his estab shy;lishment, dressed in the black tunic of tumblers and fire-dancers. After all, festival performers often came to the armory, searching for old throwing knives, older darts, and other dramatic blunt weapons to lend a certain edge of danger to the torchlit midnight productions. Bent over a used sword he was hammering into shape for a sergeant in the Twelfth Legion, the stocky craftsman did not notice the acrobat's eye stray to the spearheads, arrowheads, and the new short swords requisi shy;tioned by the garrisons of the city.