“Up here, Captain,” said her escort. Up here was atop a stone platform that resembled every reviewing stand she had ever seen except its being solid stone instead of slightly quivery metal and plastic. Rows of chairs, each with a bright blue cushion on it—that was different—and a little railing painted brilliant white. Behind the chairs, the flags of Armitage, Xavier, Roualt, and the Familias Regnant swung gently in the light breeze. In front of them, the wide field where the parade was coming apart into its constituent elements. Some of them reformed into obvious military units, and some (the children on ponies) milled around until the Civil Guard shooed them away.
Heris sat where she was bidden, and found herself looking down on the heads of the band. Directly beneath her the coiled shape of some kind of horn gleamed in the sun, and it produced substantial deep blats from its great bell. In front of that row were the horns held up and facing outward, and in front of them the little dark and silver cylinders . . . she wished she knew more about musical instruments. The required music appreciation classes long ago had left a residue of tangled facts: some things had strings, and some had tubes you blew through or tubes with holes in them you blew across. Which left that thing on the end there: it looked like an inflated pillow with sticks coming out. Whatever it was, it made a sound she had never heard before, as if something alive were being strangled inside.
As she watched, its player stepped smartly out in front of the band, revolved in place, and faced the reviewing stand. Now she could hear the discordant squeals and gurgles clearly; the rest of the band had stopped in mid-phrase (if music had phrases) to allow it a solo turn.
“Our top piper,” her escort said. Heris smiled politely. At least now she had a label for it. Piper.
“You’ll see the massed pipes, too,” he said, as if that were a treat in store. A mass of these squealers? Heris thought longingly of earplugs. She looked beyond the band. Now the near side of the field was almost empty, and a crowd had formed on the far side. A couple of dogs ran in circles, chasing each other. “I’m sorry for the delay,” her escort murmured. “We wanted to get everyone here—”
“Quite all right,” Cecelia said, before Heris could think past the piper’s screeches to what she might politely say.
“But here they are—” A horse-drawn vehicle rolled across the field, to distant cheers from the crowd. One of the dogs fled; the other ran yapping after the horses, who ignored this familiar accompaniment. So did the elegant spotted dog sitting upright beside the driver.
“The General Secretary, the Mayor and Council,” her escort said. “I hope it accords with your etiquette; in ours, the greater honor goes to the one who arrives first.” He stood, and Heris took the hint. The little band began something that made her want to sway from foot to foot—not a march, but almost a waltz. The General Secretary, resplendent in a long cape edged with silver braid, bowed to the reviewing stand. Heris had no idea what was required; Cecelia, she noticed, stood still. The Mayor’s cape had bright red braid; the Council, in various bright-colored outfits, all glittering with braid, buttons, or other adornment, descended one by one from the carriage and bowed before climbing the steps. When the last was seated, the solo piper let out a resounding screech. Heris was delighted to see that the horses hitched to the vehicle flattened their ears and tried to shy. The driver lifted the reins and they exploded into a fast trot.
No one on the platform said a word; if they had, no one could have heard it, Heris was sure. With a final tweedle and squeal, the piper spun around, and the little band snapped to attention, and marched away. Now what?
Now the General Secretary, it seemed, had something to say. Long experience of political speeches had Heris ready for long-winded platitudes.
“We’re here to honor our old friend Lady Cecelia, and our new heroes,” the General Secretary. “You saw Captain Serrano in the parade; we now consider her a friend of the same status as Lady Cecelia.” The General Secretary turned to Heris. “Please accept this as a token of our esteem,” he said. “Wear it when you visit us, if you will.” It was a small silver button, stamped with the design of a leaping horse.
“Thank you,” Heris said. Before she could finish with the requisite reminder that she had done nothing of herself, but only with the help of others, the General Secretary was interrupting.
“And now, let’s show our visitors and friends the pride of our people.” And he sat down abruptly, leaving Heris no choice but to do the same.
Heris blinked. Short, and not particularly graceful—not at all what she expected. But it wasn’t her place to expect. Now at the far end of the field, a thin sound like the strangling of dozens of geese . . . “The massed pipes,” her escort confirmed. Suddenly they were in motion, and with them an array of drums.
“I’m . . . not familiar with the instrument,” Heris said, hoping for a diversion. Her escort beamed.
“Not that many worlds have preserved them,” he said with evident pride. She could understand that; suppression seemed more reasonable than preservation. “Here we have not only preserved, but developed, the four main varieties of pipe that survived the Great Dispersal. For marching bands, we prefer the purely acoustic, though there is an amplified variety with a portable powerpack.”
“They seem quite loud enough,” Heris said.
“Oh, but they were battlefield instruments at one time. We find them very effective in riot control.”
She could imagine that. An amplified piper—or, worse, a mass of amplified pipers—could send the average rioter into acoustic shock. Most security services had acoustic weapons, but none that looked or sounded like this.
Cecelia leaned past the escort between them. “Isn’t it thrilling? I’ve always loved pipes.”
Heris was saved the necessity of answering by the pipes themselves, now close enough to make a wall of sound. The pipers marched with a characteristic strut, the drums thundered behind them, and despite herself her toes began to move in rhythm inside her shoes. The pipes when playing a quick melody sounded much more musical, she thought, dancing from note to note above the rattling drums. Behind this group marched what must be, she realized, the entire planetary militia, each unit in its own colors. Each, as it passed the reviewing stand, turned heads sharply, and shouted out its origin (so her escort explained). She had no idea where “Onslow” and “Pedigrate” were, but the pride certainly showed. Far to their right, the massed pipes wheeled and marched back, this time nearer the crowd.
To Heris’s relief, they returned through the town in the gleaming cars of their first visit. She had not looked forward to climbing back on a horse.
“I could get addicted to this,” Cecelia said. They had the closed compartment to themselves. Her cheeks had reddened with the unaccustomed sun, but her eyes were bright. A few rose petals clung incongruously to her red hair, and one lay for a moment on her shoulder until the errant breeze lifted it off.
“Addicted to what, riding in parades?” Heris asked.
“That and . . . being the conquering hero. Knowing I did something really worthwhile.”
Heris refrained from pointing out that Cecelia herself hadn’t done that much. She’d volunteered her—well, their—yacht and crew, but she herself had not fired a weapon. Still, she had been in danger with them. And in all honesty, Heris herself had enjoyed the cheering crowds, even the roses and ribbons. “This is the easy part,” she said.
“I know,” Cecelia said. “But then I always did like victory celebrations. I never thought I’d have another one—not like the old days.”
“Didn’t you get any satisfaction out of your return to Rockhouse?” Heris asked.
For the first time, Cecelia looked ready to answer that. “Not really. The king resigned—I had no chance to talk to him first. And Lorenza—she escaped. Even if she died—and I agree she must have—she escaped me. I wanted to slap her smug face myself. Then I found out the yacht wasn’t mine anymore—I couldn’t even take off on my own—”