Bradley, Marion Zimmer - SSC 03 (31 page)

 
          
The
shadows lengthened across the palace grounds. Wess sat motionless and silent,
waiting. Chan bit his fingernails and fidgeted. Aerie hunched under her cloak,
her hood pulled low to shadow her face. Quartz watched her anxiously, and
fingered the grip of her sword.

 
          
After
again being refused an audience with the prince, this time at the palace doors,
they had secured a place next to the roped-off path. Across the way, a work
crew put the finishing touches on a platform. When it was completed, servants
hurried from the palace with rugs, a sik-fringed awning, several chairs, and a
brazier of coals. Wess would not have minded a brazier of coals herself; as the
sun fell, the air was growing chill.

 
          
The
crowd continued to gather, becoming denser, louder, more and more drunk. Fights
broke out in the line at the tent, as people began to realize they would never
get inside. Soon the mood grew so ugly that criers spread among the people,
ringing bells and announcing that the carnival would present one more
performance, several more performances, until all the citizens of Sanctuary had
the opportunity to glimpse the carnival's wonders.
And the
secret.
Of course, the cret.
Still, no one even
hinted at the secret's nature.

 
          
Wess
pulled her cloak closer. She knew the nature of the secret; she only hoped the
secret would see his friends and be ready for whatever they could do.

 
          
The
sun touched the high wall around the palace grounds. Soon it would be dark.

 
          
Trumpets
and cymbals: Wess looked toward the Processional gate, but a moment later
realized that all the citizens around her were straining for a view of the
palace entrance. The enormous doors swung open and a phalanx of guards marched
out, followed by a group, of nobles wearing jewels and clothes of gold. They
strode across the hard-packed ground. The young man at the head of the group who
wore a gold coronet, acknowleged his
people's
shouts
and cries as if they all were accolades
—
which, Wess thought, they were not. But above the mutters and complaints, the
loudest cry was, "The prince! Long live the prince!"

 
          
The
phalanx marched straight from the palace to the new-built platform. Anyone
shortsighted enough to sit in that path had to snatch up their things and hurry
out of the way. The route cleared as swiftly as water parting around a stone.

 
          
Wess
stood impulsively, about to sprint across the parade route to try once more to
speak to the prince.

 
          
"Sit
down!"

 
          
"Out of the way!"

 
          
Someone
threw an apple core at her. She knocked it away and crouched down again, though
not because of the threats or the flying garbage. Aerie, too, with the same
thought, started to her feet. Wess touched her elbow.

 
          
"Look,"
she said.

 
          
Everyone
within reach or hearing of the procession seemed to have the same idea. The
crowd surged in, every member clamoring for attention. The prince flung out a
handful of coins, which drew the beggars scuffling away from him. Others, more
intent on their claims, continued to press him. The guards fell back, surrounding
him, nearly cutting off the sight of him, and pushed at the citizens with
spears held broadside.

 
          
The
tight cordon parted and the prince mounted the platform. Standing alone, he
turned all the way around, raising his hands to the crowd.

 
          
"My
friends," he cried, "I know you have claims upon me. The least wrong
to one of my people is important to me."

 
          
Wess
snorted.

 
          
"But
tonight we are all privileged to witness a wonder never seen in the Empire.
Forget your troubles tonight, my friends, and enjoy the spectacle with
me." He held out his hand, and brought a member of his party up beside him
on the stage.

 
          
Bauchle
Meyne.

 
          
"In
a few days, Bauchle Meyne and his troupe will journey to Ranke, there to
entertain the Emperor my brother."

 
          
Wess
and Quartz glanced at each other, startled. Chan muttered a curse. Aerie
tensed, and Wess held her arm. They all drew up their hoods.

 
          
"Bauchle
goes with my friendship, and my seal." The prince held up a rolled
parchment secured with scarlet ribbons and ebony wax.

 
          
The
prince sat down, with Bauchle Meyne in the place of honor by his side. The rest
of the royal party arrayed themselves around, and the parade began.

 
          
Wess
and her friends moved closer together, in silence.

 
          
They
would have no help from the prince.

 
          
The
Processional gates swung open to the sound of flutes and drums. The music
continued for some while before anything else happened. Bauchle Meyne began to
look uncomfortable. Then abruptly a figure staggered out onto the path, as if
he had been shoved.  The skeletally thin, red-haired man regained his
balance, straightened up, and gazed from side to side. The jeers confounded
him. He pushed his long cape off his shoulders to reveal his star-patterned
black robe, and took a few hesitant steps.

 
          
At
the rope barrier's first wooden supporting post, he stopped again. He gestured
toward it tentatively and spoke a guttural word.

 
          
The
post sputtered into flame.

 
          
The
people nearby drew back shouting, and the wizard lurched along the path, first
to one side, then the other, waving his hands at each wooden post in turn.

 
          
The
foggy white circles melded together to light the way. Wess saw that the posts
were not, after all, burning. When the one in front of her began to shine, she
brought her hand toward it, palm forward and fingers outspread. When she felt
no heat she touched the post gingerly,
then
gripped
it. It held no warmth, and it retained its ordinary texture, splintery
rough-hewn wood.

 
          
She
remembered what Lythande said, about her having a strong talent. She wondered
if she could do the same thing. It would be a useful trick, though not very
important. She had no piece of wood to try it on, nor any idea how to start to
try in the first place. She shrugged and let go of the post. Her handprint
—
she blinked. No, it was her imagination, not a brighter
spot that she had touched.

 
          
At
the prince's platform, the wizard stood staring vacantly around. Bauchle Meyne
leaned forward intently, glaring, his worry clear and his anger barely held in
check. The wizard gazed at him. Wess could see Bauchle Meyne's fingers tense
around a circle of ruby chain. He twisted it. Wess gasped. The wizard shrieked
and flung up his hands. Bauchle Meyne slowly relaxed his hold on the talisman.
The wizard spread his arms. He was trembling. Wess, too, was shaking. She felt
as if the chain had whipped around her body like a lash.

 
          
The
wizard's trembling hands moved: the prince's platform, the wooden parts of the
chairs, the poles supporting the fringed awning, all burst suddenly into a
fierce white fire. The guards leaped forward in fury and confusion, but stopped
at a word from their prince. He sat calm and smiling, his hands resting easily
on the bright arms of his throne. Shadowy flames played across his fingers, and
the light spun up between his feet. Bauchle Meyne leaned back in satisfaction,
and nodded to the wizard. The other nobles on the platform stood disconcerted,
awash in the light from the boards between the patterned rugs. Nervously, but
following the example of their ruler, they sat down again.

 
          
The
wizard stumbled onward, lighting up the rest of the posts. He disappeared into
the darkness of the tent. Its supports began to shine with the eerie
luminescence. Gradually, the barrier-ropes and the carpets on the platform and
the awning over the prince and the canvas of the tent became covered with a
soft gentle glow.

 
          
The
prince applauded, nodding and smiling toward Bauchle Meyne, and his people
followed his lead.

 
          
With
a sharp cry, a jester tumbled through the Processional gates and somersaulted
along the path. After him came the flutists and drummers, and then three ponies
with bedraggled feathers attached to their bridles. Three children in spangled
shorts and halters rode them. The one in front jumped up and stood balanced on
her pony's rump, while the two following did shoulder-stands, braced against
the ponies' withers. Wess, who had never been on a horse in her life and found
the idea quite terrifying, applauded. Others in the audience applauded, too,
here and there, and the prince himself idly clapped his hands. But nearby a
large grizzled man laughed sarcastically and yelled, "Show us more!"
That was the way most of the audience reacted, with hoots of derision and
laughter. The child standing up stared straight ahead. Wess clenched her teeth,
angry for the child but impressed by her dignity. Quartz's oldest child was
about the same age. Wess took her hand, and Quartz squeezed her fingers
gratefully.

 
          
A
cage, pulled by a yoke of oxen, passed through the dark gate. Wess caught her
breath. The oxen pulled the cage into the light. It carried an elderly troll,
hunched in the comer on dirty straw. A boy poked the troll with a stick as the
oxen drew abreast of the prince. The troll leaped up and cursed in a
high-pitched angry voice.

 
          
"You uncivilized barbarians!
You, prince
—
prince of worms, I say, of maggots! May your penis grow
till no one will have you! May your best friend's vagina knot itself with you
inside! May you' contract water on the brain and sand in the bladder!"

 
          
Wess
felt herself blushing: she had never heard a troll speak so. Ordinarily they
were the most cultured of forest people, and the only danger in them was that
one might find oneself listening for a whole afternoon to a discourse on the
shapes of clouds or the effects of certain shelf-fungi. Wess looked around,
frightened that someone would take offense at what the troll was saying to
their ruler. Then she remembered that he was speaking the Language, the real
tongue of intelligent creatures, and no one but she and her friends
understood.

 
          
"Frejojan!"
she cried on impulse. "Tonight
—
be
ready
—
if I can
—
!"

 
          
He
hesitated in the midst of a caper, stumbled, but caught himself and gamboled
around, making nonsense noises till he faced her. She pulled her hood back so
he could recognize her later. She let it fall again as the cart passed, so
Bauchle Meyne would not see her from the other side of the path.

 
          
The
gray-gold furry little being gripped the bars of his cage and looked out,
making horrible faces at the crowd, horrible noises in reaction to their jeers.
But between the shrieks and the gibberish,
  he
said, wait
—
"

 
          
After
he passed them, he began to wail.

 
          
"Wess
—
" Chan said.

 
          
"How
could I let him go by without speaking to him?"

 
          
"He
isn't a friend, after all," Aerie said.

 
          
"He's
enslaved, just like Satan!" Wess looked from Aerie's face to Chan's, and
saw that neither understood.
"Quartz
—
?"

 
          
Quartz
nodded. "Yes. You're right. A civilized person has no business being in
this place."