Shadowmasque (15 page)

Following at the rear were more servants carrying a variety of wrapped bundles under arms or on shoulders. As they filed off to one side of the dais, Ilgarion — accompanied by the Lord Commander Shumond and High Minister Mendalse — climbed the dais steps but stopped half way up and faced the wondering nobles.

During the procession, Ayoni had worked her way forward to where she could see both Ilgarion and his audience. Then, to her surprise, it was Mendalse who raised his hands for silence.

“Behold!” he said. “The High Keepers!”

A sense of stunned amazement passed through the nobles and in its wake came whispers, shaken heads and exchanges of wide-eyed looks. Ayoni was no less shaken, realising that Ilgarion had somehow persuaded the Conclave of Rods to disregard the Low Coronation and to hold the High Coronation now and within the palace precincts rather than by the sea’s edge as was traditional. This would, she knew, be deeply unpopular with the citizenry yet it was clear that the assembled nobility were prepared to accept and endorse this sidestepping of obligation without protest.

Then she remembered Duke Byrceyn’s predicament.
Perhaps the acquiescence of the aristocracy is not quite unanimous
, she thought.

Along the guard—lined corridor came two figures cloaked and hoodedin pale blue, each carrying a long, sigil-topped staff in the right hand and a cloth-wrapped object in the left. By the time they reached the foot of the dais, the other servants had unpacked their burdens to assemble pole lamps, slender wooden frames draped in ceremonial banners and placed either side of the throne, little tables and plinths on which sacred relics and ritual lamps were placed. Perfumed odours soon began to filter through the hall but nothing could obscure the fact that these hasty preparation were a shabby, shameful travesty of the time-honoured coronation traditions. Ayoni wondered if the Conclave of Rods had withheld their assent until the very last moment, and likewise wondered what kind of pressure Ilgarion had brought to bear upon them.

The High Keepers had laid down their staffs and doffed their hoods, revealing the faces of elderly men, both of whom were holy brothers of the Earthmother temple appointed by the Conclave of Rods for this specific task. Each held the object he had brought, now unwrapped, replicas of the Motherseed and the Crystal Eye, the ancient heirlooms that were lost in the great Shadowking war.

The coronation ritual commenced in a strange dead calm, broken by occasional coughs and the rustle of garments. The Earthmother priestess unveiled herself — it was indeed the Abbess — then began a declamatory exchange with the High Keepers, addressing first one then the other, after which they replied in unison, and all in the intricate phrasing and intonation of formal Mantinoran since the Khatrimantine emperors traced the line of succession back to the kings of Mantinor. Ayoni had never witnessed an imperial coronation but knew form historical accounts that this was a drastically truncated interpretation of an ancient ceremony which had often taken two or even three days to complete.

She had read of massed choirs singing and chanting, the tolling of bells and the sweet voice of drawn kulesti. But when the High Keepers handed the imperial replies to the Abbess it was amid an eerie silence. The priestess looked somewhat stone-faced as she turned and climbed the dais steps to where Ilgarion stood. Halting to stare up at him, she recited further lines on the sacred duty of kingship then offered up the relics. Ilgarion bowed, took them from her then mounted the last couple of steps, took two paces to the throne — now draped in a pale, shimmering material — and sat down. Two figures clad in white robes emerged from behind the throne bearing a sword, a mace and a crown, all wound in filmy gauze. Wearing pale, jewelled masks, the pair represented the Earthmother and the divine Tauric, whose conferral of the instruments of kingship was meant to symbolise the link between the throne and the land and the unseen powers.

But this performance felt like a hollow shell, empty of dignity or meaning.

Finally it drew to an end as the symbolic figures between them lowered the crown onto Ilgarion’s head then fastened a clasp across his throat. As they withdrew Ilgarion stood, holding the mace of law in one hand and the sword of state in the other. The shimmer material rose with him, proving to be a long trailing cloak which was sky blue on its outside.

Someone near the front of the crowd suddenly shouted — “The emperor is dead — long live Emperor Ilgarion!” As growing numbers of nobles began chanting his name, Ayoni found herself filled with contempt for them.

“Such a stirring moment, is it not?” murmured a voice nearby.

She turned to see her deliverer from the Archmage, the mysterious man in the flamebird mask. She could only make out his eyes and his mouth which was smiling sardonically.

“Much about our new emperor is of a singular nature,” she said. “I am Ayoni Feldaru, Countess of Harcas— you have my thanks for rescuing me earlier.”

The man inclined his head. “Just occasionally, blundering carelessness brings benefits. Ah, yes, and I am Lord Kerlo of Northmarch.”

Ayoni frowned. “Northmarch — I don’t believe I’ve heard of it.”

“Oh, ‘tis but a small and relatively unimportant part of the norther border with the Mogaun League. Pelts from the northern Rukangs, my lady, are one of our more lucrative exports…”

And as she listened she got a vague sense of familiarity from his voice but before she could question him further the crowd’s chanting faded and Ilgarion began to speak.

“This empire has stood for long centuries against the hate and schemes of evil enemies,” he said. “And it is from the constancy, courage and loyalty of you and your forbears that our mighty empire has drawn its strength. Yet even amongst our closest and most trusted custodians, the seeds of weakness and betrayal may take root and when such banes come to light it is our duty to tear them out!”

Ayoni felt a weight of dread as Ilgarion’s voice turned venomous and he looked round at the High Minister of Day, Duke Byrceyn.

“Lord Commander Shumond — the Duke Byrceyn has committed deadly treason against the crown, thus I adjure you to carry out your duty by arresting and confining him.”

The circle of swordsmen parted as Shumond and two of his officers moved in. As rope was brought out to bind Byrceyn’s hands, his wife let out a cry of anguish, threw aside her mask and tried to reach for her husband.

“Confine the lady Fyndil as well,” added Ilgarion.

“No, damn you —” was all that Byrceyn could say before a gauntleted fist cuffed him into silence.

Watching this, Ayoni felt her outrage reach the point where she had to act, and she moved straight through the gathered nobles, thinking only to stop this vile injustice. A babble of voices rose at this sight but she was unaware of it, focussed only on her friend Lady Fyndil struggling in the hand of the Iron Guard officers.

She was but a few paces away when she was struck by a wave of dizzyness. The floor and the nearby dais seemed to tilt slightly and she stumbled, slowed and stopped, breathing in deeply to clear her head. But then a terrible debility flowed into her legs and as she sank to the floor amid raised voices, she just heard Tangaroth’s amused voice in her head, —
Well done, my lady. You faint most beautifully
— before unconsciousness took her.

* * *

The moment Countess Ayoni set off across the hall, Corlek knew that he had to distance himself from her and sidled into a more densely occupied part of the floor. He also began to wish that his mask was modelled on something rather less distinctive than the mythological flamebird.

Then the Countess stumbled in her progress, swayed and crumpled to the floor. There were gasps and voices shouting as he husband, Count Jarryc, barrelled through the crowd. Amid the gaudy press of nobled gathered around the fallen Countess, Corlek recognised the tall, dark-blue figure of Archmage Tangaroth who was pushed aside by the Count.

Tangaroth was one of the people that Agasklin and Qothan had impressed upon him to take notice of. From where he stood he could also see Ilgarion upon his dais, coolly observing the enforced removal of Duke Byrceyn and his wife while Count Jarryc carried his own spouse from the hall in his arms. Corlek also knew that one of the four officers attending Lord Commander Shumond was Vorik dor-Galyn, but was not sure which of them he was. Then there was the one named Jumil, a dark and deadly sorcerer according to Agasklin.

“Note who he speaks to,” Agasklin had said. “But avoid attracting his attention and keep a good distance from him.”

At that moment, Jumil was part of a group of officials and academics situated off to the right of the dais some yards along from a cluster of merchants who were watching Ilgarion closely. Jumil was slightly taller and noticeably thinner than the rest, who were noticeably well-fed. During a brief exchange with one of the academy officials on the way back from the nearby privy, he had learned which one Jumil was after spurious claims of being related to someone on the academy staff.

Shifting his mask slightly, Corlek was able to glance over at Jumil while appearing to be studying Ilgarion atop the dais. The sorcerer was standing apart from his companions and looked vaguely bored as he regarded the proceedings. At that moment, one of the Iron Guard officers who had escorted Byrceyn and his wife outside entered from a nearby side door, paused and removed his helm. Corlek caught his breath — it was Vorik dor-Galyn, and as he watched he saw dor-Galyn share a quick look and perhaps the faintest of nods with Jumil, then brushed back his hair and donned his helm once more. Corlek gritted his teeth as the object of his enmity strode across to the dais to stand by Lord Commander Shumond, facing out at the anxious, muttering mass of aristocrats.

Then Ilgarion began to speak again. His voice was calm, his tones measured, almost reasonable, and the things he was saying were broad, generalised praises for the virtues of the Khatrimantine Empire; duty to home, family and crown; honour in all dealings, be it with friend or foe; devotion to the Earthmother; patience and forebearance towards those who would decry the Temple and the Crown; unstinting loyalty towards the Temple and the Crown; and heartfelt valour when called to defend these immemorial virtues and traditions.

Some of the nobles seemed puzzled at this almost reassuring homily but behind his mask Corlek smiled. He had seen this kind of demagoguery before, a soothing recital of normalcy followed by darkness and menace.

And sure enough, in the next breath Ilgarion began to lay out the threats that the Empire faced, from the Carver fanatics to the west and north, from the ambitious generals of Mantinor, and from the savage pirates who range up and down the coasts of Cabringa.

“And the sad truth which I must reveal to you all now is that any enemy who would cast a hungry eye over our empire would find us ill-prepared to withstand a determined invasion. The great hosts of our armies are under strength and lacking in even the essentials of weapons and armour. Our cavalry battalions make do with inferior steeds while the imperial navy has taken delivery of just two new ships in the last ten years. So as we become gradually weaker, those who wish us ill grow stronger.

“But I know that this empire is not doomed to be crushed by an onslaught of evil, as has happened once before. No, our destiny is clear, strong and blessed and our most glorious age is yet to come, but we will have to reach for it. We shall drive our will and our purpose out across the lands, confront those who worship at the altars of evil, and embrace a new world where peace and prosperity reign.”

There was some applause from the noble gathering, a polite, restrained response Corlek noted, but Ilgarion seemed undeterred and continued.

“Our first step in the renewal of the empire will be the reinvigoration of the nobility…”

He paused and looked to the left where a pale yellow-gowned attendant ascended the steps, bowed and handed Ilgarion a slender, plain circlet adorned with a single blue stone. At the same time, two other attendants brought one of the soberly attired merchanters to the dais from the right and led him up to Ilgarion. The man went down on hands and knees and pressed his forehead on the dais tiles. There were indignant mutters from some parts of the crowd but they subsided when the Iron Guard officers stared outwards, trying to identify those responsible.

To Corlek, however, Ilgarion’s aims were very clear. Rebuilding an army or a navy takes a lot of money and Corlek had no doubt that each of those being called one by one to receive the title and circlet of a noble represented a subtantial amount of hard cash. Of course, history was rife with instances where an aristocracy had turned on its liege lord out of fear for its power, and here Ilgarion seemed to be moving to bolster the foundations of his own position, namely the army and the navy.

But if a scandal involving the Iron Guard and a dark sorcerer comes out into the open, he thought, that would alter the pieces on the board and who knows what might happen to Ilgarion then?

The atmosphere of the ceremony grew dreary and sullen, and as Corlek watched the slow procession of new-made nobles he noticed Tangaroth looking on, nodding occasionally. Dor-Galyn still stood on one of the dais’ lower steps, staring out at the crowd wihle off to the right the enigmatic Jumil was a motionless figure by the rear wall’s heavy amber drapes.

The second-last merchant had just felt the touch of the circlet upon his brow when the sounds of a commotion could be heard from outside the northern doors, by which the nobles had first entered. Voices could be heard shouting, muffled at first then becoming clearer, men shouting — ‘Alarum! Fire!’ Then the doors flew open and a court steward rushed in accompanied by half a dozen scribes and attendants.

“Your imperial majesty,” he said. “I beg forgiveness for hasty and unannounced instrusion upon — “

“Enough of that!” Ilgarion snapped. “What is this about?”

“Fire, majesty!” the steward said in a voice full of horror. “The Keep of Day is burning from top to bottom!”