The Fortress of Glass (7 page)

The plaza spread broadly, covering perhaps ten acres without permanent buildings. On three sides of it were tents and kiosks, and to the south were bleachers-the stand Martous referred to.

In the center of the plaza was a pile of brushwood nearly as big as the palace. On top of it, just lower than the eyes of those on the balcony, lay a corpse on a bier of gold cloth.

Despite the distance, Sharina could see that the dead man had been middle aged; he was balding though not bald, and plump without being really fat. His cheeks were rouged, but the flesh was already beginning to slump from them. Silver coins covered both eyes.

"When Lady Liane has a moment, she'll give you direction as to the seating arrangements," Sharina said firmly. "She has an excellent grasp of protocol, and I do not. She'll consult with Lord Attaper, the commander of the royal guard, and I advise you not to argue with the decisions they make."

She cleared her throat. "There will be provision for guards," she added. "Probably more guards than you think-" Or anybody not himself a bodyguard thinks, Sharina added in her heart "-is necessary or even conceivable."

"If you say so," the chamberlain said. He added fretfully, "Time is very short, you realize."

Sharina realized that perfectly well, so she didn't comment. It was proper that the chamberlain should have his own priorities, but those weren't the priorities of the Kingdom of the Isles as personified in Prince Garric and his closest advisors.

Tenoctris glanced at the corpse, then turned her attention to the shacks and tents around the edges of the plaza. Country folk had raised them for shelter, in some cases forming little hamlets of half a dozen families around a single cook fire. Peddlers and wine sellers moved through the crowd, either carrying their stores on their backs or accompanied by a porter or a donkey. The gathering had more the atmosphere of a fair than a funeral.

A fence of palings and rope picked out with tufts of scarlet wool marked off an area the width of a bowshot around the pyre. There were no guards to enforce the boundary. Either the peasants of First Atara were unusually obedient folk, or they understood just how big the blaze would be and had better sense than to come too close.

Tenoctris fixed the chamberlain with her quick eyes. "Do the ceremonies you've mentioned involve wizardry?" she asked.

"Oh, good heavens, no!" Martous said. "We're not that sort of people here on First Atara."

He paused, connecting what he'd just said with what he and the visitors knew of the late king. "Ah," he said. "Well, King Cervoran was, of course, but that was him. His father raised show rabbits, you know. My first job in the palace was as Page of the Rabbits. Ah. Really, there was no harm in the king, just, well, interest. And there's nothing of the sort in the apotheosis ceremony, not at all."

Patting his hands together to close the discussion in his mind, Martous continued, "The ceremony actually started before you arrived in Mona. A delegation of nobles carried the late king from the palace while choruses of boys and girls lined the path to the pyre, singing hymns to the Lady."

He frowned. "The boys' chorus might've been better rehearsed," he admitted, "and there was some difficulty with the staircase up the front of the pyre, but I think things went well enough given how short my time was. Quite well!"

Sharina smiled. The staircase Martous mentioned was a steep contrivance with notched logs for stringers and treads also fashioned from logs with an adze rather than a saw. Cloth runners-muslin dyed shades of red ranging from russet to pale pink-made the stairs presentable from a distance but also made them harder to climb.

Sharina supposed it hadn't seemed reasonable to waste effort on the details of something meant to burn in a day or two. The person making the decision-probably the chamberlain himself-might've considered the problem a group of out-of-condition country squires would have climbing the structure while carrying a laden bier, however.

"Tomorrow morning at the ceremony," Martous continued, "Prince Protas will light the pyre. I do hope it goes well. The brush had to be bundled while it was still green, I'm afraid. If only we'd had more notice about the king's health so that we could've started preparations sooner!"

"King Cervoran appears to have been very remiss," Sharina said. She was making a pointed joke to remind the chamberlain to think about what he was saying. He merely nodded agreement, too lost in his own concerns to have any awareness of the wider world.

"After the fire's been lighted," Martous said, "Protas will throw on a lock of his hair. I've already had one prepared by the palace hairdresser so that there'll be no problem there. The chief nobles will file across the front of the pyre and sprinkle incense."

He looked sharply at Sharina as though she'd sudden become interesting. "How many of you Ornifal nobles will be joining the procession? A rough number, if you please?"

"None," said Sharina. "And I must remind you that we're the delegation of the kingdom, not of the Island of Ornifal alone. I, for example, am Princess Sharina of Haft."

"Ah," said Martous. "Ah, yes."

He turned his face toward the plaza, pressing his lips out and in several times. At last he continued, "The choruses will perform during the ceremony. I do hope we won't have a repetition of the regrettable business with the boys singing that they're 'impure with vices' as they did during the presentation. Anyway, when nobles have finished casting incense and the pyre is burning properly, a dove symbolizing the late king's soul will be released from beside Prince Protas' throne-"

"From the throne rather than from the pyre itself?" Tenoctris asked. "When I've seen this sort of ceremony in the past...?"

"Well, there was a problem with the cage opening during the rites of the late king's father," the chamberlain admitted. "In fact, some of the... the more superstitious members of the populace ascribed King Cervoran's devotion to wizardry to, well, that problem. This is foolishness, of course, but I decided not to take a chance on having it happen again."

Tenoctris nodded. "My parents would've been glad of an excuse on which to blame my interests," she said. "In their hearts, I'm sure they were afraid it was their fault. Though so far as I've ever been able to tell, there's nothing more mystical about skill at wizardry than there is in preferring fish over mutton."

"As soon as the dove has flown...," Martous said. He was looking at Tenoctris as he spoke, his eyes wide, but he suddenly flushed and jerked them back to the pyre. "As soon as that's happened, I say, Prince Garric will stand and crown Prince Protas with the ancient topaz diadem-he'll be holding that through the rites. There'll be a general acclamation. I hope-"

He looked coldly at Sharina.

"-that we may expect the royal party to join in the acclamation?"

"You may," Sharina said in a neutral voice.

Lord Martous took a deep breath. "Then," he said, clasping his hands, "I believe we're ready for the ceremony. Except for the seating arrangements. If you don't mind, I'll take my leave now. I need to talk with the master of the boys' choir."

"I hope your discussions go well, milord," Sharina said, but the chamberlain was already halfway to the door.

She knew she should feel more charitable toward him. Only a fussy little fellow concerned with trivia could've made a good chamberlain. Given that, Martous was more than competent.

Tenoctris faced the pyre, but Sharina couldn't tell where the old wizard's mind was. "How do the arrangements strike you, Tenoctris?" she asked.

"What?" the wizard said, falling back into the present. "Oh. The arrangements seem perfectly regular. A little ornate for so-"

She smiled.

"-rural a place, but one finds that sort of thing in backwaters... if you'll forgive my prejudices. I've always been more comfortable in communities that value books over turnips."

"I'm glad to hear it's all right," Sharina said. "I was worried that something might happen."

"So am I, my dear," Tenoctris said. "The human arrangements are regular, as I said; but I'm by no means sure that we humans will have the final say in what happens tomorrow."

* * *

The combined signallers of the royal army, some fifty men with either straight trumpets or horns coiled about their bodies, stopped playing at a signal from Liane. It seemed to Garric that the plaza still trembled. Even so there was only an instant's pause before the combined signallers of the fleet, fifty more men determined to outdo their army counterparts, took up the challenge.

Garric groaned, looking down at the topaz crown resting on a pillow in his lap. The images in the heart of the yellow stone danced in the play of the sun. He hid a grimace and leaned to his left, bringing his lips close to Sharina's ear. He had to be careful because he was wearing his dress helmet, a silvered casque from which flared gilt wings.

"I should never have allowed them to do this," Garric said. "It was Lord Tadai's idea, a way that we could contribute something unique to the funeral ceremonies, but it's awful."

"The locals seem to like it," said Sharina. He more read the words on her smiling lips than heard them. "I'm sure they've never heard anything like it before."

Neither had Garric, though some really severe winter storms had been almost as deafeningly bad. The signallers were skilled beyond question, but they and their instruments were intended to blare commands through the chaos of battle. It was remarkable what they could do when grouped together and filled with a spirit of rivalry.

But as Sharina'd said, the islanders filling the plaza seemed to love it. That went for both country folk and the residents of Mona itself. City-dwellers on First Atara tended to sew bright-colored ribbons on their dress garments, but there wasn't as much distinction between urban and rural as there would've been on Ornifal or even Haft.

Sharina wore court robes of silk brocade with embroidery and a cloth-of-gold appliqué to make them even stiffer and heavier. Garric's molded and silvered breastplate wasn't comfortable, but at least it wouldn't prevent him from swinging a sword. The court robes were far more restrictive.

Normally Liane would be seated slightly back of his left side, formally his aide because she wasn't legally his consort. They'd planned the wedding over a year before-but events had prevented the ceremony, and further events had pushed it back again. The royal wedding would be an important symbol that the Kingdom of the Isles was truly united for the first time in a thousand years...

But before he claimed the symbol, Garric had to create the reality. He grinned. Kingship was much more complicated that it'd seemed when he read Rigal's epic Cariad. The hero Car had fought many enemies, both human and supernatural, in founding his kingdom, but he'd never had to settle a wrangle between the Duke of Blaise and the Earl of Sandrakkan as to the order of precedence of their regiments when the royal army was in full array.

"I could handle that for you, lad," said image of King Carus, shaking his head in rueful memory. "Nobody argued with me about anything to do with the battle line because they knew I'd take their head off if they did. Unfortunately I dealt with tax commissioners pretty much the same way, and I can't tell you how much trouble that caused."

Today Liane was in charge of the royal involvement in the funeral and apotheosis rites. She had an instinctive feel for protocol and precedence, what should or shouldn't be done in a formal setting. That was a better use of her talents than sitting beside Garric and calming him by her presence; but he half wished now that he'd left the arrangements to one of Lord Tadai's stewards.

The shrieking of horns and trumpets halted. Choruses of boys and girls came forward from behind the bleachers. The youngest singers were only six or so, and the choir masters and assistants trying to keep the lines in order looked more harassed than the children did. It was almost time to light the pyre.

Lord Protas was to Garric's right; Lord Martous was whispering to him. The boy looked stiff and uncomfortable, but that's how he'd looked ever since Garric met him on the Shepherd. Garric realized with a touch of sadness that a 12-year-old boy whose father had just died was an obvious subject for sympathy, but he-Prince Garric of Haft-had none to spare.

Protas seemed biddable. He could take over the government of First Atara with the 'advice' of a commissioner from Valles, leaving one fewer problem for Prince Garric to concern himself with.

"There's nothing wrong with sympathy," said King Carus, standing on the balcony of a tower that might never have existed. "And don't pretend that you lack it. The trouble comes from letting sympathy keep you from doing what has to be done. Anger does less harm than false kindness; and I've got plenty of experience of how much harm anger does."

Martous handed Protas a glass bowl in a filigreed framework; it held a pine torch lying on a bed of sand which'd been soaked with oil. Sluggish flames wobbled from the sand as well as the pine.

"Go, your highness!" the chamberlain snapped. "Don't delay the ceremonies!"

Garric put his right hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed it, smiling at him. He didn't speak. Protas nodded appreciatively, then got up and started across the broad cleared space toward the pyre. His back was straight and his stride firm except for one little stumble.

"No sympathy!" repeated King Carus with a gust of laughter.