The Jackal of Nar (37 page)

“Are you going to wear it over the sash? You’ll have to make sure the sash shows, you know.”

“I’d like to wear it
instead
of the sash,” Richius grumbled.

“Well, you can’t. Here, let me.…”

Patwin dropped to one knee and began fiddling with the sash, undoing the sloppy knot Richius had made. Richius watched his friend in the mirror.

“Are the others ready?” he asked.

“Yes. They’re in the other room, waiting for you.”

Richius nodded. The rooms Jibben had readied for him were enormous, so it didn’t surprise him at all that others in the next chamber could go unnoticed. Like all the rooms he had seen in the sprawling palace, this one was astoundingly extravagant, its walls hung with tapestries and its floors laid with rich carpets. There were peasants in Aramoor whose entire homes were not as big as this one chamber.

“There!” announced Patwin proudly, getting to his feet. Richius glanced down at the sash and saw a perfectly tied tassel hanging from his side. Astonished, he looked at Patwin.

“Three younger sisters,” explained Patwin with a grin.

“It’s a bit girlish, isn’t it? No wonder my father never wore his.”

“Your father never came to Nar,” said Patwin. “Besides, you have to wear it. It’s your mark of kingship now.”

“No, Patwin,” Richius corrected. “My ring was my mark of kingship. I’m an Aramoorian first.” He regarded the scabbard. It was a gift from a villain, no matter how beautiful it was. “I don’t want to forget who I am.”

“Don’t worry, Richius, you won’t. Jojustin would never let you.”

Richius laughed. “Oh, Jojustin. I wish he were here to see this. I wish a lot of people were here to see this. Like Dinadin.”

“Forget Dinadin,” scolded Patwin, taking the scabbard and beginning to fasten it across Richius’ back. “You asked him and he said no. Fine, it’s his loss. If he wants to go on holding grudges, let him. Maybe when you get back he’ll have learned the proper respect.”

“It’s not about respect, Patwin. I don’t want any of you to just respect me.”

Patwin stepped back, inspecting his handiwork in the mirror. “As I said, Dinadin will have a long time to think about it. Turn around.”

Richius complied, turning from the mirror to face his friend. Patwin’s eyes lit up.

“Wonderful. Just like a king!”

Richius smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

“Nervous?”

“A little. I’m more anxious about meeting Arkus. I thought for sure he’d want to speak with me before the coronation.”

“All you have to do is kiss his ring, isn’t that right?”

Richius shrugged. “That’s what Biagio said. Kiss his ring and pledge my allegiance to him and Nar.” He grimaced at the unpleasant thought. “I hope I’m doing the right thing.”

“You are. You’ll be a fine king, Richius. We all know it. And we’ll all be right there with you.”

Before Richius could answer, Ennadon poked his head into the chamber. The embarrassed expression on his face made Richius feel like a bride dressing for a wedding.

“Richius?”

“It’s all right, Ennadon,” said Richius, waving the man
forward. Like Patwin, Ennadon was resplendent in his Aramoorian uniform, his hair oiled and slicked back. The faint scent of perfume preceded him into the room.

“I’m sorry to bother you, but there’s someone here to see you.”

“Biagio?”

Ennadon nodded.

“Well then,” said Richius, turning stiffly to Patwin. “I guess this is it.”

“Ready?”

“I think so,” said Richius, tugging nervously at his jacket and straightening his waist belt. He checked himself one last time in the mirror, then turned and walked out of the room into the connecting chamber. Barret and Gilliam were waiting there for him. So was Biagio. Though the chamber was brightly lit with glowing sconces, Biagio’s smile was no less dazzling.

“Ah, you are beautiful, Prince Richius! Truly majestic. The emperor will be so pleased to see you wearing the sash.”

“Thank you, Count. And thank you for the beautiful scabbard. I’m honored.”

“A trifle. I just thought you should have a fitting sheath for your noble blade.” The count’s eyes darted to the scabbard. “It does look striking, though, doesn’t it?”

“It’s beautiful,” said Richius. “You’re too generous.”

“Believe me, Prince Richius, you won’t think it so extravagant when you see the feast the emperor has prepared for you. Everything is ready and waiting.”

“Will the emperor be there?” Richius asked. “I had thought I would be meeting with him before the coronation. You told me in Aramoor that he has things to discuss with me.”

“I’m afraid the emperor will not be at the feast, Prince Richius. He has many matters to attend to. But he will speak to you when the time is right.”

“But he will be at the coronation, yes?”

“Of course,” said Biagio. “The bishop will conduct a small ceremony, and then you will pledge your life and allegiance to Nar before all the gathered lords of the Empire.”

Richius curled his lips into the best lying smile he had ever managed. “It sounds wonderful, Count.”

“Excellent. Then we should be going.”

Biagio led Richius and his comrades out of the luxurious
chamber into an equally well-appointed hallway. They were high up in one of the castle’s many spires. A draft made the tapestries shiver on the walls. Scurrying servants burdened with slabs of bacon and baskets of fruit made apologetic bows to them as they hurried on their way, and everywhere came the soft music of beautiful voices. The air was cool with the aromas of meats and gravies and sweet things, and the scent of flowers drifted through the hall.

“Have many people come?” asked Richius casually. He wasn’t at all comfortable with having an audience, though he expected there would be a large one. Biagio did not look at him, but merely gave his polite, patronizing laugh.

“More than you might be at ease with,” said the count. “Almost all the kings of Nar are here, and their wives and families, of course. Even King Panos came from Goss to be here. I’ll introduce you to the important ones. Just stay close to me.”

“I’ll try,” said Richius. To him, the idea of “staying close” to Biagio was something like the thought of sharing his bed with a war wolf, but he knew the count would be far better than he at placing the faces of the court, and so he steeled himself for a long day of handshaking.

They followed Biagio down a twisting staircase, descending each step carefully to avoid the clutter of people pushing past them. Only when the servants noticed whom they were shoving did they stop and give Biagio the obeisance his rank demanded, and a few cold glares from the count had several of them groveling apologies. Behind him, Richius’ entourage was commenting about the heavenly smells, and the music rose as they finally neared the bottom of the spire and entered the palace’s great hall. According to Biagio, it connected every tower of the castle—no small achievement considering the number of the looming monoliths.

There were, by Richius’ estimation, at least a dozen towers, each of them containing a staircase that spiraled down to the hall. The hall’s vaulted ceiling climbed high above them, its frescoed surface drawing the eye upward, its walls gilded with marble friezes depicting glorious moments in Nar’s violent history. Statues of heroes with bronze helmets and broad shoulders lined the polished floor. They were men with tongue-twisting Naren names, men whose exploits were the bedtime stories of every
good Naren child. Festoons of bright flowers draped the hall, garlands of honeysuckle and primrose sweetening the heady air. Here in the south of the Empire flowers grew year-round, and it was said that the emperor was particularly fond of them. Richius puzzled over this. Flowers seemed an odd affectation for a man so famous for his savagery.

When they had pressed their way another hundred feet or so, Richius saw the palace’s throne room, opening off the end of the hall. The great iron doors were open wide, letting loose a wave of music. Richius bit his lip as heads began to turn. The idle chat of well-liquored onlookers hushed as they sighted him. He slowed his gait and squared his shoulders.

“We’re with you, Richius,” said Patwin, and Richius turned to see his four comrades flashing encouraging smiles.

“I hope you’re hungry,” he quipped.

Biagio leaned in closer. “I’ll announce you when we enter,” he whispered. “Do not worry. You won’t have to say anything.”

The tide of people ebbed a little as they reached the throne room, and they stepped through the metal doors. All at once a thousand heads turned to greet them. Richius looked out over the sea of richly dressed people, and watched the women curtsy and the men raise their goblets. There wasn’t a familiar face among them, yet they smiled at him as if he were their brother or son. Those seated at the tables got to their feet when he entered, stopping their gorging long enough to join the cheer that rose when Biagio said boldly:

“Lords and friends of Nar, I give you Richius Vantran, the new king of Aramoor!”

There was thundering applause and the clinking of glasses. Somewhere a chorus raised their voices higher. A servant who had been waiting by the doors rushed a goblet into Richius’ hand. Without thinking, Richius raised the goblet to the assemblage in thanks. Behind him, Patwin was leading his companions in a cheer, their good-natured shoulder-slapping sloshing wine out of the goblet. Yet even Biagio didn’t seem to mind their boyish enthusiasm. The count laughed and called for servants to bring wine for them all, clapping his hands theatrically to the rising rhythm of the chorus.

Richius laughed, too, his mind overwhelmed by the scene, the inundation of sounds and smells and colors that made his senses
reel. The throne room was decorated much the same as the great hall, with blooming flowers and sconces forged from precious metals. There were no statues cluttering the floor, but huge, mahogany tables had been brought in to accommodate the plethora of food. Casks of wine and beer stored in every corner, and everywhere collared slaves pressed through the crowd, trays of opulent little morsels balanced expertly in their palms. It was all just as Biagio had promised.

As Richius spied the congregation, it seemed to him that every nation in the Empire was represented. He let Biagio guide him slowly through the throne room, stopping intermittently to greet some of the guests. The count cocked his little finger genteelly as he pointed out those he thought Richius should remember, never being quite so rude as to look at them directly. There was King Panos of Goss and his wife Miranda, who had made her husband famous by bedding half his knights. There were Enli and Eneas, the brother dukes of Dragon’s Beak, whose long-running feud for their single throne was known throughout the Empire. Queen Katiryn of Criisia had come all the way from her northern home, and Count Jahann of the Eastern Highlands had arrived with an entourage of silk-clad handmaidens. Richius greeted them all with the naive congeniality of youth. He was dazzled by the diversity; the bosomy, lavender gowns of the women of Dahaar and the modest, muted garb of the ladies from Vosk. Amber-skinned Crotan noblemen passed unnoticed by Dorians, whose own skin had been deadened to white by the nearly year-round darkness in their wintry land. And most amazingly, Richius could find only good humor in the room, without an inkling of the rivalrous bickering he had expected to see among the many folk of Nar. He smiled to himself. Arkus had staged a convincing show.

When they had crossed no more than half the room, the choir came into view. At least two dozen bright-eyed youths stood atop a short stage erected in the corner of the chamber, their mouths opened wide in song. It wasn’t a song Richius knew, for it was sung in High Naren, but its forceful, angelic melody made him pause. Never in his life had he heard such perfect music. Every note was as crystalline as a raindrop. He lowered his goblet as he watched the small mouths moving to the aria, almost brought to tears by the excellence of the sound. Biagio sipped at
his wine as he too listened to the music. When the song finally ended the count closed his eyes and sighed.

“Is that not beautiful?”

“Yes,” said Richius truthfully. “I think that was the most beautiful music I’ve ever heard. What was that song? I don’t think I know it.”

“It’s called ‘Boruso Decoyo,’ ” said Biagio. “The song of the martyrs. It is a dirge for those killed in the service of the Empire.”

Well, there are enough of those to sing about
, thought Richius bitterly. But he smiled and said, “Those children must train severely to be able to sing like that. Their voices are so perfect.”

“There is much discipline,” agreed Biagio. “Of course, discipline alone would do little good without the procedure.”

“Procedure?” asked Richius absently. Somehow he had lost Patwin and the others in the crowd, and he surveyed the expanse of bodies to find his comrades. He only half noticed Biagio’s surprise at his question.

“Such music is not made easily, Prince Richius. Surely you don’t think all they do is practice to sound like that?”

Richius glanced over at the chorus. Already they were clearing their throats for their next performance. But except for the extraordinary music they made, they looked wholly unremarkable in their white-and-scarlet gowns.

“What else is there?” asked Richius.

“The procedure, Prince Richius, is used to make that lovely music you heard. Each of those children has had it. Listen to them when they sing. You will not hear a single note that does not belong. Do you know why?”

“No,” Richius admitted. “Why?”

“Because they are incapable of making any other sounds. When it is determined what note a child can sing most perfectly, the other cords in his throat are severed. From then on only that one note can be sung. Then, when the children sing together … Well, the music tells the story better than I can.”

Sickened, Richius turned away. They were so much like the children he was always shooing out of the stables back home, those children whose only knowledge of music were the war croons they heard their fathers sing. The only difference was that these cherub-voiced prodigies had the misfortune of being born
in Nar. Deliberately he drained his goblet, welcoming the cool sting of the wine.