“I come from the palace,” Relfas said loftily, smoothing his red mustache with a gloved finger. “You are commanded to appear before the emperor this morning.”

Tol acknowledged the summons, and Relfas added, “I am to escort you to the palace. The streets are quite crowded these days.”

“And unsafe, I hear.”

Relfas clasped his hands behind his back, saying nothing.

Kiya, Miya, and Tol donned the few pieces of their trail-weary gear that they’d removed before sleeping, then ate a hasty breakfast.

Tol paid the innkeeper from the small chest of pirate treasure, then said to Relfas, “Lead on. You brought horses?”

“No, my lord. There were none to spare.”

Miya muttered under her breath. She recognized the ploy for what it was, a deliberate insult. No horse to spare for the General of the Army of the North? Ridiculous. But whose insult was it? Relfas’s, or someone higher?

Tol ignored the slight and buckled on his sword. Walking past Relfas, he went out the door.

A roar went up from the crowd, which was being held back by Relfas’s riders. Face set, Tol pretended not to hear.

Miya and Kiya emerged slowly from the inn, bearing the heavy box of treasure. The sight gave Tol an idea.

Raising his voice to be heard, he said, “I need four strong men to bear this chest to the palace. Who will volunteer?”

Dozens tried to push forward. Tol chose two sturdy longshoremen, a man dressed as a carter, and a thick-armed butcher. Balks of timber were found, and the chest lashed to them. The bearers hoisted the heavy box to their shoulders.

Freed of their burden, the Dom-shu walked out of the inn’s shadow, blinking against the morning sun. The happy mob cheered them too, provoking a surprised grin from Miya and a stoic scowl from her sister. Relfas’s appearance was greeted by hisses, and he mounted his horse with abrupt, angry movements.

“Column, parade right by twos!” he shouted. The horsemen faced about, creating a wide lane in front of Tol and the sisters.

“It isn’t right, Husband,” Miya grumbled, eyeing Relfas’s showy, butter-colored horse ahead of them. “Why should you go on foot?”

“Never mind. A warrior’s worth isn’t measured by his height off the ground.”

Flanked by the Dom-shu sisters and trailed by the four men bearing the treasure chest, Tol set out a few paces behind Relfas and his troop. People crowding both sides of the street waved and cheered. Windows in the houses overlooking the streets had been thrown open and were filled with more happy Ergothians. Tol maintained the same calm expression he assumed on the battlefield. The people’s joy was intoxicating, but the reasons behind it troubled him deeply.

They traveled through the lower city. All along the route people turned out to see the Crown Prince’s Champion. The swelling of the crowd preceded Tol and his party by a few blocks, like the bow wave before a ship’s plunging prow. Along the way was evidence of the conditions the innkeeper had described: burned outbuildings and ominous patches of dried blood staining the cobblestone street. Whitewashed here and there were incomprehensible slogans like LAND FOR THE LANDED! and BLOOD AND SOIL!

Once they left the canal district, the houses were taller and the streets narrower. Relfas’s troopers had to form a wedge ahead of Tol to part the growing crowds. Pale debris fluttering down on them proved to be flower petals tossed by onlookers in the windows overhead.

Miya laughed, lifting her hands to the yellow, red, and white shower. “Who is emperor here-Amaltar or you, Husband?”

“Mind your tongue,” he replied severely. “Things are very delicate just now. Don’t upset the balance with ill-chosen words.” Chastened, for once Miya did as he asked.

By the time they reached Dermount Square in the Middle City, the throng numbered in the thousands. Although peaceful, the press of bodies was so great Relfas’s escort could no longer make any headway, and the procession was forced to halt. Tol planted his hands on his hips and turned in a circle, taking in the immense crowd. Seeing him notice them, the people closest let out a roar, which echoed through the multitude.

Relfas rode back to Tol. “Make them cease these demonstrations!” he shouted above the din, working hard to keep his fractious mount under control.

The small clearing around Tol’s party, walled off from the mob by a thin line of horsemen, was shrinking. As people pressed in, the feel of too many unfamiliar hands caused the horses to prance and back away.

“Do something, or we’ll draw swords and cut our way out!” Relfas declared.

“Use your head!” Tol retorted. “Do that and we’ll be overrun!”

Relfas made no reply, but his hand dropped to his sword hilt. Tol’s one-time comrade was frightened. If pushed too hard, he would resort to swords, and the crowd’s mood would shift from joy to fury with the first stroke.

Tol said to the Dom-shu, “Whatever happens, guard your own lives. Protect the chest, but don’t sell your safety for it.”

“What will you do?” Kiya asked.

He shrugged. “Get through.”

Slipping past the mounted Relfas, Tol approached the edge of the surging mob. People of all ages and many races cheered frantically as he came nearer.

“Good people, let me through!” he shouted. “I must pass! The emperor expects me!”

He repeated this several times, until his words finally had an effect. Those nearest him complied and gradually a way was cleared. He waved for Relfas and the Dom-shu to follow him.

Striding through the narrow lane in the mob, Tol saw that not all the expressions were welcoming. A few stood out, like stones in a bowl of cream. The unsmiling ones wore armbands or headbands in black, blue, or white. He knew there were daggers under the cloaks of these hard-faced men, yet he felt strangely safe passing among them. Like Relfas, they were hostages to their own good behavior. If they dared strike at Tol, the mob would tear them to pieces.

Beyond Dermount Square, the low wall that demarcated the Old City channeled the crowd up the hill toward the imperial palace. For the first time Tol saw the shining white Tower of High Sorcery rising over the lesser rooftops. The elegant spire was wide at the base and narrowed as it rose. Small cupolas sprouted from its sides. The tower had been completed not long after the chief of the college, Mistress Yoralyn, had died, worn out by years of labor on the structure. Her successor, Oropash, was well-liked but a weak man. Under his leadership, the legitimate wizards and spellcasters of Daltigoth had lost ground to unscrupulous, unregulated practitioners who sold their magical skills to all comers.

Below the walls of the imperial Inner City was an open boulevard half a bowshot wide. Six companies of the Horse Guards were drawn up in a double line four deep, stretching all the way from the Inner City gate to the mouth of Saber Street, the thoroughfare Tol was ascending.

He emerged from the row of temples surrounding the Inner City into the boulevard, ahead of his ostensible escort. Behind him, the excited crowd halted. Numbering in the tens of thousands, they could have flooded the street, sweeping aside the six companies by sheer weight of numbers, but the same respect that moved them to part for Tol now stopped them at the edge of the Imperial Plaza.

Tol drank in the view as he walked. The grandeur of the walled Inner City was as he remembered, save for the mourning banners draped over the wall and flying from the tower tops. Instead of the usual flare of Ackal scarlet, the white of lifelessness dominated the scene. The Horse Guards wore white mantles, and the officers had white plumes on their helmets rather than red ones.

Five warriors on horseback rode slowly to meet him. In the center was Draymon, commander of the Palace Guard. Older, heavier, his sweeping mustache sprinkled with gray, Draymon was still imposing on his tall charger.