Chapter 35 The Medallion and the Cloak
“It can’t be the Ulrigs,” Clay said excitedly. “They don’t have any ships.”
Krul stood on his good leg and peered over the rail. “If you hadn’t told me he’s dead, I would have thought this was the Father Lame One come at last.”
Ever so slowly the ship came nearer until they could make out on the prow the upraised image of a Dragon’s head with mouth open. Its eyes blazed in the light of a large lantern hung beneath the painted neck. Two rows of oars plied the water, advancing the ship against the slow current of the cave river. On the deck stood men—and some other sort of creatures.
When they drew near to the bridge, a hissing, lisping voice called out from the prow, “Reversse oarss!” and the ship halted so smoothly and expertly that Clay could almost reach up and touch the Dragon’s head. He now saw that the non-human creatures on board were like erect lizards, bubble eyed and dark scaled and tall as himself.
One of these wore on his ugly head a sort of crown with three silver prongs like spear tips. He looked down on the Mangars, Clay, and Krul, now illuminated by the lantern on the prow. Near him crowded so many others, human and lizardish, that the lantern dipped nearer to the bridge.
“I can only guess what some of you are,” he said. “No history tells us when last a Mangar was seen near the Broken Realm, but aren’t you Mangars?”
“We are,” said Nashpa. “And you, are you a Silb?”
“I’m Lord Ombanto of the Silbs. With me is Prince Michael, human heir of the Constantines.” He laid a claw on the shoulder of a young man who stood beside him. “And this is my son Nerjatto.” He indicated another Silb, who bowed.
The dark haired Prince Michael now spoke to Clay. “You, sir! May I ask your name? I see you surrounded by Mangars, which makes me hopeful that you’re the one we’re looking for.”
Clay looked up into Michael’s open, clean-shaven face and found that he trusted him.
“I’m Clay Gareth.”
“Blow the trumpets,” Michael commanded. “We’ve found the Emperor. Praise Thoz, we’ve found the Emperor! Blow the trumpets!”
For six days the galley Nero sailed south from the Ice Caves, hugging the shore, as she returned to the Broken Realm with unexpected success. It was November nineteenth, and in three days they would arrive in Agnesia, capitol of the Realm’s continental half.
Clay sat in the Nero’s best cabin with Nashpa, Prince Michael, Lord Ombanto, his son Nerjatto (or Jatto), and Krul. Since most of those present were Sarrs, they spoke in Kreenspam. Only Krul was ignorant of that language.
Lord Ombanto and Prince Michael had explained to Clay how they had known to look for him in the Ice Caves. Lusettas from the Forest Obscure had come to the Realm searching for him, saying that they had already been to Dowerkass, and that Unknown King Pindar had told them there that Clay’s band had disappeared somewhere north of Mount Droljel. The plains both east and west of Droljel the Lusettas had found empty, except for Farjan patrols; but these very patrols had suggested that Clay was still at large. So an ancient Silb named Sipnur had suggested the Ice Caves, and Prince Michael had at once prepared his father’s own ship the Nero.
“But didn’t you think I’d be in Trans-Titan?” Clay asked Michael.
“Yes, it seemed more likely,” the Prince said, “but the same Lusettas told us that the Farjan army was invading Trans-Titan, still looking for you; and, well, we’re no match for them. It’s a long way off, anyway. No, we just had to hope they guessed wrong.”
“Oh, great,” said Clay unhappily. “So a lot of people die in Trans-Titan because General Pyrus takes a wrong turn. It would have been better if I’d let myself be captured; then Pyrus would never have gone there.”
Krul stirred on a couch in the corner, turning his drooping face to them, and asked in Gellene. “What is being said about Father Golden Hair?”
Michael leaned near to Clay and whispered, “Father Golden Hair? Where’d that come from?”
“Oh, Krul’s just grateful because I allowed him to come with us. He told me that a lamed Blue Ulrig is generally killed and eaten by his own folk, since he can’t hunt. So I said he could stay with us till he heals and can go back. He thought that over for four days and finally decided that I’m his idol or something.”
“Not bad! You’re smart to let him go back. With any luck, he’ll get all the other Blue Ulrigs to venerate you.”
“That’s the idea.”
The cabin door opened and Ripel bounded in. “Messengers! The crew has spotted Lusettas approaching from the south.”
Even Krul hobbled with them as they all crowded onto the deck where were chained all eight of the Mangars’ korfies, contentedly resting between meals. Soon three white messengers sailed in and landed in the rigging high above them. When one by one they had fluttered down to the deck, Lord Ombanto spoke to them.
“Drebu, Ilbu, and Lebu! Whatever news you bring can’t be better than what we bring you. Nevertheless, speak first. Tell us how the world has fared during our voyage.”
Drebu strolled forward on her talons and lifted her weasel face to Clay’s. “No, Lord Ombanto, I can’t speak until I know,” she piped. “Is this the Lila-me?”
“He is.”
All three Lusettas dipped their long necks in a sort of bow.
“Then your servants welcome you,” she said to Clay. “How right we were!—we few who decided to risk the anger of our King Lugel and follow Angfetu northward. We are ten and call ourselves ba Lunto, the Lighters. We came all the way from the Seelkir pin Rom just on the hope of hearing of you. Our titles and possessions Lugel will already have stripped from us, but it’s enough that we stand before you.”
Clay was unprepared for such an extreme declaration. An awkward pause followed until Michael whispered to him, “They expect you to praise them.”
“Oh. Uh, thanks,” Clay said.
Another pause.
“And what’s your news, Drebu?” Ombanto put in. “King Joel is no worse?”
Drebu turned her dark blue eyes to Prince Michael. “Your father, Prince, rests comfortably and is no worse. Our news is of Trans-Titan, rather. A great battle was fought there twenty days ago, and the Farjan army was defeated, routed, thrown back in tatters! Furthermore, the Trans-Titanites were reinforced at the crucial hour by human troops from the Forest. And these were led, Your Eminence, by the Princess Simone.”
Clay’s eyes widened. “Say that again?”
“Your sister blew the battle trumpet that commenced the Perg’s charge. She fought in the battle and—”
“That crazy giraffe! What’s she trying to do, get herself killed? She was supposed to go to Colonia. Where is she now? Is she all right?”
“She was unharmed,” said the second Lusetta, Ilbu. “Some say that she’s waiting at Mount Rinna for the return of young Athlaz, her fiancé. Others say that—”
This was too much for Clay. He began to laugh. “Her fiancé? Give me a break. Who would want to marry Simone?”
The Lusettas were shocked into silence, and Clay noticed that the others on the ship were exchanging uneasy glances.
Michael stepped in. “The Emperor is extremely pleased. When you’ve eaten and rested, you’ll carry our good news back to the Realm and tell them to prepare a royal reception.”
Back in the cabin Michael drew Clay aside. His eyes were steady and serious. “Your Eminence, you need to be more solemn and commanding in manner.”
“Oh, I know,” Clay said, “but I don’t know how to be. You’ve done all that royal stuff since you were a kid, but I just got dragged into this Emperor thing a few months ago. Raspberry—I mean the Fijata Razabera—seemed to think that just my knowing the languages would be enough.”
“Not in the Realm,” said Michael. “In our little country we may be weak and poor, but we’re full of pomp and dignity. A nobleman of the Realm spends years
learning courtesy, elocution, and leadership. They sure drilled it into me! What I mean is that, if you don’t seem an emperor, our nobles—the humans anyway—may not support you. They may call you a pretender.”
Clay nodded soberly, stroking his beard, which had grown back since he had left Dowerkass.
“It’s a touchy situation,” Michael continued. “My ancestress Queen Agnes was your ancestress Lila’s first cousin. So for five hundred years our Constantine dynasty has held claim to the Empire.” He laughed. “Just a claim, you understand. The Anatolians won’t take us seriously. But anyway, we take ourselves seriously, calling ourselves the True Line. It’s hard for some of us to admit that your claim has priority, even though we know that Lila’s father was the elder brother of Agnes’ father.”
“It must be hard on you particularly,” Clay said.
Michael grinned broadly. “No, it isn’t. I spent my whole boyhood dreaming of adventures like this, and now it’s really happening. Hang the emperorship! When Lila’s descendant comes back from the Old World, when he comes out of the frozen north, attended by Mangars and riding a giant bird—well, that’s plenty good enough for me. I’m ready to jump on one of those korfies and go adventuring with you. I’m your man, Emperor Clay.”
Clay was cheerfully embarrassed for an answer.
“Actually, most of our people want to believe in you, what with the prophecies and all. And since the King my father looks for your coming, not many will openly oppose you—that is, if you make the right impression.”
Jatto now joined them, his blue robes and puffed collar overlaid with a design in golden thread, his goggle eyes glinting with happy excitement. Michael explained to the young Silb what he had been suggesting to Clay. Jatto paused contemplatively while his tongue darted in and out.
“Yesss,” he said, “I agree that the Emperor requires some training, but not the elaborate schooling for which we haven’t the time. Perhaps three simple suggestions will substitute. Your Eminence could practice them during the few days until we land in Agnesia.”
“What should I do?”
“First, be solemn faced and silent. Doesn’t the Book of Books say that one’s ignorance goes unguessed if one doesn’t speak? They’ll think, Emperor, that you are deep as a Bremsilb in his winter’s meditation. Secondly, when you do speak, let it be nothing but commands. Whether your commands are good or bad, you will at least develop the habit of giving orders. Think of us Broken Realmers as your chess pieces and act accordingly.”
“I can do that,” said Clay, brightening at the mention of chess. “What’s number three?”
“Sit up straight and square your shoulders,” Jatto said. “I’m afraid you younger humans have poor posture.”
Clay guiltily left his usual slump, and the three laughed.
“But let me warn you of one more thing,” said Jatto. “If you’re crowned Emperor at Agnesia, it won’t escape Solomon’s attention. Even though he’s embroiled with Dragons in the South, that false Emperor may send troops against us. Now, I say it’s about time someone challenged his dynasty’s absurd imposture; but others in our Realm will ask you how you intend to meet his legions. What will you answer them?”
Clay was a quick study. “First, I’ll look solemn like this.”
Michael and Jatto laughed.
“Then I’ll tell them to give me command of the army. Uh, you do have an army?”
“Yes, a small one,” said Michael.
“OK. Then I’ll sit up straight, square my shoulders, and—and what?”
“And come up with a miracle,” Jatto said. “The Anatolians will outnumber us heavily.”
“And you don’t mind that?”
Jatto and Michael exchanged a friendly glance.
“We trust in Thoz and the sword of the Lila-me,” Michael said. “The Empire we look for has to start somewhere.”
King Joel was impatient. Down in the town the people’s cheering had faded long ago, so the Emperor should have reached the palace by now, should have come here to Joel’s bedside. Neither the music of his bard Cato nor his own prayers could calm him, for Michael had sent word that this was the One, the True Descendant of Lila. He clutched his bedclothes and listened.
The wood shifted in the fire.
“Lord Sipnur, can you hear them coming?” he asked.
An ancient Silb, robed in dark red, stirred at his bedside. His translucent inner eyelids rolled to the sides.
“Not yet, my King.”
“It was kind of you to wait here with me when all the rest went out to see the ship land.”
“Not at all, my King. I saw well enough.”
“No doubt you did, Sipnur, in that well-like mind of yours. If only you could also see the future of our Realm.”
“In part I do,” said Sipnur.
Sipnur had for many years been a Bremsilb, practicing contemplation in one of the caves of the Broken Island, seeing into mysteries. Five years previously he had left the order of the Brem, resumed his robe of dignity, and taken up service as Joel’s chief minister.
“Do you, old friend? What do you see?”
“One brief battle, Your Majesty, followed by peace as before.”
“That’s encouraging, but—will we win or lose the battle?”
“Ssss, that I don’t see.”
Joel sighed. “The Lusettas you sent as messengers to Solomon...Sipnur, was it wise? What if he’s angered?”
“My King, he was sure to hear of Clay Gareth soon. Better that it be from us and in words calculated to calm his fears. Perhaps he’ll think of this Clay as no more than another pretender.”
“If he does, we’ll have deceived him, and I don’t want that,” said Joel. “I want all the Fold to know that the Lila-me has come to us from the Old World.”
Now they heard footsteps in the hall outside the small room. Prince Michael opened the door, nodded to his father, and stepped aside to present the young Emperor, robed in purple. He was bright haired, erect, straight mouthed. He looked at Joel with quiet gray eyes.
“Your Eminence,” Joel said in a voice cracked with emotion. He made to get up, but the Emperor gestured to him to stay where he was.
As Michael steered him closer and nobles followed them in, crowding the room, Clay anxiously revolved in his mind the things Jatto had taught him. Don’t smile. Stand straight. Say nothing except for commands.
“Tell me what you have to say,” he said to the King.
Joel caught him by the hand and squeezed his fingers. “I have never understood,” he said, “why Thoz laid me in this bed, so weak and dizzy, for these four years now. Sometimes I’ve prayed to die. But if I had, I would not have lived to see this day. Since you’ve come to us alive through all your perils, the Fold has hope. Finally, the bloodshed of the tyrants will be challenged.”
He waited for Clay to answer. “Speak on,” Clay said.
“Thank you, Your Eminence. I won’t wait until the coronation to return what is yours.” Slowly and waveringly he turned in the bed and lifted from a nearby table a small, ornate box about eight inches long. He caressed the gold inlaid surface, then handed it to Clay.
“For two hundred seventy-five years we Constantines have kept this as our greatest treasure. It was sent to us by Sampson Genbas himself, who came across it during his Great March through the Perg lands. Nobody can say how the Perg nomad he lodged with had come to have the medallion. Please, open the box, Your Eminence.”
Michael removed the lid for Clay. Within lay a medallion on a black ribbon. Made of gold, rubies, and ebony, it was the exquisite representation of a burning torch.
Clay stared at it stupidly. “Tell me what it is,” he said quietly.
Prince Michael winced slightly and forced a laugh. “Your Eminence of course recognizes the Torch of the House of Quintus.”
Clay kept his features solemn. “Tell me more.”
??
?This is the Torch,” said Michael. “The genuine, the original. It was fashioned by the Mangarees and presented to Prince Kuley at his coronation when he returned from the Old World unlooked for and established the Empire.”
“For nearly three hundred years it was lost until Genbas found it,” King Joel said. “Now we return it to the heir of Lila Quintus Pausanius. Please wear it, Your Eminence.”
Michael passed the ribbon over Clay’s head, and the Torch burned on his chest. He felt he ought to say something, but could not think of a suitable command. However, the nobles prevented him with their cheering.
“The Emperor! The Emperor! Thoz protect the Emperor!”
When the cheering died down, the bard Cato began to sing and play, and the nobles joined the song. It was new, but they all knew the words. Clay was astonished to find that this Song of Parting was about Simone.
When it was over, the nobles said to Cato, “Not just the sister, but a song for the brother, too! Give us a song about the Emperor Clay!”
“It’s not ready yet,” the bard said, his round face red with self-consciousness. “You wouldn’t have me make his song before the battle, would you?”
At this word, the atmosphere chilled. No one answered him.
“Come now,” said Michael presently, “the Emperor should be shown to his room; and father, rest now. Tomorrow morning is the coronation.”
Clay rose early the next morning and, going to the shuttered windows of his chamber in the Constantine Palace, unlatched and folded back one carved leaf. In with the cold air came the morning light and repainted the colors on the green bedding, the yellow wall hangings, and the fur rug on the floor. He looked over the roofs of the town and down to the ships in the little harbor. Beyond was the great sea.
Agnesia was small, nothing like a Silent City. The streets were narrow. He saw no plazas, no colonnades, no coliseum or theater. Few statues. The buildings were small shops and simple houses, few over two stories high. But he noted no beggars either, and no suspicious looking loungers; and that was more than could be said for the Silent Cities or the cities of the Pergs. No slaves here, either, he had been delighted to learn. They had been banned from all the East long before Lila’s time. As for Joel, he seemed anything but a tyrant.
This was all well, but he noted that the town had no wall. Only the palace could be defended properly. If an army of Anatolians came, what could the soldiers of the Broken Realm do? He supposed that everyone would try to get on a ship and go to the Broken Island. But not enough ships. Thousands would be at the mercy of Solomon.
“And all because of me,” he said, closing the shutter. “The Farjans overran Trans-Titan because of me, and this Realm may be next.”
The broad doors of his chamber now opened to Prince Michael, Jatto, and at least a dozen servants carrying lights, Clay’s clothing, and a light breakfast.
“You are up then,” said Jatto happily. “We’ve come to escort you to the coronation, Your Eminence.”
“Beautiful day for it,” said Michael as the servants began to dress Clay. “Sun now, snow later. We’ll all be in the palace basilica for the ceremony. By the way, I made sure to have lots of pretty girls seated up front where you can see them.”
Clay’s head emerged from the neck hole of his thick purple robe. “You’re still not afraid of Solomon, either of you? Who’s your general here, and what’s his plan of defense?”
“I suppose I’m the general, such as I am,” Michael said. “And as for defense, I guess we’ll do all right if we have to.”
Jatto looked more serious. “Sss, do you think the town can’t withstand a siege, Your Eminence?”
Clay looked from one to the other. “Withstand a siege! Why, how can there be a siege when they’ll just walk right over you?” He settled his medallion in its place. “Don’t scare me talking like that. You can’t just wait for them here. You’ve got no walls, no defensible terrain, and half your buildings are made of wood.... I don’t see any ready supply of stones to even throw together a.... What are you smiling about? This is serious.”
“We’re smiling because we’ve never heard you talk so spiritedly,” Jatto said. “Maybe some of Sampson Genbas’ military genius has come to you with the medallion he handled.”
“Who was he, anyway?” Clay lifted a foot to be booted.
“An Eschorian and the greatest general the Fold has ever known,” said the Silb. “Long ago, when an Eschorian army was ambushed near Farja and their general killed, Genbas took command and turned a rout into an orderly retreat. Then, with their way back cut off, he led them six hundred miles around Prowts and eventually through the Sidder-Phar—”
“—fighting and feinting and out-generalling the Pergs all the way,” Michael put in enthusiastically, “even though he was vastly outnumbered. When his Army of the South returned to Eschor, why they’d all been long given up for dead. They had all these widows who were wives again.”
“And along the way Genbas flattened Purgos?” Clay asked, remembering what others had told him.
“Yeah, he did.”
“Then he’s my blood brother,” Clay said. “I want to meet him in Ourans. I, uh, guess I’m ready for the coronation now.”
“What about this?” Jatto offered an outer cloak, also of purple.
Clay took it on his arm. “And this march Sampson made, it was what most people would call impossible?”
“All you have to do is look at it on a map,” Michael said. “It was astounding. Why?”
“Nothing. You two go ahead a minute. I have to think something through. No, go ahead. I’ll have a bite here and catch up to you. The servants can show me the way.”
When Michael and Jatto had obeyed in perplexity, Clay dismissed the servants, too, and began to pace the floor, mumbling to himself. The trouble was that his new friends had not studied hundreds of military campaigns, as he had. To them it was just a matter of drawing a sword and charging. But Clay’s hobby told him that the Realmers were doomed unless a brilliant strategist would save them. True, Thoz had given him brains and knowledge, but now—just as he had feared—he needed the will to fight. It wasn’t there. Maybe he should just slip quietly out of town. With his hobo experience, he could do it. Or maybe Solomon would not send an army, that was a thought. Fat chance. One legion would probably be enough to conquer and garrison the entire continental half of the Realm, and Solomon could surely spare a legion, Dragons or no Dragons.
Clay flung open the door and went out. Oddly, no one was watching for him. He walked down a passageway in what he thought was the direction of the palace basilica. Then, since he was afraid of his coronation and what might follow, he made a few random turns, ascended a flight of steps—and still had not met anybody.
He stopped to look at a gruesome mural, something worthy of Hieronymous Bosch. On a dark and rocky landscape, hundreds of human captives were being maimed and dismembered by Ulrigs. In the foreground to one side, a young woman wearing an eye patch looked out across the scene and wept from her one eye. An inscription at the bottom said: “They would not serve the Blue Ulrigs”; and another by the girl: “Queen Agnes.” So this was his own distant relative in the days of some ancient horror. The Realmers’ penalty for losing had apparently been the loss of limbs and eyes. He wondered, would Solomon’s exactions be any kinder? Perhaps crueler? At any rate, he now understood why Krul had been excluded from participation in the coronation ceremony. The Blue Ulrig was lucky to be allowed to attend at all.
His thoughts were interrupted by a shearing sound coming from a nearby open doorway. Investigating, he found a room full of large, wooden drawing boards, its cubby-holed walls crammed with scrolls. Seated in sunlight at one of the drawing boards was a roundish young man with pale skin and orange-red hair, and wearing a bright, multi-colored cloak against the morning cold. Spread before him on the board was a great, unrolled parchment from which
he was trimming a rough edge with scissors. Light was all around him. He turned to Clay a face so animated that he seemed ready to burst into song at any moment. Clay approached him, having just time before the man spoke to think, ‘This is the most vivid and interesting person I’ve ever seen.’
“Good morning,” the man said. “I’d like to lend you my scissors, Clay Gareth.”
Since this made no sense at all, Clay only smiled and said, “You won’t miss my coronation, will you?”
“I won’t if you won’t,” he said, and almost winked. “But here, this is how you get started.”
He pulled out an edge of the cloak that hung over Clay’s arm and snipped off a square inch or two with the scissors, ruining the magnificent garment. Then he handed both the scissors and the snippet of purple to Clay.
“That should do you. Now, what do you need to know?” He leaned back in his chair and smiled. “I’ll tell you what’s best. Don’t trust all counsel. Do what’s right down there in Meschor regardless of what anyone advises you.”
Clay nodded, unable to speak. If he had been able, he would have said, “Yes, sir.” He noticed that the parchment on the drawing board was a great map of the Fold, partly finished. Of course, that made sense: this was the palace map room. The red headed man picked up a quill, dipped it in ink, and made a small addition to the map: an x to the west of the Maigathal.
“When you return, this is to be the location of your capitol, in the northern extreme of the Hule Skoteine. Have new roads built in every direction from there. You see?”
He laughed with unexplained joy, and Clay laughed with him. At that moment, a sound of running came from the passageway and people were calling out for Clay. Clay turned to the doorway just as Jatto and several of the servants appeared there.
“Your Eminence, what are you doing here?” said the Silb, coming forward and beginning to draw Clay toward the door. “We must go to the basilica.”
“Sure, Jatto.” Clay was still feeling hilarious from his encounter with the map maker. “I’m ready now, I feel confident. But where did the red haired guy come from?”
“What?” said Jatto. Clay turned in the doorway and pointed with the scissors to the drawing desk, but found that he was pointing at an empty chair. The map too was gone.
He laughed. “Where did he go? He must have crawled under one of the desks. Let’s find him.”
“There’s no one here, Your Eminence. We must hurry, if you please.”
As they walked on through the palace, Clay thought he saw out of the corner of his eye one of the servants raise an imaginary bottle to his lips and wink at the others. ‘Is that what they think?’ he thought. ‘If they could only see the man with the red hair!’
Remembering the man’s face, Clay felt sure that joy is the beginning, middle, and end of life’s story. What could really go far wrong, when you thought about it? Even death just seemed a nearer way to a sunshiny, timeless place. And then you’d never have to die again.
“Jatto,” he said, “life’s so short, isn’t it? I mean all the things people dread. Don’t you think it’s a hoot how much care we take about ourselves, our little lives? What does a person have to do, really?”
“Stand up straight,” Jatto replied, “and look grim. We’re almost to the basilica.”
Krul gripped his crutches tighter and hopped briskly along the broad walkway that led around the palace walls to the basilica. He had fallen behind the Mangars in the crowd of humans and Silbs, but he did not much care anyway for the cat folk’s company. They were too proud and superior. Why, they had even been offended because they were not allowed on the high balcony in the basilica! Krul, on the other hand, was still happily astonished that he had been invited to the coronation at all. Since he had been, the street entrance and a place with the commoners were plenty good enough for a Blue Ulrig.
He came to the corner of the porch and looked down the row of fourteen great pillars that fronted the basilica and towered over the crowds. Then he slowly made his way up the thirty marble stairs that stretched the whole length of the porch. Within, under improbably high vaults, gathered the citizens in their thousands: the commoners standing, the nobles seated on benches in front. Singers were in one front corner, musicians in another. All were looking to the High Balcony. Well lit by clerestory windows, this balcony was crowded with dignitaries: nobles, churchmen, Prince Michael—even King Joel himself on a reclining chair.
Krul found a place at the very back where he shifted back and forth on his crutches, anxiously eyeing the Silbs and humans who were nearest to him. One could not be too careful. True it was so cold that everyone’s breath was visible, so perhaps he need not fear insects; and yes, the Silbs seemed not to attract them anyway; but these humans—who could say that they were really quite vermin free? His attention was drawn to the balcony again as the doors opened at the rear of it and the nobles made way for the Father Golden Hair. Krul’s nostrils worked, and he stood up taller on his crutches, joining the cheering.
Prince Michael nudged Clay and motioned to him to raise his hand in answer to the crowd. Clay did so solemnly, looking out over the densely packed basilica. He found himself scanning the crowd for the face of the red haired man, but did not see him.
“What’s this?” Michael shouted over the din.
He was raising a corner of the purple cloak Clay carried over his arm and indicating the hole that had been cut out. Clay grinned and showed him the scissors and the scrap, which he had concealed beneath the cloak.
“A friend of mine told me that’s how to get started,” he shouted. “Not quite sure what he meant.”
Michael took the scrap as the crowd’s noise began to lessen. “May I have this?”
The Prince’s outer cape was held at the shoulder by a silver pin. He pushed the scrap under the edge of the pin so that it decorated it—a sort of festoon.
This did not go unnoticed by the nearby dignitaries. “Prince Michael wears a bit of the Emperor’s cloak,” they said to one another. “What does it mean?”
“It means I’m the Emperor’s man,” Michael said to them. “Here—” He took the scissors from Clay “—with your permission, Your Eminence?” He cut off a second bit from the cloak and handed it to an attendant. “Give this to my father.”
Clay nodded, caught himself smiling, and controlled his features. Searching for some command, he blurted out, “Let them all take a piece.”
This was exactly what they wanted. Gray headed nobles wrestled for the scissors, and bits of the cloak flew off. In a few minutes, every human and Silb on the balcony was sporting a purple festoon. The cloak, of course, was a catastrophe. Below, the noble families applauded; the commoners who stood farther out shouted their approval.
Someone called out, “Throw us the cloak, Emperor Clay!”
Snow was now falling outside, and plenty of it was blowing in through the clerestory windows, coming down in large flakes on the people. Momentarily, the sun broke through on the leeward side, so that sunshine and snow were mixed in the vast space above them.
“Throw us the cloak!” someone else called, and the crowd took it up.
Clay threw it to them, and the wind from the windows spread it out like a tattered sail of purple slowly falling through the snow. The nobles in front snatched it and tore it apart at the seams. Pieces of it soon traveled in every direction, and everyone with a knife cut scraps from the pieces until the cloak was thousands of bits. By the time the snow had stopped, everyone in the basilica or waiting out on the porch had at least a thread or two.
A Presbyr now rose from his chair on the balcony and motioned to the musicians and singers. They sang an ancient song, dating to the beginnings of the faith.
Egeire, ho katheudon,
kai anasta ek ton nekron,
kai epiphausei soi ho Xristos.
(Wake, you who sleep,
And rise from
death,
And on you Christ will shine.)
As the trained singers repeated this, the crowd joined them. Meanwhile, the Presbyr took the crown and, standing behind Clay, lifted it high. Slowly, he placed the circle of gold, wrought in the form of twining leaves, on Clay’s head. On Clay’s chest the Torch burned.
At the back of the hall, Krul trembled on his crutches. In one hairy forepaw he clutched a tiny scrap of the Father Yellow Hair’s cloak, something to be taken back to his kindred in the Ice Caves and kept as their most precious possession.