Looking at the most recent records, those of the last several months, Vincus quickly tallied the num shy;ber of wine barrels brought from the warm north into the Kingpriest's cellar.
The expensive claret was the Kingpriest's favorite, reserved for only the highest clergy. One barrel^ month sufficed, and Vincus noted no change in the order. Nor in the malmsey, which the lesser clerics and the officers drank with a certain . . . license. Seven barrels this month, six the month before, and six before that.
Vincus nodded. A slight increase in the malmsey. Festival time.
The port, however, was the soldiers' wine. Rationed to the Istarian men at arms, it was issued in the barracks and taken afield. The Istarian soldier was naked without his wineskin.
Vincus smiled, adding the numbers.
Ten barrels, then eleven, and this month . . . twenty-two.
Vincus absently fingered his silver collar. There was a marked increase in the port wine, far beyond festival allowances, beyond common sense. It defi shy;nitely supported his suspicion.
Someone new was in the city. Unannounced, unaccounted for.
And port was the wine of soldiers.
Chapter 13
The first night of the Shinarion spangled the city with a gaudy light. In the quiet, less-traveled pockets of the city, marbled squares and opal windows shone with the borrowed glow of Lunitari, red and darkly bril shy;liant like candlelight on wine. But the lamps and the torches drowned the busy commons and thorough shy;fares with the flashy light of commerce, and like a respected matron who has drained the glass once too often, the elegant city burgeoned with a loud, inelegant life.
Yet those who had been here before knew other shy;wise-knew that this year was unlike any that had come before. This time the celebration was fevered, almost desperate, and the promised thousands of pil shy;grims, merchants, and performers had yet to arrive.
Nonetheless, the festival caroused from the center of the Marketplace, the beating heart of the trading, where jewelry, silks, and spices changed hands, to the booths by the gates of the city, where vendors and hucksters sold fireworks, knives, and the red glass bottles of godslight-the strange, everburning mixture of phosfire and salt, dangerous and volatile, that, if handled wisely and cautiously, would pro shy;vide steady light for weeks.
No one, however, expected wisdom and caution from a drunken reveler. Already Peter Bomberus, commander of the city militia, had been called to extinguish three fires by the city walls.
Two had been simple wooden lean-tos-the kind of makeshift dwellings that followed the festivals from Hylo to Balifor. But the third was different: a permanent dwelling, hard by the School of the Games, the dry wooden rafters and interiors ignit shy;ing almost by themselves-a careless spark from a torch, perhaps, or godslight discarded by a drunken reveler.
By the time the commander reached the building, black smoke billowed from a marble husk, and the red flames joined with the red lamps of the Istarian night to create a harsh, hellish light. Two hours of frenzied work had quenched the spreading, danger shy;ous fire, but the building still smoldered at mid shy;night, the woodwork inside glowing faintly as the interior slowly fell in upon itself. Reckless revelers tossed fireworks into the burst opal windows, and the racket resounded into the dark Istarian morning.
But Bomberus and his militia arrested no one. By the time the fireworks began, they were far away, bound toward the abandoned High Tower of Sor shy;cery, where yet another fire had erupted-a metal gate ablaze with phosfire.
On the road to the burning gates, passing through the cluttered Istarian thoroughfares and alleys, Bomberus saw the sights of the Shinarion-the dreamlike arenas of commerce and deception and curious, fraudulent magic.
In a perfumer's booth near the Banquet Hall, two Kharolian merchants stood smugly behind an array of uncorked, parti-colored vials and bottles. The smell of a dozen colognes and attars and oils mingled in the smoky city air, and, reflecting in the red godslight, a thin, transparent hand snaked out of the mouth of each vessel, wavering like a desert mirage, like the blurred air at the lip of a flame.
The hands gestured and beckoned as the militia shy;men passed, but Bomberus had instructed his troops well. On they trudged, past the hall, toward the Wel shy;coming Tower, where a game of chance spilled from a speculator's booth onto the cobbled street, and an odd company of gamblers crouched and knelt and sat on the thoroughfare. Dwarves from Thoradin, Ergothian merchants, and a kender from Hylo gath shy;ered around a circle scratched on the cobblestone, the kender's hands tied in front of him according to the house policy of any establishment frequented by the little folk, and the ten-sided Calantina dice flick shy;ered through torchlight according to some obscure Ergothian rules.
Bomberus stopped at this booth, peered over a dwarven shoulder. Perfume and wine held no attrac shy;tions for the commander, but gaming …
A rough hand at his shoulder drew him away. Old Arcus, a veteran of some forty years, stared at his com shy;mander with black glittering eyes. Smiling knowingly, he pointed up the road, where the red fire glowed on the eastern horizon like a premature sunrise.
"Best be gettin' there, commander," he suggested, shouting over the dwarven racket and the carnival come-hither of the gamers. "Whilst some of it is standin', and the fire don't spread." Bomberus muttered to himself and followed. Now he found himself in an awkward spot, in the midst of his men rather than at the head of the col shy;umn. All around him the militia sheared off from the avenue toward the dozen temptations that littered the lamplit center of the city, and together Bomberus and Arcus collared the younger soldiers, scolded them, and set them aright on the eastern road toward the tower.
At first, ashamed at his own wayward behavior near the gambler's booth, the commander was hard on the unruly and gullible boys, planting his foot firmly in the backside of one who crouched beneath a beer barrel, openmouthed, to receive the cascading beer from the opened bunghole. Swearing angrily at the young man, Bomberus prepared to kick him again, but a cautionary wink from Arcus brought him to his senses. It was bad as the dice, this anger. Bomberus took a deep breath, helped the beer-soaked novice to his feet, and shoved the young man up the thoroughfare, where the light from the distant burning suddenly vanished in the stronger glow from the central Marketplace.
Wisely, cautiously, Bomberus steered the militia around the well-lit square. From a distance, in the faceted lamplight he could see the booths of the jew shy;elers, the shimmering silks draped over awning and counter. The expensive booths, heavily guarded by the private soldiers of a dozen merchants.
To stray into the Marketplace in armed company would be to invite disaster. At Shinarion, the mer shy;chants governed themselves with little regard for Kingpriest or clergy.
No wonder that Istar had hidden a legion in town.
Oh, no one had told him of the hidden legion. Indeed, he had not spoken of it either-not even to the trusted Arcus. Bomberus knew of the army's whereabouts only through instinct, through the inspired guess of a veteran constable who notices subtle changes on familiar streets: new hands with the calluses of crossbowmen, the unmistakable shape of a pike wrapped in canvas in a wagon bed, swords carried with quiet, respectful wisdom.
Standard security, to be sure. But more than that. He had never seen concealed troops in these num shy;bers, not even at the great festivals of five years past, whose opulence and magnitude dwarfed the sorry excuse for a Shinarion unfolding this first, unpromis shy;ing night.
What could they be planning in the Tower?
He shook his head, continued up the wide street, past the smithy and the Slave Market, to where the spellcraft flourished and the illusions stalked.
Translucent and flitting they were, like ghosts in search of solid flesh.
Slowly, in an almost stately dance, they cavorted on the battlements of the abandoned tower like cor shy;posants on a stormy mast, and the night air rumbled in accompaniment with the sound of fireworks and thunder, of the last combats in the raucous arena. Above the slack-jawed guardsmen the air crackled as the watery smell of lightning reached them through the smoke and powder and incense of the Shinarion.
Peter Bomberus reached for his sword, then laughed quietly, grimly. As if edged steel would fend off these mirages.
In the fitful firelight behind the burning gate, there at the base of the tower, the illusionists gathered for duels and enchantments. Artificial stars glittered above them, spangling the minarets of the tower with borrowed light.
It was a show, the best of the Shinarion. A second heaven formed around the deserted tower, and lan shy;guidly the constellations, drawn from the memories of the participating illusionists, wheeled about the spire of the tower as though a year were passing in little more than a minute, a century in two hours. Meanwhile, at the shadowy base of the tower a cho shy;rus of incantations rose on the air, a great choir in all the known languages of Ansalon, from the watery vowels of Lemish to the harsh Kernian brogue and the suave accents of Balifor.
As the guardsmen covered the burning gate with doused canvas, with earth, with ashes, smothering the strange flames of phosfire, Peter Bomberus watched the spectacle in the western sky. In unison, as a hundred languages choired below them, the imaginary stars and planets lifted into the higher regions of air, sputtering and fading as they caught a sudden wind and scattered, in a babble of fire and voices, over the bay of Istar.
They were always good, these illusionists, with their false light and treacherous mirrors. But this year, their flashy, empty show seemed to suit the city and its festival.
Peter Bomberus stood before the smoldering gate and watched the smoke trail into the heavy sky.
The festival was a showy failure. This year was the worst of them all-as many fires as pilgrims, it seemed. And beneath the smoke and incense and the smell of new wine, the pungent, unsavory odor of decay and death.
The Kingpriest himself watched the illusions sail out and crumble over the water.
Like dust, he reminded himself.
Like bright and magical dust.
Turning from the window, he closed the thin shades behind him and, oil lamp in hand, hastened to the table where he kept the long work of his dreams.
He was almost through with the gathering. The opal dust filled two large vials already, and the third and final receptacle was three-quarters full. But the mining was laborious, even under the skillful labors of the Lucanesti, and the great day of the ritual might still be months away.
Time enough for that mad Prophet to storm the city. To ruin everything.
His pale hand trembled as he touched the last vial. Oh, might the gods speed the harvest! But the Prophet… the Plainsmen and rebels …
'They will not be enough to harm you," a dark voice breathed from somewhere in his chamber.
The Kingpriest was suddenly tense and alert. He had heard this voice before-in the clerestory of the great encircling corridor, in the glossy dome of the council hall, and finally, most intimately, in his own private chambers. Yet it never ceased to surprise him, insinuating itself into the depths of his dreams, coming upon him always in solitary and unguarded moments like a thief to an unprotected house.