The Totem-Maker (part forty)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Five

The Mustering Grounds

(part forty)

The Prince had found a noisy man, Imoë the Squatter, thief of a hilltop home. Like he of the Villa Montadta, the owner lived away, south in the Emperor’s ugly capital, at the Emperor’s feet. Imoë was mad, or drunk all day, and among the barren columns kept a circus—

For during the Winter Rending, the house had half-toppled. A hard year, of snow below the mountain, of blighted fruits, of Lotoq’s pacing his chamber floors, rocking foundations. This was sixteen years past, Imoë for nine dwelling unbudgeable. No one of rights lived in our city to accuse him. The Prince liked every troubling person, all lawbreakers who held the assizes at bay.

He had made Imoë master of ceremonies. Imoë, walking his lion on a new-gifted jeweled chain, harried men from the crowd. A ragged follower came draped in a vivid bolt of Vlanna Madla’s silk, taken the day of the fire. Where Imoë picked, and the crowd shoved seven to stand forward, his follower in singsong egged them to choose who would be matched.

In a lower field of the grounds, mounted men drove through a melee fought with clubs. Wounded were carried off to cheers…cheers for the wounds, not the heroes. Cadenced chants in the northern tongue, my death-battle with Mumas made a triviality, not even the best show on the day’s ticket.

The fort had high steep walls, and far down among the rocks, secret ways, it was said; so siege could not defeat us while our fort defended us. Its inside was a warren, of soldiers’ quarters, weapons stores, kitchens, stables, treasury.

The nobility were seated behind the rampart. They might turn seaward if I bored them. The sky was cloudless, sun warm. The sea cared least for humankind on such days she wore her sapphire mantle, her greatest beauty…singing songs of her own.

For our banners, our battles, our tyrant and his Fair Day, she cared nothing. And rightly. The Prince’s stagings were all to mock Monsecchers, inebriate us, spill our blood.

“Bid the champion approach.” The voice was Elberin’s. “You must bow before your Prince.”

I was too far below. The wall draped in pageantry loomed between myself and the eyes, hidden, that apparently could see me.

“In the style of my own country, and yours, Elberin, I will bow.”

I remained as I was. Laughter, the Prince’s, rose above the others. A woman said, “Everyone’s betting against your choice. Oh, yes, admit it!”

I had not called Elberin Vlan, before the parents of Darsale, whose short coughs I had not forgotten. Light talk, the smell of roasting meat and spiced wine warming, filtered to the shadow I stood in.

Then Elberin said: “Wait for the outcome. The foundling is the god’s favorite. There will be some twist to the story.”

“Then let us have the end of it now.”

43

To Be and to Choose

The Totem-Maker (part forty-one)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)