Into the thinking kingdoms - Alan Dean Foster [130]
It was an impressive sight, a grand palace surrounded by an iron-topped stone wall. Beyond the gate was an expansive, paved parade ground. Elegantly uniformed soldiers stood guard at the gate or trooped past within on fine stallions and unicorns. Beyond lay the palace itself, a three-storied fancy of white limestone and marble. No turrets or battlements were in evidence. The sprawling structure before them served as a home and a seat of governance, not a fortress designed to repel a formal military attack.
“We should announce ourselves.” From across the street Simna was conducting a thoughtful appraisal of the layout of the royal residence.
“Yes.” Ehomba started forward, the tip of his spear clicking against the paving stones. “The sooner I have done my duty here, the sooner we can move on to Hamacassar.”
The guards at the florid wrought-iron gate were dressed in thin coats of blue and gold. They were sleeveless, a sensible adaptation in the warm and humid climate. Long blue pants were tucked into short boots of soft leather, also dyed blue. Each of the four men, two flanking either side of the entrance, was armed with a short sword that hung from a belt of gold leather and a long, ornate pike. They stood at attention, but not immovably so. They became much more active when they saw the unprecedented quartet approaching. To their credit, they kept the pikes erect and made no move to challenge the approaching travelers with weapons poised.
Ehomba walked up to the guard who appeared to be the senior member of the four. The man pushed his gold-trimmed blue cap back on his head and gaped; not at the herdsman, but at the looming mass of Hunkapa Aub.
“Well now, what do we have here?”
“A friend from the mountains.” Ehomba addressed the man politely but not deferentially. There were only a few individuals in this world whom the herdsman deferred to, and this wide-shouldered gentleman in the blue uniform was not among them.
“The Hrugars, eh?” Another of the guards came forward to join the conversation. He and his colleague exhibited no signs of panic, confident in their position and their weapons. It spoke well of their training, Ehomba decided. “He’s dressed for it, anyway. That’s a fine heavy coat he’s wearing, though I confess I don’t recognize the animal it came from.”
“It’s not—” Ehomba started to say, but Simna stepped in front of his tall companion both physically and vocally.
“And well tailored to him it is, too.” Looking back over his shoulder, the swordsman flashed his friend a look that managed to say, wordlessly and all at once, “This is a city, and you’re from the country, and I know city folk and their ways better than you ever will.” It was enough to prod Ehomba into holding his peace while the enterprising swordsman did the talking.
“We’ve come a long way to see the Count. Farther than you can imagine.”
The guards exchanged a glance. “I don’t know,” the one who had first spoken opined. “I can imagine quite a distance.” Leaning loosely on his pike, he contemplated Simna’s semibarbaric attire. “Do you think this is a public hall, where anyone can just walk in and make an appointment?”
“What business have rascals like you with the Count?” Though far from hostile, the second guard was not as amicable as his comrade.
Simna straightened importantly. “We have news of his son, Tarin Beckwith.”
It was as if all four guards had been standing on a copper plate suddenly struck by lightning. The two who had said not a word and who did not even appear to have been listening to the conversation whirled and dashed off toward the palace, not even bothering to close the heavy iron gate behind them. As for the pair of casual conversationalists, they no