Cold Steel

He gave me a look as reproachful as if I had called him a dog. “I’m not carrying that cursed chest if I’m not to be allowed to wear any of the extra-fine jackets.”

“Hush, you two,” Bee said. “While we’re gone, we’ll hide our things under the floor in the carriage house.”

We tidied up, closed down the stoves, and set the pot to soak. After explaining our errand, I returned the head of the cacica to the basket so we could take her with us.

We left the house by the back gate. Mid-morning delivery carts rumbled through the residential district, but otherwise the lanes were quiet. The farther east we walked, the busier the streets got. People hurried past with their faces painted red, headed for the festival procession. Many wore ribbons of the colors of the Tarrant princely clan, while others wore red-and-gold tabards to mark their allegiance to the god. Instead of looking excited and delighted, many appeared grim and even belligerent. Strangest of all, no one in the crowd was wearing the laborer’s cap that was the mark of radical sympathies.

Caught in the middle of a clot of people, we found ourselves pushed onto Old High Street. The wide thoroughfare led toward the district called Roman Camp where lay the main temple dedicated to Mars Camulos. With a clash of cymbals and a blast of trumpets, the festival procession marched into view. The sting of fire magic tamped down like buried coals gave spice to the air.

It was traditional for the guild of blacksmiths to lead the way, marching in ranks in their leather aprons and carrying nothing in their hands except the power of a blacksmith’s magic, which contained and channeled fire and thus transformed crude metals into the god’s weapons of war. Onlookers shifted back with suspicion and fear, for a conflagration might break out at any moment. Few of the blacksmiths were old, and all were male. I studied their stern faces with new eyes. No one talked about fire magic in Europa because it was considered too dangerous and volatile. Blacksmiths guarded their people and their secrets so securely that I had never truly understood what a fire mage could be until I traveled to Expedition.

Had James Drake tried to join a guild of blacksmiths, only to be turned away? Or had his family refused to allow it because as nobles they thought guild work beneath him?

A man in the last rank looked at me, his brow creasing as he dropped a puzzled gaze to my cane.

Blessed Tanit! It hadn’t even occurred to me to protect the cane from the sight of blacksmiths, who could see its cold steel with their fire-limned sight. We worked our way down until we found a place where we could dodge across the street. Carts passed, decorated with festival tableaux that included actual people standing in martial poses made famous by the old tales: Caesar’s victory at Alesia over the Arverni princes; the death of an Illyrian prince who had rebelled against Rome; the surrender of General Camjiata to a mage, a prince, and a Roman legate after the Battle of Havery. Certainly the festival had taken on an overwhelmingly Roman air! The usual tableau of the Roman legions kneeling in defeat at the battle of Zama before the Dido of Qart Hadast and her general Hannibal Barca was nowhere to be seen!

A line of drummers flew a rhythm along the street. Dancers wearing ram masks and ribbon-festooned ram costumes stepped alongside. Behind drummers and dancers rode a troop of turbaned mage House soldiers. Banners of light woven out of cold magic floated above them. The streaming gold banners were meant to impress the populace, although I thought them shabby compared to what embellishments Vai could manage. The magic whispered my sword awake.

Behind the soldiers rode the Tarrant militia, and behind it marched infantry with a legion’s eagle standard held proudly at the front of their ranks. The famous Roman Invictus cavalry in their red-and-gold capes brought up the rear. Fourteen years ago the Invictus had driven General Camjiata’s stubborn Old Guard into the river at the Battle of Havery and forced the general to surrender. No wonder we had seen the Havery tableau today.

In the shadows of alleys and under thresholds, folk with sullen expressions watched the parade but did not cheer.

Bee tugged on my sleeve. “Look!”

The man riding at the head of the cavalry was a good-looking fellow with a clean-shaven face, hawk’s eyes, and gold earrings gleaming against his black skin. Bee’s rosebud lips mouthed his name. Amadou Barry. A blush rose becomingly in her cheeks, although I could not be sure whether it was pleasure or anger that animated her countenance.

His roving gaze sought trouble in the crowd. Looking our way, he saw her. He rocked back in the saddle. Recovering, he turned to demand the attention of the bluff soldier riding next to him, his brother-in-law Lord Marius.