tenements."
"Right against the river. Heart of the Protte rookery. Not a good place for a woman alone. Fifty thousand foreign sailors and not a ghost of law."
"But a good place for a foreigner to disappear."
"A most excellent place. We'll go down in the morning."
"Why not tonight?"
"These ceremonies. And we're tired. When we're tired we make mistakes. We'll rest. Odehnal will wait."
Rider moved on through the library. Beyond lay a vast suite of rooms he and his father had used from time to time. There he would find apparel appropriate to the awards ceremony. He told Spud, "We'll refurbish these rooms so we can hole up here comfortably."
"Our lives are going to change, aren't they?"
"They have already. It'll be a long time before we comprehend how much."
XI
There was a band to precede the King, and guards in flashy uniforms with ostrich plumes atop their helmets. In a tradition which antedated the celebration of Jehrke Victorious, the King scattered tiny, specially struck silver coins.
"Helps clear the way," he told Rider, who walked beside him. Citizens scrambled wildly as a dozen coins arced into the crowd.
"Cynical attitude."
"Only a cynic and pessimist will survive wearing the crown."
"Or a stoic?"
"My father was a stoic. A very patient stoic. He got a foot of steel stuck into his gizzard. Philosophy means nothing to a dagger." The King seemed more companionable than earlier. Was that a good sign or bad?
As the procession neared the tower, where the medalists waited, onlookers began to murmur about the Protector's absence. Rider was not universally known. But he was recognized by some. His presence fueled speculation.
Shasesserre was a wild and rowdy city. More so on festival days. Fifteen minutes passed before there was order sufficient for the King to speak. He did so at length, dulling the edge of the crowd. He passed the stage to Rider without explaining his presence. Rider presented the victors' laurels with amusing asides and humorous observations, and no more explanation. He finished swiftly, yielded the rostrum to the organizers of the contests.
"So your assassins turned out specters," Belledon said as they pushed through the crowd. "I wonder if half what you've told me isn't imagination."
"We'll see." During his presentation he had felt a tug at the web, just a tiny vibration. Someone learning that the web had been made sound. The deaths of Emerald and Vlazos had not ended the game.
The attack came as the party passed behind an arm of the Rock and started up the incline to the Citadel gate. The King's guards were feeling safe.
A horde of waterfront villains poured out of the dark cracks in the Rock, howling in a dozen languages. Odehnal seemed to have cleared the rookeries. In an instant the guards were all locked in struggle. More thugs swept toward Rider and the King.
Rider's men charged into the fray, falling on the villains from behind.
Rider dipped into pockets, spoke words of power rapidly. He scattered a handful of small black marbles. Smoke and stench boiled out of them. He shoved the King toward the densest smoke, called his men to join him.
A scarfaced rogue plunged toward him, cutlass reaching. He turned inside the thrust, seized his assailant's wrist. The man shrieked as bones broke. Rider caught the dropped weapon and threw himself between another attacker and Belledon. He used the sword with a skill that would have embarrassed Shasesserre's most famous duelists.
The smoke caused confusion and bought time, but not enough. The evening breeze off the Golden Crescent dispersed it all too soon, and the scene it betrayed was not one to inspire hope.
Most of the King's guards had been slain. A score of attackers remained upright. They began to close in.
Rider became aware of a great warp in the web. Someone had cast a powerful spell. He stood at its center. Everyone and everything within fifty paces was invisible to outside eyes.
No help would come, for no one could see