There was rain Fourday night, unusually heavy rain for subtropical Pidruid in summer, when quick showers were the rule, and Fiveday morning the courtyard was spongy-wet and tricky of footing. But the sky was clear and the sun was bright and hot.
Shanamir, who had been roaming the town during the days of Valentine’s training, reported that preparations for the great parade were well advanced. "Ribbons and streamers and flags everywhere," he said, standing at a wary distance as Valentine began a morning warm-up with the three clubs. "And the starburst banner — they’ve lined the route with it, from Falkynkip Gate to Dragon Gate, and out Dragon and all along the waterfront, is what I hear, miles and miles of decoration, even cloth of gold, and green paint in the roadway. They say the cost runs to thousands of royals."
"Who pays?" Valentine asked.
"Why, the people of Pidruid," said Shanamir in surprise. "Who else? Those of Ni-moya? Those of Velathys?"
"Let the Coronal himself pay for his festival, I’d say."
"And whose money would that be, except the taxes of the whole world! Why should cities in Alhanroel pay for festivals in Zimroel? Besides, it’s an honor to host the Coronal! Pidruid pays gladly. Tell me: how do you manage to throw a club and catch one at the same time with the same hand, Valentine?"
"The throw comes first, my friend. By only a little. Watch very carefully."
"I am watching. I still can’t figure it out."
"When we have time, after the parade’s done with, I’ll show you how it works."
"Where are we going after here?"
"I don’t know. Eastward, Carabella told me. We’ll go wherever there’s a fair or a carnival or a festival that will hire jugglers."
"Will I become a juggler too, Valentine?"
"If you want to. I thought you wanted to go to sea."
"I just want to travel," said Shanamir. "It doesn’t have to be by sea. So long as I don’t have to go back to Falkynkip. Eighteen hours a day in the stables, currying mounts — oh, no, not for me, not any more! Do you know, the night I left home I dreamed I had learned how to fly. It was a dream from the Lady, Valentine, I knew it at once, and the flying meant I would go where I hoped to go. When you told Zalzan Kavol he had to take me along if he wanted you, I trembled. I thought I was going to— going to— I felt all—" He caught himself. "Valentine, I want to be a juggler as good as you are."
"I’m not very good. I’m only a beginner." But, growing bold, Valentine threw the clubs in lower, faster arcs, showing off.
"I can’t believe you just learned how on Twoday."
"Sleet and Carabella are good instructors."
"I never saw anyone learn anything so fast, though," Shanamir said. "You must have an extraordinary mind. I’ll bet you were someone important before you became a wanderer, yes. You seem so cheerful, so— simple, and yet— and yet—"
"Hidden depths," Valentine said amiably, trying to throw a club from behind his back and hurling it with an agonizing crack against his left elbow. All three clubs splattered to the wet ground, and he winced and rubbed the bruise. "A master juggler," he said. "You see? Ordinarily it takes weeks of training to learn to hit your elbow like that!"
"You did it to change the subject," Shanamir said, sounding more than half serious.
—8—
STARDAY MORNING, parade day, the Coronal’s day, the first day of the grand festival of Pidruid, and Valentine lay curled in sleep, dreaming a quiet dream of lush green hills and limpid pools flecked with blue and yellow pond-anemones, when fingers poking in his ribs awakened him. He sat up, blinking and mumbling. Darkness: long before dawn. Carabella crouching over him: he sensed the catlike grace of her, heard her light laughter, picked up the creamy fragrance of her skin.
"Why so early?" he asked.
"To get a good place when the Coronal goes by. Hurry! Everyone’s up already."
He scrambled to his feet. His wrists were a little sore from juggling with the clubs, and he held out his arms, letting his hands loll and flop. Carabella grinned and took them in hers and looked up at him.
"You’ll juggle magnificently today," she said softly.
"I hope so."
"There’s no doubt of it, Valentine. Whatever you set out to do, you’ll do supremely well. That’s the sort of person you are."
"You know what sort of person I am?"
"Of course I do. Better than you know, I suspect. Valentine, can you tell the difference between sleeping and waking?"
He frowned. "I don’t follow you."
"There are times when I think it’s all the same to you, that you’re living a dream or dreaming a life. Actually I didn’t think that. Sleet did. You fascinate him, and Sleet doesn’t fascinate easily. He’s been everywhere, he’s seen much, he’s seen through everything, and yet he talks constantly of you, he tries to comprehend you, to see into your mind."
"I didn’t realize I was so interesting. I find myself boring."
"Others don’t." Her eyes were sparkling. "Come, now. Dress, eat, off to the parade. In the morning we watch the Coronal go by, in the afternoon we perform, and at night— at night—"
"Yes? At night?"
"At night we hold festival!" she cried, and sprang away from him and out the door.
In the morning mist the troupe of jugglers headed for the place that Zalzan Kavol had secured for them along the grand processional highway. The Coronal’s route began in the Golden Plaza, where he was lodged; from there he would move eastward along a curving boulevard that led out one of the city’s secondary gates, and around to the great road on which Valentine and Shanamir had entered Pidruid, the one bordered by twin columns of fireshower palms in bloom, and thence via Falkynkip Gate back into the city, and across it down Water Road through the Arch of Dreams and out Dragon Gate to the waterfront, to the edge of the bay, where a reviewing stand had been erected in Pidruid’s chief stadium. So the parade was double in nature: first a progress of the Coronal past the people, and then the people past the Coronal. It was an event that would last all through the day and into the night beyond, and probably toward Sunday’s dawn.
Because the jugglers were part of the royal entertainment, it was necessary for them to take up a position somewhere near the waterfront end of things; otherwise they would never be able to cross the congested city in time to reach the stadium for their own performance. Zalzan Kavol had obtained a choice location for them close by the Arch of Dreams, but it meant that they would spend the better part of the day waiting for the parade to come to them. No help for it. On foot they cut diagonally through the back streets, emerging at last at the lower end of Water Road. As Shanamir had reported, the city was lavishly decorated, cluttered with ornament, banners and bunting dangling from every building, every light-globe. The roadbed itself had been freshly painted in the Coronal’s colors, gleaming bright green bordered by golden stripes.
At this early hour the route was already lined with viewers, and no open spaces, but a space in the crowd swiftly was made when the Skandar jugglers appeared and Zalzan Kavol produced his sheaf of tickets. People on Majipoor normally tended to courtesy and graceful accommodation. Besides, there were few who cared to argue points of precedence with six surly Skandars.
And then the waiting. The morning was warm and swiftly growing hot, and there was nothing for Valentine to do but stand and wait, staring at the empty highway, at the ornate black polished stonework of the Arch of Dreams, Carabella jammed up against his left side, Shanamir pushed close on the right. Time ticked infinitely slowly that morning. The wells of conversation quickly ran dry. One moment of diversion came when Valentine picked a startling phrase out of the murmur of conversation from the rows behind him: