Halfway down the block between Hawser and Cable its topmast became entangled in an advertising banner stretched across Front Street at roof level, and the parade had to be halted long enough for a sailor to disengage, scramble up the mast with his knife, and cut the banner’s line, for which he received cheers and applause.
After that, more musicians: the Runners’ Trumpeting Corps, long-legged girls resplendent in their red uniforms and flaring scarves, lifting curiously worked horns to blare the Salesh Fanfare with brazen throats. Behind them came the drummers of the Porters’ Union, thundering mightily on steel drums with their fists, so that the din rolled and echoed between the housefronts for blocks. And after them, a contingent from the Anchor Street Bakery came pulling a giant cake on wheels, from the top of which children costumed as cherubs threw sweet rolls to the crowd.
Male jugglers marched after, miraculously keeping suggestively painted clubs in the air without stopping their forward momentum, though each bore a female acrobat with her legs twined about his waist in mimicked intimate union. The girls occasionally leaned far backward and walked with their hands, or juggled small brass balls.
More floats, more Spirits of This or That relating to the procreative act, more bands, a few civic leaders borne along in decorated carts to applause or execration. Brilliant streamers flew, and confetti in every color, and bird kites towed on ribbons, and banners that flared like the ice lights in northern kingdoms where sunlight came so seldom there were a hundred different words for darkness.
When it had all gone by at last, the throng of merrymakers followed it down the hill, shedding clothing as they went, donning masks, seizing flowers from hedges that grew over walls, lighting scarlet lamps; and it was Festival!
Though householders less inclined to revel at Pleasure’s fountains issued out into the street and swept up the stepped-on bits of sweet roll, or complained bitterly about the flowers torn from their hedges.
“Damned Anchor Street Bakery,” said Mrs. Smith, as she and Smith retreated through the lobby. “I may have some competition! With all those bloody cherubs throwing free treats to the crowd, the voting in the dessert category may be swayed.”
“Are you worried?”
“Not particularly,” she said, lighting her smoking tube.
“Free treats or not, the master baker at Anchor Street uses nothing but wholemeal flour. I’d like to see anybody make a palatable fairy cake out of a mess of stone-ground husks!”
She swept upstairs, trailing smoke, to don her finery for the contest. Smith followed her as far as the landing, where he rapped cautiously at the door to Lord Ermenwyr’s suite.
“Come in, damn you,” said a deathly voice from within.
Smith opened the door and peeked inside. Lord Ermenwyr was sprawled on the parlor couch with his head hanging backward off the edge and his eyes rolled back, so that for one panicky moment Smith thought he needed to be resuscitated.
“My lord?” He hurried inside. But the ghastly figure on the couch waved a feeble hand at him.
“Assist me, Smith. What time is it?”
“Halfway between Third and Fourth Prayer Interval,” said Smith, lifting Lord Ermenwyr into a sitting position.
“Doesn’t tell me a lot, does it, since I don’t worship your gods, and I wouldn’t pray to them even if I did,” moaned Lord Ermenwyr. “Is it drawing on toward evening, or are my eyes simply dying in their sockets?”
“It’ll be sunset in half an hour,” Smith said, fetching him a carafe of water and pouring him a cup.
“I wish I really was a vampire; I’d be feeling great about now.” Lord Ermenwyr looked around sourly. “But I am alone, abandoned by all who ever claimed they loved me.”
“We are still here, Master,” said a slightly reproachful voice. Smith turned, startled to note the four bodyguards lined up against the wall on either side of the balcony window. The glamour was off them and their true nature was quite evident; they resembled nothing so much as a quartet of standing stones with eyes and teeth, looming in the shadows.
“Well, aren’t you the faithful ones,” said Lord Ermenwyr, sipping from his cup. “Careful where you sit, Smith. The Variable Magnificent’s undoubtedly lurking around in the shape of an especially ugly end table or hassock.”
“No, I’m not,” said a voice from the bedroom, and Lord Eyrdway stepped into view. Smith had to stare a moment to be certain it was really he; for he had altered his height, appearing several inches shorter, and lengthened his nose,