Chapter 11: The Medal

A hundred thousand people could not make that much silence on purpose.

Linus stood in it with Ambrose's hand around his wrist, and the gold in both their arms beating the same slow rhythm.

Then the Marshal turned his head and looked at the Duke.

Cormac Lorne had not moved.

The white and gold coat was still perfect.

The smile was gone, and his face had nothing in it at all.

"Cormac," Ambrose said.

His voice was very quiet, and the amplifiers carried it to the back of the square.

"Seven years ago, at Sere Station, who carried me out of the fire?"

"I did, old friend."

The Duke's smile came back, a little late.

"You are overwrought. The fever, and the shock of the claim. You are not yourself."

"Then tell me what I said when you found me."

The Duke opened his mouth.

"You said nothing," he said. "You were unconscious."

"I was awake," Ambrose said. "I was awake for every second of it, and the only thing I remember is a boy."

"There was no boy."

"Then explain this."

He lifted his bare left hand, and the gold in it climbed his fingers.

"Guards," the Marshal said. "Take the medal."

Two men in white armour hesitated, and looked at the Empress.

She did not stop them.

They collected the two halves of the glass crystal, and the medal from where it had fallen, and carried them to the foot of the dais.

A murmur began, low at first, then spreading in a wave through the crowd.

Somebody near the front began to boo.

It was one man, and then ten, then a thousand, and the sound rolled up the white towers and came back.

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