Free Transformation (Rai Kirah) by Carol Berg

course, accept whatever judgment you see fit. We are honored by your hearing.” His expression was properly solemn and respectful. But I was sitting to the side of him, and I could see his gleeful grin of satisfaction as he bowed.
    So it was that I had to pack up my writing case and ledger book and hasten barefoot through the city streets after Aleksander. He set off walking, sending his hastily saddled mount back to the stables. It was unheard of for royalty to walk the streets rather than ride, and I wondered if the Prince wanted to shock the staid palace staff. Or perhaps it was just to stretch his legs and wake himself up after four days of boredom.
    It was not a quiet journey. Ten hastily mustered torchbearers lit the way through the afternoon gloom, the smoke settling heavily about us in the cold, still air. Fifty guards, an equal number of attendants, cloak-bearers, boot wipers, and every manner of dennissar were still scurrying about, deciding on positions and precedence long after the party passed through the palace gates and into the town.
    Townspeople gathered quickly along the road, gaping at the fabled young prince most of them had never seen. At first it was well-cloaked ladies and children who watched, merchants, shopkeepers, drovers, and clerks who deserted their posts for the chance to catch a glimpse of royalty. They cheered and waved at the flesh-and-blood manifestation of the Empire’s glory. Aleksander did not acknowledge them. They would not expect it. Out of perverse habit they would most likely lose respect for him if he looked pleasant or waved in return. Rather he strode vigorously through the afternoon, talking only with Sovari, the captain of his personal guard.
    After we crossed the arched Ghojan bridge, the lanes grew narrower and muddier and the onlookers not so well turned out. They were thin and ragged, quiet and fearful. Hollow-eyed children hid behind their bony mothers, and crippled old men gaped toothless. In an attempt to mask the growing stench, one of Aleksander’s attendants began swinging a censer that emitted a cloying smoke, but Aleksander shoved the man aside and made him douse the burning herbs in a mud puddle. “That makes the stink worse. Do you think I am some woman who has never smelled the back end of a horse?”
    But I don’t think Aleksander had ever seen the dregs of his cities—and certainly not from his own feet where he could look at them eye-to-eye. His gaze did not remain fixed and ahead as before, but darted from one pitiful sight to another. He wrinkled his nose in disgust at three scabrous beggars who were wallowing in the river of mud and excrement, fighting over a whimpering mangy dog. He drew away from a gaunt-cheeked, rheumy-eyed old woman who was kneeling in the mud with her hands outstretched, wailing in mindless misery. He peered curiously into alleys where groups of rag-wrapped men, women, and children huddled listlessly around pitiful fires, too weak and cold to pay him any mind.
    Two whores pushed aside ragged customers and gaped brazenly at the Prince. One of them, a buxom young girl with long curly hair grinned and wagged a finger at him. Aleksander laughed, and the girl blew him a kiss, lifted her skirt, and went back to her business.
    As the Prince’s procession rounded a corner, a woman with a squalling infant bound to her back was shoved out of a dark, rag-draped doorway, two grimy children clinging to her skirts. “There’s no work here and no bread,” bawled a harsh voice from behind the door. “Die somewhere else.” The woman tripped over a torchbearer and fell right at Aleksander’s feet.
    The young Fontezhi dennissar, thinking, no doubt, to redeem himself in his prince’s eyes, screamed at the woman to give way and kicked at her viciously, sending her sprawling in the filth of the street. One of his bodyguards grabbed the two terrified children by the necks and flung them to the side into a crusted heap of dirty snow. The two