Dies the Fire by S. M. Stirling Page B

the lobby was huge. All around it big kerosene lanterns hung at twice head-height, and a forest of lighted candles stood in branched silver holders on the tables that ringed the great space. Their snowy linen and polished cutlery glistened; so did the gray-veined white marble of the floor. All the desks and kiosks had been taken out; nothing but the head table broke the sweep of view towards the great staircase that began at the rear and divided halfway up into two sweeping curves. The flames picked out that too, black marble carved in vine-leaf patterns.
    More guardsmen stood around the outer walls; in the U that the tables formed milled a crowd whose faces he mostly recognized. The Crips and Bloods, the Russians—Alexi Stavarov himself—the chink Tongs, the Koreans, the Angels, the Italians . . . and groups he thought of as white-bread suburban wannabes, but it wasn’t his party and he didn’t get to write the guest list, and Portland wasn’t what you’d call a serious gang town anyway.
    More chicks like the greeter circulated with trays of drinks and little delicacies on crackers, doing nothing but smile at pats and gropes from the hairy bearded Angels and some of the other rougher types.
    Emiliano took a glass of beer—Negro Modelo—and ate thin-shaved ham off little rondels of fresh black bread, and chatted with a few of his peers. Meanwhile his eyes probed the gathering; not everyone here were his kind. Some were politicians, looking as out of place as the half-naked women; there were even a couple of priests. And some unmistakable university students, mostly clumped together. A few scared, some looking like rabbits on speed, some tough and relaxed.
    Trumpets blared. Emiliano jumped and swore silently as an Angel with a beard like a gray Santa Claus’s down his leather-clad paunch grinned at him.
    A man appeared at the top of the stairs. “The Lord Protector!” he barked, and stood aside with his head bowed. “The Lady Sandra!”
    The armed men around the great room slammed their weapons against their shields in near-unison, barking out:
    â€œThe Lord Protector!” in a crashing shout that echoed crazily from the high stone walls. Dead silence fell among the guests.
    It took him a minute to recognize the man coming down the stairs with a splendidly gowned and jeweled woman on his arm. He’d never seen Norman Arminger in a knee-length coat of chain mail before, or wearing a long sword in a black-leather sheath. A follower—male, and armed—carried a helmet with a black feather crest and a kite-shaped shield. Arminger looked impressive in the armor, six-one and broad in the shoulders, with thick wrists and corded forearms. His face was long and lean, square-chinned and hook-nosed, with brown hair parted in the center and falling to his shoulders.
    â€œLord Emiliano, good of you to join us,” Arminger said. “I believe you’re the last.”
    â€œHey—you’re that guy who was writing a book on the gangs, aren’t you?”
    â€œI was,” Arminger said. “As you may have noticed, things have changed.”
    He gestured, and spoke in a carrying voice: “Please, everyone have a seat. The place cards are for your convenience.”
    Emiliano sat, with Dolores and his backup men. Arminger stayed standing, leaning one hip against the head table, his arms folded against the rippling mail that covered his chest.
    â€œGentlemen, ladies. By now, you will all have come to the conclusion that what Changed a little while ago is going to stay Changed. This has certain implications. Before we talk, I’d like to demonstrate one of them.”
    Four prisoners were prodded into the broad central floor of the hall; two middle-aged policemen in rumpled uniforms, and two guys in army gear—a big shaven-headed black and an ordinary-looking white. Arminger slid the helmet over his head; his face disappeared behind the protective