Syrannus bowed. “Of course not, your eminence, but in my position as a tutor for many years in the palace school, from which your eminence so graciously elevated me to become your secretary, I beg leave to remind you that while your high spirits and rebellious nature made you a favorite among the tutors at the school, it would not perhaps be wise to go against your uncle’s orders.”
“I can cut the girl’s hair.” The concubine’s hands halted for a moment, then resumed their rubbing. “With short hair, and loose clothing, she will pass well enough for a boy. By my ancestors, Syrannus, surely my uncle cannot expect me to endure an entire year without female companionship? The First Prophet himself warns against such privations. It is simply too much. She will go in the slave-boy’s place. My uncle will not know of it, and the barbarians will neither notice nor care.”
Syrannus hesitated. At last, he bowed and left the room. The curtain parted, whispering, to let him through, and with a jangle of beads settled back into place.
Jiroannes sighed. “Something to drink, Samae.” The concubine rose and padded in her slippers to the far table and brought him back a cup of melted fruit sorbet. He liked to watch her. She had an unconscious grace, and her slim hips swayed in an enticing manner. He did not think she did it on purpose. She had yet to show the least interest in him, except to perform her duties as ordered and with exacting perfection.
She knelt beside the couch and lifted the cup up to him. He took it, and drank. She wore two layers of cloth, an outer silken gown slitted cunningly to reveal the sheer silk garment beneath and the white curves of her body. The sorbet cooled his throat, but not his ardor.
“My sash,” he said.
She undid the complex knot that bound his sash and unwound him from its confines. The emerald cloth studded with jewels and precious stones fell to the floor in a heap. Even as she slid his trousers and blouse off, he was thinking as much of his ambitions as of the expert ministrations of her hands: endure this one year, negotiate a successful treaty with this Bakhtiian, secure Vidiya’s borders and perhaps even arrange some diplomatic marriages—the Great King had a daughter by his fifth wife he was willing to offer to the Bakhtiian, and surely this nomad prince had some female in his family to offer the Great King or his heir in turn—and then…
Samae paused in her stroking while Syrannus came in, deposited the boy’s clothing in a neat pile at the foot of the couch, and left. As the beaded curtain settled back into place, she dabbed oil on her hands and began again.
Then he could marry well and gain the honor of wearing, instead of a gaudy, jeweled sash, the plain white silk granted only to the Companions. With such a prize within his reach, he could almost look forward to the coming year.
Manifest of the Soerensen Expedition
Compiled by Margaret O’Neill, Assistant to C. Soerensen
Personnel:
Charles Soerensen
Dr. Cara Fel Hierakis
Margaret O’Neill
David ben Unbutu
Ursula el Kawakami
Rajiv Caer Linn
Joanna Singh
The Bharentous Repertory Company:
Ginnaia Lac Arbha Owen Zerentous
Seshat Onn Dejhuti Joldine
Anahita Liel Apphia Gwyn Jones
Helen Angiras Jean-Pierre Dasas
Diana Brooke-Holt Henry Bharentous
Madelena Quinn Hyacinth
Oriana Vuh Catanya Phillippe Navarone
Yomi Applegate-Hito Joseph Applegate-Hito
Partial Manifest of Goods:
22 Hou-Kohl palm slates thermal mitts
1 Ananda-Cray Modeler 2 frying pans
1 Ananda-Cray demiModeler clothespins
1 Grousset solar mini rope
1 Xi-Dela portable cookery portable platform
10 two-capacity canvas tents 4 free-standing screens
3 ten-capacity canvas tents 10 carpets
23 canvas cots scrubbing pads & towels
4 folding tables 1 fire extinguisher
23 folding chairs 3 buckets
23 wilderness thermal blankets 1 portable efficiency: WC and shower
4 dishpans 7 crates belonging to Dr. Hierakis (uninspected)
25 sets: knives, forks & spoons
25 sets: mugs, plates & bowls
3 chopping boards 5 crates of misc. props and costumes: see Company manifest for Interdiction allowance
3 kettles misc. personal items, ltd. to 2 carry bags per person (12 kg. ea.)
3 ladles 100 gallons of water
1 water purifier emergency transmitter
axes & shovels 5 Minimax solar cells
soap 10,000 bags of tea
CHAPTER SIX
A PEREMPTORY KNOCK SOUNDED on the door behind Diana. She glanced up, startled, and lost hold of the inkwell just as the ship rolled steeply. The inkwell slid off the table and fell to the floor. Diana swore and ducked under the table to grab for it. It spun in a furious circle, spewing ink, and then rolled with the tilt of the floor toward the bunk. Diana swore again, more heated words this time, bumped her head on the top of the table, and saw a booted foot catch the inkwell, stopping it neatly before it could roll under the lip of the bunk.
“Such language,” admonished the owner of the foot.
She crawled out from under the table. “Hello,” she said, surveying Marco Burckhardt with remarkable calm. Somehow, her anger at the mess counteracted her fluttering heart.
He grinned at her and bent to retrieve the inkwell. “It’s a messy business. Writing with pen and ink. Palm slates are much more convenient.”
“This is an interdicted planet.” She took the inkwell from him, stoppered it, and used a rag to mop up the spilled ink. “Thank you.” Out in the passageway she heard the voices of the rest of the party as they packed and readied to leave.
Marco examined the room—Hal’s three duffel bags, open, with clothing and interesting odds and ends strewn over the lower bunk; Diana’s two little carry bags on the upper bunk, tied and neat and ready to go. “Where’s your roommate?”
“Out throwing up over the stern one final time, I think.”
“Ah, he was one of the really sick ones.”
“And an actor, you know. Think of it as a farewell gesture.”
“If you’re ready, I can get you on the first boat going in to the harbor.”
“Can you?” Diana clapped her hands together and clasped them at her throat. “That would be marvelous! Here, I’m ready to go right now.” She closed the journal, laced it shut with a leather cord, and stuffed it into the side pouch of one of her bags.
“May I carry those for you?”
“No, I’m fine. Well, if you insist, you may take one.” She handed him the bag without the journal in it, hoisted the other in her left hand, and followed him out of the cabin and down the passageway, dodging actors and their gear.
A brisk wind blew on deck, and though it was cold, it was clear, the sun a fine golden disk in the purpling-blue sky. A shoal of harbor boats crowded up against the ship’s low-slung hull. Dr. Hierakis stood supervising the loading of her mysterious selection of crates and barrels into the forward boat. Charles Soerensen appeared from his cabin. He swung two bags—no heavier, Diana judged, than her own—over the rail and dropped them the two meters. They landed next to a meter-square crate. He climbed down the ladder, into the boat.
“Hello, Marco. Coming with us?” Margaret O’Neill, Soerensen’s assistant, appeared at the railing beside them. She glanced at Diana, at Marco, grinned, and then hid her mouth behind one hand.
“But of course, my flame-haired vixen. I could not bear to be parted from you even for so short a time. Do you know Diana?”
“Of course I know Diana. We spent a companionable two days together at the beginning of the voyage, throwing up over the stern.”
Diana smiled but could think of no reply. Maggie treated Marco with a casual irreverence that. Diana could only m
arvel at, and certainly could not hope to imitate.
Without asking, Marco took Diana’s second carry from her grip and slung both bags down into Charles Soerensen’s waiting hands. A gaudy gold ring flashed on the duke’s right forefinger. Looking up, Soerensen caught Diana’s gaze on him and he nodded in greeting. Diana blushed and waited to descend into the boat until Maggie and Marco had gone before her. The boat rocked on the wind-whipped water. Dr. Hierakis secured the last of her crates and then sat. As one of the boatmen poled them free of the ship, Diana could not resist turning to wave to the handful of actors who had by now arrived on deck. Four sailors began the steady stroke of the oars, and the boat headed in to the docks, leaving the rest to follow in its wake.
A line of red rimmed the dockside. It had a shimmering, restless texture like, Diana thought, a festival decoration or some religious iconography. But as they neared the shore, she realized that it was a long line of figures—of men mounted on horses. There were many, many—perhaps a thousand—along the wharf, three deep and snaking in lines up into the town. Each and every one of the mounted men wore a similar costume: a brilliant scarlet shirt and black trousers and boots. The oars beat rhythmically as the boat scudded across the harbor, closing, and Diana saw that the riders were armed with sabers, and that most of them held long spears, some with pennants tied up near their heads, snapping in the breeze.
“They’re armed!” she exclaimed. “We’re rowing straight into them.”
Soerensen shaded his eyes with one hand to stare. One of the rowers spoke rapidly in a foreign tongue.
Marco listened and nodded, and then translated for the others. “He says the barbarians came into town two days since, that they came to wait for the Prince of the far city, which is Charles, of course.”
“Of course,” Maggie echoed, glancing sharply at Soerensen. If he was paying attention to this conversation, he did not show it.
“He says,” Marco continued, beginning to smile, “that it’s the Bakhtiian’s own private guard, his picked troops, and that Bakhtiian himself is with them.”
“But isn’t he the conqueror?” Maggie demanded. “The king? Why would he be here?” But Marco fell silent as the boat slipped in among pilings and the sailors tied her up to a pier.
Soerensen disembarked without taking his packs. The others scrambled after him. The little party walked at a brisk pace up the pier to the waiting guard. This close, the riders were even more impressive—each horsed and seated magnificently, a long line of men, fair and dark, set off by the intense red of their shirts. Soerensen moved with an impatient, clipped stride.
Maggie dropped back beside Diana and whispered, “He’ll see his sister Tess at last. It’s all he’s been speaking of.” Soerensen slowed, surveying the line, and halted at the end of the pier, faced with the barbarians. Diana and Maggie stood behind him, Marco and Dr. Hierakis on either side of him.
First there was silence. Diana scanned the line for any sign of the sister, but she saw only men. Each one in turn, those close enough for her to look at, cast down his eyes, as if they had some taboo about looking on a stranger. Then, to the far right of the line, a rider appeared, flanked by two others.
“Enter, the king,” said Diana under her breath.
Soerensen lifted a hand in greeting, but as the three riders neared, he lowered it. All three were men, and the one in the fore rode a splendid black horse. The trio halted in front of Soerensen, and the dark-featured man on the black horse dismounted and handed the reins to one of his companions. Then he examined his audience, making no immediate move to come forward. He wore the brilliant clothing of his people with impeccable neatness, and he had that air of utter authority that comes from having one’s will obeyed instantly.
Marco made a hiss of amazement. “That’s him,” he said in a voice pitched low, for Soerensen’s ears. “That’s Bakhtiian.”
“Of course it is,” whispered Diana. “Only kings or actors make entrances like that.”
Soerensen did not acknowledge either comment. “I don’t believe it,” said Maggie.
Marco glanced back over his shoulder and shook his head. “No, really. I met him once. He’s not a person I would forget.”
“I confess I thought a great conqueror would be taller.” Maggie said it in a low voice, but the conqueror’s gaze flashed her way for an unreadable instant.
“For God’s sake,"” said Marco, “you’re damned well taller than everyone else in this party as it is, Maggie.”
Diana could not help herself, Tamburlaine was so fresh in her mind. “‘His looks do menace heaven and dare the gods, His fiery eyes are fixed upon the earth, As if he has devised some stratagem.’” She faltered, because he moved.
He walked forward with easy grace and halted in front of Soerensen. There was a pause. This close, Diana felt compelled to stare at him. He was not handsome, exactly, but rather one of those people who attracts the eye as much by force of will as by physical perfection. He was exceedingly well-proportioned and his features were precise, marked especially by a pair of dark, passionate, and impatient eyes. Of course he had a scar, a white line running diagonally from one high cheekbone almost to his chin, doubtlessly suffered in a battle, or a brawl, or perhaps in an assassination attempt. Diana realized that she was holding her breath and staring, and she let air out deliberately and breathed in again.
In Jeds, the natives bowed to Soerensen as one would to a prince. Bakhtiian inclined his head, as one equal greets another. “I am Bakhtiian,” he said. In Rhuian, the language of Jeds.
Soerensen returned the nod and replied in the same language. “Charles Soerensen.”
“I give you greetings.”
“And blessings in return.”
What their true feelings were, Diana could not guess through the mask of politeness they wore. Soerensen had always been an enigma to her, a rather pale man with sand-colored hair who showed humor readily and never gave the slightest inkling of how he felt at having been turned from a failed revolutionary leader into the only human duke in the massive and labyrinthine Chapalii Empire. Most people she could read, she could get a sense of, but Soerensen was a blank.
The two men studied each other, but what they made of that examination did not show on their faces.
At last Bakhtiian spoke. “I have arranged that we leave morning after next, for our camp some ten days ride inland. That will give your party a day to organize their goods on the wagons we’ve brought for the journey.”
After a beat of silence, Soerensen said, “Where is my sister? I expected that she would be here to greet me.” His face maintained its mask of politeness, but the air changed quality, as if charged by a net of electricity.
Bakhtiian’s expression did not change, but everything else about him did, the indefinable shift of his posture utterly transforming the message his body carried. He moved his left foot slightly. His left hand strayed to his saber hilt, and he brushed the tip of the golden hilt with his thumb. “She is at the camp,” he said, in a tone that meant: and that is that.
Soerensen blinked, once. When he spoke, it was without inflection. “She told me, in a letter, that she would meet me at the port.”
“She may well have,” replied the conqueror of half a dozen kingdoms and principalities, “but she could not come.” He removed his hand from his saber hilt and began to turn away, to lead the group up into town, since the matter was now obviously settled.
Soerensen did not move. “Why is that?” he asked, as easily as if he were commenting on the weather.
Half turned away, Bakhtiian froze, paused, and swung back. The force of his stare, antagonistic and unforthcoming, would have cowed any other man. He did not reply.
“Why could she not come?” repeated Soerensen.
For an instant, Bakhtiian looked taken aback that a living being questioned his authority. For an instant only. “Because she could not leave camp.”
For the first time, a sudden, intense energy radiated off of Soerensen.
Abruptly, Diana saw in him the man who had dared to challenge humanity’s alien masters. He was powerful, and frightening. His jaw tightened; his lips thinned; he took in a breath.
The storm was about to hit. The charge of emotion washed over her like fire. She burned with it, fear and exhilaration together. Marco took a step back, putting a hand out to push Diana back behind him. Maggie gasped. Without thinking, Diana reached out to grasp Maggie’s hand. Maggie glanced at her, pale skin flushed with alarm, and neither let go. The scarlet-shirted riders nearest the group stirred, and horses minced under tense hands.
Dr. Hierakis stepped forward into the breach. “I am sorry to hear that she is ill,” she said with astonishing smoothness. “However, we had better be sure we have accommodations for the next two nights, since the rest of our party are coming in from the ship and will need to be directed as to where they can stow their baggage.”
Soerensen said nothing, but as quickly as it had shone forth, his light was buried again. Evidently he approved of the doctor’s intervention. But Bakhtiian’s response was more startling: she looked directly at him, as one does when addressing a person, and he immediately dropped his gaze away from hers and stepped back. “Of course,” he said obediently. “I have arranged for two inns for your party. I hope they will be adequate.”
“I am sure they will be.” She seemed taken aback by Bakhtiian’s sudden deference.
Marco looked astounded. Maggie let go of Diana’s hand and nervously straightened her tunic. Diana was not sure where she ought to look, like an actor with no lines, on stage but not given direction. She felt a wee bit disappointed.
“I am Doctor Hierakis, by the way,” Hierakis added. “And may I introduce Diana Brooke-Holt and Margaret O'Neill…” With stunning aplomb, Bakhtiian gave a curt but gracious bow to each of the women in turn, like any accomplished courtier, managing to acknowledge them fully without looking either in the eye. “This is Marco Burckhardt.”
But now Bakhtiian looked up, directly at Marco. A smile appeared and vanished on his lips so quickly that Diana was not sure she had actually seen it. “We have met.”