The Novels of the Jaran (79 page)

“Syrannus,” he said abruptly. “There is a slave-boy about her size. Go get his clothing.”

“Your eminence?”

“His clothing.”

Syrannus looked troubled. “Your eminence, surely, if your most honored uncle said—”

“Are you questioning me?”

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:

Partial Manifest of Goods:

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 marvel 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.