Three Princes (8 page)

He was just considering this move when Mabruke gently nudged his knee, at the same moment that Zaydane clapped his hands casually and stood up. “At twilight,” Zaydane called out in a clear voice. He turned to Mabruke and said more quietly, “Now you must rest.”

Zaydane gestured to the same woman whom Oken had been eyeing. “Sera will guide you. Aziel has brought water for you to bathe, and fresh clothes.” Zaydane smiled fondly at the woman, then turned to Mabruke and Oken. “My granddaughter Sera is in command of camp supplies. She knows best what to provide you for the day.”

“Will you be riding with us,” Oken said to Zaydane, “when we leave tonight?”

“I am waiting for the report on the men who were following you. If they are Red Hand, then I will send troops to dispatch them, and I will ride with you to Marrakech. If they are Black Orchid, then I will personally follow them. I have been trying to locate their base here in the Atlas for months.”

“Black Orchid?” Oken looked over at Mabruke, his brow furrowed, feeling once again the sense of being the boy left out of the men’s business.

Mabruke flicked his fingers in a subtle hand gesture that told Oken not to press the topic.

Zaydane seemed not to notice, but only waved them on to follow Sera.

That part, at least, Oken did not mind. He wondered if the lovely Sera would linger once the bathwater arrived.

OUTSIDE THE
huge tent, the sunlight struck with a brassy blow. Oken could almost smell the light that stung against his skin and prickled inside his silk suit. The sky seemed very close. The lamps had partly prepared his eyes for the intense brightness; even so, for the first few steps Oken could only follow the dark lines of Mabruke’s “giraffe calf” legs striding ahead of him. Once his eyes had adjusted, he looked around.

The main tent sat at the head of a narrow ravine between gray, rugged cliffs of weathered rock. Bony-looking goats grazed on the slopes, guarded by teams of hounds. The fleet of black camels had disappeared. At first Oken thought the ravine was filled with house-sized boulders tossed randomly along either side of a swiftly running creek. Then a flap opened in one of the boulders as someone came out to meet them. Oken realized that these “boulders” were, in fact, tents painted in careful camouflage.

He looked behind at the main tent. It had disappeared into the cliff wall against which it perched. He focused on it sharply trying to see the tent through the paint. He could, finally, but only because he knew it was there.

He hurried after Mabruke, impressed to realize that his mentor had learned from a man who could hide an entire village of tents in plain sight.

Sera was standing at the opened flap. She waved them in with a slight, bemused smile.

This tent was much smaller, equally cool and luxurious. Lamps showed lush rugs and fittings in a good-sized interior for two, with cushions piled against the wall and a scattering of low tables. A coffee urn bubbled to the side, with trays of fruit and cheese. The most welcome sight was a pair of large tubs filled with steamy hot water, set atop heating bricks. Warming racks with towels and robes stood beside. The bathwater was scented with roses and citrus, giving Oken a momentary remembrance of Natyra and her perfumed skin.

“I hope you enjoy your bath,” Sera said. “Master Zaydane wants you to be ready to ride by nightfall, so if you wish to sleep, you have the afternoon.” Her voice was rich, like fine, dark honey. Oken wished she would stay and talk with them longer, just to hear her speak. “Thank you, my lady.”

She gave him that same bemused smile, humor touching her dark eyes; then she slipped out. The tent flap fell closed behind her. Oken noticed, as she turned away, that she was wearing a gold earring in the form of the seven-rayed flower and crossed horns of Sashetah, symbol of the holy librarian and keeper of the archives. She was too busy to play.

Oken sighed and addressed his attention to the waiting comfort of the hot water in the tub.

“BLACK ORCHID.”
Oken sponged water over the back of his neck. “You were going to tell me about that?”

Mabruke did not reply at once, feigning serious interest in the awkward gestures of scrubbing his heels in a tub too small for his long limbs.

“If it’s private, I’ll stay out of it,” Oken said after a moment of watching from the corner of his eye. “I know you and Zaydane are old friends.” He waited and got no response. “It just didn’t sound private, the way he said it.”

“It isn’t.” Mabruke continued scrubbing. “I could tell when you arrived at the tent this morning that you had not had a pleasant time on the ride here.”

Oken dropped the sponge into the water and draped his wrists over the edges of the tub, giving Mabruke a sour look. “What has that got to do with black orchids?”

“Nothing. It’s just that I rode with Zaydane, so we got a chance to talk, quite a lot. I had a pleasant night. I’m sorry yours left you believing we’re in trouble.”

“We aren’t?”

“No—in fact, I had intended that we should meet up with Zaydane, and make a stopover at this camp. I didn’t tell you, because I know how you feel about sleeping in tents. I just didn’t know things would come out quite this way.”

Oken realized then that Mabruke was embarrassed. He suddenly felt a great deal better about the long and difficult night. “I’ll get over it. What about this Black Orchid thing?”

“The Black Orchid Society. Zaydane’s people just recently found the connection, and lives were lost uncovering that code phrase. Apparently, Victoria and Albert are more organized in their conspiracy plans than we had previously believed. They’ve revived some obscure, ancient Roman cult, and are initiating their fellow conspirators into it. Their secret code name now is Black Orchid Society.”

“A Roman cult?” Oken was surprised by that.

“Victoria’s people are determined to undo Caesar’s empire, so they reached back into Caesar’s time. Apparently, they discovered the writings of cults who were in rebellion against Rome, more specifically, in rebellion against Caesar. They’ve set themselves up as the inheritors of that rebellion.”

Oken reviewed what he had been taught about the early days of his most famous ancestors, the man and woman who had started the empire. “Which cult? There were a lot of them in those days.”

“They’ve mixed together elements of this one and that one, as suits their story. Their goal is not spiritual. It’s political. They promise their followers spiritual primacy, which gives them political rights over Caesar’s Heirs.”

Since Oken was himself an Heir of Caesar’s, he took that somewhat personally. “You don’t say. They’re calling this new cult Black Orchid? Why orchid?”

“They chose the flower because of its Latin name. They chose the color because it’s actually a myth.”

“I’ve seen a lot of orchids lately,” Oken said thoughtfully.

Flowers in incredible array had filled the rich homes and royal estates where he had been hosted as part of his tour of Europe, flowers seen most often as colorful backdrops to the beautiful young women who were paraded before him. The youngest son of the throne of Mercia was eminently eligible, a major catch even for a princess. He was royalty born of royalty, with the blood of both Caesar and Cleopatra in his veins, making him kin to every royal court in Europe and most of Africa. His sons could become kings. His daughters could become wife of the Pharaoh himself. His travels might reach only the society column rather than the front page. He was, nonetheless, a welcome house guest.

“I’ve seen quite a lot of flowers.” Oken focused on a flashing review of the arrangements and selections of bouquets and garden displays, garlands and vases. Usually each court and house hold had its own special themes and blossoms. A particular image leaped out among those memories. The same arrangements had been repeated. Unusual. “Not everyone used orchids, but the ones who did used the same arrangements. Perhaps a statement?”

“Zaydane predicted that flowers might be used that way. Indeed, he said I should ask you about it.”

“I’ll make a list.”

“They’re getting braver.” Mabruke did not sound pleased. “To do something like that out in the open.”

Oken shrugged. “The world is full of garden societies. A great many of them are run by princesses.”

Mabruke shrugged and reached for the soap vial beside the tub. He poured the rose- scented liquid onto the sponge, sniffed carefully at the perfume. “Ah, I thought so! This is one I designed.” He scrubbed vigorously, raising a wealth of foam. “Good stuff, too.”

“What has this got to do with orchids?”

“Some lovely perfumes from orchids,” Mabruke said mysteriously. The foam covered his face and head, and he ducked under the water to rinse, surfacing with exaggerated huffing and blowing.

“Is that to cover up the smell of their conspiracy?” Oken reached for the same soap vial.

“Nothing can do that. It stinks to high heaven. Victoria is telling her followers that she has ‘the one true faith.’ She’s claiming to be the only true defender of that faith.” He looked over at Oken, eyebrows raised, to see the effect of this statement.

Oken looked back at him sideways. “So? All faiths are true.”

“Not according to Victoria and Albert. The Black Orchid Society claims their cult is the only— get that—the only true faith. That’s what entitles them to rule the world instead of Caesar’s Blood.”

Oken tried to wrap himself around such an unholy thought. “Sounds unnatural to me.”

“Add that little caveat into the lure of a secret society, and a lot of politically restless people are being drawn in.”

“All faiths are true,” Oken repeated stubbornly. “Why should theirs give them any political edge?”

“They call themselves the only, I repeat, the only true one. They preach that only their image of Paut Nayture is entitled to appoint the Pharaoh or to assign thrones. Apparently, the rest of us are just fooling ourselves.”

Oken sat, absently scrubbing himself with the foaming rosewater soap, puzzling over this. “Bit of a paradox in that, isn’t it? I mean, if all faiths are true, then this Black Orchids thing is true. But if it’s true, then every other is false, which means they’re all false, so this Orchids thing is false.It just doesn’t add up.”

Mabruke sighed. “Alas, you have grasped the mayat of it. They are fueling a rebellion on a paradox that they claim only they can unravel.”

“True may be true for the moment. That doesn’t make it mayat,” Okensaid, brow furrowed. “People are buying into this?”

“If it will buy them a throne that they believe they deserved, but didn’t get? What do you think?”

Oken himself stood close enough to a throne that he had a hint, a taste of the frustration and lure of such a belief. Memphis, however, had become the ruler of his heart. His education there ruled his mind. He was happy to have not just one but three brothers standing between himself and the rigors of leadership in Mercia. Power over his own heart, over the mayat, the eternal reality of his own eternal soul was the only throne Oken desired. No one could empower him to that throne but he himself. If he believed that someone else could provide it? What would he do for that?

He felt a shiver despite the steamy warmth of the bath, and scrubbed his chest and shoulders as though he might wash away the discomfort and confusion of these thoughts. “If the people following us on the Marrakech Road were from the Black Orchid Society”—Oken directed himself back to the problem of the moment—“it’s likely my fault.”

“Why?” Mabruke said, soapy sponge in hand. His face was serious.

“I doubt your cover has been blown, but Blestyak knows that I’m in the guild.”

Mabruke sat thoughtfully rubbing his knees. “Perhaps. If it’s the Red Hand, they’re after both of us. The results, however, will be the same. Zaydane and his people will put a stop to them. They’d be dead already if he were certain who sent them.”

“Do these Black Orchid people jeopardize our mission to Tawantinsuyu?”

Mabruke considered this. “Perhaps not.”

“Perhaps not? Can we risk going on with it on a perhaps?”

“I have to think on it. I doubt it threatens my cover. You’re the one who just got yourself in trouble in Europe. It actually makes sense that you would then choose to travel far from there. Taking a job as companion to a mild-mannered and obscure professor on a rest-journey to the wild mountains of Andalusia might seem like an attempt to keep your cover intact.”

“Might seem? Perhaps? Mik, these people are dangerous.” Oken frowned. “I’d hardly describe you as ‘mild-mannered’!”

“I suppose my pupils wouldn’t, either.”

“It’s true, though, that you have worked at maintaining obscurity.”

“Except for that Red Hand business.”

“There is that.”

“So, I’m supposedly on the run from agents of the Black Orchid Society,” Oken said. “Both of us are on the run from agents of the Red Hand.” He stood up from the bath with a gentle splash, stepping out and leaving wet footprints on the rug. He dried himself with an oversized towel from the rack.

Mabruke sat in his tub watching Oken, a thoughtful look on his dark face. “That puts the odds on it being the Red Hand who were waiting at the Marrakech Exit.”

“I’d put my coin on it.”

Oken opened the shaving kit set out for him. The handles were of carved ebony; the brush had camel’s hair bristles. The razor was carefully and lovingly etched with sacred letters, and he read Zaydane’s name there.

“Look at this.” He picked it up and flipped open the blade. The name of the most famous Egyptian sword maker was stamped on it. There was no doubt of its edge. “He’s letting me use his own kit?” He held it up for Mabruke to see.

“I gave that to him. Let me use it, when you’re finished. They don’t use beard-ex here. They shave.”

The shaving foam was also a formula of Mabruke’s. His seal was stamped on the bottom of the glass bottle in raised hieroglyphs. Oken tilted the mirror on the stand. When he had satisfied himself as to the smoothness of his face, Oken dried his hair, then handed the kit to Mabruke, still in the tub. Mabruke dipped the brush and lathered his head, starting at the crown.