“We sensed at once her Quality,” one of the mares told Myrn the second morning on the road. “She’s not your usual filly-daughter, we all recognized at once.”
“I deeply appreciate your taking care of her,” replied Myrn, conjuring a handful of sugar cubes from her left sleeve as a treat for the hardworking packhorses. “I know she seems a bit strange, but time and kindness may cure her silence.”
During the hot days—it was well into summer here in the Nearer East—Nameless trotted in the shade of Myrn’s saddle mare or between two of the friendly baggage animals, who treated her with considerable deference, as if they thought her royalty.
The second evening after leaving the Port, the Seacaptain’s party reached the banks of a clear, sand-bottomed river and gave up their mounts for a large, shallow-draft, single-sailed barge on which they would float in comfort down to the lake and across to the Sultan’s capital on the far shore. Myrn and Nameless bid a fond good-bye to the saddle mares and a thank-you to the pack animals.
“It’s an easy life and we appreciate the fact, but it can be rather boring,” admitted one horse, bumping Myrn’s arm with her nose in friendly fashion. “If you come back this way, we’ll carry you again, swiftly and gladly. You’ve been most pleasant and understanding, mistress. We won’t remark on your disguise. Your secrets are quite safe with us.”
Myrn didn’t know whether to laugh or shiver at her words. She’d spent three days trying very hard not to be noticed by even the Encounter sailors, some of whom had seen her in Westongue in the past.
“Oh, nobody else noticed you in this crowd of Men,” another mare assured her. “But we saddle mares know a thing or two about good breeding. We recognize highborn ladies when we carry them. A soft but firm hand on the reins. A dainty spurring heel. Quiet command in the voice. Sure signs of Quality, my dear!”
It took another two days, sailing downstream aboard the barge, to reach the calm, blue-green waters of Lake Balissa. Here they transferred to a larger, single-sailed felucca which carried them in wide tacks, a half a day across the shallow lake. By hot mid-afternoon they came in sight of the city of Balistan, situated on a long, low, palm-scattered hill which rose between the lake and the western edge of endless-seeming dunes. High Desert rose to the distant horizon beyond that in smoothly curved ridges and pyramids of dun and entirely empty sand.
On the far eastern horizon Myrn made out a serrated line of purple mountains.
“Those,” explained a barge sailor, seeing her gaze turned that way, “are the fearsome Darkest Mountains. Beyond them is Ebony Sea, I hear. Never seen it myself.”
“Maybe you’ll see Ebony Sea yet,” Myrn teased. “You’ll be one of the best-traveled young men in Samarca.”
“Go you to that desolate part of the Sultanate?” groaned the lad with a sour grimace. “No, not for me the High Desert. I prefer the river or the lake!”
“Meanwhile,” Myrn said soberly, “what’s this fast-flying craft bearing down on us?”
“The good Sultan’s guardboat—or one of them,” replied the youth. “They’ll check Captain Mallet’s papers and escort you to the Sultan’s palace. Nothing to fear, Mistress! The Sultan’s a law-abiding man, and he expects his subjects to be so, also.”
The rakish galley came swiftly up to them, propelled by banks of long, black sweeps moving in precise unison. A quarter-mile off the oars, at a shouted order, suddenly churned the water, halting the ship’s headlong progress in the space of less than twice the galley’s length—a considerable feat of strength and Seamanly skill, Myrn knew from experience.
“Hail, travelers!” came a cry from the guard-galley. “State your names, titles, and business in Balistan, in the name of the Great Sultan.”
The crew of the felucca scrambled to haul down her single great sail, quickly lashing it about its massive boom. Her way carried her closer to the motionless galley.
“I be Mallet of Wayness, Seacaptain of Dukedom and Dukedom’s Thornwood Duke, commanding His Grace’s sloop Encounter,” roared Mallet in answer, as at home with shouted communications as any sailor would be.
“Welcome to Balistan, Seacaptain!” came the answer from an officer in the forepeak of the guardship. “His Sublime Majesty the Sultan Trobuk bids us greet you! Have your boatmen follow me under oars, if you please, Honored Sir. Reception has been prepared for you at the royal pier—over yonder, you see, where the Sultan’s green-and-white pennants fly from tall masts.”
“We’ll follow ye in then,” agreed Mallet easily. “And thank you!”
The guardship’s oarsmen spun her on her heel and pulled for the near shore. The ferryboat crew quickly ran out their own long sweeps and began the grueling task of rowing the heavy felucca, chuffing and chanting in rhythm.
Mallet came to where Myrn stood by the rail in the bow.
“What do you make of this city?” he asked.
“The Sultan has decreed that most buildings here shall be no more than three stories tall,” replied the Journeyman, who had inquired of the crewmen. “Taller buildings would block the prevailing winds, and wind is important for cooling the royal brow and keeping the Sultan’s air fresh.”
“I wondered why there were so few towers or tall keeps,” said Mallet, nodding his understanding. “What features attracted the old Sultan to this place, I wonder. It seems a bit out of the way to me.”
“Well, sir,” replied Myrn, “they say it’s actually almost exactly central to the whole country. No one tribal or city Sheik can claim the Sultan favors him by living nearer to his lands than to those of others, you see. And it’s warm here in winter but not overly hot in midsummer.”
“Besides that,” the Seaman murmured, “the Desert Sheiks are this Trobuk’s people. He has his roots under the dunes, as they say.”
“Well, it’s very pretty; very romantic,” decided Myrn, shading her eyes against the sun’s sparkle on the blue-green water. “Master Augurian says palm trees always make a place seem quite exotic, and I guess he’s right.”
“I wonder what it’s like with a strong east wind,” Mallet asked no one in particular. “Pretty gritty, I’d guess.”
“I hear, Captain, that great sandstorms are the bane of wintertime living here in Balistan,” Myrn agreed soberly. Then she broke into a wide grin and chuckled. “I’m told one of the Great Sultan’s harsher punishments is banishment into the desert in the chill and blustery winters.”
“The good gentleman seems to have a fine sense of proportion,” noted Mallet. “Personally, I hope to be safe in Westongue Harbor or at sunny Wayness Isles with my family before winter comes again.”
They were met at the royal dock by a large crowd of waving and cheering people, mostly men. When the mooring lines were tossed up on the long stone pier, eager hands gathered them in and quickly tied the ship up, with due regard for the prevailing wind.
“A brassy band, even!” Simon laughed. “We’re to be honored guests, I see.”
“There’s the Grand Vizier,” the ferry captain noted, sounding a bit sour. “His name is Kalinort. The one dressed all in richest black, I mean. A beetling-browed and ill-natured nobleman, I’ve heard. Turns on smiles and scowls like afellahin opens and closes an irrigation sluice.”
The Grand Vizier waited until Captain Mallet stepped ashore, then greeted him gravely and with all signs of respect. After some ceremonial speeches and a fanfare or two from the long brass trumpets, Mallet’s party fell in behind the Seacaptain and the Grand Vizier and moved between lines of the Sultan’s cheering subjects up the stone-paved strand and through the wide-open gates of the city.
Myrn moved ahead to be close enough to Mallet to hear what was said in the lead party, just following the six Encounter Midshipmen.
“His Worship the Sultan Trobuk will greet you in person this evening at a private supper,” the black-clad Vizier was saying to Mallet. “Until then, I am to show you to suitable quarters and provide all comforts and services you may require, Honored Seacaptain. We wil
l walk, if you have no objection. The palace precincts are less than a thousand paces up this gentle slope, on the brow of the hill.”
“A bath would be welcome, and fresh clothing,” considered Mallet, seemingly unperturbed by the elaborate formality of his welcome. “We eagerly look forward to meeting His Sublime Excellency the Sultan, my dear Grand Vizier. We are entirely at his pleasure, of course. Our business in Samarca was satisfactorily completed five days ago in Port.”
“Ah! But perhaps you would recommend some trade goods, in which we could invest. . . things imported from your far shores of Sea,” said the officer of the court. “In fair exchange for ours.”
“It’ll be my great pleasure to do so,” replied the Seacaptain. “I can recommend to your weavers our superior woolen yarns or to your best tailors, tent-, and sail-makers the famous Way-ness-cotton canvases and tarpaulins. Or, perhaps, straight, sturdy pine timbers for shipbuilding or construction, fresh-cut in New Land?”
“Those, certainly, and perhaps much, much more,” agreed the Vizier. “There’ll be plenty of time to go into the details, tomorrow. Tonight, you are to be the Great Sultan’s guest, and he will be most pleased if you will relax and enjoy his hospitality.”
“Seems sort of oily, doesn’t he?” Myrn whispered to Simon, who was walking just in front of her.
“Speak carefully, Mistress Myrn,” warned Encounter’s factor. “No telling whose ears are turned toward us in this crowd!”
“You’re right, of course,” agreed Myrn. The party moved through an ornate gate into the palace grounds, immaculately tailored and pleasantly filled with alternate squares of closely trimmed lawn and bright flower gardens, splashing fountains and deep ponds.
“I shall watch and listen.”
She pursed her lips behind her veil and gazed about her with interest at the Sultan’s palace.
“Will your... er, the young maiden ... share your quarters?” asked Grand Vizier Kalinort suddenly. They had reached the visitors’ wing of the palace and an efficient staff was busy assigning rooms.
Caught by surprise, Mallet cleared his throat.
“Oh, ah ... no! She’s not really a ... personal servant nor a slave,” he stammered. “Ah ... daughter of an old business associate I’ve agreed to allow to travel with me. She should have quarters of her own.”
Kalinort nodded his head, showing no surprise.
“Then perhaps you’ll allow me to quarter her in the hareem, good Captain. She’ll be quite safe there and much more comfortable. My own daughter resides therein. ‘Tis a man’s world else, as you may have noticed.”
Mallet caught Myrn’s slight nod and said, “Of course. Whatever you think proper, Grand Vizier.”
Behind the official’s back he frowned at Myrn, not happy to have her too far separated from him. Myrn smiled slightly but made no comment when a liveried manservant approached to lead her down an arcaded way toward another part of the huge, pleasant sprawl of palace.
“She’ll be under the care of Her Divine Highness the Sultana Nioba,” she heard the Grand Vizier explain to Mallet. “Most comfortable and honored, you may be sure. Sultana Nioba will make her feel as if she were at home.”
The turbaned servant waited patiently, giving no sign of approval or disapproval, then led Myrn through an elaborately carved—and obviously closely guarded—door into the Sultan’s seraglio.
Chapter Seven
The Sultana
The silent manservant escorted Myrn no farther than a large, high-ceilinged anteroom just within the sturdy entry way to the hareem. Here he introduced her to a middle-aged, rather plump and motherly woman named Aeasha.
Lady Aeasha bowed deeply to Myrn, wished her a long and pleasant stay in Balistan, and led her through a long series of ornate public rooms without further comment.
“How beautiful!” exclaimed Myrn. “And so very comfortable, I must say also.”
“Thank you, Mistress Brightglade,” said the woman over her shoulder. “It’s the finest hareem anywhere in Nearer East, or so I’m told. Come this way, please!”
She gestured to a husky female archer armed with a long recurved bow and a short, straight sword. With a salute, the soldier opened another heavy door and Lady Aeasha led the Journeyman Aquamancer through, around an open garden court with a fountain-fed pool in its center, to a door on the far side.
“These will be your apartments, Lady Brightglade,” she said to Myrn, bowing again at the open door. “If it pleases you, that is. Will you inspect my choice?”
Myrn entered the apartment and allowed Aeasha to show her the six big, high-ceilinged, elaborately decorated rooms, most with windows overlooking Lake Balissa and the green hills to the west.
“Most comfortable!” Myrn approved. “Far too fine for me, I’m sure, but I’ll accept them with great pleasure, good Lady Aeasha. Is this the bedchamber? It’s almost as large as my parents’ whole cottage at home on Flowring Isle!”
Myrn inspected the luxurious bedroom and the sumptuous bath beyond, a private sitting room to one side, a large formal parlor on the other, a wide balcony overlooking the lake, and a private dining room.
The sixth room seemed to be a study. It was lined on three walls with rows of shelves filled to overflowing with imposing-looking books and parchment scrolls, and chests under deep-set, latticed windows which held a selection of fine musical instruments and a wide variety of toys made of gold, silver, ivory, and sweet-smelling woods.
“This is your dayroom,” explained Lady Aeasha, sweeping her arm about to show it off. “Of course, if there’s anything else you might require or desire to make your stay content and comfortable, you have but to ask.”
She explained that each room was equipped with a gong which, when struck, would bring one or more servants—herself, chambermaids, parlor maids, cooks, musicians, dancers, storytellers, hairdressers, butlers, and so on, a list which quite took Myrn’s breath away.
“Are there other residents in the ... er ... seraglio?” she asked at last.
“Oh my, yes! The Sultan has but one wife and the Royal Couple are, as yet, childless, but a number of Sultana Nioba’s close lady friends and personal attendants come frequently to keep her company. And, of course, there is the Lady Gerhana, over on the desert-view side.”
“Gerhana? Who is she, pray tell?” wondered Myrn, trying one of the soft, bouncy divans in the sitting room.
“Ah...” Aeasha hesitated. “She’s the daughter of the Grand Vizier.”
The matronly seraglio mistress glanced about quickly before she added, “A rather sullen sort of child, poor Lady Gerhana. Just into her teens, and ... well... difficult, at times.”
It was all Aeasha would say about the Grand Vizier’s daughter.
“And the rules?” asked Myrn. “I assume, this being a seraglio, there are some very firm regulations.”
“Oh, not so strict as some, nor so strict as they once were, bless you, my lady! His Peerless Sublimity the Sultan has relaxed or done away with many of the old Rules of Proper Conduct for Royal Concubines and Wives. Well, Sultana Nioba is his only wife, you see. In the days of the old Sultan, the young Sultan’s grandfather, twelve wives and forty-seven children lived here at one time or another.”
“Forty-seven children!” exclaimed Myrn, sitting up straight. “Will he—will His Majesty the Sultan, that is... eventually take more than the one wife?”
“It used to be common practice,” Aeasha admitted in a whisper, “but Sultan Trobuk has been heard to say he intends to do away with the old marriage customs. He’s quite deeply in love with his Sultana. But between you and me and this mute wall here, I believe the Grand Vizier intends to break his resolve on that point. He would like his own daughter... but I’ve said far too much already.”
“Tell me which rules apply, then,” begged Myrn, for the woman showed signs of retreating in some confusion.
“Oh, well... not many apply to you. You should not leave the hareem unannounced, but inform me, or the Grand Vizier, o
r the Sultan himself, first. Then you may go almost anywhere in the palace you desire ... with the exception of the Sultan’s own suite, of course. Unless he invites you—in which case he’ll send a servant to escort you past his guards.”
“Little chance of that,” said Myrn, thinking aloud. “What else?”
“Well, let me see,” said the plump Aeasha. “Ah, you must dress properly, modestly, outside the seraglio walls, of course. Veils are no longer required, but bare ... er... bosoms and bare feet are strictly forbidden! And your head should be covered, but that’s only loosely held to, you’ll find. A light scarf over your hair is simply polite, if you are unmarried.”
“Even for a guest?” asked Myrn, shaking her head. She seldom wore any sort of hat, except at Sea when bad weather made it desirable. “Besides, I’m married and the mother of two.”
“It’s for your own protection, you see. Even for me! And no man has thought me attractive in fifteen years.”
This last was so sadly said that Myrn touched her companion’s arm in sympathy.
“Now, I doubt that!” she said. “I think you’re quite handsome, and I know quite a few gentlemen who would agree.”
“You ... you ... are most kind,” said Lady Aeasha, sighing, then recovering her composure with a struggle. “You see, I was betrothed in marriage once, fifteen years ago, but my intended husband was killed in a fall from his horse. Custom doomed me to life as a widow. I’m most fortunate that the Sultan, who is a very kind young man, took pity on me and appointed me to this post... long before there were royal wives to care for, in fact. He was then yet little more than a child himself.”
Myrn patted Aeasha’s plump hand.
“Maybe if Sultana Nioba were to tell her husband of your unhappiness...”
“Oh, am I really unhappy, for all that?” asked the Seraglio Mistress. “I have very important duties to attend to and the sweet, good Sultana and even poor young Lady Gerhana to look after and mother. They are both really most kind and generous....”
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