by Kate Elliott
David emerged from the west colonnade and smiled cheerfully at him. “They’ll argue for another hour at least.”
“Good. We’ll go now, then.”
“Uh, do you have a way planned?”
“We’ll ride to the ebony gate and it will open for me.”
“You seem sure of that.”
“Such has the etsana decreed.”
Diana gave an embarrassed smile. “I’m sorry, David. He isn’t always this arrogant.”
“He isn’t?” David asked, and grinned at Anatoly as if only they two could share the joke; Anatoly liked him for taking the sting out of Diana’s words. She looked disconcerted. David might not be a soldier, but he was a steady companion, and wise in more than just the ways of khaja engineering.
“I will go get Portia,” said Anatoly, knowing better than to leave that to Diana. “David, we have five saddles. Should we take two more riders?”
“The more eyes the better.”
“Then who?”
As if in answer to the question, which he couldn’t have heard, Veselov stood up and sauntered over. “Is it true you’ve received a summons to attend Duke Naroshi, Sakhalin? I’ll go.”
“No.”
“But of course I will. It’s no trouble. I’ll go get my saddle now. But you will have to ask Yana herself if you can borrow her saddle.” He shot Anatoly a charming smile replete with malice. How he had found out about the whole disgraceful episode Anatoly could not imagine, but it was obvious Vasil would not hesitate to use it against him if Anatoly did not agree to whatever he wanted. Vasil caught Diana’s hand in one of his, brought it to his lips, and brushed a kiss on her knuckles. “I am sure Karolla will be happy to lend you her saddle. I’ll go fetch it now.” He dropped her hand and left.
Diana wiped her hand on her skirt.
“I’ll go talk to Yana,” said David hastily. “Meet you at the horses. And I’ll get Gwyn. If anyone can rein in Veselov, it’s Gwyn.”
“Don’t bother,” said Anatoly coldly. “Veselov is not coming with us.”
“You can’t stop him,” said Diana. She laughed breathlessly. “But I’d like to see it.”
“Meet me by the horses,” snapped Anatoly, growing more and more irritated. He stalked off, getting his saddle and gear first and then separating Portia from Evdokia where they ran around and around one of the flower beds shrieking and giggling in a game that involved horses, dragons, and Infinity Jilt, girl-pirate, on a speed yacht race from Jupiter to the Horsehead Nebula. He went out to the horse herd, and little Sosha, as he had named his new mare, came right to him. He finished saddling her as the others came up: Diana looked cross; David and Gwyn Jones each carried a saddle, and Hyacinth tagged along after them; Veselov lugged two saddles by himself. Unfortunately Valentin and Anton had decided to come with him.
Anatoly examined Hyacinth, who stood, smirking, with his arms folded over his chest, and watched Veselov cut out and saddle a horse. He realized all at once that he didn’t dislike Hyacinth nearly as much as he disliked Vasil Veselov.
“Valentin,” he said, “saddle a horse for David. Hyacinth, you’ll take the one Veselov is saddling.”
Veselov cinched up the saddle before turning. “No, he won’t. I’m going.”
“You are not going.”
A hush fell over the little group. The other men paused to watch, and Diana made a great show of sighing, with a woman’s disgust for men’s arguments.
“Listen, Sakhalin, you may be first among the tribes in the jaran, but the jaran are nothing here, and so are you.”
“You are not going, Veselov, because I say so, and because the invitation was for me, not for you. Therefore I am in command. In any case, I am wearing a saber, and you are not.”
Veselov snorted. “You never truly left the jaran, did you? Well, I did, Anatoly Sakhalin, and I find this pathetic.”
“You may find it anything you wish. You are not coming with me.”
“But I am.”
Valentin watched the exchange with violent interest.
Anatoly dropped little Sosha’s reins and crossed to stand in front of Veselov. He lowered his voice. “Do not make me humiliate you in front of your sons. Don’t think that I can’t.”
Veselov dropped his voice as well. Out of the corner of his eye, Anatoly noted David drawing the others away, busying them with the horses. “What are you going to do? Challenge me to a duel?”
“Do you even have a saber anymore?”
That made Veselov bridle. “Of course I do.”
“Who would win such a duel?”
“You would. But these khaja don’t care for such displays. You are the one who would look bad, for pressing such a fight on me. I know how to play by khaja rules, Sakhalin. You don’t.”
“I know how to win, Veselov, and I intend to. You are only one more obstacle in my path.”
“My, my, the little Sakhalin has ambition.”
Anger flared and then, oddly enough, died. Veselov’s insults abruptly lost their power to disturb him. He wondered, suddenly, how David, or even Diana, would handle Veselov. “What do you want?”
“A private audience with Duke Naroshi.”
“Why bother to come with us, then? You won’t get that now.”
“You’re a good looking man, it’s true, but you’re nothing compared to me. Why shouldn’t Duke Naroshi notice me, even in a crowd?”
At that moment, revelation struck Anatoly: Veselov was a madman. Not like those Singers who, having absorbed too much of the gods’ wisdom, could no longer walk straight nor speak in tongues that humans could understand, but in a tedious, small way: Unable to see past his own beauty, praised too much for charm and looks, Veselov had ceased seeing any of the world that existed outside of his own self. He thought he was the world.
“That is true,” said Anatoly, dropping his voice to a whisper, “so you can see why I can’t allow you to go with me. I am on a mission for the army, Veselov. I can’t afford distractions.”
“That could be true,” agreed Veselov thoughtfully. “But so far I haven’t managed to gain the duke’s notice.”
“You are trying too hard. Or perhaps he isn’t interested in having a new courtier.”
“That must be it. A whisper can be more gripping than a shout.”
“Then you’ll wait?”
Veselov hesitated.
That was all Anatoly needed. He got the others mounted and they were away before Veselov could change his mind. Portia sat in front of her father, delighted to be riding.
“What did you say to him?” David and Diana and Hyacinth asked, and then laughed, because they had said it all at once.
“What was necessary.”
They rode out to the rose wall, and Anatoly let Portia handle the reins, telling her secrets about horses, and about this mare in particular. When they reached the great block of ebony stone, Anatoly pulled up in front of it. Feeling foolish and confident together, he raised his right hand and announced to the air and the wind: “I wish to travel to the Garden of the Thousand Petals of Gold.”
The stone opened.
The barge waited. They led the horses up the ramp. Hyacinth’s mare balked, and Anatoly had to go back and coax her up. As soon as they were all on, a cloudy skin sheathed the barge. The deck under them thrummed, and they moved forward under the wall. It was more like a tunnel, the wall was so thick, and when they came out the other side, rain began to pound on the gelatinous dome raised over their heads. Through this skin, they saw murky shapes, buildings, perhaps trees, and there, in the distance, towers. The rain came down so hard that it roared in their ears. The temperature changed at once. The air here was steamy, laden with the smell of lush and rotting vegetation. It made him sweat.
“Is it always like this?” he asked when he had gotten over his surprise.
“Yes,” said Diana.
“Yes,” said Hyacinth.
“But we’ve only made three trips,” said Gwyn. “That’s not a very big
sample.”
“It’s gooey.” Portia touched the dome and then tasted her fingers.
Diana yanked Portia’s hand out of her mouth and wiped it on her skirt.
“Here,” said David. “The two times I came along we turned at a forty-five degree angle here.”
They did not turn.
Anatoly gave little Sosha’s reins to Hyacinth and walked up to the prow, leaning against the railing. In the world outside, it rained, heavy drops drumming down in sheets. At last a pale building loomed in front of the barge and as they passed under an arch, the rain stopped pounding above them. The barge stopped, sinking down to the ground, and the dome retracted. It was still raining, but here the rain was only a fine mist. They looked out over a vast courtyard surrounded by the distant bulk of a white palace crowned with onion domes and spires. In the center of this courtyard rested a square pool, so big that the Chapalii walking on its farther shore looked no taller than hand’s height. The barge sat under a gateway of horn, carved with glyphs and evidently grown either from the earth or scavenged from some gigantic monster. The pool was lined with trees whose golden flowers drifted gently down into the water, dappling it with petals. Rain stirred the surface of the water, which shone a pellucid blue under the dome of glossy clouds that covered the sky. The air smelled strange: spicy, too rich, cutting at the throat. Portia sneezed.
An island sat in the middle of the lake, its banks brilliant with flowers. It was a small island, dominated by the rush of color along its shoreline and by a belvedere sitting alone in the middle of the island, the still center of this silent scene. Nothing stirred out there. Distant figures moved along the far bank, but they seemed unaware of the presence of these human visitors.
Anatoly took little Sosha down the ramp and the others followed him. He gave the reins to Hyacinth and walked out to the bank of the pond. A lip hung over the edge. Moss grew over the white stone to brush the water. A wave rose, and suddenly a shell-backed creature broke the surface and swam over toward them. Everyone except Anatoly stepped back prudently. He merely watched as the creature came to a halt before him, its shell rising up out of the water until it lay even with the lip of stone. It had six flippers, a beaklike face, and its green shell was flat and chased across with elegant patterns.
“Is there a boat?” David asked, peering around.
Anatoly hoisted Portia up into his arms and stepped out onto the back of the creature.
“Anatoly!” Diana cried.
The creature began to swim, heading for the island, and Portia laughed with utter delight. “Look, Papa! It’s eating the petals! Gulp.”
Anatoly laughed, hugging her closer to him. Rain misted down around them, but it was too light to be bothersome. Behind, Diana called after them, then David, but he felt it beneath his dignity to turn and answer. In any case, he was not sure enough of his footing that he wanted to risk moving. The creature swam evenly, eyes just at the level of the water, and cut through the water with becoming efficiency. Looking down, Anatoly could see only blue, endless blue, as if the lake was one facet of an enormous, fluid gem filigreed with an endless shifting pattern of crystalline raindrops. He had no idea how deep the lake was.
A single path cut down through the banks of flowers on the islands. The creature deposited them there, and there Anatoly turned to see how his forces had chosen to position themselves: Hyacinth and Gwyn had stayed with the horses; Diana and David had found transport of their own.
Diana was giggling as she stepped off onto the island, her cheeks flushed, and David looked both amused and bemused. They followed him up the gently sloping path to the center of the island. No one was there. The belvedere was only an open, roofed gallery, decorated with lush trails of hanging flowers. It contained one chair, a mat woven of long, broad leaves stamped with the pattern of the golden flowers, and nothing else.
Anatoly sat in the chair, decided he didn’t like it, and sat down on the mat instead in the traditional jaran style.
“Uh, shouldn’t you stand?” David asked. “It wouldn’t be polite for us to be sitting when Duke Naroshi arrives.”
“I will sit here,” said Anatoly. Portia came and sat on his lap. Diana walked over to brush a hand over the flowers, which grew up to the edge of the belvedere.
David paced. Halted. “Look!”
A procession emerged from the distant palace and came toward them at a bewildering speed, growing so quickly that it was as if the island moved, too. The vessel seemed at first to Anatoly like a chariot not pulled by horses. Three figures stood in it. David, coming to stand by him, grew increasingly agitated, and Diana flushed, went pale, tried to grab Portia away from him, then retreated to stand just behind him.
The vessel halted at the opposite end of the belvedere and Duke Naroshi and his two attendants stepped out.
Naroshi came forward at once. Anatoly had never seen a Chapalii nobleman at such close range before. He examined him intently: skin so white that it seemed to possess no color at all; long-fingered hands interlaced in an odd fashion; height that was not, strangely enough, matched by bulk but rather seemed suspended on a fragile frame. Naroshi halted five steps before him and went down on one knee.
David gasped.
It took Anatoly two breaths to sort out what he was seeing: Duke Naroshi was doing obeisance before him. A faint hint of blue chased across those pallid cheeks and vanished. Anatoly raised his right hand. “You may rise, Duke Naroshi, and sit in the chair.”
“You are generous, Prince of the Sakhalin, but I do not deserve your pardon. It is my shame that I did not grant you the honor due to you when you arrived here.”
He was speaking in khush, too, or at least, Anatoly reminded himself, that was how he heard it. The duke’s voice was soft and eerie, like wind whistling down a hall.
“I did not wish to be known,” said Anatoly. Naroshi’s deference made him uncomfortable. “Please sit.”
Naroshi sat in the chair, tangled his fingers together into a new arrangement, and regarded Anatoly with an impassive expression. Anatoly remembered that the Chapalii, being alien, did not have expressions that a human could read, if indeed they showed facial expressions at all. They aren’t like us, Diana had once explained to him. But they didn’t seem that different now.
“Each petal that falls into the lake of mirrors,” continued Naroshi, “is like to a word of apology fallen from my tongue for this oversight.”
“You could not have known.” He tucked Portia more tightly against him and glanced swiftly up at David, as if to say, I could not have known. David, looking glazed, just stared at Naroshi.
“The emperor did not choose to let his messengers cast the recital of your visit into the waters so that I, drawing out the net of intelligence, might know of it. Such is his will.”
Anatoly blinked. “I have never met the emperor.”
Blue chased green chased pink across Naroshi’s alien countenance. “The emperor has never brought you before him?”
“No.”
Naroshi rose out of the chair, and for an instant Anatoly felt that some other force lifted him, not muscle and bone. “Then it is my duty, my honor, to send you on to him.”
Confused, Anatoly hesitated, and David nudged him with a foot. “On to him? On to his… palace. Ah, on Chapal?” A sudden wild excitement seized him, and he swallowed it back, so that he wouldn’t betray himself. Portia hooked her little fingers in among his and began to turn the ring on his right hand around and around and around.
“You may leave at once. I will see that all is made ready for you.” Naroshi took a step back and, clearly, paused, waiting to be dismissed.
“Wait.” Anatoly stood as well, settling Portia at his waist. “Certainly I will go to meet the emperor.” He heard Diana’s intake of breath, but chose to ignore it. “First I want to make sure that this will have no effect on the repertory company’s tour here.”
“The repertory company? Ah. The theater.”
“They will stay here as yo
u had already arranged with Duke Charles, and leave only at the appointed time. I would not want to interfere with their work.”
Naroshi inclined his head, as to a superior. “As you wish, Prince of the Sakhalin. All will be done as you will it.”
He dipped his shoulders down, retreated to the edge of the belvedere, and, flanked by his attendants, got into the chariot. It lifted without a sound and moved backward off the island and over the lake, so that Naroshi continued to face him.
“Fucking hell!” David burst out. “They do have some kind of universal translator, the bastards, which means that all this time we thought they couldn’t understand us when we were speaking in some of our more obscure languages, they probably could! Merde!”
“Anatoly,” said Diana in a small voice. “He bowed to you.”
“He is only a duke.” Anatoly lifted Portia up and kissed her on either cheek. She giggled and pinched his ears. “I will have to leave you, little one,” he said to her.
“Oh, Papa!” She pulled a long face. “Will you be back tomorrow?”
“Longer than that, sweet one. But I will be back as soon as I can.”
“Okay,” she said with a four-year-old’s disregard for abstract time, and she squirmed until he let her down. She ran over and crouched down to sniff at the flowers.
“Don’t touch anything!” said Diana.
“They think you’re a prince,” said David as if he was repeating something he had already said.
Anatoly looked at him, puzzled. “I am a prince.”
“You’re really going to go?” Diana demanded.
“Of course I’m going to go. Think of what valuable intelligence I can bring back!”
“This is very strange,” said David. “To say the least.”
“You think I shouldn’t go?”
“By no means! By no means! It’s an incredible unlooked-for opportunity. I’m just, well, I’m just a little shocked.” David stepped outside the belvedere and stood in the rain, as if the warm drops could clear his head. Rain rolled down his nose and he wiped it off his face only to get wet again. “It’s raining harder,” he observed.
