Oken had noticed the princess’s exotic face and intense gaze at the party the eve ning before. She and her brother were part of a group of people who had ignored him, laughing and talking together in the window seats overlooking the temple grounds. As a descendant of Long Walker, first of the living dynasty of the Cliff Dwellers kingdom, she was of an equivalent royal rank in her world as Oken was in Britannia’s.
Her high cheekbones were elegantly curved, her nose, also. Her hair was the rich black of the raven who had named her, carefully woven into braids on either side of her face and flowing over her bare shoulders to her waist, ornamented with silver beads. She wore a close-fitting, ankle-length gown in blue velvet that matched her wide and intelligent blue eyes. Her piercing gaze fixed Oken as surely as an arrow as she greeted him.
Prince Greenspire was her twin, although taller by a head. He wore his hair in the same braided style, with gold clasps. His suit was classic black Parisian silk, although the jacket was longer than the standard, almost to his knees, with a distinctive cut to the front. Oken had a suspicion that the design would be all the rage in Paris in another season. The prince’s voice was deep and melodious, with a lazy, relaxed manner.
Oken commented that the two seemed to speak with the distinctive accent of the southern part of his family’s kingdom, Kent or perhaps the melting-pot cultures of London Town?
“Princess Ravenwind is a gossip for the London Discriminator,” Signore Borroccio broke in hurriedly, in a tone that suggested warning, perhaps even disapproval.
“Excellent photography in the Discriminator.” Oken bowed to her.
“I will make a point of relaying that to the lad, with your kind permission, Lord Oken. He lives for his work.”
“You employ only the one photographer at the Discriminator?”
“No. You are referring to the photograph of Simone with Marietta and that squirrel Glorianna.”
Oken was amused, not just because the attribution of “squirrel” to the Marques Glorianna was so apt. Princess Ravenwind’s deep blue eyes sparkled so beautifully when she said it. Despite her exotic appearance, she spoke with the familiar accent of his homeland. Her mouth shaped words so exquisitely when she spoke that Oken was in danger of losing track of what she was saying, and he almost ignored the slight surge of alarm that she had connected him with Simone.
He could, however, feel Mabruke watching him. Oken shook himself mentally and smoothly stepped back, putting a slight distance between himself and the princess.
Princess Ravenwind followed, keeping him within her personal space, smiling up at him as she spoke. “I am here for my grandfather, to write a review of the opera’s premiere. He collaborated with Signore Verdi. He wrote the native verses. Perhaps you would tell me what you thought of it? Having your name in the review would thrill my editor, and please the old man.” She grasped his hand firmly. Her hands were warm, almost hot. A cold disk, however, was pressed between their palms. He closed his fingers smoothly around it as she withdrew her hand. Her eyes never left his, and the sparkle flashed more brightly.
He put his hand in his pocket as he bowed to her, dropping the disk into it.
It had felt like a key, in that brief, hot instant between palms and pocket, a metal disk with a patterned edge. The weight of it suggested gold.
The embassy hotel keys were disks of solid gold. Oken smiled, meeting Princess Ravenwind’s bold blue eyes. He nodded. “I’d be delighted,” he said.
STORIES WERE sung on the desert winds about the legendary wind-walkers who made powerful alliances with wizardsof the upper air. Long Walker agreed to seek thesegreat men, to bring them to help his people and save his beloved from the lust of Thunder. He set out on foot, running the length of the Anasazi roads.
The farewell duet between the lovers proved that Natyra was a better dancer than singer. Long Walker’s vocal, however, was clearly meant to overwhelm the maiden’s grief with his confidence and resolve. Oken noted that, other than in that duet, Natyra sang only as part of the maidens’ chorus, dancing in front of them so magnificently that their voices became her backdrop and rhythm.
The scenes of Long Walker’s journey showed the magic of Egyptian haeka glass and haeka Thothmen and artists. Long Walker ran at the center of the stage, leaping, flinging himself forward in the eagerness of his quest. The stage moved beneath him so that he remained in place while the scenery flashed around him—fabulous vistas of the extreme landscapes of the Cliff Dwellers and Plainsmen of the Confederation of the Turtle: deserts with stone formations as bizarre as dreamworlds; raging rivers that made the Nile seem tame and small. Towering trees in vast groves went on league upon league, more trees in a minute than grew in the entire land of Egypt. Grasslands swelled to the far horizon on every side, grazed by extraordinary bison in untold numbers.
Duat stars in the sky sang the chorus accompanying Long Walker on this journey. Sung in both native and Trade simultaneously, they presented dazzling counterpoint to the lone figure on the stage.
Long Walker ran all the way to the royal court of Mexicalli, and to the Egyptian embassy there. The Egyptian ambassador took up his cause, convincing the ambassador of Tawantinsuyu to send a fleet of Quetzals to bring the Cliff Dwellers to Mexicalli, where they lived in peace until the climate changed again, and they could return to their cliff-side homes.
IT WAS a magnificent production, a stirring rendition of a moment in history. The final scene was a wild display of lightning, accompanied by thunderous orchestration, while the hero rescued his beloved, holding her closely as he clung to the rope ladder of the last Quetzal lifting off from their village. Wolves and wildmen howled at their heels.
The high emotion of the scene, however, was lost on Oken. His focus was on those long, beautiful legs.
The purple curtainscame downhe houselights flared up into a pinkish tinge of intimate lighting, and the audience rose to their feet as one with wild applause.
Once they had quieted, Mabruke leaned over to Oken and said, “Was she as vibrant in your bed?”
Oken thought about the question. “She is an artist,” he said at last. “I was her audience.”
“Then you do understand,” Mabruke said with professorial approval. “Do not mistrust that understanding.”
The cast came out to take their bows, and Oken thought Natyra seemed to be scanning the audience with more than her usual breathless appreciation of applause. Was she looking for him?
THEY WAITED in the private viewing box for a time, letting the house empty out, in the hope of slipping away unnoticed. Conversation drifting up sounded satisfied and upbeat. Oken had a moment of pleasure enjoying Natyra’s success. He knew what applause meant to her.
Their escape, however, was intercepted once again by Signore Burrococcio, who swished through the crowd in the lobby and presented himself in front of Oken and Mabruke. “Please, my lords,” he said, “would you royal and most noble gentlemen do me the supreme honor of allowing me to present to you the genius who created tonight’s magnificent work, the composer himself, Signore Giuseppe Verdi? To have such royalty present for the premiere of his great work is quite an honor to him, is it not?”
Oken was curious about the man, and found he had no objection. The opera was a remarkable work, giving him a sense of the unknown world toward which they were bound. Mabruke accepted with his usual grace, although Oken could tell by his tone that the man had other plans. Nonetheless, they followed as Burrococcio eagerly guided them toward the cluster of people gathered around Verdi.
The maestro’s high, broad forehead and deep- set eyes showed the piercing gaze of genius who will not waste time with fools. He was master of this event. He wore an embroidered black tailcoat, with the Order of Hathor in gold and rubies pinned to his cravat. He was not a tall man, yet his presence gave the sense of scope and horizon, so that Mabruke did not loom over him despite his greater height.
Oken was impressed.
Burrococcio insisted on using their full names
and titles as introduction to Signore Verdi. Oken thought Verdi looked a trifle impatient by the end, although he put his hand out with graceful ease and thanked them for coming to the premiere.
“I found it most enthralling,” Oken said with genuine enthusiasm.
Mabruke’s Italian was flawless as he spoke of his admiration for the work.
Verdi beamed up at Mabruke and, with an exaggerated expression of pleasure, asked in Italian if the prince had ever performed onstage, with such a voice?
Verdi then turned to Oken, switching smoothly into Trade. “I am telling him how he has such a beautiful voice. Do you agree? He should be on stage, yes? What do you think, my lord Oken?”
“Having been a pupil of Professor-Prince Mabruke for a number of years, I can assure you that his voice is most effectively employed in the service of the Pharaoh.”
Verdi bowed smartly in ac knowledgment of this. His smile was radiant. This was his night, and his new opera was exceptional, a masterpiece from a mature and illuminated composer.
“This is my son, Icilio.” Verdi drew the man standing next to him close, with an arm around his waist. Icilio seemed pleasantly relaxed in the presence of his illustrious father, basking in the reflected glow of his triumph. “Icilio, he travels beside me as my advisor and guide.” Verdi beamed around at them with paternal pride. “He keeps the ministers, and the magistrates and the costume designers from my path, so that I need think only of music, music, music!”
Icilio bowed to them politely, his bemused smile shielded behind a large brindle mustache. His face, though as handsome as his father’s, was marked by scars of a childhood disease. The cut of his elegant silk suit was designed to make graceful a left shoulder with no arm attached. “My father is honored by your presence at this premiere, Your Lordships,” he said to them. “You have our gratitude if you found any of it enjoyable.”
Princess Ravenwind had joined the cluster of people around the master. She caught Verdi’s eye and said, in her clear, pleasant voice, “May I ask, Signore Verdi, for my readers, why did you choose Marrakech for the premiere of this piece?”
Verdi beamed, clearly delighted to be asked this very question. He waved grandly at the ceiling with both hands as though drawing heaven down to him. “This magnificent stage is the closest opera house to the Manco Capac Aerodrome at Casablanca, because, as most certainly you know, my dear princess, in Casablanca, this is where the people from across the Atlantic first landed upon our shores.”
Oken recalled the name Manco Capac from the book. The landing tower at Casablanca was the oldest one on this side of the Atlantic.
Mabruke then confirmed Oken’s sudden guess that this was why he had taken this particular route. “We have also come here because of Casablanca’s historic aerodrome,” he was saying to Verdi. “My flight to Madrid will begin at the beginning!”
PRINCESS RAVENWIND’S suite was as spacious and luxuriously fitted as theirs, yet the warm scent of a woman’s presence made it grander, a more welcoming place. The canopy drapes around her bed were pulled aside. Flickering candles in wall sconces cast warm shadows and light on her tawny skin as she smiled up at him. Her long braids had been loosed and waves of midnight tresses spilled down over her bare shoulders and arms.
She drew the coverlet back, showing herself to be slender and high-breasted, with a long torso and small feet and hands. Her skin was the color of a wildcat, golden and inviting.
“You shall admire me while I watch you disrobe, Lord Oken.
You are a beautiful man. I wish to remember the look of you.” “Talk to me, my lady,” Oken said as he loosened the belt of his silk robe and slipped it off. “When you speak, your mouth is profoundly erotic.”
She laughed, a soft, easy sound that melted his spine and stiffened his manhood. He lay himself down on the bed beside her, resting on one elbow so that they were face-to-face.
She touched him with cool fingertips in a way that promised lightning. “I have been anticipating this moment since I saw you in the lobby yesterday, Lord Oken. I see you will not disappoint my anticipation.”
He reached out to stroke her hair. “I am called Scott by my intimates.”
Her eyes were as blue as ocean water, with depths as mysterious and as alive. “Scott,” she put her lips close to his ear and whispered, “they call me the Raving Wind.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
FROM A distance, the Quetzals flying over Casablanca were an astonishing sight: magnificent, giant birds with brilliant plumage, beautiful despite their peculiar shape. Oken knew their design in detail from the book that Sashetah Irene had shown him. The reality there in the sky was deliriously different from lines on the page. He had seen Quetzals in flight over Paris while en route to Novgorod, savage shapes against serene skies. He had paid them little heed, beyond noting the momentary wonder of flying machines that looked alive. He had never traveled by air, preferring the Egyptian sensibility of road-travel along the grand aqueduct lanes that soared over mountains and valleys with equal disdain. That was as far above the landscape as Oken cared to be. Quetzals had been flying various routes over Europe between major city centers for more than a century. Oken felt it meant only that the technology was fairly new.
The Quetzal was a fat, oval ring of laminated bamboo more than five hundred cubits long. This provided the structure for giant tubes of a stretchy material, caoutchouc, inflated with a lighter-than-air gas, Tlalocene, and lashed to the bamboo ring with netting. The engineers of Tawantinsuyu apparently had great faith in nets, in laminated layers, and in a whole plethora of plant resins, glues, and lacquers. Fanfold sails around the oval were controlled by lines of hemp rigging and painted in tropical colors, red and blue and green. These “wing-sails” spread both above and below the bamboo ring.
Suspended in a net in the center of the winged oval was a fish- shaped sky-boat twice as large as a royal barge. Round windows at the front looked out like eyes arrogantly surveying the landscape below. These windows gleamed in the morning sunlight, enhancing the image that the flying-fish thing was alive.
Seen for real in the light of day, they seemed impossible to Oken. Orders were orders, but he would have preferred a long, leisurely voyage across the Atlantic by ship. The idea that he would be suspended high over ocean waters in such an unlikely vessel became increasingly uncomfortable as he watched the Quetzals hovering over Casablanca.
Sashetah Irene’s book had allowed that the safety record of the Quetzal was reassuring. In addition, the sky-boat could float on the water if the flying ring failed, and they carried their own little flocks of messenger pigeons to summon help. Oken wished he felt more comforted by words in a book. The Quetzals looked like giant, fragile butterflies. The vast Atlantic stretching out to the horizon was bigger than the whole world. He said nothing.
Mabruke, meanwhile, was as excited as a child about the opportunity to travel by air. Oken was amused by the enthusiasm that rippled around him as they drove toward the aerodrome.
Mabruke pointed westward, out to the wide, blue sky over the wide, blue Atlantic, and said cheerfully, “That will be us in a few days!”
Oken shaded his eyes with a gloved hand and saw a distant shape in the blazing sky. He could make out the silhouette of a Quetzal far away, poised against the western horizon like some magnificent falcon of the giants. As they watched, it dwindled away to a moving speck, eventually vanishing in the blue.
Oken made himself smile at his friend. Behind the smile he reviewed relevant pages in his memory, reassuring himself in detail of the safety record of the Quetzal flying machines of the New World. As they drove toward the Quetzal station, he paid particular attention to emergency procedures, exits, and loos. On every page in his memory, the corridors seemed very narrow.
THE STATION was built of the finest marble, gleaming in the afternoon sun. Columns on either side were shaped neither like papyrus nor lotus, but rather an exotic tree- shape much like palms in Memphis. On the lintel were carved foreign hierogly
phics that Oken recognized from the book on Quetzals. He scanned his memory to find the translation: “We walk the sky with you.”
Oken considered that he would rather not; nevertheless, he followed his friend up the many marble steps into the aerodrome’s station interior.
There were few people in the lobby. A dozen or so travelers lounged in comfortable chairs or stood before the world map covering one wall. Oken and Mabruke were greeted by a cinnamon- skinned woman flamboyantly dressed in brilliant feathers and geometrically patterned beadwork. Her bare breasts were painted as flowers. Her perfume was also of flowers—hot, vivid, and exciting. She bowed to them, fingertips together and touching her forehead. Her face was pleasingly broad and flat with high cheekbones and sloe eyes. Black hair hung in long braids on either side of her face. A forehead band of gold was set with letters carved of jade. Oken consulted his recall of Brugsch’s book once more, seeing there that the letters were her name, Jaia. Her title was station hostess.
“Welcome to the Casablanca Aerodrome, gentlemen.” Her voice was lilting and her accent strange.
“Thank you, Mademoiselle Jaia,” Oken said. “I wish I could say I was happy to be here.”
The woman was startled to hear her name spoken by an apparent stranger. She searched their faces with narrowed eyes.
Mabruke stepped in, smiling his dazzling smile. “Pay him no mind, Mademoiselle Jaia,” he said. “He’s never been up in the air before, and I think it makes him nervous.”
Puzzlement flickered across her face. “And you have, sir?”
“Never once, but I think it will be fun.”
She smiled.
“Our luggage is in our vehicle,” Mabruke said. “If that’s not a problem. We also need the vehicle returned to the transport agency.”
These duties Mademoiselle Jaia could manage. She bowed again and led them to a counter across the open space of the lobby.
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