A glance was enough to assure Prince Bifalt the man was prodigiously strong. Perhaps he did not carry weapons because he did not need them.
Approaching the Bellegerins, he nodded to the Prince, then knelt at the edge of the blanket and sank back on his heels. His grin exposed strong teeth a startling white in contrast to his black skin.
In a voice with the depth and resonance of a distant landslide, he said, “Suti al-Suri informs me that you are Prince Bifalt, son of King Abbator of Belleger.” He spoke the Prince’s language without accent or flaw. “My employer, Set Ungabwey, master of this caravan, asks the pleasure of your company for an hour. Your men may rest where they are, or enjoy the evening as they see fit.” His grin broadened. “There will be dancing. Many of our maidens dance delectably.”
Taken aback, Prince Bifalt stared. The man’s strangeness, strength, and amusement unsettled him. A reply was expected, he knew, but he could not think of one. He barely retained enough presence of mind to answer by bowing his head.
The caravan master’s emissary laughed. “You appear surprised that we understand each other. The mystery is easily explained. I am Set Ungabwey’s interpreter. I speak all known languages, and others as well. Our good chief scout means well, but his pidgin grasp of your tongue is inadequate for pleasant conversation and full comprehension.
“For convenience, you may call me Tchwee.”
With an undignified effort, the Prince recovered his voice. “Thank you,” he said when he could control himself. “You do surprise me.” Everything about the caravan surprised him. “We are far from our homeland. I did not expect your caravan master’s generosity, or your ability with our tongue.” Trying to gather the shreds of his composure, he asked, “Does the word ‘Tchwee’ signify ‘interpreter’?”
The man laughed again. “Truly, it is only a convenience. My name is too elaborate for courtesy, and my full title is an embarrassment of riches. I am content to be known as Tchwee.”
Then he repeated his query. “Will you accept Set Ungabwey’s invitation? His curiosity is as great as yours, and as harmless. Also he would consider himself rude if he did not welcome you in person. Alas, his condition prevents his attendance at these festivities.”
Prince Bifalt wanted to ask, His condition? He wanted to ask, Festivities? More than that, he wanted to ask if Tchwee used the word harmless with a double meaning. His own purpose—like the purpose of his quest—was neither unharmed nor unharmful.
But he sensed impatience in the background of Tchwee’s genial manner. Or perhaps he simply feared the interpreter’s strength. Rigid behind his regained blankness, he replied, “Certainly, I will accept. I am eager to meet the man who saved our lives.”
However, he did not rise at once. Instead, he leaned close to Elgart. In a low voice, but distinctly, he told the rifleman, “An hour. No more.” Then, trusting Elgart’s wits to reach the obvious conclusion, Prince Bifalt reclaimed his weapons and stood.
Tchwee cocked an eyebrow at the Prince’s rifle and saber, but offered no objection. With a florid gesture, he directed Prince Bifalt around the bonfire and past the overflowing blankets on the far side.
There, the caravan master’s rich carriage was no more than twenty paces away. Despite Tchwee’s long strides, however, and the Prince’s determination to keep up, they acquired a following. Suti al-Suri trailed a few steps behind, accompanied by one of the tonsured men. Soon they were joined by a foppish individual dressed like a leader among the carnival folk: their herald, perhaps, or their ringmaster. In addition, the Prince and Tchwee were trailed by two women. One was hardly taller than a child, clad in a demure cloak of white silk, with her hair unbound and her hands clasped hidden in her sleeves. The other was taller, yellow-skinned and bold-eyed, and had elected to attire herself in the bright colors and revealing garments of a trawling courtesan.
Apparently, they, too, had been invited to attend the caravan master. Set Ungabwey had separate reasons to speak with them—or he wanted an audience to hear his Bellegerin guest.
Near the carriage, Tchwee paused. His group stopped while the interpreter addressed them.
“A moment, Prince.” Prince Bifalt felt Tchwee’s voice in his bones. “Set Ungabwey is the master of this caravan. His will rules. Nevertheless, he welcomes the counsel of his chosen advisers. These dignitaries share the benefits of their insights. They command their own folk among the caravan.
“Introductions can be cumbersome among strangers, especially when each speaks a different tongue, or when they are not all fluent in yours. I will name them to you now, so that Set Ungabwey’s welcome will not be hindered by awkwardness.”
Prince Bifalt had the sensation he was holding his breath. He had been ill prepared for the hazards and frustrations of his quest: he was more so now. Although he was his father’s son, he was still only a soldier. He felt entirely unready to play his role here; to act the part of a diplomat, probing others while concealing himself.
With an effort, he kept his hands away from his weapons as he acknowledged Tchwee’s courtesy.
In a variety of tones and inflections, the interpreter explained the words Prince Bifalt, King Abbator, and Belleger. When the five advisers had signified their understanding, Tchwee said to the Prince, “Suti al-Suri you already know. His folk are the el-Algreb, nomads of the southern steppes, great horsemen, trackers, and scouts. For many generations, they have watched over caravans in these and other lands. For many years, they have performed the same service for Master Ungabwey.
“The man with him is a monk of the Cult of the Many. His order does not use names, and seldom speaks, but when he does offer counsel, his observations are prized. The Cult of the Many travels widely, seeking peace wherever it may be found.”
Monks, thought Prince Bifalt. Give lives gods. Like his men, he had no idea what the chief scout’s description meant.
But Tchwee was still speaking. “Their companion is Alleman Dancer, who owns and leads a troupe of performers grandly styled the Wide World Carnival. He brings insights concerning matters that lie outside the experience of monks and nomads.”
The interpreter gave Prince Bifalt time to bow to each of the men. Then he continued.
“These women are dignitaries of another kind. You might think of them as priestesses, although they eschew such terms. They are Amandis, most holy devotee of Spirit”—he indicated the tiny woman—“and she wishes it known that she is an assassin.” Tchwee chuckled. “Pity the man who trifles with her. Her gifts would astonish you.
“Her companion or partner or antagonist is Flamora, devotee of Flesh, also most holy. She teaches peace to those who have the wit to learn. Though their disciplines are distinct, she and Amandis are never far apart. They believe, or so I imagine, that they ward each other from excess.”
Grinning as if his white teeth were a threat—or a promise—the tall linguist asked, “Are you content with the presence of Set Ungabwey’s advisers, Prince of Belleger?”
The Prince bowed twice more. “I am a soldier,” he replied gruffly. “I do not know the world.” Words like monk and priestess were like gods: he could not guess what they signified. “But in my father’s court, they would be welcomed with more warmth than I can offer. Perhaps they will counsel me as well.”
Tchwee translated smoothly. To Prince Bifalt, the interpreter seemed to speak several languages at once. Nevertheless, he was understood. The monk lowered his head farther, Alleman Dancer smiled with a sparkle of relish in his eyes, and Flamora wet her generous lips with the tip of her tongue. The assassin nodded without looking up, while a succession of emotions played across Suti al-Suri’s features, some friendly, others not.
“Then I will announce you,” Tchwee told the Prince. Turning, he reached the door of the carriage, opened it, and ascended the steps to enter through a dazzling spill of light.
“Master Ungabwey,” he declaimed, “I brin
g Prince Bifalt, son of King Abbator of Belleger, to accept your welcome.”
Obeying a gesture from the chief scout, Prince Bifalt took the steps and went into the caravan master’s ostentatious conveyance.
In the doorway, he froze, overcome yet again. By the blaze of a dozen lanterns, he gazed around a compartment more sumptuous than any chamber in Belleger’s Fist. Rugs as rich as feather beds covered the floor. Except where they were punctuated by shaded windows, the walls appeared to ooze brass or gold. Starscapes had been meticulously painted across the ceiling. At both ends of the compartment were doors studded with gems and chased with silver, but the Prince was too stunned to guess what lay beyond them.
There were no chairs. Instead, an abundance of satin pillows, some in emerald hues, others in sapphire, were strewn around the floor and piled along the walls. Among them, trays of beaten brass held ewers and goblets, all intricately engraved.
Prince Bifalt could not have imagined that one carriage in a long caravan camped in the middle of an immeasurable desert might hold such wealth. And if the caravan master’s carriage alone displayed riches to this extent, the caravan itself must be beyond price, more valuable in hard coin than all of Belleger and Amikan combined.
Caught by what he saw, he was slow to notice the occupants of the conveyance. But then Suti al-Suri nudged his back, encouraging him to make way for Set Ungabwey’s counselors, and his attention shifted. His eyes skidded past four young women, all slender, all modest in ochre robes, with brown skin and flowing hair. They were too unformed to demand his gaze. Rather he stared, gaping indecorously, at the individual who commanded the chamber.
Seated on a profusion of pillows against the far wall was the fattest man Prince Bifalt had ever seen, a personage so corpulent that he looked too heavy to stand on his legs. Even seated, his belly bulged to his knees. His cheeks extended down his neck, and his pendulous earlobes reached his shoulders. Squeezed by fat, his eyes were visible only as pinpricks of reflected lanternlight. His head was entirely hairless, lacking even eyebrows and lashes. The rest of his form was wrapped in long swaths of ochre muslin.
Tchwee’s posture kneeling at his side identified him as the caravan master. Clearly, he did not attend feasts, or leave his carriage to welcome guests, because he could not. That was his condition. Only the brown hue of his skin, and what could be discerned of his features, suggested that he might be the father of the young women.
Grinning at Prince Bifalt’s reaction, the interpreter addressed his master in yet another foreign tongue, crisp sounds among which the Prince recognized only his own name, his father’s, and Belleger. Then the black man continued, “Prince Bifalt, I present Set Ungabwey, master of this caravan and all who accompany it. He expresses his pleasure in your presence. He is ever eager for knowledge of new lands. And he is glad of this opportunity to share his many blessings with those less fortunate than himself.”
As far as Prince Bifalt could tell, Set Ungabwey had not moved his lips or uttered a sound.
While the Prince strove to summon a response, the caravan master’s advisers entered the carriage. Three of them seated themselves on pillows around the walls, the monk close to Tchwee, Amandis and Flamora among the young women. Impervious to dignity, Alleman Dancer sprawled on his side and spent a few moments arranging pillows to make himself comfortable. Suti al-Suri remained standing near the door.
“Master Ungabwey,” said Prince Bifalt finally, “since your chief scout found us, my men and I have experienced amazing things. We were as good as dead—and yet we are here. We have been fed and refreshed. And we are surrounded by people and conveyances like none we have ever seen. Your bounty is beyond our understanding.
“How is it possible for any caravan to cross this terrible wasteland? What imperative calls you to this trek? There must be more accessible lands with which you could trade. The size of your train suggests many more. Master Ungabwey, we are in awe.
“Belleger is a humble land. It holds nothing to compare with such luxury and ease.” Struggling with the awkwardness of his role, Prince Bifalt concluded, “In our realm, wonders are only accomplished by theurgy.”
Set Ungabwey appeared to nod. Certainly, his flesh wobbled. He made a distinct spitting noise.
At once, one of his women—his daughters?—hurried to his side, wiped his lips with a delicate cloth, then resumed her seat.
Tchwee’s grin—his whole demeanor—suggested barely suppressed mirth. “A fine speech, Prince of Belleger,” he declared in tones that made the leather window shades quiver, “and grateful to the ear. No doubt many of your questions will find answers. At the risk of discourtesy, however, I must remind you that you are Master Ungabwey’s guest. His curiosity takes precedence.”
“As does mine,” said the most holy devotee of Flesh, speaking unexpectedly in Belleger’s language. “The advantage of soldiers is that they are trained for strength.” Her voice was seductive, like a fresh spring in the heart of an oasis. “His stamina must be remarkable.”
“Also weapons,” put in Suti al-Suri. “Rifles. Lead arrows. Never seen.”
Tchwee dismissed these comments with a wave of one hand. “Tell us of your homeland, Prince.” His note of authority was unmistakable. “Describe Belleger to us. Where does it lie? How do its people live? And what is theurgy?
“Master Ungabwey’s curiosity grows. It may be that one day he will elect to alter the route of his train to visit your lands.”
Again the caravan master said nothing; or nothing Prince Bifalt could hear.
He found himself wondering who actually commanded the caravan. Despite his bulk, Set Ungabwey acted like nothing more than a figurehead. Unless the interpreter’s gift of languages included the ability to read minds—
No. If Tchwee could do that, he would not need to ask questions. He would already know Prince Bifalt’s secrets.
Still, the Prince addressed the fat man. “With respect, Master Ungabwey, I disagree. My men and I are lost. You are not. We cannot travel the desert. You can. We are few. You are many. Also, you are familiar with lands beyond our knowledge. I am disadvantaged in your presence. My questions are not meant as insults. They come from need.”
“Another fine speech,” remarked the reclining carnival owner, “but specious.” He, too, knew Prince Bifalt’s tongue, although his accent was peculiar. “Master Ungabwey is your host. His courtesies bind you. If you refuse his curiosity, you refuse his welcome as well.”
Ponderously, Set Ungabwey turned his head to Tchwee, a movement which looked difficult for him. Tchwee leaned closer, and the two men seemed to confer, although the Prince could not hear them.
When they were done, the interpreter straightened. “Prince,” he said, “your straits tug at Master Ungabwey’s heart. Be assured that he also speaks with respect. Nevertheless, he insists on precedence. He cannot assess you wisely until he understands your need, its nature and extremity. You were not dropped from the sky in our path. You were driven by hard choices. Have you come in service to your king, or were you sent into exile? Distinctions of that kind have weight. They may affect the whole caravan.
“When you have given an account of yourself, Master Ungabwey will know how to respond.”
While Prince Bifalt frowned, scrambling inwardly to decide what he could say and what he should not, Tchwee continued more gently, “Be at ease, Prince. Seat yourself. Set aside your weapons. Take wine. You are not threatened, neither you nor your men. If you are bound by Master Ungabwey’s welcome, he is also. Fear nothing. Speak freely.”
As if to contradict or enforce the interpreter’s assurances, the devotee of Spirit, Amandis, let one hand show beyond her sleeve. For an instant, her small fingers held a throwing knife whetted to a keenness that seemed to cut the light. Then it and her hand were gone.
“Tut, sister,” murmured Flamora. “Do not act in haste. It would be sin to mar such flesh as his.”<
br />
Behind his frown, Prince Bifalt sighed. With an assassin on one side, the chief scout at his back, and two enormous men before him, one of them too strong to be stopped, he did not hesitate. It was both his duty and his nature to accept challenges. Sinking to a pillow, he unshouldered his rifle and ammunition, unfastened his saber, and set them down within easy reach.
When he was seated, one of the young women came to kneel at his side. Taking a nearby ewer from its tray, she filled a goblet with the same ruby wine he had tasted earlier and pressed it into his hands.
At the same time, her sisters served wine to their father, Tchwee, Flamora, and Alleman Dancer. Apparently, they knew the monk and the assassin would not partake, and Suti al-Suri was on guard. The young woman attending Set Ungabwey helped him lift the goblet to his mouth, and lower it again when it was empty. Then the four daughters returned to their places.
Prince Bifalt held up his goblet to his host—a Bellegerin salute—then sipped the wine. It was more pleasant than his memory of it, and he drank more deeply before putting the goblet aside. With a sensation of refreshment tingling on his tongue, he prepared himself to speak.
Holding the caravan master’s pinprick gaze, he let iron show in his voice. “Master Ungabwey, I will tell you of Belleger.
“It lies far to the west. We traveled beyond its maps when we entered the desert. It was once a land of plenty, but it has been impoverished by a long war. Our losses cripple us. For generations, the struggle was comparatively equal. Now it has become ruinous. My men and I were sent by King Abbator to answer the riddle of our coming destruction. We were sixteen when we set out. Four I instructed to carry word of our progress to the King. The rest are dead.”
Seventh Decimate Page 14
