But after this was done, Imoshen decided to deliver the dinner invitation to Lord Fairban’s daughters in person. She would need the support of the Keldon noblewomen if they were to civilise the Ghebites.
Imoshen plucked her metal comb from her key chain and scratched briefly on the door tang. To her trained ear every comb had a different sound. She could identify a servant or a noble by the note their comb made when run across a door’s metal tang. The Ghebites’ habit of thundering on doors grated on her nerves but it certainly identified them as a race.
Discarding protocol, she entered the suite’s outer chamber. A maid gave a muffled shriek and ran off to get her mistresses. The Fairban sisters entered, followed by curious maids laden with clothing and jewellery.
Trying to hide their surprise, they gave the obeisance appropriate for the Empress. But the Empress would not have slipped unannounced into their rooms. The younger two Fairban women exchanged stiff smiles and Imoshen recognised that tolerant, half-embarrassed look. They could not ignore her height and her colouring. She was so obviously pure T’En that even her own family had found her an embarrassment.
But she was not going to apologise for her existence. Instead, Imoshen studied the three women. Would they suit her purpose? The two younger girls were very like their father – small, fine-boned and truly of the people – but the eldest who stepped forward graciously was nearly her own height.
‘I greet you, T’Imoshen,’ Lady Cariah said. In her bearing Imoshen recognised the polish of the Old Empire. The woman was several years older than her, in her early twenties.
A pang of insecurity stabbed Imoshen. How she longed to have that air of effortless elegance. Again she was reminded of the painfully self-conscious sixteen-year-old she had been on her first visit to the palace less than two years ago. Just finding her way about the endless rooms had been a challenge, without trying to unravel the politics of the court. But she was no longer that child. She had a role to play and she needed the Fairban sisters’ cooperation to do it.
Imoshen took the older woman’s hand, returning her formal greeting.
She couldn’t help admiring Lady Cariah’s hair. It fell around her shoulders like a shawl of burnished copper. Good. All three of the Fairban women were beautiful enough to arouse the interest of the Ghebite commanders.
‘I am honoured to greet you and your sisters. We need the civilising influence of your presence at...’ Imoshen’s fingers curled around Cariah’s, the invitation on the tip of her tongue, but all thought fled as she registered the oddity of the woman’s hand. Lord Fairban’s eldest daughter had six fingers. She did not have the wine-dark eyes, but she carried the T’En blood.
Startled, Imoshen’s gaze darted to Cariah’s face. She read tolerant amusement in the older woman’s gaze.
Heat flooded Imoshen’s cheeks. She was no better than the younger Fairban women. Yet, why did they find her T’En characteristics disturbing when their own sister carried T’En blood? Perhaps it was because Imoshen confronted them with something they wished to deny.
‘Our mother bad the wine-dark eyes, as well as the six fingers,’ Cariah explained, seeing Imoshen’s confusion.
‘Your... your mother?’ Imoshen faltered.
‘Long dead. Father would never bond again.’
The conversation was much too personal for Old Empire protocol, but then Imoshen had always had trouble containing her unruly tongue. Her own mother had despaired of her.
The enormity of her loss hit her.
‘My mother is dead too. They are all dead!’ Even as tears threatened, shame flooded Imoshen. But she could not contain the soul-deep sobs which shook her. She had not let herself grieve. There’d been no time, and now it was as if a dam had broken. Unable to contain the fury of her tears, Imoshen turned away, covering her face in despair.
Surely this worldly woman would despise her.
But Cariah slid her arms around Imoshen’s shoulders, offering unconditional comfort, and for a few moments Imoshen knew the peace of compassion as she weathered the storm of her loss.
Then she pulled away.
Ashamed to have revealed her weakness, she walked to a mirror. As she composed herself she was acutely aware of the shocked noblewomen and their maids reflected behind her. They had been silenced by her social solecism.
‘Forgive me.’ Imoshen turned to face them, giving the lesser bow of supplication. ‘I am here to invite you to the celebration tonight.’
‘You honour us,’ the Lady Cariah said, and though Imoshen searched that beautiful face, she could read no mockery.
Imoshen took formal leave of them and even as the door closed she could hear the buzz of comment behind her. Her cheeks flamed with humiliation.
Though they were stubborn Keldon nobles, poor cousins of the prosperous T’En court, they were still steeped in its traditions. The expression of grief, love, all strong emotions had been highly ritualised in the court.
Imoshen castigated herself. To weep in the arms of a stranger was unheard of. The Fairban sisters would think her as uncouth as the Ghebite barbarians. How could she look the Lady Cariah in the eye tonight?
But she had to. Somehow she would hide her discomfort, for she could not leave the General to host the evening alone. Bracing herself, she set off to ask the cook to prepare Keldon delicacies.
‘T’IMOSHEN?’ AN ANXIOUS voice called. ‘Where is the Empress?’
The cook looked to Imoshen, who summoned a smile, even though the sound of running feet made her stomach cramp with fear. Hopefully, it was simply a crisis of protocol precipitated by an unthinking Ghebite.
A youth thrust the door open and stood there panting. By his dress he was one of the outdoor servants, and by his state he had searched the endless corridors of the palace for her.
‘I am here.’ Her voice sounded calm. Only she could feel the pounding of her heart. Absurdly, her first thought was for Tulkhan’s safety.
‘The Ghebite priest has gone mad,’ the youth announced. ‘He’s destroying the hothouse!’
This was the last thing Imoshen had expected. A laugh almost escaped her. The hothouse supplied the palace with year-round fresh vegetables. Why would that pompous self-important priest object to fresh carrots?
‘Come and see!’ Even in his agitation, the youth did not dare touch her.
Imoshen marched out of the kitchen, followed by the kitchen staff. Human nature being what it was, they welcomed any excuse to stop work, and besides, this promised to be entertaining; for no one liked the Cadre.
She smiled grimly, but the smile slipped from her face when she heard the sound of smashing glass. Even in T’Diemn glass was valuable, especially glass crafted for large windows.
She caught the arm of the nearest scullery maid. ‘Fetch General Tulkhan.’
The girl gave the Old Empire obeisance and hurried off.
With the youth dancing in front of her like an agitated puppy, and a growing crowd of spectators in tow, Imoshen approached the large hothouse. Several anxious gardeners ran up to her, their voices strident with outrage as they told her how the priest had marched into the hothouse raving about blasphemy.
It made no sense. No sense at all.
Imoshen thrust the door open and the heat hit her, followed by the rich smell of fecund earth. Tray after tray of sprouting seeds stretched before her. Inoffensive tomato seedlings lay bruised and trampled.
Unaware of his audience, the Cadre swung the rake at another window. The sound of shattering glass threatened Imoshen’s composure. She tasted the forewarning of the T’En on her tongue, aroused by her anger.
‘Cease this destruction immediately!’ Her voice rang out as she strode through debris.
But the priest was too intent to hear her. He positioned himself before another window and raised the rake. Imoshen came up behind him, tore the rake from his hand and tossed it aside. She caught him by the scruff of his neck, swinging him off his feet.
Empowered by fury, it took little
effort for her to hold the Cadre off the ground. The startled priest shrieked and clutched frantically at his collar, which had risen up under his chin.
‘What is the matter with you?’ Imoshen shook him like a dog shakes a rat and said the first thing that came into her head. ‘Do you hate fresh carrots?’
The absurdity of it made the servants laugh. She suspected they were as relieved as she was to find the threat was not armed Ghebites slaughtering innocents. The priest clawed at his throat, his face going red. Imoshen opened her mouth to speak, but General Tulkhan forestalled her.
‘What’s going on here?’ His deep voice cut through the nervous giggles, silencing everyone.
Imoshen dropped the priest in disgust, indicating the destruction. ‘Isn’t it obvious? Your priest objects to fresh vegetables!’
Tulkhan fought the urge to laugh. When frantic palace servants had summoned him, he’d expected the worst. He turned to the Cadre. ‘Explain yourself.’
Glaring at Imoshen, the priest rearranged his elaborate collar ruff and dirt-stained robe of office. ‘It is an abomination!’
‘Since when is fresh food an abomination?’ Imoshen countered.
Tulkhan gestured to the odd, glass-roofed building. ‘What is this place?’
‘The hothouse where the palace’s fresh vegetables are grown,’ Imoshen said. ‘You wouldn’t need this in Gheeaba. During our long cold winters the windows capture the heat of the sun.’
‘It is an abomination in the eyes of the great Akha Khan!’ the Cadre insisted and darted past Imoshen to pull a plant out by its roots, shaking it fiercely so that damp earth flew everywhere. ‘This is the abomination, this and all its brothers!’
Imoshen wrinkled her nose. ‘You object to a cup of herbal tea?’
Tulkhan felt his lips twitch but kept his voice neutral. ‘This is a tea plant?’
‘We dry the leaves, boil water and make an infusion which we drink,’ Imoshen explained. ‘It is one of many teas sold in the tea-houses throughout –’
‘Tell him what it’s used for,’ the priest insisted, his eyes gleaming triumphantly.
‘Women drink it to control their fertility,’ Imoshen replied.
‘Exactly!’ The priest stepped forward, waving the plant under General Tulkhan’s nose. ‘This is the root of the evil in Fair Isle. This plant is an abomination. No wonder the women of this island know no shame. No wonder their men are emasculated!’
Spittle flew from the Cadre’s lips and Tulkhan sensed the locals draw back.
‘It is a woman’s lot to bear children. She is the property of her husband, and the sons she produces are his heirs. The more sons the better, to make a strong house-line!’ The Cadre glared at Imoshen. ‘To interfere with a woman’s natural bearing of children is an abomination, an affront to Akha Khan. Think of all the Ghebite sons who would never be born to take up arms if this plant were used in Gheeaba!’
Imoshen made a rude sound. ‘I should prepare a shipload and send it –’
‘You dare to mock me, Dhamfeer bitch?’ the priest rounded on her. ‘You are twice over an abomination!’
The palace servants gasped, turning fearfully to Imoshen. She towered over the priest, her brilliant eyes flashing dangerously. Even from half a body-length away, Tulkhan could feel the overflow of her T’En gifts rolling off her skin.
‘Leaving aside my race,’ Imoshen’s control was more frightening than rage, ‘leaving aside the fact that Ghebite men don’t think their women possess true souls but are only one step above the beasts of the field, I would like you to explain to me what is wrong with preventing unwanted children? Surely it is better for a family to be able to feed the children they have than to breed irresponsibly?’
‘See how she twists everything?’ the priest demanded of Tulkhan. ‘Cunning Dhamfeer. Listen to her long enough and you’ll believe black is white. General, you must protect yourself from her. You must protect your men from the women of Fair Isle. These women would emasculate our men, play them false with their vile herb. What man does not want sons? What man would not believe himself a lesser man if his wife did not produce a babe every year, or at least every second year?’
‘Like a prize pig?’ Imoshen asked, her eyes glittering.
Tulkhan was aware of her fury, but he was also aware that a Ghebite warrior who had risen high enough to afford to keep three or even four wives expected to see them all heavy with child. Thirty, maybe even forty children was not unheard of. At least half would be male. With all those sons to further the interests of his house-line, while his daughters married to consolidate alliances, he would be considered a rich man.
But that was back in Gheeaba and this was Fair Isle.
The priest flung the herb to the cobbles and ground it underfoot. ‘General, you must order all these plants destroyed. Send your men throughout the island to collect them. Pile these vile herbs in every village square and burn the lot. It is the only way to teach the women of Fair Isle their place!’
Imoshen felt her world tilt on its axis. General Tulkhan’s Ghebite features gave nothing away. Surely he could not be considering this? The priest would undo six hundred years of civilisation and reduce the women of Fair Isle to slaves like their Ghebite counterparts.
She covered the distance between them, instinctively taking the General’s arm, seeking contact with his mind. In the moment before he raised his guard she sensed his reluctance to shame the priest.
Her fingers tightened. ‘Every woman of Fair Isle grows this herb in her garden. Every woman decides when to have a child. Would you deny her this? Would you make her fearful of physical love? As a healer I know there are women who cannot carry a baby. It would kill them.’ Imoshen searched Tulkhan’s face. His features remained impassive. How could she convince him? She recalled his one secret fear. ‘There are other women who have trouble conceiving children. They use a variety of this herb to bring on fertility. Would you deny those women and their bond-partners the joy of their own child?’
She saw a muscle jump under the General’s coppery skin.
‘Cadre.’ Tulkhan’s voice was harsh in the strained silence. ‘An agreement with the T’En church has been signed.’
Imoshen took a step back, releasing the General’s arm.
‘By the terms of this agreement,’ Tulkhan continued, ‘we will not interfere with their worship and they will not interfere with ours. I charge you not to force your beliefs on these people. This law you propose would be impossible to enforce. Any plot of dirt or windowsill pot can be used to grow this herb. Would you have my army reduced to gardeners, rooting out unwanted weeds?’
Put that way, it did seem absurd. The palace staff tittered and the Cadre glared at Imoshen. She held his eyes. He had brought this ridicule upon himself.
‘Take care of your soldiers’ souls, Cadre,’ Imoshen advised, linking her arm through Tulkhan’s. Whatever dissonance there might be between them personally, before his men and her people they had to present a united front. ‘Leave the ruling of Fair Isle to us. Come, General.’
They left the Cadre fuming and walked towards the hothouse door.
Once they were outside, Tulkhan turned to Imoshen, deliberately removing her arm from his. ‘Don’t think I don’t know what you are about.’
Imoshen stiffened. ‘General, what is at stake here is much larger than you or me. It is the fate of the women of Fair Isle. Would you see half your subjects reduced to wife-slaves? Would you be the cause of a generation of unwanted children left to roam the streets, begging or stealing their bread, as I have heard they do on the mainland?’
‘T’Imoshen, a word?’ a gardener spoke, hovering at a polite distance.
Imoshen searched the General’s face. He was a clever man but he was also steeped in the culture of his people. How far could she push him before he pushed back?
‘I have work to do,’ Tulkhan ground out, according her the barest, nod of civility.
Imoshen gave him the obeisance between equals, the
significance of which would not be lost on her servants and, knowing how sharp he was, it would not be lost on the General either.
Imoshen turned to the aggrieved palace gardeners, assuring them repairs would be carried out in time for the seedlings to re-establish. But her mind was on the General. Tonight the two of them must sit side by side at the feasting table without revealing their differences.
Chapter Four
TULKHAN’S GAZE FOLLOWED Imoshen as she stepped lightly through the patterns of a complicated dance. Three pretty noblewomen made up the corners of the intricate pattern; together they partnered four town dignitaries. His commanders watched, waiting for a Ghebite dance so they could break in and claim the women.
Tulkhan noted how Imoshen moved with casual grace. She wore a deep plum velvet gown. It was the same vivid colour as her eyes and it made her pale skin look even paler. Her hair was loose, confined only by a small circlet of electrum inset with purple amethysts. When she turned, her hair fanned out over her shoulders like a rippling sheet of white satin. She came to the end of the dance, her hair and skirt settling around her long limbs. Tulkhan swallowed. He wanted to run his fingers through those long pale tresses, wanted to lean close and inhale her heady scent. Just watching her made him ache with need, and there wasn’t another woman anywhere who could do that to him.
‘T’Imoshen dances well,’ observed his table companion.
He turned to the Beatific. In Gheeaba she would not dare to address him. An unmarried woman, or a married woman past child-bearing age, was thought fit only to mind the small children or feed the animals.
‘You seem distracted, Prince Tulkhan.’
‘I am not a prince.’ He baulked at explaining the complicated family structure of his people. ‘As first son of the King’s concubine I was not given a title. I earned my position through merit and years of service in my father’s army. I prefer to be called by the title I’ve earned.’
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