The girl nodded. “Yes, Honored One.” But the corners of the maid’s mouth turned down. With that attitude, her Faraman would never improve.
Baku stood to allow her maids to finish robing her. This would be the first time she wore the divided skirts since she had been a child in her father’s summer herd camp. Imperial court ladies were not encouraged to ride. Baku kicked at the drape of cloth. She might have thought to practice walking in the skirts, had her head been clearer.
“This is a very clever design.” Narl Koven, the Faraman woman who had been sent to Halia to serve her spoke with warm approval. “You look as though you’re wearing an ordinary gown until you walk.”
“I would ask for more such robes to be made.” Baku did her best to mimic the woman’s accent. “You will see to it.”
“Of course, my lady. I mean, Honored One.”
As the Sky Emperor’s blood, as Daughter of the Moon, Baku had the largest of the rooms on the ship, but this was no river barge, no pleasure craft, but an oceangoing vessel. Even the largest rooms were smaller than her closets in the Imperial Palace. Larger cabins might have been built on a great troop carrier, but that was not the ship her brother had chosen to send. With the three women together, it was more than crowded. It was like living in a wooden box, tightly fitted and caulked, that creaked and groaned alarmingly as the ship was affected by currents of both air and sea.
Kvena twitched the last fold into place and stood back, her head bowed. Baku herself took the final thin veil, heavy with gold embroidery, from Narl’s hands. Carefully, she placed it correctly over her elaborately coiled, pinned, and lacquered hair until it covered her to her knees. When Kvena stood back and folded her hands, Baku knew the veil was properly aligned.
“Stand away,” she said. “I would view the imperial chest.” Kvena scurried to one side, leaving Baku a clear path. Hidden behind the veil, Baku pressed her lips together. She’d given the woman no reason to be so skittish, but even after a month together at sea only “scurry” could accurately describe Kvena’s movements. In contrast the Faraman woman moved to stand next to her fellow servant with a smooth, almost dancing, step.
The mesh of the veil was fine enough that it did not obscure Baku’s vision; she was able to see the cedar wood chest, carved on every side with horses in full gallop, dragons in flight, and images of the sun. All symbols of the Sky Emperor. She knelt, careful of the veil, feeling the awkward movements of the heavy, unfamiliar skirts. She bowed, letting her forehead just touch the lid of the box. She had postponed investigating the chest and its contents, afraid to trust to her foggy brain. She could delay no longer.
“Father Sun, guide my hand.” The words were spoken in the language of the Horsemen. Her brother had warned her that neither the foreign tongue nor even the Halian would work. Sure enough, when she put her hand to the box’s fastening, it parted with ease, the lid popping upward the width of her little finger. With the tips of fingers and thumbs, Baku lifted the lid and let it fold back until the box was open, revealing its blue silk padding. She peeled back a layer of yellow silk from the bundle in the box, and then a layer of green, finally exposing the last layer, red as the lacquer she wore on her nails. She steeled herself and felt with her fingertips for an edge. She lifted her hands. Unlike the other layers, this cloth felt rough. She rubbed the tips of her fingers against her thumb. Dust, as fine as face powder. She sucked in her breath as the dust gathered itself together and dripped from her palms and fingers, as sand pours through an hourglass, back to the cloth. Her hands were left clean.
Too startled to speak, Baku acknowledged the cloth with a shallow bow. There was, indeed, power here. She reached out again, this time finding the edges of the cloth immediately. The red silk fell away, to reveal a mask carved from white jade. Her brother’s face looked back at her, unmoving, the lips slightly parted, with almond-shaped holes where the eyes should be.
Narl Koven edged close enough to observe, and Baku forgave the maid her curiosity.
Lying next to the mask was a short ebony stick. Baku picked it up in her left hand and, once more concentrating on her breathing, fitted stick to mask, turning it until she heard a slight click. Lips pressed together, she held the mask up to her face, pressing against the veil. Her view was unexpectedly clear and full, not at all obscuring the sight of Kvena prone on the floor, trembling and moaning with her hands clasped over her head. Narl also knelt, but her face was impassive, and her hands were properly in her lap.
Baku lowered the mask. “Rise,” she said again. “Kvena, go before me, make sure my passage is clear, and that rugs have been placed for my feet. Warn the captain that I come. Narl, you will attend behind me.”
Kvena was in such a rush to leave the room that Narl had to reach quickly to prevent the door from swinging shut again. “It’s raining, Honored One,” she said.
“Bring the water shade.” Baku paced herself to allow Narl to walk steadily behind her until they reached the deck. When she emerged, the crew nearest her were on their knees—not to her, but to the image of her brother the Sky Emperor created by the mask.
The captain approached and bowed low. “Honored One.” Normally, the man would keep his eyes averted from the Princess Imperial, but while she wore the Emperor’s image, it was allowed that men should look at her. Behind the captain were the chests and boxes that made up her possessions. And held the documents that formed her marriage contract.
“The Sky Emperor thanks you for your great care of his sister.”
Baku shivered, knowing that no one would see it beneath the veil. For the voice that had issued from the mask was not hers, but her brother’s. She knew the mask was magicked, and she knew that it was called “Voice of the Emperor,” but she had always believed that to be a metaphor.
She began again. “The Sky Throne will not forget your service.”
For a moment she thought the captain would join his crew on his knees. Even though he must have been warned what to expect, the sound of her brother’s voice coming from the mouth opening of the mask was enough to make the man turn pale. Recovering, he inclined his head. Baku read his thoughts as though he had spoken. The captain depended on the Imperial memory to make his fortune. His would be always the ship which had carried the Princess Imperial to her new land. To bind the Faraman Polity to Halia with her marriage, and her children.
The mask lowered but still in her hands, Baku watched the pier come slowly closer as five smaller boats, each rowed by four men, pulled her ship into its anchorage. The wind came off the land, with nothing familiar in the smells it brought with it except wet stone. Baku shivered, though she was well-layered against the cold. They were close enough now that she could see the strange clothing and even the faces of the people standing on the quay. Many seemed to be going about the work inherent in the place, but a great crowd stood with banners aloft, flapping with the wind, very obviously here to welcome her.
Baku felt her heart beat faster. There were women there. Women dressed in much the same clothing and the same colors as the men. Women with faces uncovered. Women had ruled here. As little as six months ago, the Luqs had been a woman, the niece, it was said, of the man to whom that chest of documents married her. She found herself standing at the rail, her servants at her side. Was there magic in this land, that allowed it to be ruled by women for so long? Was it gone now that the witches were gone? Or might there remain some vestige to help her? For what was she, with her visions of the future, but a witch?
“Honored One, if you will pardon me, the men need access to this portion of the rail.”
Startled, Baku stepped back. It had been so long since the ship had been in port that she had forgotten the location of the opening where the ramp would be affixed that would allow her to reach the dock. A bustle behind her made her turn, and she saw the great chair being lifted from its storage in the hold. She looked again at the men and women on the quay. She saw ho
rses, but no chairs, neither open nor closed.
“I will not need the chair, Captain,” she said.
“Honored One, if you please, the Emperor your brother left most precise instructions. He himself provided the chair.”
“Captain, when I write my brother the Sky Emperor this evening, I will tell him of how I used his magnificent chair, and how it conveyed me in utmost comfort to the palace of my husband, the Luqs of Farama. I will give you this letter with instructions that it be given into my brother’s own hand. He will be most pleased with you, I think, Captain.” Baku raised the mask slightly closer to her face.
“It is a privilege to serve you, Honored One.” The captain gestured to the men still swinging the chair to the deck. “The chair will be delivered to your palace with the remainder of your belongings.” He turned back and studiously stared at where her feet would be if they were not hidden by her clothing. “If I may, Honored One. Since you do not use the chair, you will find your legs awkward when you step upon the land once again. I recommend using your servant, or a walking staff, to aid you.”
“A staff, then.” Was the man, after all, a fool? Surely her maid would have just as much trouble walking? Staff in hand, Baku stepped carefully onto the ramp. A rope railing had been affixed to one side, so evidently even the sailors suffered from this affliction. She tightened her grip on the mask. It would not do to drop it, though she had been assured it was not easily broken. Taking small steps, as steady as she could make them, she reached the pier having only twice felt unbalanced. Her alarmed squeak had been smothered by the veils. She hoped.
By the time Baku had walked at the same deliberate pace to the land end of the pier, however, her legs already felt less like cooked noodles, and more like something that would hold her upright. She hesitated as she reached the last of the wooden planks, looking around her.
Finally, the Daisy Shekayrin who had accompanied her from Halia, ostensibly to guide and protect her, made his belated appearance, standing just behind her left shoulder. Baku had early realized that the mage saw his work as more protection than guidance. He had been uncomfortable in her presence, finding excuses not to eat with her, and responding to her questions with the shortest possible answers. Which, as common sense should have told him, could only lead to more questions. Had she been in her own wing of the palace in Halia, she would have been amused, but on board the ship, with no real support, she feared it as a sign of things to come.
Narl Koven had been far more helpful than the mage. On the second day of their voyage Baku had been given a demonstration of the difference between Halian and Faraman women.
“Honored One,” Narl Koven had said. Kvena dropped to her knees, horrified that a servant had spoken before being spoken to, and expecting the worst.
“The veils,” Narl had continued, oblivious. “Do they have a religious significance?” She must have felt the silence because she glanced up from her sewing, looking from side to side not as would a trapped animal, but as an actor taking the temperature of the audience. After her own initial shock, Baku decided this was something she intended to enjoy.
“They do not,” she said. “It is a Halian custom which my Horsemen ancestors were obliged to adopt. It is a way for a man to keep his possessions out of the public eye.” Baku smiled. “In Halia, it is also the custom that servants do not speak until spoken to.” She held up her right hand as Narl began to apologize. “Here in Farama I will not require this in private. However, I suggest that you obey the custom when there are others in the room.”
Narl had been more careful during the rest of the voyage, taking her cue more often from the behavior of Kvena.
Baku wished now she could ask her maid who these solemn-faced dignitaries were. Several bowed to her as she stepped off the ramp, though no one spoke. The Daisy Shekayrin beckoned, and her chair was brought forward. The mage held out his wrist for her to place her fingers on and made a wide gesture toward the chair. Baku pressed her lips together. She thought she had already made her wishes clear.
“For whom are the horses intended?” she asked.
“For myself and the elders of the city, Honored One,” came the answer she expected.
“I will ride,” she said.
After a noticeable pause, the Daisy Shekayrin spoke. “Honored One, there is no other horse.”
She turned her head toward him, knowing that the veil obscured her features and her expression. “Then I will take yours, as it is undoubtedly the best.”
It was gratifying to see how his body stiffened and his face grew darker. “Women do not ride,” he said.
For answer, Baku raised the mask she carried in her left hand until it covered her face. Through the eyeholes she saw the Shekayrin flinch back from her. “The Princess Imperial is not a woman,” her brother’s voice said. “She is the Voice of the Emperor. She will ride.” Baku smiled when she saw the crimping of muscles around the mage’s mouth. Let him grit his teeth. In truth Baku had not been completely certain that the mask would be obeyed by Shekayrin. This small victory reassured her. Having her brother’s voice might be more protection than she had thought.
Her stubbornness resulted in wet clothing, but Baku was still glad she had carried her point.
* * *
• • •
The rooms in the Luqs’ palace were larger than she expected, though they might have seemed so only because she had been living in such close quarters aboard ship. The furniture was heavier than Baku was used to, the woods darker and the fabrics thicker.
“This weaving is excellently done,” she said, dropping the edge of a curtain. “And the colors well-dyed, chosen with a good eye.” She would have to accustom herself to the images of trees she did not recognize and of griffins where her people were more likely to embroider horses. There were no flowers in her rooms, but there were green plants in plenty; one or two even looked familiar.
She had arrived late enough in the day that no ceremonial appearances were expected of her. It was assumed that she would need to rest and refresh herself after her long journey. For Baku, refreshment could only come from walking about in the free air, under the open sky, on a surface that did not move. Pacing up and down her sitting room, as large as the place was, was not at all the same. In truth, she had the wish to walk alone, to be alone, though she could not recall ever having been alone in her life. Even in her brother’s many-roomed palace, someone was always with her, even in her bedroom while she slept.
She turned before she reached the fireplace in the west wall of the sitting room and began walking back. At first, Kvena and Narl tried to walk with her, but that at least she could put a stop to. Kvena was happy enough to sit on her stool. The Faraman woman watched from a window seat. Baku could not decide whether the impassive face hid boredom or anxiety.
As she approached the fireplace at the east end of the sitting room, she slowed and veered toward the door to the left of the hearth.
“What is this wood?” she asked. She had never seen a wood so golden with such a wonderfully straight grain.
“It is oak, Honored One,” Narl said from her seat.
“As these are the consort’s rooms, the symbolism of the carving is perhaps a trifle heavy-handed.” Baku tightened her lips into a line. She drew her finger along the edge of a plump wooden apple, largest of the fruits depicted in the wood. The carving in no way resembled that on the chest of the mask sitting on a wall table nearby.
“Narl.”
The Faraman woman was immediately on her feet, making her way to where Baku stood. “Yes, Honored One.”
“Does the Luqs sleep alone in his bedchamber?”
“Well, it’s early.” The woman sounded ever so faintly amused. “I imagine he’s still at supper.”
Smiling, Baku turned to face the woman. “I did not mean now,” she said. “I meant when he goes to bed in his chambers, is he alone, or are
there servants and guards in the room with him?”
“Oh, I’m sorry, Honored One.” The woman inclined her head, but not in time to hide the quirk of her lips. “I thought you meant . . . I should say, the Luqs usually sleeps alone, my lady. Servants and guards sleep in the anterooms, and of course there is someone on the balcony outside of the Luqs’ rooms.” The woman looked down. “There’s no rule for it, but the consort customarily goes to the Luqs, my lady.”
“Does she? Well, that is good to know. And may I ask, how do you know this?”
Narl swallowed, all humor gone from her face. “I was aide to the late Luqs, my lady.”
Frowning, Baku examined Narl more closely. She would have thought the woman too old to serve as a bed maid, but perhaps . . . “The Luqs uses women servants?”
Narl lowered her eyes. “The late Luqs was a woman, my lady.”
Buzzing in Baku’s ears. She had known that, of course. “Was every Luqs a woman?”
“No, my lady. Generally, the first child inherits—inherited—so sometimes it’s a woman, and sometimes a man.”
“I see.” Baku took a deep breath. Time to get back to her real purpose. “As the Luqs sleeps alone in his bedchamber, I will sleep alone in mine.” A gasp brought Kvena to her feet. Baku rested her hand on the mask box and fixed the woman with a steely eye, an expression of her brother’s she had been practicing. Her body maid stopped in her tracks, lowering herself to her knees. Baku nodded sharply. Out of the corner of her eye, she thought she saw the Faraman woman smile again, but by the time Baku turned her head, Narl’s face was once more impassive.
“I would walk in a garden,” she said finally. Narl went to the door and spoke in a low tone to the inevitable guard. The woman then pushed the door completely open and bowed to Baku.
Gift of Griffins Page 9
