Читать книгу The Complete Krondor’s Sons 2-Book Collection: Prince of the Blood, The King’s Buccaneer - Raymond E. Feist - Страница 19

THE TRUMPETS SOUNDED.

A thousand soldiers came to attention and presented arms. One hundred drummers on horseback began a rhythmic tattoo. Erland turned to James, who rode to his left, and said, ‘This is unbelievable!’

Before them stood the Imperial City, Kesh. They had entered the ‘lower city’ an hour earlier, to be met by a delegation from the City Governor and his retinue. It was the same ceremony they had been forced to endure at each stop along the wearisome journey from Nar Ayab to the capital. When the Governor of Nar Ayab had met them at the outskirts of town, Erland found the welcome a relief from his black mood. He had been numb with Borric’s death for nearly a week, giving himself over to dark bouts of depression, interspersed with rage at the unfairness of it all. The pageantry of the Governor’s welcome had taken his mind off the ambush for the first time, and the novelty of seeing such a display had kept him diverted for over three hours.

But now, the displays wore upon his patience. He had received another extravagant welcome at the cities of Kh’mrat and Khattara, and half a dozen other welcomes that might have been smaller in scale, but were just as formal and tedious at smaller towns along the way. From any official from Regional Governor down to town alderman, Erland had been forced to endure welcoming speeches from them all.

Erland glanced behind to where Locklear rode with the Keshian official sent to meet them at the lower-city gates. The Prince signalled, and both men set heels to their mounts, trotting them to where Erland rode. The official was one Kafi Abu Harez, a noble of the Beni-Wazir, one of the desert people of the Jal-Pur. Many desertmen had come to Imperial service over the last hundred years, with a marked preference and talent for diplomacy and negotiations. Kesh’s old Ambassador to the Western Realm, Abdur Rachman Memo Hazara-Khan, deceased for ten years now, had once told Erland and his brother, ‘We are a horse people, and as such we are rigorous horse traders.’ Erland had heard his father curse the man with grudging respect enough times to believe it so. He knew that whatever else this protocol officer might be, he was no man’s fool and he needed to be watched. The desertmen of the Jal-Pur were terrible enemies.

Kafi said, ‘Yes, Your Highness. How may I serve you?’

Erland said, ‘This is a bit of a change from what we’ve been seeing. Who are these soldiers?’

Kafi pulled his robe around him slightly as he rode. His outfit was similar to those Erland had seen before in Krondor, head covering, tunic, trousers, long vest, knee-high boots, and belt. But where this costume differed from those Erland had seen before was in the intricate designs sewn into the fabric. Keshian court officials seemed to display an almost unnatural affection for gold thread and pearls.

‘These are the Imperial Household Guard, Highness.’

Erland casually said, ‘So many?’

‘Yes, Highness.’

‘It looks almost like a full city garrison,’ observed Locklear.

The Keshian said, ‘It would depend which city, m’lord. For a Kingdom city, it is. For a Keshian city, not quite. For the city of Kesh, but a small part.’

‘Would it be giving military secrets away to ask how many soldiers guard the Empress?’ asked Erland drily.

‘Ten thousand,’ answered Kafi.

Erland and Locklear exchanged glances. ‘Ten thousand!’ said the Prince.

‘The Palace Guard, which is a part of the Household Guard – which is but again a part of the city garrison – that is the heart of Kesh’s armies. Within the walls of the upper and lower city, ten thousand soldiers stand ready to defend She Who Is Kesh.’

They turned their horses along the route lined by soldiers, and curious citizens, who stood and observed the passing Islemen in relative quiet. Erland saw the road turn upward and climb an incline, a gigantic high-way of stone that wound its way up to the top of the plateau. Halfway up the ramp, a gold-and-white banner flew and, Erland took note, the uniform of the soldiers above and below changed. ‘These are different regiments, then?’ he asked.

Kafi said, ‘In ancient times, the original people of Kesh were but one of many nations around the Overn Deep. When pressed by enemies, they fled to the plateau upon which the palace rests. It has become tradition that all who serve the Empire, but who are not of true Keshian stock, live in the city below the palace.’ He pointed up the ramp to where the banner flew. ‘All the soldiers you see here in Kesh are of the Imperial garrison, but those above the Imperial banner are all soldiers of true blood. Only they may serve and live in the palace.’ There was a faint edge to his voice as he added, ‘No one who is not of the true Keshian blood may live within the palace.’ Erland looked close, but there was nothing to indicate any feelings one way or the other in the protocol officer. He smiled, as if to say it was a mere fact of Keshian life.

As they neared the bottom of the ramp, Erland also could see that those who stood guard along the route were much as he had seen throughout the Empire so far: men from all races and of all appearances, more dark skins and hair tones than in the Kingdom, to be certain, but a few red-headed and blond citizens. But those above the banner were nearly uniform in appearance: dusky skin, but not black or dark brown, nor fair. Hair uniformly black or dark brown, with an occasionally red cast to it, but no real redheads, blonds, or light browns in sight. It was clear that this company of soldiers came from bloodlines with little intermixing with the other peoples of Kesh.

Erland studied the wall that ran along the edge of the plateau above, noticing the many spires and towers visible from where he rode. Considering the size of the plateau, he said, ‘So then all who live in the city above, but outside the palace, are also of “true” blood?’

Kafi smiled indulgently. ‘There is no city atop the plateau, Your Highness. All you will see atop the plateau is the palace. Once there were other buildings atop the plateau, but as the palace grew and expanded over the centuries, they were displaced. Even the great temples were relocated below so that those not of true Keshian blood could worship.’

Erland was impressed. Under the rule of Mad King Rodric, the city of Rillanon had been beautified to become the most splendid city on Midkemia, or that was Rodric’s stated ambition. But Erland was forced to admit that even had Rodric’s plan come to fruition, even with the marble facings on all public buildings, the gardens along the walking paths throughout the city, the waterways around the palace, even with all that, Rillanon was a poor thing next to the city of Kesh. It was not that Kesh was a lovely city; it wasn’t. Many of the streets they had ridden were packed tight with dirty little buildings thick with the odours of life: cooking, the acrid smell of the forge, the pungent leather of the tanner, and the ever-present stink of unwashed bodies and human waste.

There was little that was lovely in the city of Kesh. But it was ancient. It held the echoes of centuries of history, a city rising to become a state, then a mighty nation rising to become a great empire. There was a culture that produced artists and musicians here when Erland’s own ancestors were fishermen who had just turned their hand to raiding their neighbouring islands from their safe harbour at Rillanon. The point had been made to him by his history teacher as a child, but now he could see exactly what his teacher had meant. The stones under his horse’s hooves were worn with the passage of raiders, captive chieftains, and triumphant commanders before Rillanon had come under conDoin rule. And conquering armies under legendary generals passed here to bring subjugation to other nations when Rillanon and Bas-Tyra first began their trade wars, two city-states seeking dominance over what would come to be called the Sea of Kingdoms. Kesh was old. Very old.

Kafi said, ‘Of course. Your Highness, those who are guests of the Empress, will be housed in a special wing of the palace, overlooking the Overn Deep. It would be unkind to require you to ride this route daily.’

Erland came out of his reverie and said, ‘But you ride this route each day, do you not?’

There was a tiny tightening around the man’s mouth as he said, ‘Of course, but those of us not of true Keshian blood understand our place in the scheme of things. We serve gladly, and such a small inconvenience is not even to be discussed.’

Erland took the clue and let the subject drop. Coming down to meet him was an assortment of officials, each more colourfully dressed than the one before. The thundering drums ceased, and a band of musicians played something that sounded suspiciously like a Kingdom tune but played by those who had never heard such.

To James, he said, ‘Welcomed in grand fashion.’

James nodded absently. Since reaching the city, he had let old habits of watchfulness come to the fore. His eyes constantly scanned the crowd, looking for any sign that trouble was coming at Erland. Messages had been dispatched to Krondor and an answer had overtaken them, as the Keshian rider post had operated with amazing efficiency in carrying word to Arutha of Borric’s death and bringing his answers. There had been many letters in the pouch the rider had carried. The Kingdom rider was exhausted as he had been ordered not to surrender the contents of the diplomatic pouch to any but Earl James, Baron Locklear, or Prince Erland. He had been escorted by a changing succession of Keshian post riders, changing fresh horses at stations along the way. The man had ridden without stopping for over three weeks, halting only when exhaustion was overwhelming, otherwise napping in the saddle as well as eating while riding. James had commended the man and sent back word to Krondor with him, along with an order to return at a more sedate pace, as well as a recommendation for promotion and reward for his heroic ride.

Arutha’s reply to the news of Borric’s death had been what James expected: closed off, all personal reaction to the news absent. The Prince of Krondor let nothing sway him from the hard choices he faced as ruler of the Western Realm. He had cautiously instructed Earl James to see to recovering Borric’s body, but that under no circumstances was there to be any significant change in their demeanour. The envoy’s first duty was to pay the Kingdom’s respects to the Empress, on the event of her seventy-fifth birthday Jubilee, and nothing was to cause more friction between the two nations. James smelled trouble. Borric had been murdered to plunge the Empire into war with the Kingdom, but Arutha had refused to rise to the bait. This could only mean an escalation in the provocations. And the only thing James could imagine more provocative than killing one would be killing both of them. He felt personally responsible for Borric’s death, and he had put his own grieving aside for a time while he protected Erland. Glancing at his side, he noticed his wife watching him. To Gamina, he thought, How are you doing, my love?

I will be glad to be off this horse, at last, my love, came the answer, as Lady Gamina showed no outward signs of discomfort. She had born up under the rigors of the long trip without complaint, and each night as she lay at James’s side, she was well aware that their happiness at being together took away the day’s discomfort but could not eradicate James’s pain at Borric’s death, nor his concern for Erland’s well-being. She nodded toward the front of the procession. The most official welcome yet, my darling.

At least a hundred officials stood just a short distance beyond the white-and-gold banner, to welcome the Prince and his retinue to the upper city. Erland’s eyes opened slightly at the sight. The first impression was disbelief, as if some odd joke was being perpetrated upon him. For standing before him were men and women wearing very little clothing and a great deal of jewellery. The common dress was a simple skirt or kilt, fashioned from gauzy silk, wrapped once about the hips, from waist to mid-thigh. Ornate belts held the kilt in place, with golden clasps of complex designs common throughout the party. But both men and women alike were bare-chested, and the footgear of choice was an unadorned cross-gartered sandal. All the men had their heads shaved and the women wore their hair cut short, at the shoulder or at the ear, with magnificent rows of gems and gold woven into the tresses.

Kafi spoke with his head turned slightly toward Erland. ‘Perhaps Your Highness didn’t know, but the nudity taboo common to your nation and some of the people of the Empire does not exist among those of the true Keshian blood. I also had to become accustomed to the sight – among my people, to see another man’s wife’s face is to die.’ With an ironic note, he said, ‘These people are from a hot land, Highness, but not so hot as my home desert, where to dress as such would be to invite death. When you experience the long, hot, sultry nights up on the plateau, you will understand why here clothing is a matter of fashion only. And the Keshian truebloods have never been terribly concerned with the sensibilities of their subject peoples. “In Kesh you do as the true Keshians do,” goes an old adage.’ Lowering his voice as to not be overheard, he added, ‘And they are a vain people.’

Erland nodded, attempting not to stare at so much skin. He found himself thinking that if they were a vain people, that vanity was hardly undeserved. There were exceptions, but for the most part the trueblood Keshians were a handsome breed. The men were muscled and the women slender. Even those who were unusually portly or thin carried themselves with pride and that manner went a long way to overcoming any hint of the ridiculous.

A man stepped forward, not much older than Erland, powerfully muscled and carrying a shepherd’s crook and a bow, both of which appeared ceremonial rather than functional. His head was shaved like the others, but for a lock of hair, tied with loops of precious stone, gems, and gold. An instant later, another man, stout and obviously discomforted by standing in the hot sun, stepped to the first’s side. He was the first truly fat true-blood Erland had seen and it was hard not to stare at the waddles of fat that jiggled as he walked. Ignoring the perspiration which coursed off his reddening skin, he said, ‘We welcome our guests.’

To Erland, Kafi said, ‘Highness, may I present Lord Nirome, First Counsellor to She Who Is Kesh, and her beloved nephew?’ The fat man bowed. To him, Kafi said, ‘My lord Nirome. I have the honour of presenting His Highness, Prince Erland, Heir to the Throne of Isle, Knight-Captain of the Armies of the West, and envoy to She Who Is Kesh from his Majesty, Lyam, King of the Isles.’

‘Your Highness,’ said the stout Nirome. ‘To honour your arrival, one of the Imperial blood comes to greet you. It is my great honour to present Prince Awari, son of She Who Is Kesh.’

The young man stepped forward again, and spoke directly to Erland. ‘We welcome our brother Prince. May your stay here be happy and for as long as it pleases you, Prince Erland. For the King of the Isles to send his heir is an honour indeed. She Who Is Mother To Us All is pleased enough to have sent her poor son to bid you welcome. I am to tell you that all Kesh’s hearts are gladdened the moment you come to us and that each moment of your stay is as riches in our treasury. Your wisdom and valour are unrivalled and She Who Is Kesh waits with anticipation at welcoming you to her court.’ So saying, Prince Awari turned and began walking up the road. The men and women of the Imperial welcoming committee stepped aside so the Prince and Lord Nirome could pass, then Kafi indicated the Prince and Baron Locklear should follow, with himself and Earl James behind.

As they moved up the ramp, James turned to Kafi and said, ‘In truth, we know so little about the Empire, save what we see along its northern border. It would please His Highness if you could guest with us and perhaps tell us more of this wondrous place.’

The man smiled and James saw something in his eyes. ‘Your wish has been anticipated. I shall be outside your door at first light each day and not be gone from your side until you have given me leave to depart. The Empress, blessings be upon her, has ordered it so.’

James smiled and inclined his head. So, he’s our watchdog.

Gamina smiled at those nearby and said, Among many, I’m sure, beloved.

James turned his attention to the front of the company, where Erland followed the Imperial welcoming delegation. His wits and talents might be tested in the next two and a half months, he knew. And he had but two basic tasks: keep Erland alive and the Kingdom out of war.

Erland was almost incapable of words. His ‘apartment’ was a six-room complex set off in the ‘wing’ of the palace set aside for them, which itself was nearly as large as his father’s palace in Krondor. The Imperial palace was indeed a city unto itself. And the guest apartments were opulent beyond imagining. The stone walls had all been faced with marble, polished to a brilliance that reflected back torchlight like the sparkle of a thousand jewels. Rather than the Kingdom fashion of many small rooms, all the rooms in the apartment were large, but able to be partitioned by hanging curtains of varying opacity. Right now, the only curtains were to his right and left, and both were transparent gauze, allowing him to see that divans and chairs were arrayed in anticipation of his need for holding conferences. And at his left, a large terrace permitted a stunning view of the Overn Deep, the gigantic freshwater lake that was the heart of this Empire. The sleeping chamber lay just beyond a pair of doors in this, the audience chamber, where he could meet with his advisors if needed.

Erland signalled one of his two guards, detailed to act as servants, to open the large door. Before they could react, a young woman appeared at his side. ‘M’lord,’ she said, clapping her hands loudly, once.

The doors swung open and Erland nodded absently as he stepped through to what was his sleeping chamber. The Prince halted at the sight which greeted him. Everywhere he glanced, he saw gold. It was used on the tables and divans, stools and chairs that were arrayed around the room, for whatever needs he might have while dressing, composing messages, or eating a solitary meal. High upon the wall, the marble ceased and was replaced by sandstone, upon which murals of bright colour had been painted against the muted ochre of the sandstone. In the stylized Keshian fashion, they showed warriors, kings, and gods, many depicted with animal heads, as the Keshians gave aspects to the gods that differed markedly from how they were perceived in the Kingdom.

Erland stood silently taking in the splendour of the room. A giant bed dominated the chamber, surrounded on three sides by gauzy silk curtains, hanging from a ceiling twenty feet above his head. The bed was twice the size of his own large bed at home, which had seemed immense when he and Borric had returned from their service with Lord Highcastle, given what they had been used to sleeping on, the narrow cots of Highcastle’s barracks.

Thinking about Borric made Erland wistful for a moment, as he wished he could share his astonishment with his brother. For a countless time again since the attack, Erland could not admit to his brother’s death. Somehow it just didn’t feel within as if Borric was dead. He was out there somewhere, Erland was certain. The young woman who had entered with them clapped again, and suddenly the room was filled with activity.

The Prince’s guards stood in mute amazement at the seemingly endless parade of Keshian servants who paraded through the suite, first for their quick efficiency in unpacking the Prince’s baggage and laying out formal clothing upon an armoire nearby, but mostly for the fact they were women, all beautiful and all clad in the same scanty fashion as the welcoming committee. The only difference was the lack of jewellery. The plain kilt was bound about the waist with a linen belt. Other than that, the women were naked.

Crossing to where the two guards stood, Erland said, ‘Go get something to eat. If I need you, I’ll send word.’

The two saluted and turned, obviously uncertain of where to go, but as if reading the Prince’s mind, a young woman said, ‘This way,’ and led them off.

Another young woman, with eyes mahogany brown, came to stand before Erland. ‘If it pleases m’lord, your bath is ready.’ Erland noticed her belt was red, with a gold clasp, instead of the common white one, and assumed her to be the one in charge of this host of young women.

Feeling suddenly both overdressed in the motionless hot air in the palace, and dirty from two days’ ride, Erland nodded and followed the woman into the next chamber. There a pool at least thirty feet long awaited. At the far end a gold statue of some sort of water spirit held a vase pouring water into the pool. Erland glanced around, for at least five women waited for him in the pool, all without clothing.

Two others stepped to his sides, while the one who led him turned and began unfastening his tunic. ‘Er …’ began Erland, reflexively stepping away.

‘Is there something amiss, m’lord?’ asked the young woman with the mahogany eyes. Erland was suddenly aware that her dark skin was several hues: a reddish warmth of suntan over the naturally dark olive-tinged duskiness. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight braid, and Erland noticed her very long neck.

Erland started to speak, then stopped, uncertain of what to say. Had Borric been with him, he was sure the two of them would both be splashing about in the pool, testing the limits of their prerogatives with the lovely serving women. But alone … he felt awkward. ‘What is your name?’

‘Miya, m’lord.’

‘Ah, Miya …’ He glanced at all the lovely ladies waiting for him to make his requirements known. ‘In my land it is not the custom for so many servants to … so many are not needed.’

The young woman’s eyes searched his for an instant. Softly she answered, ‘If m’lord would indicate which servants he finds pleasing, I will send the rest away.’ She hesitated a second, then added, ‘Or should you wish but one, I would be most honoured to … care for your needs, m’lord.’ The last was said with clear meaning.

Erland shook his head. ‘No, I mean …’ He sighed in resignation. ‘Just get on with it.’

Deft hands stripped him of his clothing, and when he was nude he stepped quickly into the pool, feeling awkward and self-conscious. The water was hot, he was surprised to discover, when he descended the steps into the shallow pool. Feeling foolish, he sat upon the bottom step, the water coming to his chest. Then Miya unclasped her own belt and her small kilt fell to the floor. Unselfconsciously she entered the water and sat upon the step just behind Erland. Clapping once, another bath attendant signalled those outside of the pool to begin bringing oils, soaps, and unguents.

With gentle pressure on his shoulders, Miya drew him back until his head was resting upon her soft breasts. Then he felt her fingers working upon his scalp as she rubbed scented oils into his hair. Two other servants were now at his side, rubbing his chest with soaps that smelled faintly of flowers. Another two then began to clean and trim his fingernails, while two more were busy kneading the tired muscles in his legs.

After the first moment of tension at being handled so intimately by seven strange women, Erland took a deep breath, willing himself to relax. This was not much different from having one of the serving men scrub his back at home, he told himself. Then he glanced around at the dozen beautiful women standing on the side of the pool, and the seven in the water with him, and chuckled. Sure it was just like back home.

‘M’lord?’ asked Miya.

Erland let out a long breath. ‘This takes some getting used to.’

The woman ceased washing his hair, rinsing his head with water from a golden bowl, then she began to knead the muscles of his neck and shoulders. Despite his self-consciousness at being in the pool with the nude servants, he found that the persistent massage was causing his eyelids to feel heavy. Smelling the lovely sun-touched fragrance of Miya’s damp skin along with the soft aromas of the oils, he closed his eyes and felt fatigue and worry begin to slip away from him.

He sighed deeply, and Miya spoke softly. ‘Does m’lord desire anything?’

Erland smiled for the first time since the bandits’ attack and said, ‘No, I think I could get used to this.’

‘Then rest, my handsome young lord with the fire hair,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘Rest and refresh yourself, for tonight She Who Is Kesh will receive you.’

Erland settled back against the soft body of the servant and let the warmth of the pool and the kneading fingers of the women, as they probed tense and tired muscles, overtake him. Soon he felt himself drifting off into a hazy, sensuous doze, and as he relaxed, he felt himself responding to the gentle caresses of the women. Through lowered lashes he saw smiling faces looking at him with expectation, as two of the servants exchanged whispers and stifled a giggle. Yes, he thought, I could get used to this.

One of the servants shook his foot, as she whispered, ‘M’lord!’

Erland elbowed himself up to see what was occurring and blinked through sleepy eyes. Rousing himself fully awake, Erland said, ‘What?’

‘The Lord James sends word he will be here within half an hour, m’lord. He advises you to be ready for your presentation to the Empress. You must get dressed.’

Erland looked first right, then left, and found himself hemmed in on both sides by two motionless bodies; on his right, the sleeping Miya made soft breathing sounds, while on the left, another servant – the one with the startling green eyes, he remembered, but he couldn’t recall her name – watched him through half-closed eyelids. Slapping Miya playfully on her bare buttocks, he said, ‘Time to get ready, my darlings!’

Miya responded by coming fully awake and out of the huge bed in one fluid motion. She signalled by clapping her hands once and instantly half a dozen more slaves appeared with Erland’s wardrobe, cleaned and ready to wear. Erland jumped out of bed and motioned for them to wait and hurried into the room with the pool. Motioning the servants to stay out of his way, he walked down the three steps, dunked himself under, and rinsed off. To Miya, who had followed him, he remarked, ‘I was drenched. And I needed this.’

The woman smiled slightly. ‘You were … very active for a time, m’lord.’

Erland returned the slight smile. ‘Is it always so hot?’

The girl said, ‘This is the summer season, so it is like this. Fans are used to cool those who wish them. In the winter, it is really very cold at night and many furs are needed upon the beds to keep warm.’

Erland found that hard to imagine as he left the pool. Three women dried him quickly, and he returned to the bed chamber.

Being helped to get dressed turned out to be more difficult than he had imagined. He kept trying to do things for himself and that interfered with the women attempting to fasten laces or buckle clasps. But he was fully dressed when Earl James was announced. Erland nodded permission for him to enter.

James appeared and said, ‘Well, you look better. Have a nice nap?’

Erland glanced about at the abundant female flesh on display and said, ‘Quite nice, actually.’

James laughed. ‘Gamina was not pleased to see so many beautiful young women in our suite, so they sent some handsome young men. She became very distressed when they offered to help her bathe.’ He glanced about. ‘I would call them a wanton people, but to them this is normal. To them, we must appear … I don’t know how we must appear.’

Motioning Erland to come with him, the Earl led the young man into a large hallway, where Locklear and Gamina were speaking. As they entered the hall, Gamina’s mind spoke to Erland: Erland, James has already marked two listening posts in our chambers. Be wary of what you say aloud.

I would be willing that at least one of my ‘servants’ is a Keshian intelligence officer, he thought back at her.

There was a silence as a Keshian court officer, in the same dress they had seen everywhere, the white kilt and sandals, came for them. But he also wore an ornate torque of gold and turquoise and carried a staff of office. ‘This way, Your Highness, m’lords, m’lady.’

He led them down a long hall, where the entrances to vast chambers and apartments were alternated with open breeze-ways. Through the breezeways, fountains and small gardens would be illuminated by standards with torches placed atop them. As they passed many such gardens, James said, ‘You might as well get used to those naps, Highness. It’s the custom here. Court business in the morning, the Empress and her privy officers, an afternoon meal, nap from after lunch to evening, court business from sundown to about the ninth hour, then supper.’

Erland glanced at several serving women passing by, again wearing nothing but the small kilt. ‘I’ll manage,’ he said.

A thought came from Gamina, not a vocalized word, but an attitude, and it was wholly disapproving.

Trying to imagine a playful tone, Erland thought back, Lady, please, I’m merely trying to accommodate customs foreign to ours. We must appear very self-conscious and anxious to them.

Gamina’s expression needed no accompanying thought. Erland tried hard not to laugh and he kept it down to a muted chuckle.

At the end of the hallway, they intersected and entered an even larger hallway. Columns of stone were all faced with marble and rose to a height of three storeys overhead. The walls on both sides of the hallway were painted with stylized renderings of great events and mythical battles between gods and demons. Down the centre of the hall they walked, their feet treading on a carpet of fabulous design and weave, impossibly long, yet without apparent flaw.

Every twenty feet or so, a Keshian guard stood at the ready. Erland noticed how little these men looked like the famous Dog Soldiers who manned the frontier with the Kingdom. These soldiers seemed to have been chosen for their appearance more than their experience, Erland thought. Each wore only the short kilt, though of different design, cut away in front so that the legs might move more freely. Each man wore a breechcloth of the same white linen as the kilt, and an ornate belt fashioned of many colours, closed in front by a silver clasp. Each soldier wore the plain cross-gartered sandals, as well. Upon their heads were helms of fascinating design to Erland, barbaric, primitive-looking. One wore a leopard skull atop his head, with the skin of the animal allowed to fall around his shoulders. A few others wore elk heads and bear heads in a similar fashion. Many wore hawk or eagle feathers attached to ivory rings set upon their heads, or helms fashioned from brightly coloured parrot plumes, and a few high conical helms made of reeds dyed bright colours, that looked far from functional for battle.

James spoke aloud, ‘A grand display, isn’t it?’

Erland nodded. Nothing he had seen so far in the upper city of Kesh spoke of anything less than excess. In contrast with what they had seen in the lower city, it was even more overwhelming. In even the most minor detail, richness and opulence was the order of the day. Where something base could suffice, it was replaced by something noble: gold in place of common iron, gems in place of glass, silk where cotton would be expected. And after passing through more chambers and halls, he knew the same held true for the servants. If a man was needed, he not only must be fit and able, he had to be handsome. If a woman were to be seen walking through the halls, even by chance, then she must be lovely and young – already Erland was convinced he had seen as many truly beautiful women in this one day as he had his entire life before. A few more days of this, thought Erland, and I’ll welcome the sight of a plain face.

Reaching a massive pair of doors, gold leafed over all, the officer who led them brought the metal butt of the staff down on the floor, announcing, ‘The Prince Erland, the Earl James, the Countess Gamina, and the Baron Locklear!’

The doors swung open wide, and through them Erland could see a vast hall, at least a hundred yards from where they stood to the opposite wall, and against that distant wall, a high dais rose, upon which sat a golden throne.

Out of the side of his mouth, Erland said, ‘You didn’t tell me it was a formal reception.’

James said, ‘It isn’t. This is a casual, intimate dinner.’

‘I can hardly wait for formal court.’ Taking a deep breath, Erland said, ‘Well, then, let us take a bite with Her Majesty.’ Stepping forward. Prince Erland led his advisors into the hall of the Empress of Great Kesh.

Erland marched purposefully and directly down the centre of the hall. The sound of boot heels cracking against the stone floor seemed alien, a loud and brash intrusion in this hall where the soft leather of sandals and slippers were the norm. Silence drank the noise, as no one in the hall spoke and all eyes were upon the retinue from the Kingdom of the Isles. He focused his mind on the task at hand. As James had instructed, he had mourned Borric’s loss on the road, and while the hurt was still there, it was now a constant dull ache in the background of his daily existence rather than the searing hot pain it had been at first. He was Heir to the throne of the Isles and he must not for an instant forget his duty.

Upon the dais, before a golden throne, a pile of cushions had been placed. Laying upon this was an old woman. Erland tried to look directly at her, yet not stare, and found the task impossible. Here, reclining upon cushions before the mightiest throne in the known world, was the single most powerful ruler in the known world. And she was a tiny, withered woman of unremarkable appearance. Her costume was similar to the customary short white kilt, though hers was long, reaching past the knees. Also her belt was studded with magnificent gems which caught the torchlight and sent sparkles dancing upon the walls and ceiling. She wore a loose vest of white fabric, clasped in front by a golden brooch set with a stunning pigeon’s-blood ruby. Upon her head a diadem of gold rested, set with sapphires and rubies equal to any the Prince had ever seen before. The ransom of a nation rested upon the body of this old woman.

Her dusky skin couldn’t hide the pallor of age. And her movements were those of a woman ten years more than her seventy-five, but it was her eyes that made Erland sense greatness, for they still had fire.

Dark eyes, with lights as brilliant as those in the sapphires and rubies upon her brow dancing in them, regarded the Prince as he walked along the aisle between the diners who shared the evening with the Empress. Around the base of the dais a dozen low tables had been placed in a semicircle, and around each round table, reclining upon cushions, were those whom the Empress deemed worthy of such honour.

Erland came to stand before the Empress and bowed his head, no more than he would do to his own uncle, the King. James, Gamina, and Locklear bent their knee, as they had been instructed by the protocol officer, waiting the signal to rise.

‘How fares our young Prince of the Isles?’

The woman’s voice was lightning cutting through a languid summer’s afternoon, and Erland almost jumped at the tone of it. That simple question contained nuances and meanings beyond the young man’s ability to articulate. Overcoming an unexpected attack of panic, Erland forced himself to answer as calmly as possible, ‘I am well, Your Majesty; my uncle, the King of the Isles, sends his wishes for your continued good health and well-being.’

With a chuckle, she answered, ‘As well he should, my prince. I am his best friend in this court, have no doubt.’ She sighed, then said, ‘When this business of Jubilee is over with, return Kesh’s fondest wishes for the Isles’ continued well-being. We have much in common. Now, who is this with you?’

Erland made introductions, and when that was done, the Empress surprised them all by sitting up slightly and saying, ‘Countess, would you do me the courtesy of approaching.’

Gamina flashed a quick glance at James and then moved up the ten steps that put her before the Empress. ‘You of the north can be so fair, but I have never seen your like,’ said the old woman. ‘You are not from the area near Stardock, originally, are you?’

‘No, Your Majesty,’ answered Gamina. ‘I was born in the mountains north of Romney.’

The Empress nodded, as if this explained everything. ‘Return to your husband, my dear. Your looks are lovely in their exotic fashion.’

As Gamina descended from the dais, the Empress said, ‘Your Highness, a table has been set aside for your party. You will do me the pleasure of dining with us.’

The Prince bowed again and said, ‘We would be honoured, Your Majesty.’

When they were seated at the indicated table, that one closest to the Empress, save one, another courtier appeared and announced, ‘Prince Awari, son of She Who Is Kesh!’ The Prince who had met Erland that afternoon made his entrance from a side door that Erland assumed came from another, different wing of the palace than the one in which his party was housed.

‘If I may advise His Highness,’ came a voice from Erland’s right, and he turned to find that Kafi Abu Harez had insinuated himself between the Prince and Earl James. ‘Her Majesty, may she prosper, considered your potential for discomfort at so many new things and instructed me to sit at your side and answer whatever questions you might have.’

And discover what it is we are curious about, came Gamina’s thoughts.

Erland nodded slightly, and to Kafi it appeared he was merely considering this, but Gamina knew he was agreeing with her. Then the courtier cried, ‘The Princess Sharana!’ Behind Awari came a young woman near Erland’s age from her appearance. Erland felt his breath catch in his throat at sight of the Empress’s granddaughter. In this palace of beautiful women, she was stunning. Her dress was in the fashion of all others he had seen, but like the Empress, she also wore the linen vest, and her allure was heightened by more of her being hidden from view. Her arms and face were the colour of pale almonds, turned golden by the hot Keshian sun. Her hair was cut at the forehead and shoulders, square and without fashion, but she wore a long braid in back, interwoven with gems and gold. Then the courtier shouted, ‘The Princess Sojiana.’

Locklear almost came out of his seat. If the Princess Sharana was loveliness in its first bloom, then her mother, Sojiana, was beauty at its height. A tall woman of athletic stature, she moved like a dancer, each step designed to show her body to maximum advantage. And an exceptional body it was, long-limbed, flat stomach, and ample breasts. She had the look of fullness without hint of fat, of softness over firm muscle. She wore only the white kilt, with a golden girdle rather than the white belt. Around her arms two golden serpents coiled and around her neck she wore a golden torque set with fire opals, all of which set off her dusky tan skin. Her hair was the brown of wine-soaked wood, red as abundant as brown. And from a face as striking as her body, eyes of the most startling green regarded her mother.

‘Gods,’ said Locklear, ‘she is astonishing.’ The desertman concurred. ‘The Princess is conceded among the most beautiful of the trueblood, m’lord Baron.’ There was a guarded tone in his observation.

James looked at Kafi with an odd, questioning expression on his face, but the desertman seemed unwilling to speak. After enduring James’s stare a moment, he took note of Locklear’s rapt attention to the Princess as she came to stand before her mother, and at last said, ‘Lord Locklear, I feel the need to add a note of caution.’ He glanced back at the Princess Sojiana as she reached the dais, and whispered, ‘She is the most dangerous woman in their court after the Empress. And that makes her the second most dangerous woman in this world.’

With a defiant grin, Locklear said, ‘I can well believe that. She is breathtaking. But I think I could rise to the challenge.’

Gamina gave him a dark look at the crude joke, but the desertman forced a smile. ‘She may give you the opportunity. It is said her tastes are … adventuresome.’

James didn’t miss Kafi’s true message, even if Locklear was too enamoured of the woman to listen. James gave Kafi a slight nod of thanks for the warning.

Unlike Awari and Sharana, Sojiana did not simply bow before the Empress and retire to the table set aside for the Imperial family, but she bowed and spoke. ‘Is my mother well?’ she asked in a formal tone.

‘I am well, my daughter. We rule another day in Kesh.’

The Princess bowed and said, ‘Then my prayers are answered.’ She then moved to sit beside her brother and daughter, and the servants entered the hall.

Dishes of remarkable variety were presented one after the other, and Erland had to consider what to try every minute or two. Wines were brought forth, dry and sweet, red and white, the latter chilled by ice brought down from the peaks of the Guardian Mountains.

To the Keshian, Erland said, ‘Tell me, then, why were the Imperial family members last to enter?’

Kafi said, ‘In the strange way we in Kesh do things, those of the least importance enter first, the slaves and servants and minor court officials, who make all ready for the highborn. Then, She Who Is Kesh enters and takes her place upon her dais, then come the others of noble birth or special merit, again in the order of least to most important. You’re the only ranking noble in attendance besides the Imperial family, so you entered just before Prince Awari.’

Erland nodded, then found himself struck by an oddity. ‘That would mean his niece, Sharana, is—’

‘Higher in rank in this court than the Prince,’ finished Kafi, glancing about the room. ‘This is something of a family dispute, my Prince.’

And something he doesn’t wish to speak of here, added Gamina. Erland gave her a glance and she said, I’m not reading his thoughts, Highness. I would not do that with anyone who did not give me permission, but he’s … announcing it. I can’t explain it better, but he is straining not to speak about many things.

Erland let it drop, and began asking questions about the court. Kafi answered in much the same way a bored history teacher might, save when questions could lead him into funny, embarrassing, or scandalous anecdotes. He was revealed to be something of a gossip.

James chose to let the others do most of the speaking, while he sifted through the answers Kafi gave. While the meal continued, he pieced together hints and tantalizing bits of this and that and fitted them into the pattern of what he already knew. Kesh was as complex as an anthill, and it was only the presence of this hill’s queen, the Empress, that maintained order. Factions, old national rivalries, and age-old feuds were facts of Keshian court life, and the Empress kept her Empire intact by playing off one faction against another.

James sipped a fine dry red wine and considered what part they were to play in this drama, for he knew as certain as he knew boots hurt his feet that their presence would be seized upon by someone to further his own political ends. The question would be who would try the seizing and what his motives would be.

To himself, he added, not to mention how such a person would attempt to employ Erland’s presence in court. It was clear that at least one faction in court wanted Erland dead and war between the Kingdom and the Empire. James glanced around the room, and then tasted the dry red wine again. As he savoured it, he considered that he was a stranger in a very strange land and he would quickly have to learn his way around. He let his gaze wander, studying faces here and there and found more than a half-dozen faces studying him in turn.

He sighed. There would be time. He doubted there would be trouble the first night they were in the palace. For if he were in charge of murdering Erland, he would do so when there were more guests to throw off suspicion and the effect of the death would do more to ruin the Empress’s Jubilee. Unless, of course, he amended, it’s the Empress herself who wishes Erland dead.

He instantly dismissed the notion. If the Empress wanted Erland dead, she wouldn’t have sent a band of cutthroats in the desert; she’d have waited until they were someplace quiet and simply had a few hundred fanatical followers from one of her Imperial Legions waiting for them.

He picked up a delicately seasoned piece of melon off his plate and ate it. Savouring the taste, he decided to let matters of state go for a few hours. But less than a minute later, he found his gaze wandering again about the room as he sought some clue, some hint of from where the next attack might originate.