“Fifteen, Effulgent One. The runners have set the flags accordingly.”
“How many candidates?”
“Sixty, Your Effulgence.”
“Not enough.”
“All there are, Great One. We have examined the rolls carefully.”
“And none from elsewhere?”
“None this time, Great One. We anticipate there being several at the next Renewal.”
The Shah settled into his saddle. He knew what was anticipated. He knew what was here and now, as well. From somewhere nearby, a baby cried. He stiffened. The sound was quickly muffled. Very well. He took his place at the head of the procession, raised a hand, and ordered the assembly forward, riding slowly as the minister walked beside him.
Though he was impatient to get through the day’s ritual, it would do no good to spur the horse. At this hour, still chilled by the night, the harpta could move only slowly, their dual dorsal fins folded together, the intaglio tracery of blood vessels sunken within the fin-flesh. When the sun was a bit higher, the fins would separate slightly, allowing the sun to touch both sides, the veins would fill with blood to be warmed by the sun and to carry that warmth deep into the huge bodies of the beasts. Later, when it grew hot, the blood would be diverted from the fins into the moist belly-fringes of the beast, and the fins themselves would be lowered on either side to provide shade for the huge bodies beneath—and for the persons who walked there—while the long rows of evaporating belly-fringe conducted heat away from the bodies, keeping the creatures from overheating.
The first red flag was set just outside the city gate of Mahahm-qum; the next one gleamed along the edge of a dune. As they reached these, others would be seen, marking the way.
An hour’s slow ride from flag to flag brought them to the first patch of holy growth. The Shah raised his hand for a halt, turned and rode silently back along the line. The masters had arranged themselves between couples of candidates, and the Shah pointed randomly at two of the heavily veiled candidate-master trios. Each candidate couple knelt to receive a silent blessing from the Shah before each ritual master guided his candidates to the vegetation and demonstrated how the holy growth was to be sheared off close to the ground, how every scrap of it was to be placed in the baskets.
With four candidates working, it did not take long. When all had been cut, the ritual masters took the curved knives from the candidates, emptied the baskets in the panniers carried by the last harpta in line, and returned to the candidates for the completion of the ritual. The procession did not wait for the ritual to end, which would take some time. Those involved would return to the city on their own when they had finished. As soon as the last basket was emptied, therefore, the Shah commanded the procession to move forward.
The trek went on all day. In early evening, having made a wide, circular loop through the desert, the Shah led the caravan back toward Mahahm-qum. Most of the harpta had already returned to their half-shore, half-sea pen on the coast; those remaining held their fins erect to gather the last of the sun. Outside the city, the herdsmen removed the harnesses and let the harpta go, all but the one who carried the panniers. This one was guided toward a long, low mud-brick building that emerged from the sands on the outskirts of the city. Seeing the beast approach, guards unlocked and swung wide the doors before removing the panniers and harness from the lizard. It went scuttling off after its fellows, sand splaying from beneath its feet.
The Shah and Ybon Saelan stood for a moment outside, scrutinizing the building with great care. At either side of the front wall, hinged wooden extensions held back the sand. At the front roof-line was another, propped high, the props held by a single mechanism. If the side flanges were pulled in and the upper one was dropped, the wind-piled sand behind all three of them would flow down in an instant, covering the building. It had been designed so, in the event of … anything untoward occurring.
“When was it tested last?” asked the Shah.
“Last Holy Days,” replied Ybon Saelan. “It worked perfectly. It took two days to dig it out. The men inside were running out of air.”
They went inside, shutting the doors behind them. The panniers had been emptied onto a smooth table, the originally voluminous cargo dried by the day’s heat and dry air into a modest pile of dark scraps. A stone roller plied by the guards was reducing the scraps to a fine, reddish powder which was sifted and crushed again, then scooped and brushed with meticulous care into small glazed jars that were sealed tightly before stacking them against the wall amid others.
While this went on, the Shah went to the rear of the room where only one bolted door broke the expanse of wall. He took a key from his pocket, unlocked a panel that allowed him to move the bolt, then pulled the door open to disclose another one with a round of thick glass set into it. The Shah peered in, his lips working as he craned, trying to see right and left and down through the small pane. At last he breathed deeply, closed the doors and locked them once more.
His minister approached, taking no notice of the Shah’s preoccupation. “Twelve jars of P’naki, Magnanimous One,” murmured the Ybon Saelan.
“Only twelve?”
“The usual amount, sire, within half a jar or so.”
“Was all gathered?”
“All we had candidates for.”
The Shah grimaced. “One is tempted to increase the raids.”
“Serving today at the expense of tomorrow, Great One. The P’naki will not be increased by using up our resources. How many jars for the aspirants?”
The Shah thought long. He had taken particular notice of this year’s aspirants for elevation. Too many of those in this morning’s muster had been elderly, subject to disease and frailty, and those who had selected proxies would have been there all day still bowed forward, silent, unmoving, waiting for the Shah to postpone or elevate them. As he must! He had postponed too many elevations recently. It would be a mistake to postpone more.
“Bring enough to protect all of them,” he said, gritting his teeth.
“Enough for all of them?” wondered the minister.
“All. There is no one among them who had not been there twice before and not one among them is without friends. They have earned their protection.”
The Shah mounted his horse and rode back to the palace, the minister running behind, carrying the small jar and panting a little.
So, let him pant. The crop was so limited and so much in demand. Haven wanted desperately to buy more of it. There should be some way to improve this system. Though perhaps one should merely accede to the will of thé Divine Sun. Scarcity brought its own rewards.
He had these thoughts before, but nothing had changed. Too much depended upon it. It had brought him much and would bring him as much again. No. It would not change.
FIVE
An Unexpected Invitation
“FOR THE SOIREE, I THINK THE MAHOGANY SATIN,” SAID Gertrude, the Wardrobe Mistress. “You look marvelous in it.”
Genevieve demurred. “It’s what I wore last time. I really look like a Nose in it.”
“You know,” said Gertrude, head cocked to one side, “you’re growing into your nose. Last year, it seemed large, true, but this year, no. This year, it seems a proper part of your face. The art instructor, Master Vorbold, said you would be striking. He was positive it would happen, and I believe it has!”
The mirror agreed, but only if Genevieve stood tall, head carried imperially poised on her long neck, shoulders relaxed, face quiet. Then the face was fine, nose and all, just as it was in the family portraits. Her dark skin was unusual in Haven, but acceptable since it was inherited from Queen Stephanie.
“I’ll bet your father’s bringing the colonel back,” whispered Carlotta, as they were having their hair done. “I’ll bet the colonel has asked for your hand.”
“No,” said Genevieve, with a pang of regret. “Father wouldn’t consider the colonel for me.” Not in this play or any other.
“Why not?” demanded Barbara. “He’s young, he�
��s handsome, he looks healthy!”
Genevieve worked it out. “In the first place, he’s a commoner, which means he’s uncovenantal. And then, Father is looking for a son. He did not get one by birth, so he will try to get one by marriage. It is much more important that Father get on with the person than that I do, and the Colonel is not the kind of person Father would ever be comfortable with.” She said it calmly, but heard it with a pang. What she had said was absolutely true. Now why was that? Why wasn’t Father perfectly comfortable with his own equerry?
What was it about Aufors Leys that Father was not comfortable with? Not merely his being a commoner, for Father was quite comfortable with some commoners. It wasn’t his appearance, which was heavenly, or his manners, which were impeccable. It had to be something, but she couldn’t think what. Just something about him. His attitude perhaps. Yes. That was likely it, his attitude of being real. Aufors was more real than Father was. This idea was difficult to think out, but once having thought it, Genevieve could not unthink it. Aufors Leys was real, but like her father, Genevieve was probably not.
Everyone was ready for the soirée early. Father arrived early, also. He bowed, took her hand, and led her out through the open doors of the ballroom onto the terrace.
“Genevieve, Prince Yugh Delganor will be attending the soiree tonight, as my guest.”
Yugh Delganor. She cast out a net of memory, seining for Delganor. A guest at Langmarsh House, not long before school started this year. A tall, thin man with dead eyes, hollow cheeks, and no conversation. As she had been taught, she had given him opportunities for conversation, but each had been a stone dropped into a bottomless well: no splash, no echo. He had been very well dressed. Middle aged. Perhaps older. Not bad looking, but vaguely repel-lant and utterly without animation. Genevieve had assigned him a walk-on role and had been glad when he had departed.
“I remember the name …” she murmured.
His lips thinned. “You should remember more than the name, girl! Yugh Delganor is the Lord Paramount’s nephew, son of his younger brother.”
“Ah,” she murmured. “Prince Thumsort, is it?”
“No, no. Thumsort is the youngest of the three. Delga-nor’s father and His Majesty, Marwell, Lord Paramount were twins. Since the untimely death of the Lord Para-mount’s son, Delganor is the heir presumptive. Thumsort comes third, since Delganor’s sons have also perished.”
“Couldn’t the Lord Paramount have another son?”
“The Queen is past it, girl! She hasn’t had the good sense to die and let him find another wife, and a son out of any other woman would not qualify. Why don’t you know all this?”
She murmured, “I don’t think you have ever told me of it, Father.”
He sniffed. “I keep forgetting this school does not always teach you what may be most important to you. I hope at least you have guessed something of what this evening portends.”
Something tore. A bit of that membrane that made a comforting translucency between herself and the outside world ripped away, leaving a hole. Reality showed through, only a glimpse—ominously dark—and her inner parts cramped in panic. She found voice to say, “Since you had not mentioned this matter before, no, I have no idea.”
He frowned, displeased.
She sought to mend the veil that protected her, pulling it together between herself and the reality of his words. “Are you perhaps engaging in some enterprise with Prince Delganor?”
He glared, not at her but at the horizon, barely visible between the trees. “I have been summoned to Havenor, to attend upon the court. It could be a lengthy term of service. When I mentioned other responsibilities, the Lord Paramount kindly thought of your needs. The Lord Paramount does not invite all and everyone to reside in Havenor. He has waited to receive others’ opinion of you, of your poise, your behavior, your appearance, the purity of your soul. Prince Delganor gave him an opinion. Aufors Leys has also done so. Delganor is coming tonight to extend the Lord Paramount’s invitation for you to reside at court during my posting there.”
“I don’t understand …”
His face contorted in anger. “Of course you do! Do not be willfully stupid, Genevieve! You have been well reared, well educated. Your soul has been kept pure. You are suitable! And because you are suitable, the Prince has condescended to come here tonight in order to deliver the Lord Paramount’s invitation. He may ask if you have any objection to leaving school. You will say no. He may ask if you have any matrimonial interest, since that might distract you from the duties of the court, and if he does, you will say you do not.”
Stillness, and herself saying in a stranger’s voice from a place of clarity. “I did not particularly like him, Father.”
He barked, a single ha, unamused. “That is of no matter. There will be a good many at court you will not like, any more than I do. Nonetheless, we accommodate ourselves. Who knows? You may find a husband there.”
“I am entitled to a decade more of my youth, Father. And I do not think I would like marrying a courtier.”
“That, too, is of no matter. Your mother was young when we were wed, she did not much like marrying me, nor I her. It worked out well enough.”
She closed her eyes against those words, remembering a face, hearing sounds of agony, smelling the metallic reek of blood. A woman’s voice whispering, “Jenny, Jenny, oh, my darling girl …” Had it worked well enough, their marriage? Not for Mother, she did not say. Mother died, she did not say. You killed her, she did not say, feeling the first fluttering of something other than panic, something foreign to her, a loose thread of fury, hanging there, tempting her to grasp it, let what would unravel!
She ignored the thread, saying softly, “My education is unfinished, and I will miss my friends here at school.”
“That also is of no matter. The honor you are offered outshines any such concerns, and Mrs. Blessingham can no doubt recommend tutors at High Haven if you wish to continue your education.” He turned on her, face hard. “Keep this in mind! This whole matter may be in the nature of a test, to see whether we, you and I, are the kind of people who will make difficulties! Believe me, Genevieve, if you think of doing such a thing, think again. Rejecting an invitation from the Lord Paramount, brought to you by no less personage than the Prince, would not be good for me, and if you are not thoughtful of my reputation, as you have a duty to be, it will not be good for you, either. Whatever the Prince proposes comes directly from the Lord Paramount, and I am sworn to serve the Lord Paramount.”
“His invitation is actually your command, then.” She was surprised at the calm in her voice. “You are saying that I have no choice.”
“No honorable choice, no. Later on, well …” He barked laughter, as though at something he had just discovered. “Yugh Delganor may well marry again. It is not impossible he might find you attractive enough to consider you for … some very exalted position.”
And there she was suddenly, at center stage. The lights were on her, the attention of whoever it was, out there in the darkness, the watchers, among whom she had hoped to stay, always, always. Now the action centered upon her and the plot lines knotted and wove and all other characters faded into shadow. She drew away from him, hearing the rustle of her gown on the tiles loud in the silence, feeling the evening air clammy on her bare shoulders while a greater coldness froze the pit of her stomach.
She whispered, “Does he have family?”
“He has family, yes. He’s been married two or three times, but his wives died.” He said it offhandedly, as though it didn’t matter. “As I recall, his first wife died in childbirth and one of the others died of batfly fever the year it swept the lowlands. Such things happen. I must say, your attitude surprises me.”
“Forgive me, Father,” she said from that brightly lighted place where she stood, that cell in time where all seemed to converge. “It is only that I, too, am much surprised. You have never mentioned any of this to me. This invitation comes out of the blue in the hands of a ma
n who was not even polite to me when he visited Langmarsh House. Perhaps he is above politeness.”
This time her father laughed with genuine amusement. “Well said, daughter. Perhaps he is, indeed. Whether he is above it or not, I know you will be sensible enough not to insult him. He has received good report from Colonel Leys, who has confirmed Mrs. Blessingham’s opinion of you. She has said you are poised and quiet and your purity of soul has been approved by the scrutator. The Colonel has seconded this judgment.”
“The Colonel …” She shook her head, confused. She had not been quiet with the Colonel. He had not asked about her soul. Not at all!
“The Colonel will be going with us to Havenor,” the Marshal said, misunderstanding. “When the Lord Paramount suggested the Colonel give an opinion it was for good reason. Leys is my equerry, and he would be responsible for your safety and comfort at court. His making an assessment of your manner is appropriate.” He turned away, as though finished with words.
She tried, unsuccessfully, to think of something that might delay this matter, or forestall it altogether, but before she could think of anything, he exclaimed:
“Ah, there he is!”
She turned her head toward the distant door where Nemesis stood, tall and dark and dressed all in black, his eyes staring in her direction like flawed marbles, blindly.
“Remember to whom you are speaking,” her father concluded, tucking her arm firmly under his own and moving off to greet his guest.
Somehow she greeted, bowed, responded to words. Somehow she got out onto the terrace with the tall man, without noticing that her father ushered them there, shutting the doors behind them. She did not come to herself until Delganor had taken her hand in his and was saying, “… the Lord Paramount wishes me to convey his pleasure at the prospect of your attendance at the court, in Havenor.”
The words reached her ears, but beyond her ears she felt her brain shudder and cramp at his voice. Beneath her glove, the skin of her hand crawled. She could not bear for him to press her hand again or say anything more. To put an end to it, she assented, withdrew her hand in order to make the full, dramatic courtesy, after which she remained bent, watching his heels as he retreated from her. He exchanged a few words with her father inside the door. She barely breathed, wishing she had dreamed what just happened. This had not been a play. She had not merely watched. She had been present, hideously present, and she would have given anything she owned or ever thought of attaining if she had been elsewhere throughout it all.
Singer From the Sea Page 7