“You always run into people you know, no matter where you go. You must have more friends than the Pharaoh!”
Even as he said it, Oken realized he was blundering into the older man’s private self. The look of gentle bantering between friends vanished from Mabruke’s face, replaced for a flicker with a thoughtful, pained inward glance, gone swiftly, leaving only an outward calm that Oken knew was restraint covering a powerful emotional surge.
“People just love that professor fella.” Mabruke picked up one of his valises to search through it.
Oken watched him. “If it bothers you so much to be spying on your friends, why did you take another field assignment? You said you were happy just teaching the art. Why did you let the queen talk you into this?”
Mabruke turned to him with a look of genuine surprise. “She is the Queen of the world! One does not refuse her!”
“You could.”
“That’s why I never would.”
“Maybe once we’re on the other side of the Atlantic, among the tropical folk, you won’t feel so much like you’re spying on your friends?” Oken said this on impulse, then realized it was true.
Mabruke thought about that while taking items out of his valise. “Until they get to be friends. People do just love that professor fella, don’t they?” He spoke with grim sadness.
Mabruke suffered from overly powerful charismatic charm, the kind of ka, to use the sacred word, that functioned like a natural force, personal magnetism that was neither trained nor acquired, an attractiveness almost independent of the person within its field, yet irrefutable. People thus afflicted (as Mabruke was wont to say to Oken, describing himself in the third person) could be brutes and utterly selfish, yet be steadfastly loved, surrounded by unshakable loyalty. Mabruke, however, was also a man of singular compassion. He suffered from a terrible empathy with everyone he encountered. He had been set on the path of espionage at a very young age, a destination determined by his father’s royal court, not truly by his own intention. Mabruke’s combination of attraction and understanding made him so good at espionage that eventually he fell in love with his work, even though it troubled him deeply. The very nature of his work kept him removed from the humanity whose attention fascinated and sustained him. The tension of this inner discord made him an excellent teacher in the subject. It also made fieldwork a fiendish strain on his nerves and on his conscience.
Oken turned to his own set of valises. “What do you want me to wear?”
AT THE entrance to the embassy’s private ballroom, Oken saw something that struck him cold, frozen in place for an instant: the opera house posters displayed beside the entrance. The artwork spotlighted the lead figures, clinging to each other atop a windy cliff. Her hair blew across her face, revealing only her green eyes. Her long, long legs were unmistakable, unique. No other such pair of legs existed in the world. Oken felt sure of that.
de sertvoiceswas printed in bold letters of gilt-edged crimson at the top of the poster, followed by the tagline: the world premiere of giuseppe verdi’s anasazi opera, based on the magical love story of long walker and his beloved corn maiden, played out against the landscape of the incan-egyptian rescue of the anasazi from the collapse of their kingdom, six centuries ago!
The premiere performance was tomorrow night.
Oken stepped closer and saw the palm- sized, oval publicity photographs of the performers, their names printed in silver glitter beneath. She smiled out from the poster with the imperious lift to her chin he had appreciated the first moment he saw her.
Oken strolled into the main ballroom, alert to every face and gesture, but he did not see her. Mabruke was talking with a group of well-dressed men at the side of the musicians’ stage. They were flirting and laughing with the musicians, one of whom Oken recognized as young Aziel, transformed from the simple goat-herder to a court entertainer, resplendent in elaborate makeup. Golden jewelry spilled across his bare chest and covered his arms from shoulder to elbow. A diamond gleamed in one ear.
Mabruke flicked the feather in his top hat in a way that said he did not want to be interrupted.
To Oken’s surprise, he also recognized a youngish woman of noble lineage whom he had sometimes seen at School. She wore a dress similar in style to that of Princess Astrid Janeen, in crimson silk. She was of Caesar’s line, born of one Caesar’s favorite house hold servants, thus she had been studying to be a lady-in-waiting to those from the line born of Cleopatra or her sisters. Oken’s acquaintance with her had been casual. He remembered her because he remembered everyone. He wondered if she might remember him?
She did, drifting his way as soon as he made eye contact.
He bowed. “Mademoiselle Marietta—I travel in the wilderness and find a lovely compass rose.”
She gently brushed the back of his hand with her fingertips. “Lord Oken, how delightful to find you here in the wilderness. I heard you were in pursuit of princesses in Oesterreich.”
“Yet I remain unattached, ma de moiselle, having safely escaped the numerous wiles of Europe.”
“Could it be that you are here for the occasion of the new opera, Lord Oken?”
He let a smile cover his flicker of alarm. “Why else, ma de moiselle?”
“I find it difficult to picture you seated at an opera.”
“I have become an ardent admirer of every aspect of the stage.”
Mademoiselle Marietta’s laugh was practiced, easy. “Oh, of course you have.”
“I promise!” Oken said with mock dismay, “Mademoiselle, you mistrust me!”
“You are traveling with a prince, I hear?”
Oken gestured toward his friend across the room, using the wineglass in his hand. “Professor-Prince Mikel Mabruke.”
“I thought I recognized him.” Mademoiselle Marietta’s attention was directed across the ballroom. “He was our professor for makeup and perfume.”
“He was also our professor for wine-tasting.”
“He was. I never liked those classes. He was always so distracting.” She turned her smile on Oken a curious look in her eyes. “You are accompanying him as companion, or in his employ?”
“He needed a memoryman for his new line of research in Andalusia.”
“You became a memoryman? Intriguing. So you will remember me?”
“Always.”
“Then you will introduce me, so that I may ask him to dance?”
“Happily, ma de moiselle. You will find Prince Mabruke to be an excellent escort, a superb conversationalist, a magnificent dancer, and a gentleman, first to last.”
Her lovely brow drew in as she considered his words, then smoothed and a slight smile touched her lips as she comprehended his meaning. She tilted her face up to meet Oken’s eyes, the question in her mind clear in her expression.
“I am his greatest love because I am completely unattainable.” There was no jest in Oken’s voice. “I am a man with full respect for love, and I am hopelessly in love with every woman I have ever met.” He leaned more closely toward her, tentatively touching the circle of her personal space, the invisible barrier she kept between herself and the world.
She tilted her face away, raising her hand to place her fingertips on the golden rectangle of the Neith pendant resting between her breasts. She drew back slightly, a gesture showing the grace of gentle disappointment. “That is a charming speech, Lord Oken, but women do not wish to be loved as a group.”
Her gaze lingered on Prince Mabruke, then back to Oken. “A pity. I will dance with him, though.”
“Certainly you will, my dear.”
Oken also drew back, more amused than disappointed. He was well accustomed to the power of his friend’s charisma to draw the attention of sensitive souls. Animals and children responded to him the same way. Oken was also accustomed to being the lesser light in his friend’s presence. He had learned not to feel threatened. He knew the price Mabruke paid, the constant, internal struggle to maintain the balance of power between himself and tha
t ka-image. Too often people did not want him so much as they wanted to stand in his light. Oken gently took her hand to rest it across his arm. “Allow me to introduce you.”
She let her hip brush across his thigh once as they walked together, a silent thank-you. Oken smiled down at her. Her attention was fully on the tall, dark man across the room.
“Mademoi selle Marietta is an acquaintance from School,” he said as they met up with him. “You may recall her from our classes on fragrance and tasting.”
Mabruke bowed, smoothly covering any dismay at being interrupted. “Indeed, and your lovely mother, Mademoiselle Marcella. I trust she is well? Your essays were always far more entertaining. Please, do not tell her I said so.”
Mademoiselle Marietta smiled up at him. “Thank you, sir.”
“She has turned me down, in order to request the honor of a dance with you.”
“Indeed, ma de moiselle,” Mabruke said, meeting her smile. “I applaud your taste and discrimination. I am certainly a finer dancer than Scott.”
She nodded once in ac knowledgment of the compliment, putting her hand out to rest on Mabruke’s sleeve. Her expression was thoughtful and self-confident. She was a tall woman, yet she had to tilt her head back to look into his face. He took her hand, smiling at her with a solemn and penetrating gaze as he rested his other hand on the bare skin of the small of her back.
Oken stepped aside as they swirled away to join the dancers in the center of the room. Other dancers did not interest him, just the one. She made no appearance at this gala event. Oken continued to drift through the crowd, acknowledging respectful greetings from those who recognized the symbols of rank on his silver torque, slipping in and out of conversations as protocol demanded.
A woman who had come to the party with Mademoiselle Marietta caught Oken up, boldly introducing herself as Marques Glorianna from the Andalusia Spate. Her gown and jewels were a match to Marietta’s, in a sunny yellow that offset her olive skin and dark hair. Oken was delighted to meet her. Glorianna chattered at him happily about her travels with her friend Marietta, and their traveling companion, Simone.
In a quick whisper behind her fan she said, “Please, Lord Oken, he must see me speaking with someone whom Marietta knows.”
Oken did not inquire. Her large dark eyes had flashed with fear.
He learned from her that the opera company was at dress rehearsal this eve ning. “Isn’t it a shame that dress rehearsal is not open to the public?”
“Truly,” Oken said.
“The opera is new, Lord Oken, not yet performed in public. The world premiere is tomorrow night—but, of course, you know that. Wasn’t that your reason for coming to far Marrakech?”
Oken allowed as how that must certainly be the truth.
Mabruke, across the ballroom, was standing close to Aziel. Their unheard conversation looked breathy and bold. Aziel was only slightly shorter than Mabruke, tanned an amber bronze against Mabruke’s plum-dark skin. The two whispered face-to-face, flirting with subtle gestures of shoulders and eyes.
Oken watched until they disappeared into the moonlit shadows of the garden terrace beyond the ballroom’s glass doors; then he turned back to the warm glow of the party and asked the marques to dance.
She was astonished into silence, and danced with exhilarated grace. He enjoyed it. As they spiraled around the dance floor, he reviewed in his mind the security of the embassy grounds. The terrace was the only public entrance. The garden itself was walled in for privacy. Guards watched at strategic sites along the outer wall. Mabruke had gone there with the young man because he knew it was safe.
After several more dances, Glorianna thanked him with a breathless and excited smile, and excused herself. She hurried over to Mademoiselle Marietta, who sat with a pair of elegantly dressed older women. They wore matching orchids. He made note of the flower arrangement as he drifted toward the terrace entrance.
Oken sought out one of the servants in the crowd and asked for a glass of wine. He continued to enjoy the delights of the party without letting his attention waver from that garden entrance, keeping faithful watch on his friend’s back.
Aziel returned first, looking flushed and happy as he stepped up onto the stage. The rest of the musicians had begun playing without him. One of them leaned forward to whisper to him, something teasing, making him blush deeply.
Five minutes passed, leaving Oken momentarily concerned; then Mabruke reappeared, slipping back into the crowd with practiced ease. His clothes and jewelry were perfectly arranged, his makeup untouched, with only the slight and tender smile he flashed to Oken.
Oken raised his glass to him in salute.
ON THE return to their suite at the top level of the embassy hotel, Oken braced himself inwardly for the inevitable melancholy that overtook Mabruke after an evening of such apparent frivolity. Oken knew why Mabruke so often cocooned himself behind the walls of Thoth’s Manor, why he wanted loved ones close by.
Mabruke sat down at the dressing table, removing his jewelry and packing it into the case with mechanical gestures. He stared into his own eyes in the mirror and absently ran a hand across the eve ning stubble on his cheek.
Oken strode across the suite to his own room and changed into a silver-embroidered silk robe and slippers. He returned to the bar in the sitting room, poured two glasses of brandy, and went back to Mabruke’s room. He put a glass on the dressing table and settled into a leather chair close by, to sip at his drink, waiting.
Once Mabruke finished removing his makeup, Oken said, as casually as he could, “Nice-looking lad. All I got was a tango.”
“Aziel, you mean?” Mabruke said. “Zaydane sent him here in case we need to send for help.”
“Are we in trouble?”
“Not yet.”
“Tell Aziel to steer clear of ladies with orchids in their hair,” Oken said.
“You saw them, too?”
“Four of them. One from Andalusia.”
“The Campus News reported that we were headed that way.”
Oken stared into the golden liquid in his glass and thought about Glorianna’s frightened look, and timid voice.
“Ladies with orchids in their hair.” He sat forward, his face serious. “Marques Glorianna was afraid of someone. She mentioned Marietta’s traveling companion, Simone. Perhaps Aziel can find out why she had to be seen with someone Mademoiselle Marietta knew?”
“You didn’t ask?”
“A gentleman never asks.”
“He just makes discreet inquiries elsewhere.”
“He also pays handsomely for it.”
“Aziel should not be working in public,” Mabruke said, much too evenly, as though he expected no one to hear. “He should still be in training.” He at last noticed the brandy glass and picked it up, making an elaborate show of swirling, viewing, sniffing, and tasting. Then he drained the glass in a single swallow. He held it out to Oken without looking at him and went back to staring at himself in the mirror. The expression on his dark face was unreadable. Oken had seen it before. He went back to the side bar, and refilled the glass.
Mabruke followed him and sprawled across the daybed, drawing his silk lounging coat tightly around him. Oken handed him the glass and sat down on the chair beside. He observed his friend’s face carefully as they both sipped the brandy. Mabruke drank his more slowly this time.
“Nearly four hundred students go through my classes each year, Scott. Every day I look at their faces and I ask myself, who among them will be killed in their first year of service to the Pharaoh?”
Oken knew how many of his schoolmates were gone, simply missing in action or returned home in a jar with no explanation. “I’m still here.” He knew at once it was the wrong thing to say, yet he refused to regret the impulse to say it. Mabruke’s stricken look was a clear mixture of guilty relief and profound sadness.
“So far, so good, anyway,” Oken added with a shrug, looking away. “It is a proper alternative to war—isn’t that y
our first lecture? We do what Egyptians do. We share information. We answer questions. We are the talk-to-me nation.”
“Knowledge is power,” Mabruke quoted in his professorial voice.
“Always has been.”
“Always will be. What power does that give me—the knowledge that forty of my students will die because of something I failed to teach them?”
“The rest survive because of what you did teach them.” Oken gestured to Mabruke with his glass. “Other professors lose more of us. You’re the best the academy has. Do you have to be perfect?”
Mabruke drained his glass. “Forty families wish I were perfect.”
“You’re tired—you need another drink.”
“I’ll take your word on that.”
MABRUKE WAS always up hours before Oken. Oken had found his way to the coffee and the bath by the time Mabruke returned.
“We’re going to the opera tonight,” Mabruke said in grand announcement as he strolled in. “The manager himself, Signore Alberto Burrococcio, will lend us his private viewing box for the occasion.”
Oken had decided, the night before, not to speak to Mabruke about the photograph and the name on the opera poster until both of them had a good night’s sleep. He told Mabruke to sit down.
Mabruke sat down to listen, resting both hands across the knob of his walking stick. When Oken finished, Mabrukelooked at him, calculation in his eyes. “You’re certain she’s Natyra, your Natyra?”
“They even spelled her name correctly.” Oken recalled the sensation as she had spelled her name on his bare skin with her fingertip, from his shoulder to his thigh. She knew he would remember. Natyra found his “talent” amusing, and played memory games to tease him. “This opera suits her style,” he said.
“Verdi is a superb artist,” Mabruke said, “at the peak of his style by now, I should say. I wonder why he would cast a dancer in the lead?”
Oken shrugged. “I assume he’s in love with her. All artists are in love with her.”
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