The Family Tree

by Sheri S. Tepper

  “Put your veil down,” said the eunuch, as we turned a corner and went through the tall, fretted door that marked the beginning of the salamlek, strictly male territory.

  None of us harim dwellers veiled ourselves, usually, not unless Sultan Tummyfat brought kinsmen in, but we all wore the veil, nonetheless, usually folded back over the tops of our heads. Mine was all wrinkled from crying in it, and it took some doing to get it straightened out and pull the two embroidered ribbons apart, one straight across my nose with a fall of filmy stuff below, the other high across my forehead, its fringe falling across my eyes. When it was in position, it fell to my waist, hiding my arms to the wrists.

  “What does the sultan want with me?” I asked as we came to a halt outside another door.

  “Let him tell you,” he said. “Turn around.”

  I turned, feeling him tug at the veil, smoothing it out behind, brushing the fringe forward, combing it with his armored fingers until it fell evenly, tapping me on the lower backbone so I stood up straight.

  “Now,” he said. “You follow me with your head bowed. Watch my legs so you don’t bump into me. When I stop, you stop. If the sultan asks you a question, answer it clearly, briefly, keep your head slightly bowed. Understand?”

  I was suddenly conscious that my mouth was dry. If the sultan asked me a question, I wasn’t sure I could answer him at all!

  The eunuch opened the door, went through, then turned to close it again, which was confusing because I had to make a little circle in order to stay behind him. Someone laughed, and I felt my cheeks burning. I must have looked silly, like a baby guz following its mother. Soaz muttered under his breath as we crossed the huge room, carpet on carpet on carpet, like walking on mattresses. He prowled, I stumbled after. When he stopped, he put his hand on my shoulder to stop me mindlessly putting myself behind him again when he stepped to the side.

  “I have brought the slave as the lord commanded.”

  “What is its name.”

  “Its palace name is Opalears, Lord.”

  “Show me its face.”

  Soaz lifted my veil, then put a calloused fingerpad under my chin and lifted my face. I closed my eyes.

  “Open your silly eyes,” muttered Soaz. “He won’t eat you.”

  I felt them pop open, like pea pods. There were two males seated on the divan, young and old. I had seen Lord Tummyfat before, when he came to the harim, a round person, smoothish in the face, without much hair. He had never looked at me before, however, and the look was disconcerting.

  “You’re the storyteller?” he asked.

  “I tell stories,” I gasped. “Sometimes.”

  “You cook, also.”

  “Yes, I do….”

  “How did we get her?” Lord Tummyfat asked the eunuch.

  “Her father was Halfnose Nazir, who was falsely accused of theft by the regent and executed; her mother was a suicide; her brother fled; this one was left alone. Seems to have been enslaved as an act of mercy,” said Soaz.

  “Ah.” Long pause. “I often think of Nazir. A good servant. She doesn’t look like much.”

  “No, Sultan. She is very skinny. Like a stick.”

  “How old is she?”

  “How old are you, girl?” asked Soaz.

  “Middle of my third age, sir.” The first being babyhood, then childhood, then adolescence, all of which were well understood. There was some controversy about when the fourth age, that of reason, started, and I didn’t worry myself about it. I hadn’t found life reasonable yet, and something told me I might never.

  Soaz nodded heavily. “The family was originally from Estafan, Lord. There are many ponjic people there, and as the Lord knows, ponji are bony, like posts, as well as being slow growers who seldom reach full size until the end of their third age.”

  “Then she’s still almost a child!”

  “As Great Sultan says.”

  “Look at me, child.”

  I looked up, seeing his head cocked, his nostrils wide, his eyes actually interested, his mouth pursed, ready to make words. “My son has been ill,” said Sultan Tummyfat. “My son, Prince Keen Nose.”

  I managed to make a tiny nod. The harim had talked of little else for days. Keen Nose was a favored son, Sultana Winetongue’s child. The harim thought he had been poisoned. Sultana Winetongue had rivals for the king’s affection, and her son was naturally the rival of every other woman’s son. Actually, there were a dozen sultanas’ sons competing for the king’s favor, not to speak of the constant ferment among the concubines, who bet on this one or that one, as though it were a race.

  Sultan Tummyfat continued. “My son will journey to the Hospice of St. Weel, to be cured. Someone must go with him, to attend to him, to amuse him. Obviously, we cannot risk any of our own…palace people. He has heard of you from his mother. He has asked for you.”

  “As…as the lord w-w-wills,” I stammered. Didn’t he know there were monsters out there, and strange trees that grabbed people in their viny hands and smothered them in leaves? Hadn’t he heard how people got turned into things at the Hospice of St. Weel?

  “Why is she shaking?” the sultan asked, slightly annoyed.

  Soaz murmured, “I suppose she’s frightened, Lord. The harim enjoys frightening the young ones with tales of afrits and jinni and the trees that walk, as well as the terrors of the strangers at the hospice.”

  The sultan nodded, caressing his chin with the back of his wrist, as though stroking a beard. “It is well known that all females are as gullible as the guz.”

  “Not all,” purred the eunuch.

  The sultan quirked his lips and replied, “Your people excepted, of course, Soaz. You pheledian folk—though orthodox in belief—are notoriously cynical.” He smiled in my direction, saying loftily, “The strangers are not ogres, girl. They are merely a different sort of people, not even as strange as the onchiki or the armakfatidi, and you’ve worked with the armakfatidi. The trees are our dear friends, as the teachings of Korè make clear. Besides, there will be an armed escort and servants. You’ll get to see something of the countryside.”

  Unable to speak, I bowed.

  “This is my son,” the sultan said.

  I turned to meet the eyes of the pale youth half reclining beside his father. He too was smooth faced, though he had two lines at the corners of his mouth, as though he gritted his teeth rather a lot. And he was thin. Perhaps he was in pain. He smiled, then laughed. It was the same laugh that had greeted my entry, a kind of malicious snorting. I felt myself turning red.

  “Thank you, my Lord Father,” said the young one. “She will do very well.”

  It was an indifferent voice. Neither kind nor unkind. Did he plan to laugh at me all the way to the hospice?

  Tummyfat stroked his son’s head, keeping his eyes on me. “Soaz, have her outfitted properly. Prepare a conveyance, if necessary, or an umminha, if she can ride. Can you ride, girl?”

  In the harim it was thought unfeminine, but it didn’t occur to me to lie. “Yes, Lord. There were umminhi on my grandfather’s farm. I had a filly of my own.” She had been a lovely caramel color, with a silvery mane. She had been very beautiful and very stupid and her name had been Honey. I wondered, as I did from time to time, what had happened to grandfather and the farm. I hadn’t seen him since the summer before father died.

  The sultan nodded. “Well, then. Good. Take her back, Soaz. See that she’s ready by dawn tomorrow.”

  We went back, me stumbling over my own feet, totally at a loss; Soaz making rumbling noises in his throat, preoccupied about something. He opened the courtyard door and shooed me through it, shutting it behind me to go off on business of his own.

  One of the personal servants was waiting, a squarely built, dark-haired person everyone called Frowsea. “Sultana Winetongue wants you,” she said, without preamble, taking me by one wrist. “Come, quickly.”

  She hauled me up a dim half flight of marble stairs and down the elaborately tiled corridor behind t
he royal balconies, stopping outside the curtained arch of the largest one. Though the curtains were heavy, a good smell leaked out, roasted veeble and onions and raisins and spice, making my mouth water. The curtain was lifted from inside, and I was dragged in.

  “There, there you are,” said the sultana, fastening her black-rimmed, long-lashed eyes on me, a hungry look, as though she might like to eat me. Her limbs were beautifully round and plump, and she was dressed in a low-cut shazmi that showed her smoothly ample breasts. “Have you seen my son?”

  “I saw Prince Keen Nose,” I said. “With his father.”

  “How is he? Did he look well?”

  I thought of lying and decided against it. Doubtless the sultana had spies among the servants outside, and if I lied, the sultana would learn of it.

  “He looked very thin, Uplifted One. As from a wasting disease. He was in good spirits, however. He laughed, several times.”

  “At you, no doubt,” said the servant. “Don’t they feed you, girl? What a draggletail.”

  I hid my annoyance at this, for whatever one might say about me, it was unfair to say I dragged my behind!

  “Her appearance is not why we picked her,” said the sultana. “Are you going with him?”

  “So says his father, Great Sultana.”

  “There, didn’t I tell you!” She pulled me farther into the balcony. Waist-high carved stone screens separated it from the courtyard beyond, with wooden sliding screens above to give privacy. The screens were closed and more of the sound-deadening draperies had been pulled shut inside them, making as private an enclosure as could be achieved in the harim. To one side an open arch gave upon a twisting staircase; one of only two ways to the sultana’s own rooms, above. The other was a corridor opening in the sultan’s quarters, to which he had the only key. This was common knowledge.

  “When?” the sultana demanded softly. “When do you go?”

  “Tomorrow morning.”

  “So soon,” breathed the sultana, tears in her voice. “Well, then. It’s good we were prepared. Were we correct in thinking you can ride? Or will my son need a palanquin?”

  “I think we are to ride. The Great Sultan asked if I knew how.”

  “Then the boy can’t be too ill,” murmured the other woman. “Not if he’s riding.”

  “Frowsea, that-bitch-Amberknees said he was like to die.”

  “That-bitch-Knees doesn’t care what she says.” The servant rummaged in a basket and began removing clothing. “Here, girl, try these on. We’ve been making preparations. Riding trousers. Shirts. A mantle. A cloak.”

  I took one look at the clothing and went rigid with shock. “Great Sultana, this is male clothing.”

  “And so it is! Did you think you’d be shut in like a lady, behind curtains? You’d be no good to him so. On the back of a beast, you’ll draw no attention. You’re a common person, and common persons are not slaved to tradition as we royals are. Because it is written that our remote ancestors wore veils and hid themselves in harims, so must we, to honor tradition, but commoners may wear whatever their malefolk allow. When you came here, you weren’t wearing lady’s clothes, were you? You’re skinny as a fencepost, titless as any boy, so let you dress like a boy. The matter will go easier for it.”

  She was right about how I’d been dressed when I came. It was true I’d had no flesh on me at all, and I’d been dressed in sandals, shirt and trousers that my half-brother had discarded long years before. I had no objection to wearing boy’s clothing, though considering the rules in effect in the harim, I wondered if she might not be risking beheading for it.

  “I have already spoken to Tummyfat,” said the sultana, as though she knew what I was thinking. “He will allow it. And I’ve spoken to my son. A caravan traveling with females or with treasure is a temptation to the angels and would lure bandits from as far as Isfoin. An armed troop, without females or treasure, travels safer than a caravan, though if someone important is along, seizure for ransom may be attempted. An armed troop following the banner of a minor, and thus unprofitable, official travels safer yet, which is the way you will go. I don’t want my son leaving one danger merely to fall into another.”

  I heard myself asking, “Was he really poisoned, Great Sultana?”

  Frowsea grasped my shoulder, lifting, and for a moment my feet left the ground.

  “Put her down, Frowsea!” said the sultana in a fervent whisper. “She didn’t mean to be impertinent; she’s merely curious.”

  Reluctantly, Frowsea set me down.

  The sultana said, “We don’t know that he was poisoned, girl. We are not priers and pokers, like those at the hospice, able to peer into our bodies to see what is awry. He may have been poisoned. He may have been cursed. He may simply be ill, there are illnesses enough that have no known cause. Whichever, among the Strangers at St. Weel, he may be healed, and the Great Sultan has permitted me this favor, to send him thence.”

  “He loves his son,” said Frowsea.

  “He loves his comforts,” said the sultana, pouting. “And those who know how to provide them. He has enough sons to afford wasting a good many. Such wastage is traditional. It is the custom of great kings to sow their seed widely, begetting sons by half dozens to assure much rivalry, much connivance, many plots, from which the clever, the ruthless and the strong emerge as victors to ascend the throne. Of such struggle comes tutelage in both diplomacy and power, creating a lineage to brag of!”

  She sighed. “Unfortunately, Keen Nose is not ruthless, as the king well knows. He is an intelligent lad, rather old-fashioned, cleverer than all his rivals! Also, he is my son, and the king favors me by permitting this journey. Now, girl, do you understand your place in this?”

  “No, Uplifted One. Except I am to tell the prince stories?”

  “We cannot send one of us! Obviously! So, we send you. You are to amuse him. Because you are still a virgin girl, shut in here since childhood, you are probably healthy and thus no threat to him should he require intimate services from you. No male has given you a disease, the stinking air of the markets has not tainted your lungs. Because you were well reared as a child and have been always well treated here, you have still a sweet and unwounded character that does not bite without warning. My embroiderers tell me you have skill with the needle. You cook well, so the armakfatidi say.”

  The armakfatidi were the kitchen people. I helped in the kitchen from time to time, and I had learned much. The armakfatidian people could taste things others could not and smell things others could not, and their dishes were recognized throughout all Tavor as the highest form of cuisine. Armakfatidian dishes, however, were not for commoners. Only the wealthy had sufficient treasure to hire armakfatidi and to afford the spices and flavorings they required, some of them from far, strange outlands. In Tavor, the armakfatidi mostly ran restaurants, grew specialty fruits and vegetables, or involved themselves in the perfume and spice trades.

  “Well?” the sultana prompted, waiting for an answer.

  “Yes, Great Sultana,” I said.

  “Yes, what?”

  “Yes, I cook fairly well, Uplifted One. Well enough to see your son does not go hungry or uncosseted.” Cosseting a scuinic prince went without saying. Scuini liked their food. “Yes, I can do ordinary stitchery, well enough to see his laces stay on and his headscarf stays hemmed and his stockings are darned. But I don’t know what you mean by intimate services….”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, child. He may need you to scrub his back. Something of that sort. Surely you didn’t think I meant…” She snorted, not finishing the sentence, amused by the thought.

  “No, Great Queen.” I turned red again. Of course the prince would not want sex with a…a draggletail, as Frowsea called me. Or one as untutored as I in the amorous arts.

  “Do you know where the Strangers live?”

  “I have heard they live afar. The Hospice of St. Weel is on the back side of beyond.”

  The sultana’s mouth twisted in amusement. �
�Not quite. Say rather the near side of beyond, on the west coast of the Crawling Sea. Pay great attention to everything on the way. Use your eyes well, and your ears. When you return, we will want you to tell us all about it.”

  As I tried on the various articles of clothing, I wondered why Sultana Winetongue had really picked me to go with Keen Nose. None of the reasons given seemed enough. And why not send a male? Males could scrub backs and tell stories, too. There was nothing gender specific about either! Perhaps Soaz would tell me the real reason. He was unlikely to have me beaten for impertinence so close to the time of departure, as this would inconvenience the prince and Sultan Tummyfat. On the other hand, if I proved too curious and importunate, they might choose someone else, and I really, really wanted to go! All in all, best keep my questions locked inside. Perhaps Prince Keen Nose would tell me on the way. Seemingly we were to have much time for conversation.

  I peeled off the last shirt. All the clothing in the pile would fit, more or less. None of it was too tight, though some was a trifle loose, as though made for a larger person.

  “That’s all right,” said Frowsea. “I’ll put the bigger ones in the bottom of the pack. It’s a long journey and likely you’ll grow into them.”

  The sultana directed me: “Pack your own shoes and underclothing and any small treasures you cannot bear to leave behind. Come up here before first light. Don’t say anything about the prince to those, down there.” The sultana gestured at the curtained wall, meaning the women in the courtyard. “Make up a tale, you’re good at that, but don’t tell them the truth. And here, girl. Put these in your shoes, or sew them into your underclothes. They are for my son’s help and safety. You may need them on the way.” And she spilled gems into my hands, cut rubies and emeralds and a shimmer of poinuid pearls, glowing blue as the depths of the sea. These pearls are fished up by the onchiki or the Onchik-Dau, all along the coast below Isfoin.