by John Dalmas
Mostly, though, he managed to ignore the display, and being asked so many questions helped a lot. Hrummeans were especially interested in Almeon, its culture and government. Part of what he told them was truth, and part was lies well-rehearsed before he'd left home, with the Minister of State and with Kryger.
Eventually he had moments when no one was talking with him. It was one of these that Tirros Hanorissio interrupted. Brokols was standing beside a double garden door when there they were—Tirros and two lovely girls of about the mirj's age.
"Elver Brokols!" said Tirros, sounding delighted. "I'd hoped we might talk. My father told me I could if I'd behave myself and not intrude when others wanted to talk with you. I've been waiting to find you unoccupied."
Brokols nodded, concealing his annoyance.
"This," Tirros said, indicating the girl on his right, "is Marinnia. And this"—he nodded to the smaller of the two—"is Lerrlia. Twins, though they don't look it. Ladies, this is His Excellency, Ambassador Lord Elver Brokols of Almeon."
Both girls smiled, showing white and even teeth, and for the first time that evening, Brokols felt out of place in his Almeaic dress suit. And for the first time that evening he found himself truly distracted by decolletage, for theirs was dangerously lower. "I'm charmed," he said, somewhat short of convincingly.
"I've hoped I'd have a chance to meet you," Lerrlia answered. Her hair was straight and shiny black. Her eyes were sapphire blue, and they fastened on his. "It's intriguing to think of an entire nation, an entire people, that we'd never imagined existed. How long will you be in Hrumma?"
"I'm not sure. Presumably several years. I'm to learn all I can about you—about your country. The better to see the possibilities and potential problems for trade, you know, and develop proposals."
"I saw the ship you arrived on," she said. "What a marvelous vessel! And for more reasons than its size. There was the way it entered the harbor with neither sails nor oars!" She paused, an eyebrow raised. "I've heard it's driven by fires inside."
"True," Brokols said, "it is. Driven by fires inside." When he'd said it he felt his cheeks warm, and knew he was blushing. This is ridiculous, he thought.
She smiled again. "Perhaps you'll show it to me. When it comes back."
"Perhaps. Unfortunately though, it's not my ship. That would be up to its master."
Tirros had turned to a passing waiter, and when the man had gone on, the mirj had a glass in his hand. He held it out to Brokols. "I saw this and wondered if you'd tried one yet," he said. "It's called claerrmed. Very warming. Here."
Brokols had had one that looked like it earlier, but before he could say so, Lerrlia spoke again. "Try it," she said. "I think you'll be surprised."
He took it and sipped. It was different. There was a distinct bitterness, and a slow warmth began diffusing through his chest.
Her eyes were bright, expectant. "Did you like it?"
"I'm—not quite sure. It's a little bitter."
She laughed. All three laughed. "Here," she said, extending her hand. "Let me taste it."
He gave it to her, almost twitching when their fingers touched, and she raised it to her lips, then licked them with a pointed and delicate tongue. "Nice," she said, and gave the drink back.
Again their hands touched, and he felt it all the way to his chest. "Where will you go after the two or three years are over?" she asked him.
"I'm sure it hasn't been decided, or probably even thought about. Quite possibly I'll continue here, if I want to."
"Elver," said Tirros, "I have a boat, a pleasure boat. We'd planned to take a turn around the bay, in the moonlight, and hoped you'd come with us. We'll be glad to wait, if you'll be available after a bit."
Brokols raised his glass again and took a larger drink. Claerrmed. By then the warmth had diffused throughout his body, and colors seemed brighter, sounds clearer.
Pleasure boat. Pleasure droids. "I think I'd like that," he heard himself say. "Definitely I would like that."
Tirros grinned. "We'll wait. When you're ready to leave, go out in the garden." He motioned toward a pair of open doors. "We'll watch for you."
Brokols shook hands with all three of them, and watched them leave through the garden door. Then he sought out the amirr.
"Your Excellency," he said, "I've had a busy day, and with the food and drink, I've become rather sleepy. Does protocol allow me to leave soon?"
The amirr's brows lifted. "Of course, of course. Whenever you'd like. The reception is first of all for your pleasure, and surely no one can say that you've been other than approachable and affable." He looked around. "I'll have someone fetch Eltrienn for you."
"No no," Brokols said, "don't bother. He needs a vacation from me, or deserves one at any rate. I'll take a brief stroll around your grounds and walk home." He grinned, surprising the amirr as well as himself. "I drank more than I'm used to. It's less than a mile, your streets are safe, and the walk will do me good."
They shook hands, Brokols thinking how much more amiable the amirr was than the emperor; then he sauntered to an open garden door and out into the night. His eyes found no one else there just then. With a delicious sense of conspiracy such as he hadn't felt since he was twelve, he walked to a hedge that formed a shadowed alcove. There was a bench there, and he'd have sat down, but Tirros and the two girls were already coming, from a different door than he had. Recklessly Brokols waved an arm at them.
As they approached, he could feel his grin stretching his cheeks, and they grinned back. "I've had a carriage waiting," Tirros said. "This way."
The mirj led down a flagstone path to a marble balustrade, and he and Brokols let themselves over it to a lawn a bit lower than the garden. The girls had swung their legs over, too, and reaching up, Tirros grasped Marinnia by the waist and helped her down. A grinning Brokols followed his example, and when Lerrlia's feet touched down, he held her against him for a moment, looking into the eyes that sparkled at him. Then they ran, actually ran!, across the lawn to a waiting carriage, keeping to the shadows of a row of trees, arriving with low giggles, soft male chuckles, a vibrant sense of anticipation.
Tirros and Marinnia had gotten there first, and when he'd given an instruction to the coachman on top, Tirros opened the front door and helped her in, then got in behind her. Brokols and Lerrlia got in back. When they were seated, Tirros tugged a little cord and the carriage began to move, the hooves of the two kaabors clopping on the flagstoned street.
There was something in the drink, Brokols told himself as he reached for the girl beside him, and the realization didn't bother him at all. She was as eager as he, their hands groping, lips finding lips in the darkness.
He wasn't immediately sure whether to be glad when the carriage stopped. Straightening their clothes, they got out. They were near one end of the city's wharf, at a place where several pleasure boats were tied. Tirros gave their coachman instructions, and the man drove off into the darkness.
The boat they boarded had a sort of cabin forward, curtained with thick rich material that could be rolled up. Amidships and aft were eight deserted rowing stools, and in the stern a tiller. The oars lay in the bottom. Brokols chuckled. There were no oarsmen; of course not. Tirros had never intended an excursion. The front of the "cabin" was open, and they went inside. On either side was a broad couch, and Tirros and Marinnia lowered themselves onto one of them to take up where they'd stopped when the carriage arrived.
For just a moment, Brokols had a brief, faint unwillingness. There was no privacy here! But Lerrlia's quick fingers had moved to his buttons, and his reluctance evaporated.
* * *
He'd never imagined, truly never imagined, a night like that, nor anyone like she was. Nor a performance like his own! It was the drink, he knew, something in the drink, and she was a pleasure droid, beautiful beyond his dreams. When finally Tirros dropped him off in front of his apartment house, it seemed to Brokols he could detect the first hint of dawn in the east. His head was starting
to ache, and it was becoming difficult to stay awake.
Twelve
Although it was approaching full daylight, the morning sun would not clear the hills behind the city for an hour or more, and the stone-paved sidestreet was silent except for the chirp and flutter and occasional song of birds. That and, just now, the soft thud of leather-booted hooves as Eltrienn Cadriio jogged his kaabor through the cool down-alley breeze, all that was left of night. He'd seen almost no one since the sentries had saluted him out of the army compound, more than a mile away on the other side of the Fortress.
He was approaching the north side of the valley. The ground began to slope more strongly upward, and the street, which had been rather straight, started curving west to avoid the steepening, leaving behind first the almost solid ranks of buildings, then the paving blocks, and finally the last city dwelling. From there it was little more than a footpath across the firth's steep lower slope. Eltrienn stopped, dismounted, and removed the thick bullhide boots from his mount before riding on.
Gray dust was a thing of the season past; now the trail was moist and tan. Shrubs walled the path, their pungent leaves small and waxy, their blossoms just now opening to the morning. The sky was a high blue bowl, and sun touched the hilltop across the firth.
Rounding a curve, he saw the hut just ahead, on a small bench cleared of scrub. Its tile roof was faded, but its walls of chinked stone were newly whitewashed. Thin smoke hazed from a stone and mud chimney to dissipate seaward in the breeze. A man, having heard the quiet thud of hooves, peered out the open door, then stepped out of sight.
Eltrienn stopped at the edge of the clearing and dismounted, tying his reins to a stout bush. His kaabor could browse the twig ends. While he tied the reins, another man had come out of the cottage, recognized the centurion, and called quietly to him.
"Eltrienn! Brother!"
"Vessto!" Grinning, they strode toward one another and embraced, then at arms length looked each other over, the sage thin-bearded and now shave-headed, the soldier smoothfaced, with curly hair like a close-fitting cap.
"It's been quite a while," said Eltrienn.
Vessto nodded, beaming. "You look good, big brother. Stronger than ever. Hrum has been good to you."
"And you." Eltrienn cocked an eye at the lean body. "I wouldn't want to race you any longer."
Vessto laughed. "Which first: questions or breakfast?"
"Questions. I don't have time for both; I'm supposed to be somewhere else shortly."
"Then come." His brother led him to a steep and narrow footpath up which they scrambled, stiff twigs plucking at them, to a rock outcrop. There they sat down, Vessto on folded legs as if to meditate.
"So. Ask away," he said.
"Master Ganyell told me where to find you. He's heard you plan to stay at Theedalit and not go back to the Neck. Is that right?"
"For now at least."
"I've also heard that Panni Vempravvo recognizes you as a sage."
Smiling, Vessto shook his head. "You'd have to ask Panni. But I doubt it, although he treats me as a peer. I never became a master, never had the Awakening, so I can't see things from Panni's point of view. Or old Tassi's." He shrugged. "I have my talents though; in that, Hrum has gifted me beyond all but a rare few. I do what I do, say what I say. Others can make of it as they wish; that's not important to me."
Eltrienn nodded. He could feel the change in his brother. The adolescent Vessto had striven to seem special, sometimes flaunting his clairvoyance, and had resented the occasional gibes of other youths. That had been years ago, of course. Since then he'd spent years—four? five?—in the monastery at Liscotti's Vale. And most of a year as a mendicant; that might change a person too.
He wondered if Vessto knew his thoughts, here on this rock, could see without using questions to probe through the veil around his mind.
"I have a friend," Eltrienn said. "The foreigner, the ambassador from across the ocean. You've heard of him."
Vessto nodded.
"I've been assigned by the amirr as his guide and tutor. They know nothing of Hrum where he comes from, and he wants to learn. I've taken him to the central school, to talk with the senior teacher there, and then to the monastery, to Master Jerrsio. The answers he got didn't help him much. Actually, at this point, what he's really looking for is knowledge about Hrum and Hrummlis, not for the Wisdom of Hrum.
"And I wondered if you'd talk with him."
Vessto didn't answer at once, his gaze across the firth. Finally he looked at Eltrienn again. "You are my brother," he said. "If you ask me to talk to this foreigner, I will. But don't expect him to go away satisfied. One does not go to a sage for knowledge about, or to an adept. In his knowledge of Hrummlis and Hrum, he is like a little child. It would be better to show him the library at the Fortress, and let the librarian give him a children's book to start with."
Eltrienn had already asked the librarian to find one that said nothing about adept powers. The man had promised to see what he could come up with.
Vessto's face turned out across the firth again, his eyes losing focus. The brothers sat in silence for a minute or so before he looked once more at Eltrienn. "Yes, I will meet with your foreigner. I believe I'm supposed to. Bring him to me this evening, and I'll talk with him then."
* * *
It was his bladder that awakened Brokols. He was sprawled across his bed with shirt and underclothes still on, also a sock. His head hurt so badly, he knew better than to lift it suddenly. Even his eyes hurt. The drink, he thought, something in the drink.
With an inhaled hiss of pain, he rolled carefully onto his stomach, then off the bed onto his knees. He stood up more carefully yet, almost vomiting from headache, and wobbled to the toilet. His member was sore. The nightsoil man had emptied and limed the dump-trough below, of course, but still the smell threatened to sicken him.
Stilfos had heard him moving about, and peering round a doorjamb, saw him reenter the hall. Brokols avoided his eyes, and Stilfos decided not to mention breakfast. He'd heard when Brokols came in, and later, by daylight, had peeked in to see him sleeping partly dressed across the bed, shoes, pants, and hat on the floor. He assumed that his master had been drunk.
"Milord," he said quietly, "I've heated the tub, in case you're interested."
Brokols didn't pause or answer, barely nodded and went into his room. A few minutes later he shuffled back out in a bathrobe, and along the hall to the bathroom, which was separate from the toilet. There he stepped down gingerly into the water, hissing at the heat, seated himself neck-deep on the bench and stared blankly at the wall.
He had not been drunk; it had been nothing at all like drunkenness. There'd been something in the drink. And the girl—the pleasure droid—had been incredible. Truly incredible. But . . . he'd been manipulated, tricked, made a fool of. Tirros had added something to the drink, and the girl had known. He was sure of that. Probably she hadn't drank any herself, had only pretended.
Why had they done it to him? What purpose could Tirros have had? A practical joke? In Almeon it would have been a serious felony. And as a result, he'd exposed himself, fully naked, committed fornication and unnatural acts, witnessed others fornicating and allowed them to witness him.
No, worse! he told himself. He'd committed bestiality, because Lerrlia wasn't human!
As soon as he'd thought it, he rejected the thought. But the other crimes were severe enough. He stared bleary-eyed and unseeing. People in Almeon were not sinless. They offended against the Book of Forbiddances more than one heard or read about. Even members of the nobility did; he knew that. But he wondered if anyone, short of an utter criminal or lunatic, had ever committed such a battery of gross sexual sins in one night, even rejecting bestiality. And any Almaeic court of law would . . . well, they wouldn't reject the bestiality charge; it'd be the one they'd make the most of.
Yet somehow he didn't feel conscience-stricken at what he'd done. Nor fear that he'd be found out. What he did feel was that he ha
d alienated himself from his own culture, and wondered how he'd ever feel comfortable at home again, withholding what he'd done.
It also seemed to him that no woman in Almeon could ever attract him now, after the pleasure droid.
* * *
The amirr, Leonessto Hanorissio, was reading his mail. His eyes moved quickly, and at the end of each letter or report, sometimes sooner, he dictated comments or a reply. Then his secretary's pen moved with astonishing speed, the sound of its furious scratching broken only for a dart at the inkwell, a quick touch on the blotter.
When he'd read the last piece, the amirr sat back and stretched. "Any questions?" he asked.
"I think not, Your Eminence."
"Good." Both men got up. "I'll be out in the garden. Have Allbarin informed that I'm ready to hear him about the ambassador. With anyone he cares to bring with him."