Bill Fawcett

by Nebula Awards Showcase 2010 (v5)

  Janelle sat up, rubbing her eyes. She couldn’t stay here as the plaything of a warlord who wanted to conquer half of North America. She needed a library. Someone had invented Dominick’s gate. Pushing off the covers, she shivered in the cold air. She went into the other room and bathed, then dried off with a towel someone had left while she slept. Her clothes from yesterday were gone.

  As Janelle searched for something to wear, she kept noticing the walls. Something strange . . . ? Stepping closer, she peered at the mosaics. Wavelike curves intertwined in the tulip designs. She hadn’t seen them clearly last night because they were the same color as the swirling stems. The curves weren’t just wavelike, they were sinusoids: diffraction patterns, harmonics, or quantum wave functions, beautiful and elegant. They were too accurate for coincidence; someone had understood them well enough to reproduce the curves. It was another piece of the puzzle, along with the Fourier Hall and Riemann gate.

  Deep in thought, she returned to the bedroom. Someone had come in while she bathed; her robe was gone, and the bed had been remade, with fresh rugs and a jade-green bedspread. As she toweled her hair, she surveyed the empty room. She couldn’t dress without clothes.

  When the doorknob turned, she jumped. She barely had time to wrap herself in the towel before the door opened. The three women from last night stood there, each holding a large box decorated with abalone and opals.

  “Uh . . . good morning,” Janelle said, clutching the towel around her body.

  Her greeting seemed to be the signal they expected. They bowed and entered the room. The older woman took an ornate key off a hook under the lamp and handed it to a soldier outside. He closed the door, and a loud click came from the lock.

  Janelle watched them uneasily. “Why did he lock us in?”

  “For privacy.” The older woman spoke in the same slow voice she had used last night. “I am Farimah.” She introduced the younger women as Silvia and Danae.

  Janelle was becoming accustomed to the dialect and understood better this morning. It reminded her of times she had spent with the families of dignitaries who visited her father, how she had striven to learn their language. To her, such new words were gems strung together to create sparkling necklaces of meaning.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked, awkward in her towel.

  Danae offered her box. “It’s for your wedding.”

  Janelle felt the tickling in her throat that came when she was nervous. “Oh. Yes.”

  “The ceremony will take place immediately,” Farimah said.

  “His Highness has had word that the Emperor’s army gathers in the south. Prince Dominick-Michael and his men must leave today to discover what Maximillian plans.”

  Well, that was romantic; her groom intended to spend his honeymoon spying on his brother. It would give her time to adjust, though, and to learn about the gate.

  “We can wait for the ceremony until he returns,” Janelle offered.

  “He wishes otherwise.” Farimah’s voice had a definite edge.

  “Here, Lady Janelle.” Danae opened her box and revealed a treasure, gold hoops and rings, all inset with mother-of-pearl.

  “They’re stunning,” Janelle said. “But I don’t wear jewelry.”

  Farimah stiffened. “Generations of Constantine brides have worn these with pride. You consider yourself above them?”

  “No. No, I didn’t mean that.” Mortified, she tried to repair her faux pas. “I just don’t want to presume.”

  Farimah gave her a look that said plainly, You do. But she only said, “His Highness wishes you to have them.”

  “It’s kind of Dominick,” Janelle said.

  Farimah jerked up her hand as if to strike her. Then she took a deep breath and lowered her arm. Her voice was ice. “You will refer to His Highness as Prince Dominick-Michael.”

  Janelle wondered if she could say anything right. “I’m sorry. He told me to call him Dominick.”

  “Ai,” Silvia murmured. She glanced at Farimah with sympathy. To Janelle, she said, “Farimah did not know.”

  Before Janelle could further cram her foot down her throat and tickle her tonsils with her toes, Danae intervened by fastening a luminous torque around her neck.

  “These jewels will help ensure your safety,” Danae said.

  Janelle tensed. “My safety from what?”

  Silvia clipped a bracelet around Janelle’s wrist. “The heirlooms indicate you are wife to the emperor’s brother. With so much unrest in the provinces, a woman needs more protection than in normal times.”

  Janelle liked what she was hearing less and less. Running her fingers over the necklace, she realized it was a delicate version of the heavy chain Dominick wore. The bracelet had the same pattern as the abalone in his shirt cuffs.

  While Farimah put a belled chain around each of Janelle’s ankles, Silvia took out a blue velvet cloth with gold highlights. Then she waited. Janelle blinked at her.

  Farimah sighed as she rose to her feet. “It would be easier to dress you without the towel.”

  “Oh.” Embarrassed, Janelle let the cloth drop to the floor.

  “Goodness,” Silvia said, as if Janelle had achieved an impressive feat instead of just standing there naked and feeling like an idiot.

  “No wonder he wants to marry you so fast,” Farimah muttered. “Men see only one thing.”

  Silvia put the velvet cloth around Janelle’s hips. The skirt fit low on her pelvis, showing too much of her abdomen. The hem almost reached her knees, but a slit went up the left side to her hip.

  Janelle flushed. “I can’t wear this.”

  “Why?” Farimah asked. “It appears to fit.”

  “It shows too much skin.”

  Danae laughed good-naturedly. “What is a wedding for, but to entice the groom?”

  “Come now,” Farimah said. She knelt by her box and withdrew a girdle designed from beaten coins, with a border of little gold bells. Janelle squinted while they fastened it around her hips. Heavy and snug, the girdle fit over the skirt and sparkled with sapphires and mother-of-pearl. It jangled when she moved. Then Silvia brought out a bra made from silver coins, with loops of abalone and opal beads.

  Enough is enough, Janelle thought. “I can’t wear that.”

  Silvia considered the halter and then Janelle. “You are right. It is too small.”

  “I didn’t mean my breasts,” Janelle muttered. No one listened. Silvia went to the door and knocked. As the guard outside opened it a sliver, Silvia blocked his view of the room. A child squeezed past her, a girl of about three with black curls and a sweet face.

  Silvia glanced back at Janelle, her gaze malicious, then slipped outside and closed the door. Janelle stiffened, wondering what she had done to evoke Silvia’s hostility.

  The child ran to Farimah. “Fami!”

  The elderly woman laughed and reached for her. Then she froze, her gaze darting to Janelle. Panic surged over her face.

  Puzzled, Janelle gave the child a friendly smile. “Hello.”

  The girl hid her face in Farimah’s skirts.

  Farimah lifted the child into her arms, her attention riveted on Janelle. “My apology.” She sounded terrified. “I didn’t realize she had followed me here.”

  “It’s all right,” Janelle said. Both Farimah and Danae had gone deathly pale. Why? “She is welcome to stay.”

  “Thank you.” Farimah spoke stiffly.

  “She’s charming,” Janelle said. “What’s her name?”

  “Selena. Like her mother.”

  “You seem to know her well.”

  “She is my granddaughter.” Farimah took a breath. “I also care for her siblings. Her mother died in childbirth.”

  “I’m sorry,” Janelle murmured.

  The girl was watching her with big, dark eyes that somehow looked familiar. “You mama now?” she asked.

  Mama? Mama? Ah, hell. Janelle stared at Farimah. “She is Dominick’s child?”

  Farimah answered tightly.
“Yes.”

  Life grew messier by the moment. “How many does he have?”

  “Five.” Farimah was as taut as a coil. “The oldest is twelve.”

  Janelle wondered when he had planned to tell her. “Are they all your daughter’s children?”

  “Of course!” Anger flashed in her gaze. “After Selena came into his life, His Highness had no other women.”

  Janelle rubbed her neck, trying to ease her aching muscles. Selena hardly sounded like a concubine, if Dominick had lived monogamously with her for so many years, raising a family. Had some stupid prophecy kept them from marrying? No wonder Farimah resented her.

  Farimah’s fear also made sense now. Janelle spoke quietly. “Your grandchildren are welcome in my household.”

  Farimah just nodded, her posture rigid. But her frozen look thawed a bit. She took the girl to the door and gave her into the keeping of someone outside.

  Silvia returned then, watching them with an avid gaze. Janelle wanted to sock her. Silvia could have kept the girl outside and protected Farimah from that heart-stopping moment when the grandmother realized she would have to tell Janelle about the children. What had Silvia hoped to achieve? It didn’t take a genius to see women had little power here. It created a dynamic foreign to Janelle, an unstated enmity and maneuvering for sexual power. Silvia was a beauty, with glossy black hair and a voluptuous figure. Had she hoped for Dominick’s favor? Maybe she believed discord between his new wife and the mother of his former favorite could work to her advantage.

  Janelle had no interest in such machinations. Compared to this place, her world was so enlightened it glowed in the dark. She didn’t think women here would be burning their bras anytime soon. Given the halter Silvia was holding, they would have to melt the damn things.

  At least this one fit better than the last, though “fit” was a generous description. It held her breasts in a scanty gold mesh with a few jewels in strategic places and more of those bells fringing the bottom. Her groom would certainly have no trouble finding her, given all the noise she would make in this outfit.

  “This is the most appallingly prehistoric contraption I have ever seen,” Janelle muttered.

  Her companions regarded her politely. She didn’t think they had understood what she said. Frustrated, she added, “Why are guards outside of my door?”

  Danae answered obliquely. “As far as we know, Emperor Maximillian has no idea you are here.”

  “And if he did?” Janelle asked.

  “I would never speak ill of the emperor,” Farimah said,

  “to suggest he might brutalize you out of spite for Prince Dominick-Michael.”

  Janelle was starting to feel queasy. “Are all women here treated this way?”

  “Those with value are protected,” Silvia told her.

  “I’m afraid to ask what ‘value’ means.”

  “I should think it is obvious,” Farimah said. “Beauty. Youth. Fertility. Good birth. Gentle nature. Intelligence. You obviously have the first two. Maybe a few of the others.” She shrugged. “So if you lack the last, it does not matter.”

  Ouch. Janelle barely managed to hold back her retort.

  They ignored her protests and inflicted makeup on her next. Silvia brushed her hair, working until she had dried and fluffed up the curls. Then they took her into the bathing chamber, where a long mirror hung on the wall. Her reflection stopped her cold. She glistened in gold and sea colors. Her eyes looked larger and greener than normal, and her hair floated around her shoulders like a gold cloud. Even her bangs curled in traitorous perfection. She had to admit, the effect was impressive—and in that it became seductive. They turned her into a woman of mystery and beauty, and it tempted her to believe it increased her worth. That wasn’t a path she wanted to go down, one where her intelligence and character had less value than her body or fleeting youth.

  “That isn’t me,” Janelle said.

  “It will please Prince Dominick-Michael,” Silvia answered with strained patience. “That is the purpose, is it not?”

  “What about pleasing his bride?” Janelle asked.

  Farimah threw up her hands. “You are marrying him.” “Only because of a prophecy.”

  “Yes.” Farimah’s voice quieted.

  They left her then, so she could “prepare” for the ceremony. She had no clue what that entailed, but she suspected she was supposed to think of ways to entice the groom. She smiled wryly. Maybe she should entertain herself by deriving equations for the sinusoids on the walls. That ought to stir up Dominick’s libido.

  She stepped up on the bench in the bathroom to look out the window—at a spectacular panorama. Mountains towered on both sides, east and west. In the south, before her, they dropped to a mesa several miles distant, where mounted riders moved in chesslike patterns. Dominick’s army? It had thousands of men. She hoped that qualified as a large military, one comparable to the emperor’s, if Dominick’s brother was as bad as everyone implied. Then again, maybe Maximillian was a saint and Dominick just coveted his throne, as disenfranchised brothers had since time immemorial.

  Wood grated in the other room. Janelle returned to the bedroom and found a group of strangers waiting for her. Six older women stood in the front, their carriage and jewels surely marking them as noblewomen. Blue silk wraps covered them from neck to ankle, making Janelle even more self-conscious about her skimpy attire. Behind them, an array of servants carried platters of food.

  They offered her the feast and waited while she ate. Everyone declined her invitation to join in, but no one seemed offended by the thought. The meal was delicious, though odd, with Janelle standing up, surrounded by silent people, sampling foods and wine. Strong wine. Well, good. Right now, a few shots of whiskey would have done nicely.

  When she finished, they took her outside. Twelve warriors waited in the corridor, hulking in armor, with what looked like ceremonial broadswords on their backs, the gilded hilts inlaid with jewels. While the servants took off with the platters, the noblewomen and soldiers escorted Janelle the other way. She went in a daze. She wanted to believe this was a delirium; maybe a car had hit her and she was lying in a hospital. But it felt all too real.

  Up ahead, shouts echoed in the halls. It seemed out of place with the reserve of the people here. Apparently she wasn’t the only one who thought so; her escorts were slowing down. Those broadswords weren’t ceremonial after all, for the men drew the weapons, and the honed blades glittered.

  Crashes sounded in the distance. More shouts came, and the halls vibrated with a great pounding. The guards split their group into two, half of the warriors taking the noblewomen one way and the others hurrying Janelle into a side corridor. They ran hard, with drilled precision, while all around them the rumble intensified.

  A rangy soldier kept pace with Janelle. “We will go to tunnels under the palace,” he said. “They exit into the mountains.”

  She nodded, rationing her breath.

  The rumble surged into a roar—and raiders thundered out of a cross-hall, all astride biaquines. The man in front brought his mount to an abrupt halt, and it reared, its hooves smashing the pillar of an arch that framed the corridor. Dominick’s men skidded to a stop, but momentum carried the groups together. Biaquine screams rent the air, and metal rang as swords flashed. Janelle had about as much military knowledge as a toadstool, but it took no expert to see Dominick’s men were outnumbered and in trouble. She couldn’t understand how outlaws had broken into such a well-defended fortress.

  The rangy soldier pulled her into a side hall, and they ran hard down the corridor. The bells on her clothes chimed as if announcing their location. Only a few lamps lit the area. Despite the dim light, her guard took the turns with confidence, always choosing hallways too narrow for a biaquine.

  Until they hit a dead end.

  “Ah, no!” Janelle stopped, heaving in air. They were trapped.

  “Don’t worry.” Her guard stepped into a wall recess and pushed the tiles in what loo
ked like a combination.

  “What happened back there?” she asked.

  “I cannot say. I saw no symbols I recognized on those men.” He leaned into the wall and it slid inward, revealing a tunnel. Taking a lamp off a hook in the recess, he motioned her forward.

  She entered the passage. “Do you think they came to stop the wedding?”

  “I doubt it.” He shut the door, closing out the distant clamor. As they headed along the path, he added, “Emperor Maximillian is the person with the most reason to stop it, and those weren’t his men. Nor would he raid his brother’s home. Even if he were willing to commit such an atrocity, too much chance exists that in the heat of the attack, you would be killed despite his orders. He wouldn’t risk it.”

  Janelle blanched. His answer had an obvious corollary: whoever was raiding the palace had no qualms about killing her or anyone else.

  They followed an ancient tunnel. Cracks cut through the walls, and lichen encrusted them in eerie patterns. It wouldn’t have surprised her to see a wraith coalesce in the recesses where shadows pooled. The damp air smelled musty, and the stone chilled her bare feet. She shivered, wishing she had more clothes.

  Then it hit Janelle: not all those marks on the walls were cracks. Wave functions oscillated down here, too, engraved in the stone.

  She indicated the patterns. “What are those designs?”

  “Artwork,” her guard answered. “They’re all over the palace.” He looked apologetic. “These tunnels aren’t kept up well because so few people use them. The levels above are in better repair.”

  “Ah. I see.” In truth, she didn’t see at all. The designs looked ancient, which didn’t make sense to her.

  A murmur of flowing water came from ahead. The path widened into an open area, and a crude rail blocked the way, with walkways curving to either side. She went to the rail and looked down into a well about ten feet across. It plunged into darkness. She toed a pebble over the edge, and a good five seconds passed before she heard a faint splash.