Singer from the Sea (9 page)

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.

“F
OR 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 man 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.”