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first?"
Nijon turned to Meshed. "You set the order," he said. Meshed was clearly
surprised.
"Delighted," he said, smiling.
Nijon was halfway to the river, where he planned to relieve himself, when he
realized why
Meshed was delighted: He planned to extort bribes from the headmen in exchange
for favorable positions in the queue.
Almost, Nijon turned to go back to prevent such exploiration  but then
decided that his full bladder and empty stomach were of more immediate
concern.
Nijon sat heavily down by the campfire. "Gods," he said. "What I would give
for an ale."
"You and me both," said Detros, sniffing curiously at the stew bubbling over
the fire.
Nijon was exhausted. He had spent an infuriating day listening to and
disposing of the
interminable petty disputes of his villagers.
"I had thought the noble's role," he told Detros, "was mercilessly to exploit
his subjects, extracting a maximum of revenue, then live a life of indolent
ease. I have had enough of this. I
am tempted to let them keep their taxes, if only they settle their own
disputes."
"Sounds good to me," said Detros. "Shall we head home tomorrow?"
"My lord," said Meshed, shocked, "what of your castle?"
"Let it rot," said Nijon. "What good is it?"
"But my lord," Meshed protested, "when the winter comes, King Manoos will
arrive."
Why in heaven's name should the king want to visit this wretched place? "I beg
your pardon?"
Nijon said. "During the rainy season, gharials infest Petok-great lizards, not
unlike"
"I know of the gharial," said Nijon.
"King Manoos loves the hunt," said Meshed, "and . . . but come, have you not
heard how my master, Count Naeren, lost his estate?"
"No," said Nijon.
"One of the duties of a noble of Purasham," said Meshed, adopting the stance
of a lecturer, "is properly to entertain his king when the court doth come to
call. There must be feasting, and merriment, and accommodations must be found
for all."
"Yes," said Nijon.
"The cost is easily borne by, say, the prince of Dreyadon, with his rich lands
and many slaves.
Alas, King Manoos enjoys the hunt too well and, two years gone, came forth to
Petok during the flood, to spear the gharial, that great reptile that infests
our waters. He stayed for nigh on three months."
"I fail to see-"
"Count Naeren, Sak give his soul respite, ran out of funds. By the third month
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of our sovereign's visit, the castle was down to koaki meat and moldy millet."
"The king took offense?"
"The king was displeased, but took particular offense when Naeren, a
hot-tempered man, declared Manoos a parasite and tyrant."
"Oops." "The king had him thrown to the gharials, and sold his family to
Miletian slavers."
"Charming," said Nijon.
"The king will undoubtedly visit us next flood," said Meshed despondently. "He
does enjoy the gharial hunt. And he will expect, of course, adequate
accommodation in Castle Hekhat. If it remains in ruins-"
"That does it," said Nijon, scowling. "I am getting shot of this pestilential
hole."
Late summer in Purasham: slate gray skies, shimmering heat, sweat on every
brow. The populace spent midday sitting under awnings and drinking copious
small beer; only with the evening did life revive.
King Manoos had ordered that the banquet be held in the gardens, among verdant
vines; the palace halls were stifling. Outside it was cooler, but only
slightly so; there was no breeze to cut the heat.
Braziers burned around the banquet site, slaves tossing spices onto the coals;
supposedly, the smoke warded off insects. If so, the effect was not apparent;
all of the guests reached out to slap from time to time.
Nlavi reclined on her couch and toyed morosely with her honeyed yoghurt,
scratching idly at a bite.
"So, my poppet," Mesech bellowed, "what do you think of that?"
He had been chattering loudly with a bevy of merchants; she had paid them no
attention, preferring the company of her own unhappy thoughts. "Just as my
lord wills," she said hopelessly.
Mesech laughed, and returned to his companions. Idly, Nlavi watched as one of
those little weasels Poran had brought back from the southern plains darted
beneath the table-after a rat, perhaps, or merely a morsel some diner had
tossed to the earth. She sighed.
"Why so downcast, my lady?" asked a voice. Nlavi looked up; standing over her
was a man in
Motraian military tunic, very tall. He was young and tousle-haired; around
green eyes were the lines that come with squinting into the sun, across the
plain and battlefield. His shoulders were broad, arms tanned; well-muscled, he
moved with unconscious grace. He was, thought
Nlavi, extraordinarily handsome.
"I have been to these affairs since before I could speak," said Nlavi, "and it
is hard to summon up any emotion, let alone happiness, in this dreadful heat.
Come, sit here." She swung up her legs to make room on the couch for the man.
He sat down, and gestured toward a servant, summoning bock beer for them both.
Nlavi had never been fond of bock's bitter taste, but made no protest. "Are
you with the satrap's entourage?" she asked, eyes following the lines of the
muscles that corded his neck.
"The commander of his guard," he said, smiling. "My name is Gerekh. I shall be
leading the wedding procession." Nlavi sighed.
"The prospect does not appeal to my lady?"
She looked toward Mesech, who was shoveling chickpea paste into his ample
cheeks with triangles of bread and guffawing at some witticism at the same
time. "Is that a man to quicken a maiden's heart?" she said with loathing.
Gerekh looked at her sidelong, with green, green eyes. There was a few days'
stubble on his face; Nlavi had pictured "clean-shaven" Motraians as having
faces smooth as those of women, but shaving with a bronze edge was no easy
thing, and a bit of stubble was usual with them.
It made them look not feminine, as she had imagined, but quite strangely
virile. "Is it not customary among your people to marry for political
advantage?" he asked.
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His Agondan was very good, Nlavi thought; he spoke well, but his Motraian
heritage left the tiniest accent, enough to sound exotic and alluring. "Yes,
of course," Nlavi said.
"Why then does the prospect displease you so?" asked Gerekh, moving a little
closer. His eyes were so very green. Blond hair carpeted his sun-dark arms;
strong veins ran across them, calling attention to the fine muscles. "We of
the satrap's household live well: His kitchen is of the best, he possesses
palaces and villas in a dozen lands. Gardeners, slaves, cooks, brewers, and a
hundred others toil constantly for the ease and enjoyment of his companions.
You will have the choicest delicacies, bards to regale you, instruction in all
the world's lore; you may travel anywhere within the Emperor's wide realm,
confer with priests of every sect 
whatever may please you, for you will be one of the great ladies of the land."
"You make it sound appealing," said Nlavi. That low voice of his was music,
his attentiveness charming. Despite the yoghurt, her head felt light, her
mouth dry. Was it merely the heat that made her feel this way  or his
nearness? "Still, I cannot imagine. . . ." For a moment, she was unable to
continue-then finished, in a rush, "I do not look forward to my wedding
night."
She looked away, blinking to hold back tears.
"I understand," said Gerekh gently, leaning even closer; she could feel his
sweet breath on her cheek. "But you have little to fear on such a night."
Nlavi looked at him hopelessly, his face so close to her own. The beads of
sweat on his brow, which in another man would have been disgusting, on him
looked like the dew on newly opened blossoms.
"You see," Gerekh murmured, his green eyes holding her own, "the satrap is a
sensitive man.
He would not force himself on the unwilling."
Nlavi could not hide skepticism.
"Yes," Gerekh insisted, giving her hand the briefest touch, "it is so. You do
not know him well.
Besides-the satrap has little interest in the fairer sex. Quite the, ah, [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]