The coming year whispered change, and there were many listening.
The first was the emperor. Unofficially, he set his wife, Rasenna, aside. He hadn’t ended the marriage officially, but he’d ordered her to make an extended tour of the Outer Provinces.
There was still no heir, male or female. It had been whispered before that Tenedos was trying to solve the problem with any woman available, although of course one sufficiently noble to carry an emperor’s son, and I remembered the giggle I’d heard in Kallio. The rumor was now confirmed, and the number of women coming in and out of his quarters was a mild scandal.
The first to become pregnant, another rumor suggested, would be the emperor’s new bride. I wondered if there were women foolish enough to attempt to fob another’s work off as the emperor’s, and shuddered, knowing Laish Tenedos would use every sorcerous test to make sure the child was truly his, and bring the most terrible punishment on anyone trying the cowbird’s game.
The next change came early one morning. My household guard was drilling in the courtyard, and I’d just finished my daily morning exercises. Marán was drowsing awake, alert enough to watch my press-ups and murmur “Very sorry, Baron, but the lady appears to have moved,” when I heard a carriage in the drive. I pulled a towel about me and went to the windows. The carriage’s door opened and Amiel Kalvedon got out and hurried up the steps. I wondered why she was calling on us at this hour. She, even more than Marán, loved the midnight times, and seldom rose before midday.
There were hasty footsteps in the corridor, and before I could reach my dressing gown, the door came open and Amiel was inside. Her eyes were red, and she wore no makeup and a heavy cloak. She saw Marán, burst into racking sobs, ran to the bed, and threw herself in my wife’s arms, not even noticing my near nakedness. I wondered what in the hells had happened, and determined, uncomfortable as any man when a woman cries, to slip away and unravel the catastrophe later. But Amiel saw my cowardly move.
“No. Please, Damastes. Don’t leave.”
So I didn’t. But I did put my robe on, and sat, uncomfortable, until Amiel brought herself under control.
“He threw me out,” she managed to sputter. “Out of my own house. That bastard! That lying, opportunistic, bed-wetting son of a bitch!”
Marán made soothing noises, and little by little, between outbursts of crying and swearing, Amiel told us that Pelso had come home at dawn, more than a little drunk, and said their marriage was over and for her to be out of their house within the hour. He’d have her things sent wherever she wished, but he said “he could stand this farce no longer and had to be with the one he truly loved.”
I’d often wondered if it were possible to maintain a marriage like Amiel’s and Pelso’s, and cynically had thought not. In fact, I’d wondered why, if they wanted to sleep with anyone they met, they’d bothered to take vows at all. I’d asked Marán once, and she said that they really liked each other’s company and were the best of friends. More than evidently the “friendship” was over.
We got Amiel calmed, and I had soothing teas brought up, and we found out the final blow had been struck when Pelso’s lover’s brother, the governor of Bala Hissar, had let it be known he wished his sister married and was willing to settle a large sum in gold on her groom.
“So the shitbutt cast me aside. All I’ll have is what he’s good enough to give me,” she said through gritted teeth, torment now turning to rage. “All that my father gave as a dowry, all that we’ve gained through our investments — all that will be his and his alone. I’ll have nothing.”
“I think not,” Marán said. “I know some people who’ll have a talk with him. I consulted them when my own marriage ended. I doubt he’ll want this matter to become as big a broadsheet scandal as I might arrange.”
Amiel started crying again, moaning about having no one and nowhere to go.
“Don’t be silly,” Marán said. “You’ll stay here now. With us. Isn’t that right, Damastes?”
Certainly she hadn’t needed to ask me, when I remembered how good a friend Amiel had been, from our very beginnings. I sat down on the bed and began stroking Amiel’s shoulders.
“This is your home now,” I said gently. “From now until you die, if you wish.”
So it was that Amiel, Countess Kalvedon, came to live with us.
• • •
The emperor sat motionless at his desk, the top of which was made of various colored woods forming a map of Numantia, sealed in a clear glass. Behind him on the wall hung an ornate sword and, beside it, an equally flamboyant wand. Two braziers, taller than a man, sent red flames swirling up toward the chamber’s high ceiling, flames that never smoked or emitted heat.
The emperor’s face was stern, hard. “Sit down,” he ordered, and I obeyed. There was only one thing on his desk, a standard heliograph message form, some pages long. “Here. Read this. It came from King Bairan yesterday near dusk.”
I read it once, then again, more carefully. The document was amazing. Bairan opened with a greeting using all of the emperor’s titles. He had finally received word from the frontiers about the terrible incident in question, the unfortunate fight between soldiers of our armies. He said various explanations had been offered, and he was satisfied with none of them. He’d ordered a royal commission of inquiry, which would provide a true and complete story within a time, perhaps two. But in the interim, he wished to extend his fullest apologies to the emperor and to the Numantian Army. The Maisirian unit had been restricted to barracks and would be dissolved. Its men would be broken to the ranks and sent to other units. The three officers in command had been hanged as common criminals. As for the native auxiliaries, he’d have them tracked down.
He’d further ordered all border units to withdraw two full days’ march back of the frontiers, to make sure another terrible occurrence like this wouldn’t happen. He promised to make generous restitution to the widows and children of the slain Numantians and would hardly object if reparations to the state of Numantia were required.
I whistled. “Sire, your diplomatic note must’ve been incredible. I’ve never heard of any king being this humble.”
“That’s what you think, eh?” the emperor said coldly.
“What else could there be?”
“Read the end of his message again.”
The last two paragraphs said the king was tired of the bickering about the border between Numantia and Maisir and would like to arrange a conference between the two rulers to settle the lines. In addition, it was time to consider the Border Lands, long a prickle to both countries, and devise a solution that would make everyone, except perhaps the bandits of those regions, content. It was time, the letter said, “for absolute peace to reign.”
“My congratulations, sir,” I said.
“You believe all that?” His tone was a sneer.
“Well … I don’t have any reason not — Yes, sir. I do. Shouldn’t I?”
“Now we see,” the emperor went on, “why sorcery is given to but a few who are capable of piercing the veil and seeing beyond words, seeing truth, seeing what is real.”
I blinked, wondering why I’d been rebuked.
“King Bairan sends this message, and might as well have crawled from the borders on his knees. He abases himself,” Tenedos said. “Why?”
“Maybe he’s afraid of provoking you?”
“Perhaps,” the emperor said coldly. “Or perhaps he’s trying to buy time to build up his army. Or perhaps he’s planning a surprise attack. My magics have sensed something building, something coming, something from the south. Or perhaps his hidden dagger lies in this prattle about a conference. It wouldn’t be the first time that a kingdom was betrayed under a flag of peace, would it?” Tenedos was barely controlling rage.
“No, sir,” I said, my voice neutral.
“Very well,” Tenedos said. “He chooses to hide in silk. We shall do the same. For the moment. Damastes, you remember that the post of general of the armies was never filled after General Protogenes’s death?”
Of course I did. It was gossiped about in the officers’ messes, and everyone wondered if the emperor were keeping that title for himself. Older officers said this was more important than it appeared, for a king who attempted to be all things would end by being none of them. It mattered not at all to me — the emperor controlled the army with or without the title, for we’d sworn an oath to serve him, and there were few fools in uniform who wished to return to the old days of puffery and nonsense.
“Tomorrow morning you shall be named to that post,” the emperor said. “I shall be studying this matter of Maisir even more intently than before and will need to spend a great deal of time in other worlds and times to touch the heart of this matter. I want the army to continue to be a smooth, fine-running mechanism and know you, as first tribune, will guarantee that.”
I knelt.
“Get up, you damned fool,” the emperor said, a smile pushing across his face. “All I’ve done is create more work for you … although I still want you to concentrate on building my Imperial Guard. I believe we shall need them sooner than ever, and more of them then I’d planned.”
Obediently I rose, saluted. The emperor nodded dismissal. I walked backward to the door, reached behind me, and opened it. As I went out, I glanced back at the emperor and saw his face darken. He held the heliograph transmission in both hands.
“You bastard,” he muttered. “You cowardly bastard! Trying to ruin everything!”
• • •
The delowa may be the only sausage ever banned for immorality. About a hundred years before I was born, the always-incompetent and generally laughable Rule of Ten looked around for something to be outraged about. The Festival of the New Year caught their eye.
Numantia has always celebrated the New Year with the first glimpse of spring. For one full day all work ceases, and most laws are ignored. Traditional customs are suspended or reversed. Lords dress and act like peasants, and peasants become ladies. Men become women, women men, and frequently they let their dress dictate their behavior.
One symbol of the festival is the delowa, and the first time you see one you realize the Rule of Ten wasn’t utterly foolish. It’s made of white chicken meat, egg yolks, bread crumbs, salt, pepper, parsley, chives, thyme, and savory. These ingredients are well mixed, then carefully stuffed in casing about ten inches long by two inches in diameter. The casing is string-tied flush at one end, then at the other the meat is patted into a taper, and finally the casing is tied off at that end with just a bit protruding. It looks very much like a man’s cock. The sausage is boiled, then smoked for a short time, then grilled by sidewalk vendors. The image is further encouraged by the special bun the delowa is served in, a cradle closed on either end. For spicing, a hellishly hot white sauce made from Hermonassan peppers is spread, and then the sausage is ready for the lascivious eater.
The Rule of Ten tried to ban not only the festival, but its symbol as well. The result was that the nobility were mostly forced indoors with the wardens and officials and ignored what was going on around them, while the masses ran riot, doing vast amounts of damage. After that year the ban was never mentioned again, and things returned to happy anarchy.
“We are,” Marán announced one evening after dinner, “going to celebrate Festival three days hence as it’s never been celebrated before.”
A smile came to Amiel’s lips, something that was very welcome. She had been trying hard to be her usual cheery self, but with infrequent success.
Marán had followed through on her promise, and the men of the law had attacked Pelso like rabid weasels. He must have been surprised at their ferocity, for he and his ladylove fled the capital for the temporary anonymity of Bala Hissar.
“I’m game,” I announced, then reality struck. “But there’ll be a bit of a problem.”
“Problems exist to be overcome,” Marán said, in her most royal manner.
“Excellent. Attack this one: There are certain people in Nicias who do not wish either you or I well.”
“The Tovieti,” Marán said.
“Yes. So if we go out, we’ll have to have a great clanking set of bodyguards with us. I’m sorry.”
“Hmm,” my wife said. “Well, what had you planned?”
“Not much,” I said. “I thought I’d work until dusk. Then maybe we could invite half a dozen friends in for dinner and watch the fire-play and apparitions on the river afterward.”
“How fascinating. Lady Kalvedon,” Marán said, “bear you witness to the fact my husband, once in the forefront of frolic, has turned into a pooptitty.”
“A pooptitty?” I snickered. “What, pray, is that?”
“Look you in the mirror,” she said. “Come, Lady Kalvedon. We women will, as usual, save the day.” She took her friend’s hand and stalked out.
I thought wistfully of the festival, and how I’d only once been in Nicias at Festival with my wife. But no one ever said, as the soldiers put it vulgarly, generalling was all bangles and blowjobs.
• • •
That night Marán announced, quite smugly, that she’d solved our problem. She refused to say how. I thought I’d subvert her and find out from Amiel, but all her friend would do was giggle and say I’d see, and it would be even better than Marán had predicted.
• • •
“Oh ye who lack faith in the true magic,” Seer Sinait intoned, “now ye shall weep bitter tears.”
“And then carouse until dawn,” Marán put in. They were behind my seer, trying to stay straight-faced. Sinait carried a small case of instruments and a tiny flask. She set both on the table, opened the case, took out chalk, and drew on the library floor.
“This is not a spell,” Seer Sinait said, as she marked figures inside a strange triangle with curving sides, “so much as an anti-spell. We use hyssop, slippery elm, squaw vine, yellow dock, goldenseal, and others. But where these herbs are generally beneficial for vision, we will cast a spell of polarity. If you three would now stand at the points of this figure …”
We obeyed, and Sinait stood in the center. “The words I use have power,” she chanted, “power of themselves, power to give, power to take. Let not your ears hear what I say, lest these words take power over you,” and as she spoke I was suddenly deaf. Her lips moved, but I heard nothing. The sound from the crowds already thronging the riverfront outside was gone. I remained deaf for several moments, then she took a small, leafy branch from a belt pouch and swept it in measured gestures at us, and hearing returned. “Now, each of you come here, and let me touch you with this ensorcelled branch. First you, Damastes.” I obeyed, then she summoned the other two. “That’s that,” she said briskly.
“What’s what?” I asked.
“That’s my protective spell,” she said. “Quite a good one, too. It’ll take a master magician to see through it, and he’ll have to be concentrating. I think you’ll like its effects. When someone looks at you, they’ll not recognize you, even if they’re a close friend. They’ll think, dimly, you resemble someone they know, but of course it can’t be you. A stranger will not be interested at all, and his or her eye will seek to pass on, to more interesting sights. Of which I doubt not there’ll be plenty on this night,” she went on. “Now, however, if you do wish to be seen, all you have to do is whisper ‘Pra-Ref-Wist,’ preferably without laughing at the silly words, and the person you’re looking at will recognize you.”
“I told you, Damastes,” Marán said, “I’d figure out a way to not need bodyguards.”
I grinned. “It’ll be as if we’re children again, and our parents are away for the night.”
“Exactly,” Marán said. “But even better. Do your second marvel, Seer.”
Sinait walked to the table and picked up the flask. “I’ll need three drops of blood,” she said. “One from each of you.”
“What does this one do?”
“This is what I’m proudest of,” Marán said. “Something Amiel said made me come up with the idea. She told me once she was sorry that you can’t drink.”
“Won’t, actually,” I said. “Tastes like dung and then my head’s the source of the dung for the next day.”
“But there’s something to be said for wine,” Amiel said. “It loosens the mind and gentles the senses. Some, anyway. Others it makes more acute.”
“Then you’re throwing up in the gutter,” I said.
“So what we want,” Marán said, “is something that’ll give you all the good that drink can bring, but none of the evil. I consulted Devra, and she said such a potion was possible. Amiel suggested we should all take the same potion, so we’re on the same level.”
“What’s in this potion?” I asked suspiciously.
“A bit of a lot,” the seer said. “Nothing that magical, other than that I said an efficacy spell when I mixed the potion, like a cook sautéing his spices for greater effect. As to what’s specifically in it, mostly herbs from the Outer Islands. Some you might recognize, like Carline thistle, lovage, water eryngo, gelsemine, centaury, sweet flag root, three or four varieties of mushrooms — the usual witch’s hell-broth, in other words.”
“Do we drink it or pray to it?” I asked skeptically.
“First your finger,” Sinait said, and there was a needle between her fingers. It darted, and a drop of blood welled on my fingertip. She held the flask under it and the blood dropped, further discoloring the murky solution. “This, and some things I did earlier, will seal the potion to you.” She did the same for Marán and Amiel. “Now drink,” she said. “Share it equally.”
We obeyed. The mixture was bitter, tangy, but not unpleasant.
“Now what do we do?” Marán said.
“Whatever you wish,” Sinait said. “The potion will be quite long-lasting, well into tomorrow morning.”
“When will we know what its effects are?” Amiel asked, a bit nervously.
“You will know when you will know,” Sinait said. “And there’s certainly nothing to fear. All that I put in it is natural.”
“So are nightshade and fly agaric,” Amiel muttered, but appeared a bit reassured.
“Have a good time,” Sinait said, and I swear she was about to add “children,” but caught herself and bowed out.
“That is that,” Marán said. “Now, what do we wear? I didn’t have time to plan a costume.”
I went to the window and opened the shutter. For once the sages were right in their weather prediction, and I felt spring rushing on the land. A warm, gentle breeze blew off the river, and I thought I could smell the sea, miles north of us, about to awake to Jacini’s gentle touch.
Marán and Amiel looked at each other. “Come,” my wife said. “Let’s raid our closets. Damastes, meet us downstairs in two hours. Dress sensibly, for we’re going to be the peacocks this night.”
I bowed obediently. This night was to be entirely Marán’s show.
• • •
I chose a flowing silk tunic in the deepest blue, black pants and kneeboots, with a matching cloak treated to be waterproof, remembering how quickly Nicias’s weather could change. Even though Sinait said it wouldn’t be necessary, I took a simple black domino. I opened one of my arms cabinets, but decided I’d be in no jeopardy this night. I considered how seldom I’d gone unarmed over the years, but put the thought aside as possibly depressing.
A few minutes after the agreed time the women came downstairs. Both were dressed very simply. Amiel wore a lavender silk button-front dress. It was strapless, and she had the top two buttons unfastened, so it was quite beyond me how it stayed up, barely covering her jutting breasts. She wore matching sandals with leather straps curling up around her lower leg. The silk was very thin, and I could glimpse her rouged nipples. Around her neck she wore a matching scarf, and a simple eye mask in the same color was atop her head.
Marán had chosen a dress of knit red cloth that fit her body like a sheath from her ankles to just above her waist, where the material came to a point under her right arm. A gold catch held a triangular cloth of the same color that ran over her left shoulder, then down her back, leaving her midriff and right shoulder to just above her breast bare. Her shoes were slip-ons and, like her feathered mask, matched her dress. Each carried a cloak over her arm.
“And aren’t we gorgeous?” Amiel said. “The prettiest threesome in Nicias.” Her mood changed suddenly, and she looked sad. “Isn’t it a pity the four of us never went out more than we did? Perhaps …” Her voice trailed off, and she shook herself. “Sorry. I’m being dunceish, aren’t I? We don’t need anyone but the three of us.”
“No,” Marán said softly, seriously. “We don’t.”
We went out into Festival.
• • •
The riverfront was thronged with people laughing, drinking, eating. Some wore costume, more did not. We marveled at a man and a woman dressed as cowled demons, who must’ve spent an entire year working on their outfits, then a goodly sum on the sorcerer who animated them, for in place of the monsters’ fearsome faces were mirrors, but instead of merely reflecting they showed the faces, magically warped into evil, of those who peered under their hoods.
We started for the artists’ quarter, where Festival was celebrated with the greatest dedication.
There was a ten-piece band, earnestly playing a song that had been on everyone’s lips last year. In front of each musician was a mug. But instead of holding money, it held alcohol, and any passerby with a flask was invited to pour a measure into it. I wondered what the always-changing concoction tasted like, and winced.
There were about twenty dancers weaving about the band, and as they spun, each shed a garment. Some were already naked.
“What,” Marán wondered, “will they find to do in twenty minutes? They’ll all be bare as babes by then.”
“Maybe put everything back on and start over,” I hazarded.
“Or maybe they’ll find some other way to pass the time than dancing” was Amiel’s guess.
• • •
I felt myself grinning, without any particular reason. My body was wonderfully, comfortably warm, and the night was alive with wondrous scents. The people around us were marvelous to behold, whether they were rich, poor, ugly, or handsome. I looked at Amiel and Marán, and knew there were no two more beautiful women in all Numantia, and no one’s company I’d prefer. Everything was soft, gentle, good. My cares about my duties, my worries about Maisir — all were meaningless. I was in complete control, my senses heightened, not altered. All that mattered, all I should concern myself with, was this moment in time that would last forever, when everything was permitted and no one could mean anyone harm.
Amiel smiled at me, and I knew she was thinking the same as I.
Marán hugged me. “I think,” she said softly, “there was some potion in that potion.”
Hunger came, and we found a line of stalls, and then tried to decide which delowa vendor had the tastiest wares. We settled on one, and he took three of the sausages from the grill, their aroma floating around us, and slid them into their obscene buns. He ladled the fiery white sauce over them and passed them across.
Another stand sold drinks. Neither Amiel nor Marán wanted wine, so we bought three fruit punches, found a quiet corner, and sat on a stone wall.
Marán took her sausage from its holder. “I always start like this,” she said, protruding her tongue and licking sauce from the meat, looking at me as she did, tongue curling around and back.
“I prefer getting straight to the heart of the matter,” Amiel declared and took a crunching bite of sausage and bun.
“Ouch,” I said. “So much for sensuality.”
“Not so.” Amiel used her tongue to scoop sauce from the bun, stuck it out at me, then curled it back into her mouth. “Some prefer it before, some after,” she said.
My cock stirred, and I concentrated on my own meal.
We were in a many-angled square, and in its center were perfume trees, still without buds, but the trees’ aroma drifted over me like a curtain. There was a street magician with a small stand and quite a large crowd around him.
“Look ye, look ye,” he bellowed. “Let me take you beyond this time, this place. Let me show you the terrors, the wonders of another kingdom, the evil kingdom of Maisir.”
His wand swirled, and red fire dripped from it, fire that vanished before it could reach the ground. Above us stretched a foreign sky, and there were vast snowy deserts, then plains that went on forever, then a huge city unlike anything I’d ever seen. It was built of wood, wood painted in a thousand different colors. There were towers, some conventional, some shaped like elongated onions, others in more subtle geometric shapes. I knew it instantly from my reading — Jarrah!
“This is the heart of evil, the Maisirian capital,” the sorcerer announced. “See its riches,” and we were outside a palace. One wall vanished, and everything inside was gold, silver, riches.
“Ripe f’r th’ lootin',” someone shouted.
Another image came, and we saw a young girl, in peasant woolens, screaming in silent fear, as a ruffian carried her away from a burning hut. We saw her again, and this time she was nearly naked, her body clad in translucent silk. There was still fear on her face, especially as a fat man, wearing fantastic garb, stood nearby. He beckoned, and she shook her head. Again he motioned, and this time she went after him, slowly, reluctantly, dread on her face.
“That’s what th’ king a’ Maisir does wi’ his virgins,” someone shouted, and I realized, perhaps with the heightened awareness of the potion, that the same man had shouted both times. I looked closely at the magician, and recognized him. It took a moment to pull his name from my memory. It was Gojjam, and I’d last seen him years ago, giving a rousing speech to the soldiery before Dabormida.
He was no more a street magician than I, but was busily keeping the emperor’s agenda alive. I wondered whose gold he pocketed — Kutulu’s, the emperor’s, or perhaps the Chare Brethren. But this was no night for thoughts like these.
• • •
Nicias is named the City of Lights for the enormous gas deposits under its rock, gas that’s been channeled until the meanest house has free light for the striking of a match. At Festival the valves are turned up, so Nicias is aflame from one end to the other. Here are pools of light, there pools of darkness. Some seek one … and some the other.
A fortune-teller, old, with a white beard almost to his knees, had a stand. We admired its elaborate woodwork. He looked up at us, but said nothing, waiting.
“I already know my fortune,” I said, and so I did, having had it told at my birth when my mother consulted a wizard and he’d said, “The boy will ride the tiger for a time, and then the tiger will turn on him and savage him. I see great pain, great sorrow, but I also see the thread of his life goes on. But for how much farther, I cannot tell, since mists drop around my mind when it reaches that moment.” I didn’t understand the prediction, nor did my parents, but those dark words kept me from ever consulting another seer.
Amiel shook her head as well. “I don’t want to know about tomorrow,” she said. “If it’s good, then I’ll be surprised; if it’s bad, I don’t want to worry.”
Marán asked me for a silver coin. “What do you examine, seer?” she asked. “My palms?”
“I’ve already made my examination,” the old man said quietly.
“So what is to come?”
The fortune-teller started to answer. Then he looked at all three of us, shook his head, and tossed the coin back. “Not at Festival” were his only words.
“What does that mean?” Marán demanded.
But the man was looking down at his table.
Marán’s face darkened. “How in the hells can he make any money, being like that?” she demanded. “This is a complete waste of time!” She walked away quickly. Amiel and I exchanged glances, then followed.
In a few minutes, my wife’s good spirits returned. It may have been the potion, but just as likely the laughter, the music of many bands, from official orchestras to neighborhood groups to the piping of a cheery drunk on his tin whistle.
A man stood in a deserted square, his arms moving as if he were conducting a full orchestra. There were no musicians to be seen, but music swelled, flared around us.
A column of bears moved past, as if part of a show — mountain bears, tropical jungle bears, even the huge black bears of Urey. But there were no keepers, no chains, and the bears disappeared into the night.
We reached the river, and now the walkways were packed. Every small boat in Nicias had been decked with flowers, ribbons, and multicolored torches, and drifted up and down the Latane River. Above them in the sky were other ships. These were made of the lightest paper and carried torches filled with oils that burned with variously colored flames. The hot air lifted these small ships of the heavens high. Every now and then flames would reach paper, and fire would cascade into the water.
We kept moving toward the Emperor’s Palace, where there’d be a real show.
• • •
Festival was the time for Numantia’s magicians to parade their skills, and their wizardry filled the sky as we approached the Imperial Palace. This year the wizards seemed to outdo their previous attempts. Lights from no known source or any earthly color flared, vanished. Strange beasts, some known, some fabulous, pranced along the walkways. Trees grew, changed, took on animal life. Huge fish broke water and leapt high into the air, fish no man had ever hooked. The crowds cheered and laughed when one creation, something half a lion, half an octopus, pranced from a balustrade into thin air, then shattered as its creator became flustered and lost control of his fantasy.
Then the images vanished, and there was nothing but the starry night, and the Grand Illusion was to begin. Nothing happened for long minutes, then Marán gasped and pointed. Slowly, very slowly, the stars were winking out. The crowd saw what was going on, and the murmurs of excitement changed, became fearful. Then there was complete blackness. Children started to cry. A woman screamed.
High in the heavens a tiny light was born. It grew brighter, larger, and became a swirl of colors, spreading from horizon to horizon. The colors massed to one side and a huge image formed, a bearded face, an old man, who gazed down, not angry, not pleased.
“Umar,” someone exclaimed, and the apparition was him, creator of the universe. A great hand appeared, and on it sat a world. The world began spinning, and the hand set it in the void.
Another god appeared, this one black-bearded, long-haired, and this was Irisu, the Preserver. He moved behind the world and held his hands protectively over it.
We looked at that world and saw everything on it, great and small, near and far. We could see mountains, seas, rivers, plains, and the animals and men peopling them. Only the Emperor Tenedos would have had the skill — and the temerity — to duplicate before the gods their own work.
Umar’s visage faded, was gone. Now there was only our world and Irisu. But there was something wrong, a rot, a fungus spreading, and I knew our world was aging, dying. I heard a harsh wind whistle, although there was nothing around me but the soft breeze bringing the Time of Dews and the New Year.
From nowhere came a horse, a pale, spectral horse. Its saddle and bridle were red leather, red like spilled blood. On the horse was a woman, naked to the waist and wearing a necklace of skulls. She had four arms, one holding a sword, another a knife, the third a spear, and the last the tiny torn corpse of a man. Her hair was wild, uncombed, and her face was the glaring countenance of chaos.
It was Saionji, Goddess of Death, the Destroyer, the Creator, the god Tenedos worshiped over all else, the god few had the courage to even acknowledge above a whisper.
Now there were screams from both men and women, and people began praying as terror seized them. But the terror lasted for but an instant as Saionji’s horse turned, and she swept her spear toward Irisu, and he fell back. She cut at the world, our world, with her sword, and as she did, the rot, the sickness, fell away. Lights grew around the world, and all was wonderful, all was living, growing. Then Saionji was gone, and an instant later there was nothing.
There was just the quiet flow of the river, the gentle breeze, and the star-filled sky. There were a few cheers, but not many.
This was too great an illusion to applaud. If, I thought, it had been an illusion at all.
• • •
The sentry peered at me, and I remembered to whisper the counterspell. He saluted hastily. “Sorry, Tribune, but it’s dark, and I must be tired, and — ”
I waved aside his apologies, and the three of us entered the Imperial Palace. The emperor’s party had been going on for some time. We heard music from the main audience chamber. Two drunks were snoring happily in the long hall, one lying in the arms of a sculptured demon towering above us.
There should have been at least two guards outside the chamber, but there were none. I noted the slightly open door of the nearby guardroom, asked the women to excuse me for a moment, and ever the proper soldier, went to see what the problem was and to do some minor ripping and tearing.
Fortunately, I pushed the door open a bit before beginning my tirade. There was a woman stretched across a table, wearing only the top half of a costume. One guard, pants around his ankles, moved between her legs, which were wrapped around his waist, and two others waited their turn. A fourth guard was also half-naked, buttocks toward me, his cock buried in the woman’s mouth. He pulled it free for a moment, teased her with its head, and I recognized the emperor’s sister, Leh, a smile on her lips.
I closed the door very quietly. It was of little real concern if this inner guard post went unmanned, after all. And even First Tribunes are vulnerable to the calumny of sisters interrupted at their pleasures.
Amiel asked what I’d seen, but I just shook my head, and we went into the main chamber. It was packed with the lords and ladies of Numantia. The human debris was more pronounced here. The orchestra still played perfectly, and some dancers maneuvered skillfully around the sprawled bodies of those fallen on the field of drink. Others had found different pastimes in the alcoves around the huge room.
“A little sloppy,” Marán said, but she didn’t seem disturbed.
Neither was I, the potion making me view everything calmly, contentedly. I saw the emperor, holding forth to a throng near the tall bay window he used to proclaim great announcements onto the palace grounds. His face was flushed, in drink or triumph at the success of his illusion, and his voice was louder than usual. Beside him, wearing only a wisp of silk, was a tiny blond woman. I knew her, fortunately not well. She was the Lady Illetsk, widow of Lord Mahal, one of the Rule of Ten murdered by the Tovieti during the madness nine years ago. She’d been a shopkeeper’s daughter when Lord Mahal married her, and was admired for her extreme patriotism — and other talents.
I’d met her before her husband’s death, when I was a newly promoted captain of the lower half. I’d been invited to an unfamiliar house, which turned out to be Mahal’s, and encountered my hostess at the entrance. Her perfect body was naked, she was inebriated, and she greeted me with a childlike smile and asked if I’d like to come between her tits. A bit shocked, I’d made a hasty departure.
After a sedate period of mourning, she’d continued her sociable ways in various arrangements with various sexes.
Oh well. Festival was supposed to be a time of abandon, which was evidently Tenedos’s thought when he chose his companion for the evening. The emperor’s eyes swept the room, and fixed on the three of us. I could see him frown, then his magic pierced Sinait’s spell, and he recognized me.
I bowed, Amiel and Marán just behind me, and he acknowledged us with a nod, then turned his attention to Lady Illetsk. “Shall we join them?” I asked.
Amiel shook her head. “I don’t think so, unless you really want to. How do sailors put it? A stern chase is a long one. We’d have to do some massive drinking to catch up with them, at least from appearances.”
“And I, for one, don’t feel like drinking,” Marán said. “I feel absolutely perfect as I am. Let’s go find another party.”
“Or make our own,” Amiel suggested.
Marán laughed. “We could do that,” she said. “Where? Back at the house?”
“That sounds wonderful … No, wait,” Amiel said. “I know another place. I just found it, and it’s close to hand. Come on.”
• • •
Amiel led us out the back, past sentries into the Imperial Gardens. They were mostly deserted, since it had grown a bit cool. Marán shivered and started to don her cloak.
“It’ll be warm where we’re going,” Amiel promised.
We walked along a winding path through the sprawling grounds. Exotic trees, plants just coming into season, rose around us.
“Let’s see,” Amiel murmured. “From this white stone it’s … here.” She turned from the path into what looked like a solid patch of brush. But it was an archway of boughs, somewhat. “I wonder if the gardeners even know this is still here,” she said. “I found it two weeks ago, when I dropped a bracelet and, when I bent to pick it up, saw through the gap in the shrubbery.”
We followed her down the tunnel of boughs. It came to an end, opening into a perfect natural grotto. Stone steps led down to a glade. We went down them, and our feet sank deep into the moss. There were huge stones set here and there. A tiny stream purled from a fountain carved out of the solid rock near one side, and ran along one face, pooling from time to time, then vanishing underground.
It should have been dark and chilly, but light shimmered across the moss from a gas jet somewhere behind this garden. Out of the wind, the glade was no more than comfortably cool. It was a tiny world out of time.
“Isn’t this perfect?” Amiel said. “We have comfort, we have water if we thirst, we have light, we even have music.” The palace orchestra’s music came faintly. I spread the cloaks on the ground, and we sat together, silent, enjoying the night, enjoying each other. Amiel put her head on my shoulder, and it was warm, comfortable. Marán snuggled close to her friend. We sat in contented silence for a time, feeling the potion soothe our minds, our bodies.
“I want to dance,” Amiel announced. She rose gracefully, without using her hands, and moved into the center of the glade. I’d noted her dancer’s body before, and she in fact had studied the art before marriage.
She faced us, bowed, and ran her hands up her body, then extended them out, offering herself. She began to move slowly, attuning herself to the distant music.
Her body became the music, a shimmering light purple icon, swaying, turning.
Marán breathed a little faster.
Amiel’s hands went to her chest and moved slowly down the line of buttons. She tossed the dress away and continued dancing, sinuously, gracefully, naked but for her sandals.
My cock was painfully hard. Marán ran the tip of a fingernail the length of it. She smiled at me, eyes half-closed, then turned back to her friend’s dancing.
Amiel beckoned, and Marán got up and stepped toward her, graceful as a young deer. They moved as one, never touching, only turning, eyes intent on each other.
My pulse was pounding, and I felt as if I, too, was the music, the dance.
Amiel touched Marán, and she stopped dancing. She stood motionless, eyes closed, waiting. Amiel ran her fingers down my wife’s sides, then up, fingers caressing Marán’s face. I remember few more beautiful sights. Amiel’s fingers went to the clasp at Marán’s side, and her dress fell away.
Amiel stood motionless, her arms out. Marán came very close, and they kissed long, deeply. Marán kissed down Amiel’s neck, to her breasts, teasing Amiel’s nipples with her teeth.
Marán knelt, lips and tongue moving across the other woman’s stomach, then touching her sex. Marán cupped Amiel’s buttocks, kneading them, her finger slipping between them, then she ran her tongue between Amiel’s legs.
Amiel moaned, throatily, and her legs melted, became liquid, and she flowed to the moss, legs opening.
“Damastes,” Marán whispered, but her voice was as clear as if she were beside me. “Damastes, my darling. Take off your clothes, my love.”
I obeyed her, fingers moving surely over clasps, buttons.
“Now, my lover, my life. Come here. Come to us. Make love to us, as we’ve talked of and dreamed about.”
Very slowly I went across the moss to them.