“Of course.” Don Miwel’s lean black-cald form made a stiff little bow. It brought his sword up, ludicrously like a tail. Ruori heard a smothered snort of laughter from one of his officers. And yet, thought the captain, were long trousers and ruffled shirt any worse than sarong, sandals, and clan tattoos? Different customs, no more. You had to sail the Maurai Federation, from Awaii to his own N’Zealann and west to Mlaya, before you appreciated how big this planet was and how much of it a mystery.
“You speak our language most excellently, S’ñor,” said Doflita Tresa Carabán. She smiled. “Perhaps better than we, since you studied texts centuries old before embarking, and the Spaflol has changed greatly since.”
Ruori smiled back. Don Miwel’s daughter was worth it. The rich black dress caressed a figure as good as any in the world; and, while the Sea People paid less attention to a woman’s face, he saw that hers was proud and well-formed, her father’s eagle beak softened to a curve, luminous eyes and hair the color of midnight
oceans. It was too bad these Meycans—the nobles, at least— thought a girl should be reserved solely for the husband they eventually picked for her. He would have liked her to swap her pearls and silver for a lei and go out in a ship’s canoe, just the two of them, to watch the sunrise and make love.
However—
“In such company,” he murmured, “I am stimulated to learn
the modern language as fast as possible.”
She refrained from coquetting with her fan, a local habit the Sea People found alternately hilarious and irritating. But her lashes fluttered. They were very long, and her eyes, he saw, were gold-flecked green. “You are learning cab’llero manners just as fast, S’nor,” she said.
“Do not call our language ‘modem’, I pray you,” interrupted a scholarly looking man in a long robe. Ruori recognized Bispo Don Carlos Ermosillo, a high priest of that Esu Canto who seemed cognate with the Maurai Lesu Haristi. “Not modern, but corrupt. I too have studied old books, printed before the War of Judgment. Our ancestors spoke the true Spaflol. Our version of it is as distorted as our present-day society.” He sighed. “But what can one expect, when even among the well-born, not one in ten can write his own name?”
“There was more literacy in the high days of the Perio,” said Don Miwel. “You should have visited us a hundred years ago, S’nor Captain, and seen what our race was capable of.”
“Yet what was the Perio itself but a successor state?” asked the Bispo bitterly. “It unified a large area, gave law and order for a while, but what did it create that was new? Its course was the same sorry tale as a thousand kingdoms before, and therefore the same judgment has fallen on it.”
Doflita Tresa crossed herself. Even Ruori, who held a degree in engineering as well as navigation, was shocked. “Not atomics?” he exclaimed.
“What? Oh. The old weapons, which destroyed the old world. No, of course not.” Don Carlos shook his head. “But in our more limited way, we have been as stupid and sinful as the legendary
forefathers, and the results have been parallel. You may call it human greed or el Dio’s punishment as you will; I think the two mean much the same thing.”
Ruori looked closely at the priest. “I should like to speak with you further, S’nor,” he said, hoping it was the right title. “Men who know history, rather than myth, are rare these days.”
“By all means,” said Don Carlos. “I should be honored.”
Doñita Tresa shifted on light, impatient feet. “It is customary to dance,” she said.
Her father laughed. “Ah, yes. The young ladies have been getting very impatient, I am sure. Time enough to resume formal discussions tomorrow, S’flor Captain. Now let the music begin!”
He signalled. The orchestra struck up. Some instruments were quite like those of the Maurai, others wholly unfamiliar. The scale itself was different. . . they had something like it in Stralia, but— A hand fell on Ruori’s arm. He looked down at Tresa. “Since you do not ask me to dance,” she said, “may I be so immodest as to ask you?”