“And we have no spice, is that it? And our people have few enough pleasures, they should not have to do without this one. And the boatmen won’t deal without seeing me?”
“Your Highness sees the invisible and hears the inaudible.” He gave her a secret glance, one she knew as well as she knew the feel of her own skin.
“My Highness is dying of the agony of my people, Strenge. Of inanition and frustration. Of the duplicity of the Chancery and an unapproachable creature that calls itself the Protector of Man. Put them off.”
“Ma’am, one of them is the man called Fatterday. He claims to have seen South shore.”
Fatterday! Was Fatterday a real person, then? Not a mere story hero, favorite protagonist of the Jarb Mendicants’ tales? Was he here, now? Bringing word of a larger world out there than this circumscribed one, squeezed between the Teeth of the North and all the little, biddable towns of Northshore, and chewed to death by Jondarites? Fatterday, who had perhaps seen what Fibji had only dared hope for, a homeland beyond the reach of the general’s troops? She gasped, holding Strenge with the fire of her eyes. “Do you think he tells the truth?”
“Who could know, ma’am? However, I knew you would want to see him.”
“In the small tent, then. I’ve a cramp in my butt from sitting on this damn thing, and I must be able to question him.”
Strenge affected not to have heard her, his face impassive as he turned to bellow at the courtiers and warriors hanging about. “You have Her Highness’s leave to go. The boatmen may await her pleasure outside.”
They left quickly. Protocol prevented her rising until they were gone, and they knew her displeasure at being kept waiting. When the heavy tent flaps dropped behind them, she stood up, rubbing her rump, kicking off the jeweled boots and harness, handing over the holy scepter to be put in its case. Strenge was ready with a soft robe and shoes of quilted pamet embroidered with flowers. Against the white fiber her skin glowed dark, like oiled fragwood, and when she pulled off the high, feathered crown, her hair tumbled across the fabric like a thousand twining little vines, twisty and moving as though each lock had its own life. Her hawk-nosed face relaxed somewhat from its audience expression, the lines around her mouth and eyes smoothing out, dropping decades from her appearance. I’m an old woman, she thought to herself, knowing she wasn’t, yet, but needing to get used to the idea. Too old for all this sitting. The small tent adjacent was her own living space, the piled carpets dotted with soft pillows and small tables. “Let them come in here,” she said, taking one of the huge pillows for her own. “Have someone bring us some wine. I ache all over.’’
They came in, three of them, one lean, two stocky, brown men all, though none so dark as she. Their darkness was merely of the sun, while hers was of an ancient race, so it was said among the Northlings.
“Your Highness.” Three voices, all of them muffled from being spoken into the carpet, three backs bent impossibly to prevent their eyes meeting hers.
“Oh, stand up,” she said impatiently. “I have to have all that out there where people are watching, but I haven’t time for it here. Which one of you is Fatterday?”
He stood forward, the leanest one of the bunch, burned almost as dark as she by the sun and with deep white lines radiating from his eyes where the sun had not reached down into squint lines, smiling irrepressibly. “Your Highness. I’m Fatterday.”
“And you’ve truly seen South shore?”
He bowed again, nodding assent, not speaking.
“Well, tell me! What is it like? Are there people there? Are there fliers?”
“Your Highness, we were cast ashore on a rocky coast among high mountains. From the top of a mountain I saw an endless plain under the sun.” His eyes were alight, his fingers twitching as they described the outlines and dimensions of the lands, the rivers. “I saw no fliers, no people. After many days, we managed to repair the boat enough to sail northward once more. Only we three survived to bring you the tale.”