Across parks and courtyards, they were escorted by six enormous guards, all armed with scimitars and extensive collections of other blades around their persons. Two of them even wore coiled whips on their belts. Their torches sent sparks whirling up into the warm night to meld with a breathtaking skyful of stars. Kade chattered about feeling excited, and Inos reluctantly agreed. This exotic land certainly had overtones of romance and adventure.
Would there be dancing? Inos inquired of Zana. Sounding rather puzzled, Zana assured her that almost certainly there would be dancing. Inos smiled in secret satisfaction, confident of her ability to impress on a dance floor. That gangling young sultan had moved with a slinky grace that promised he would be an admirable partner.
About a dozen other . . . er . . . ladies of the palace . . . had been invited, also. They were all young, all sumptuously overdressed, and their excitement at the unusual honor of attending a state dinner soon overcame their shyness at being in the presence of strangers. Their conversation, regrettably, was confined entirely to domestic topics, such as childbirth and teething.
Rasha did not appear.
The food was excellent; Inos could not deny the quality of the food, unfamiliar though the dishes were. And the wine was superb. The service could not be faulted.
The banquet hall was magnificent, lighted by more candles than there were stars beyond the great dark windows. Azak himself was there, resplendent in the green of royalty, with his glittering emerald cummerbund plainly displayed. He lounged on a divan, one of a great circle of divans, all bearing princes. Inos counted twenty-five of them, from graybeards to striplings.
What ruined the evening for her, though, was that she and all the other women sat in a high gallery, shielded by a fretwork screen so that they could watch the exciting events below them without themselves being observed. The only females down on the main floor were the scantily clad belly dancers who performed at the end of the evening, right after the jugglers and fire-eaters.
4
Inos was rarely at her best in the very early morning, and her audience with Azak—or his audience with her—was set for dawn. Had she still held any doubts that she had been transported far beyond the bounds of civilization, an appointment for that hour would have convinced her otherwise; but she was ready on time, and so was Kade. And they did not wear veils.
When the royal guests set off for the audience chamber, they were flanked by Zana and six of the older women, all veiled and swathed in black. Eight of the fearsome brown-clad guards escorted them. Protecting them from what? Armed guards within the palace itself? This time the journey was even longer.
But despite her early-morning sulks, Inos found the audience chamber breathtaking. The great hall at Krasnegar would not have made a pantry for it. High-arched windows stretched off along both sides and the mosaic floor shone like a treasure chest, wide as the Kinvale skittle field. Even the emptiness was impressive, letting the soaring stonework display its own naked beauty. That was in striking contrast to the overfurnished mishmash of Rasha’s chambers. Obviously the sorceress lacked taste. The rest of the palace glowed with it, even on this enormous scale, when grandeur could so easily have become vulgar ostentation. Inos glanced at her aunt and saw that she, also, was mightily impressed.
The two of them were conducted to a low dais that seemed designed to support a throne, but there was no throne in sight. They stood in awed silence, instinctively edging closer. Zana positioned herself and the other attendants at their rear. The others were whispering excitedly, as if this were the first time they had been allowed out in years.
Time passed. Inos felt the beat of her heart, and it was speeding up as her anger began to grow. She did not understand the backward etiquette. As visitor, she ought to call on the sultan, but to keep her waiting when she had been placed in the position of honor was deliberate afront.
Then the pale light slinking through the high arches blushed swiftly golden pink and brightened to proclaim sunrise. A trumpet blared, and a small procession wheeled in at the far end of the hall and advanced, with Azak’s unmistakable height in the vanguard. Behind him marched at least a dozen other men, all of them clad in various shades of royal green. A squad of guards entered, also, but remained by the door.
The procession halted before the dais, and for a moment the two parties surveyed each other in silence. Inos took her first close look at Arakkaranian princes and was not impressed. They ranged in age from fresh-faced boys to grizzled elders, but those that could, wore beards. None was as tall as Azak, but they were all ruddy-skinned, red-eyed djinns, and despite their gems and the fine cut of their garments, they seemed a rough, fierce crew. To a man, they were scowling at her in shocked disapproval. She was not accustomed to having men disapprove of her appearance, but the distaste was mutual—she thought she would sooner trust a longshipful of unwashed jotnar.
There was no doubt who was captain of these pirates. His turban, glowing today with pearls, stood clear above all the rest. As he had when she first met him, two days before, he wore a loose tunic and trousers, plus the same wide jeweled belt that would have purchased a kingdom. But now his pants were tucked into high boots and his cloak was of heavy stuff, with a hood thrown back and long slitted sleeves dangling unused at his side. These were obviously outdoor garments, and his scimitar was a more serious weapon than the one she had noticed on him the previous morning. Azak, Inos assumed, was now in his work clothes.
Abruptly he snapped his fingers. A slim youth stepped stiffly forward a few paces and stopped. His red djinn complexion had paled to a sickly pink, his fists were tightly clenched, and something about the way his eyes moved told Inos that he was terrified. Sweat shone amid the fuzz of his mustache. He glanced around. Azak nodded impatiently. One of the older men frowned and nodded, also.
The boy turned back to face the visitors. He swallowed and licked his lips. Suddenly Inos knew what was about to happen, but before she could object, it had happened.
In a quavering tenor the youngster announced: “His Majesty, Sultan Az—”
He was gone; life was gone. His clothes remained, stirring in the eddies of the wind, but they enclosed only a statue of shiny pink granite. As a likeness it was superhumanly perfect, in every cruel detail—mouth still open, eyes inlaid in cinnibar and mother-of-pearl, staring fixedly at nothing. Kade stifled a cry, and Inos felt herself shudder. Azak ignored the transformation. He strode forward two paces and doubled over in one of his gymnast’s bows, with the same elaborate gestures he had used before.
Then Inos saw that the older man in the background was beaming proudly, and she felt a moment’s relief. To proclaim Azak sultan within the palace brought down the curse, so he was using it as a test of loyalty, or courage. It had been the boy’s turn, that was all, and the others’ lack of concern showed that the sorceress would remove the spell before long.
Inos was still much too icily furious to say a word. She curtsied. Azak was a step lower, but his gaze was level with hers, and for a moment they stared at each other, as if each were waiting for the other to speak. He had noted the absence of a veil, obviously, but she could read nothing in his expression except arrogance. There was plenty of that. Young Azak thought he was spectacular, and in a ferocious sort of way he was undeniably handsome. With his ruddy face framed by the trim line of beard, with his fierce hook nose and flashing red-brown eyes, with his overpowering height and physical presence, Azak clearly believed a woman should feel like swooning whenever she looked at him.
He might not be too far wrong, damn him! His neck alone was remarkable.
On the other hand—gander saucing goose—his own inspection of Inos could not be described as desultory. At their first meeting she had looked like something washed up by a flood; now she was better prepared. She was not quite jotunn height, but taller than an imp. She wore no veil. Her lace mantilla did little to hide her honey-gold hair, which must seem as much a rarity to him as green eyes.
Show him! Even dressed in a tent, she thought she should be able to raise male blood pressure merely by fluttering her lashes. Thus.
Yes, his pupils dilated satisfactorily.
She wondered about her own pupils, and who had come out ahead. Evil take him! Barbarian!