“Will the Voivode see me?” Jason asked after they had finished.
“He awaits your pleasure.” Her lashes fluttered. “But we have no haste.” She began to untie her belt.
Hospitality so lavish must be the result of customal superimposition, the easygoing Danskar and still freer Tyrker mores influencing the austere Magyars. lason felt almost as if he were now home, in a world where individuals found delight in each other as they saw fit. He was tempted, too-that broad smooth brow reminded him of Niki. But no. He had little time. Unless he established his position unbreakably firm before Ottar thought to call Bela, he was trapped.
He leaned across the table and patted one small hand. “I thank you, lovely,” he said, “but I am under vow.”
She took the answer as naturally as she had posed the question. This world, which had the means to unify, chose as if deliberately to remain in shards of separate culture. Something of his alienation came back to him as he watched her sway out the door. For he had only glimpsed a small liberty. Life in Westf all remained a labyrinth of tradition, manner, law and taboo.
Which had well-nigh cost him his life, he reflected; and might yet. Best hurry!
He tumbled into the clothes laid out for him and made his way down long stone halls. Another servant directed him to the Voivode’s seat. Several people waited outside to have complaints heard or disputes adjudicated. But when he announced himself, Jason was passed through immediately.
The room beyond was the most ancient part of the building. Agecracked timber columns, grotesquely carved with gods and heroes, upheld a low roof. A fire pit in the floor curled smoke toward a hole; enough stayed behind for lason’s eyes to sting. They could easily have given their chief magistrate a modern office, he thought—but no, because his ancestors had judged in this kennel, so must he.
Light filtering through slit windows touched the craggy features of Bela and lost itself in shadow. The Voivode was thickset and grayhaired; his features bespoke a considerable admixture of Tyrker chromosomes. He sat a wooden throne, his body wrapped in a blanket,
horns and feathers on his head. His left hand bore a horse-tailed staff and a drawn saber was laid across his lap.
“Greeting, Jason Philippou,” he said gravely. He gestured at a stool. “Be seated.”
“I thank my lord.” The Eutopian remembered how his own people had outgrown titles.
“Are you prepared to speak truth?”
“Yes.”
“Good.” Abruptly the figure relaxed, crossed legs and extracted a cigar from beneath the blanket. “Smoke? No? Well, I will.” A smile meshed the leathery face in wrinkles. “You being a foreigner, I needn’t keep up this damned ceremony.”
Jason tried to reply in kind. “That’s a relief. We haven’t much in the Peloponnesian Republic.”
“Your home country, eh? I hear things aren’t going so well there.”
“No. Homeland grows old. We look to Westfall for our tomorrows.”
“You said last night that you came to Norland as a trader.”
“To negotiate a commercial agreement.” Jason was staying as near his cover story as possible. You couldn’t tell different histories that the Hellenes had invented the parachronion. Besides changing the very conditions that were being studied, it would be too cruel to let men know that other men lived in perfection. “My country is interested in buying lumber and furs.”
“JIm. So Ottar invited you to stay with him. I can grasp why. We don’t see many Homelanders. But one day he was after your blood. What happened?”
Jason might have claimed privacy, but that wouldn’t have sat well. And an outright lie was dangerous; before this throne, one was automatically under oath. “To a degree, no doubt, the fault was mine,” he said. “One of his family, almost grown, was attracted to me and
—J had been long away from my wife, and everyone had told me the Danskar hold with freedom before marriage, and—well, I meant no harm. I merely encouraged—But Ottar found out, and challenged me.”
“Why did you not meet him?”
No use to say that a civilized man did not engage in violence when any alternative existed. “Consider, my lord,” Jason said. “If I lost, I’d be dead. If I won, that would be the end of my company’s project. The Ottarssons would never have taken weregild, would they?