The Prince spoke, drawling. “This will not disrupt our normal relationship, one hopes.”
“It may not, Your Highness. But … it will help if the demands regarding the P’naki are moderated. Everything I hear indicates that the Mahahmbi are correct when they say there is no more to be had. Their religion forbids any modification of their rites, the P’naki is a religious matter, and religious matters are impervious to argument.”
“Even if some modification could result in a large royalty paid to Mahahm?” asked the Marshal.
“Even so. Religion is religion, Marshal.” He turned to the Prince. “Your Highness should understand, having been here before.”
Genevieve peeped through the grillework. The old man held out a trembling hand. She did not doubt his sincerity. When offered more wine, the old man rejected it, saying, “I could be whipped for smelling of it, Colonel.” He did accept a cup of tea and a spice-scented pastille, and thereafter departed into the darkness.
“Well,” said the Invigilator. “It will be more difficult than we thought, Your Highness.”
“Difficult, yes,” mused the Prince. “I must think on this.”
What followed next was expected and unexpected, both at once. The baby came, which was expected, and Genevieve experienced childbirth, which she had read of but was still greatly surprised by. The doctor was kindly and skilled, the nursemaid was immediately at hand, all went well, though lengthily, and after a day and a half of effort, Genevieve found herself lying exhaustedly at ease in her bed, a tiny head nestled to her breast.
As soon as they left her alone, she pulled herself erect, placed the child before her and unwrapped him. She had to see. When Aufors came in, she was running her fingers along the baby’s head and neck, and she looked up at him almost guiltily.
He smiled. “Are you seeing if he is all there? All fingers and toes?”
After a moment, she returned his smile. “All his fingers and toes are there, yes, Aufors.”
He leaned forward to pick up his son, wrapping him warmly in the blanket she had removed and saying doubtfully, “He looks very wrinkled. His little neck is actually corrugated.”
She moved, a bit painfully. “I understand that they all look very much like that. Delia’s sister had a baby when I was quite small, and I recall that it was very wrinkled, too.”
“Shall we name him, or wait until he fattens a bit?” He grinned at her. “So we can see what he’ll look like. Though, come to think of it, he has your nose.”
She didn’t want to talk about the nose. Naming the baby was a better topic. “What shall we name him?”
“Dovidi,” he said. “It’s a family name. If you don’t mind?”
“Oh, Aufors, I don’t mind. Dovidi he shall be.”
That night she woke to a cacophonous howl from half a dozen towers, close and distant. She rose, going to the cradle to see if the baby was asleep, which he was, rosy and warm, thumb in mouth. She turned to find Aufors behind her.
“I heard you get up,” he said. “Is something wrong?”
“No. Just … I do hate this place.”
“Why in particular?”
“It’s always either too noisy or too quiet,” she murmured. “The sound of those screamers is hideous.”
“Prayer leaders,” he smiled. “They’re a hereditary caste with mutated larynxes and nasal cavities. If they can’t be heard for a mile or more, they aren’t accepted into the guild or whatever it is. They’re very proud and it’s only seven times a day.”
Privately, Genevieve thought she could make a better noise that would carry farther with her thumb in her mouth, as Dovidi’s was. But then, no one knew that except herself. “Where did you find out about them?”
“We’ve received visits from some of the other trade representatives. They’ve told us a few things. I’m afraid it’s going to be a long mission.”
She confessed, “I know I said it wouldn’t bother me, being here, but I was wrong. It does.”
Though he held her and patted her gently, it did nothing to ameliorate her feelings of embarrassment. Having declared she could manage perfectly well, she was ashamed to admit she was not managing at all. It wasn’t that she was alone, precisely, for the men of the staff were around most of the time, here and there, always willing to chat. It wasn’t that she had nothing to do, for she’d brought needlework, a lute, books, and the baby took endless hours. It was simply that she had no woman to talk with, no woman to cozy with, nothing to put her own motherhood in focus with, as though Dovidi in his cradle were a unique event with no parallel in the universe. The lack of comradeship left her vulnerable to any possibility of company.