I wonder what that noise is? Helga thought. And: Sky-Father Almighty, I’m tired of waiting.
She hadn’t thought that being sold into the hareem of a pirate chief would be tedious—other things, but not that. The Director of Vase was an old, fat, worried, overworked pirate chief, though, with the fifty concubines that custom and prestige demanded. After the brutality of the pirate crew—exactly according to legend—and the transit here, she’d thought that a deliverance . . . for the first four months in this velvet-cushioned, lavender-scented prison where nothing, absolutely nothing ever happened. There was a pool, where she could swim about six paces; there were a few chess sets and card decks; there were no books at all—it would never occur to an Islander chief that a woman would want to read. After a full year, only keeping up her training regimen and pretending she was going to escape had preserved her sanity and kept her from strangling someone at the seven hundredth repetition of the same inane gossip, the same shrill giggling at the same stupid jokes, the same fatuous cow-eyed flirting, the same . . .
Being summoned to the Director’s quarters at least meant she got out for an evening, even if under guard. Usually the old heap of lard couldn’t do anything anyway.
“Smoke from the harbor,” Helga said meditatively. “And I think I can hear . . . yes, that’s an alarm drum.”
There was a section of garden and wall below the window, just visible. A dozen men trotted through it; archers, in brass-scale hauberks and spiked helmets, led by an officer with his saber drawn.
The young Confed woman released the bars and dropped back, her lips shaping a soundless whistle.
“War, I think,” she said. “Wasn’t there a rumor that the Director was having trouble with the King in Chalice?”
Keffrine nodded eagerly, blond bangs swinging around her ears and releasing a strong waft of verbena. Helga wrinkled her nose a little; she still didn’t like the way Islander women slathered themselves with scent. That and cosmetics were the main pastimes here, along with intrigue and love affairs; one couldn’t even dress up much, since tradition mandated hareem occupants wear filmy trousers and spangled halter tops.
“Isn’t it exciting?” Keffrine squealed.
Helga sighed. Well, what can you expect. Keffrine was a gift from Sub-Director Deneuve, and born in his hareem. This sort of environment was all she’d ever known. And I thought I’d led a sheltered life.
“It may get more exciting than you’d like,” Helga said. “Come on, we’d better go talk to the Eldest Sister.”
The old bat was a harridan of the first order, but she’d been here since the Director was sixteen, and he told her things. If anyone knew . . .
“Yes, let’s!” Keffrine grabbed her hand and pulled her out into the corridor, past arches and mosaics, into the main circular room where a dozen or so of the others lounged on couches, nibbled snacks, or paddled languidly in the pool about the carved youth whose seashell spouted warm scented water. The light from above was filtered through a fretwork stone dome.
Helga felt her heart beat faster. More exciting than they’d care for, she thought. But any change is an opportunity. I’ve been here far, far too long.
Keffrine was really starting to look tempting, for instance.
Far, far too long.
* * *
“Oh, what a beautiful, beautiful position,” Simun wheezed.
Adrian nodded, breathless himself despite being twenty years younger and less burdened. The tower was ruined in the sense that some of the internal floors had collapsed, fire or rot destroying the beams. The central spiral staircase was stone, though, and still reasonably sound. So was the uppermost floor, and the crenellations were still waist-high. That would give the arquebusiers cover and excellent rests for their weapons; they were setting up now, with a little amiable squabbling for the best shooting spots. The infantry from the Sea Strikers had taken up ground around the tower’s base, blending in to the maquis-covered slopes. The air had a slight brimstone smell from the black powder in grenades and cartridge boxes, and a wild spicy scent of crushed herbs from the ground around. It was warm now, and insects buzzed through the flowers; fliers darted by snapping at them.