lesser concubines, moved sinuously through the ornate topography of their dance,
pausing only from time to time to detach a veil.
Trembling with reaction, Lalo drifted towards the row of pillars that supported
the vaulted and domed ceiling. Someone had left a goblet on the marble bench,
nearly full. Lalo took a long swallow, then made himself put it down again. His
heart was pounding as loudly as the drums.
Why am I so afraid? he wondered, and then wondered how he could be anything
else, in a town where footpads dogged your steps by day, and if you heard a
scream after dark you ran not to help but to bar your door. It must be better in
the Capital… there must be somewhere Gilla and I could live in safety.
He lifted the goblet once more, but the wine tasted sour and he set it back
half-full. Coricidius would not care if he left the celebration now that he had
exhibited both the pictures and their creator. Lalo wanted to go home.
He got to his feet and stepped around the pillar, then halted, startled as
something in front of him seemed to move. After a moment he laughed, realizing
that it was only his reflection in the polished marble that faced the wall.
Dimly he could see the glitter of embroidery on his festival jerkin, and the
sheen on his full breeches, but they could not disguise the stoop of his narrow
shoulders or the way his belly had begun to round. Even the thinning of his
ginger hair was somehow mirrored there. But through some quality of the dark
marble or some trick of the light, Lalo’s face was as shadowed as that of the