Nobody here kept journals or saved letters, nor did anybody number years in the manner of later civilizations. Everard would not be able to learn precisely when Abibaal entertained his curious visitors. The Patrolman would be lucky to find one or two individuals who remembered them well. Hiram had reigned for two decades now, and life expectancy was not great.
I’ve got to try, though. It’s the single lonely clue I’ve turned up. Or else it’s a false scent, of course. Those could have been legitimate contemporaries – explorers from Chou Dynasty China, maybe.
He cleared his throat. “Does my lord grant permission for his servant to ask questions, in the royal household as well as in the city? I’m thinking that humble folk might speak a little more free and open before a plain fellow like me, than they would in the awe of his highness’ presence.”
Hiram smiled. “For a plain fellow, Eborix, you’ve a smooth tongue. But – yes, you may try. Abide for a while as my guest, with your young footman whom I noticed outside. We’ll talk further. If nothing else, you are a fanciful talker.”
A page conducted Everard and Pum through corridors to their quarters, as evening closed in. “The noble visitor will dine with the guards officers and men of like rank, unless he is bidden to the royal board,” he explained obsequiously. “His attendant is welcome at the freeborn servants’ mess. If aught be desired, let him only inform a butler or steward; his highness’ generosity knows no bounds.”
Everard resolved not to try that generosity too far. The household seemed more status-conscious than Tyrians generally were – no doubt the presence of many out-and-out slaves reinforced that – but Hiram was probably not above thrift.
Yet when the Patrolman reached his room, he found that the king was a thoughtful host. Hiram must have issued orders after their discussion, while the newcomers were shown the sights of the palace and given a light supper.
The chamber was large, well-furnished, lit by several lamps. A window, which could be shuttered, overlooked a court where flowers and pomegranates grew. Doors were solid wood on bronze hinges. The interior one stood open on an adjacent cubicle, sufficient for a straw tick and a pot, where Pum would sleep.
Everard halted. Lamplight fell soft over carpet, draperies, chairs, a table, a cedar chest, a double, bed. Shadows stirred as a young woman rose and genuflected.
“Does my lord wish more?” asked the page. “If not, let this lowly person bid him a good night.” He bowed and departed.
Breath hissed between Pum’s teeth. “Master, she’s beautiful!”
Everard’s cheeks smoldered. “Uh-huh. Goodnight to you, too, lad.”
“Noble sir-”
“Goodnight, I said.”
Pum rolled eyes toward the ceiling, shrugged elaborately, and trudged to his kennel. The door slammed behind him.
“Stand straight, my dear,” Everard mumbled. “Don’t be afraid. I’d never hurt you.”
The woman obeyed, arms crossed over bosom and head meekly lowered. She was tall for this milieu, slender, stacked. The wispy gown decked a fair skin. The hair knotted loosely at her nape was ruddy-brown. Feeling almost diffident, he laid a finger beneath her chin. She lifted a face that was blue-eyed, pert-nosed, full-lipped, piquantly freckled.
“Who are you?” he wondered. His throat felt tight.
“Your handmaiden sent to attend you, lord.” Her words bore a lilting foreign accent. “What is your pleasure?”
“I… I asked who you are. Your name, your people.”
“They call me Pleshti, master.”
“Because they can’t pronounce your real name. I’ll be bound, or won’t bother to. What is it?”
She swallowed. Tears glimmered. “I was Bron-wen once,” she whispered.
Everard nodded to himself. Glancing around, he saw a jug of wine as well as water on the table, plus a beaker and a bowl of fruit. He took her hand. It lay small and tender in his. “Come,” he said, “let’s sit down, take refreshment, get acquainted. We’ll share yon glass.”
She shuddered and half shrank away. Sadness touched him afresh, though he achieved a smile. “Don’t be afraid, Bronwen. I’m not leading up to anything that could hurt you. I simply wish us to be friends. You see, macushla, I think you’re of my folk.”