Star of Cursrah Page 11

  A band blared, and five hundred guests applauded as the princess’s procession filed to the center of the palace. The circular hall was ablaze with lamps and candles. The gorgeous wall frescoes, recently scrubbed, glowed as if the flat, angular subjects might step out to join the party. The milling party guests were equally gorgeous: men and women, nobles, scholars, diplomats, and royalty from the four corners of the civilized world. Stationed along the walls and between archways and columns ornately carved with zigzags, stood the most impressive of the Bakkal’s Heavy Infantry. They were humans in shimmering red tunics and kilts, tall, hulking rhinaurs, and even four strange manscorpions, foreign mercenaries with rust-red torsos and scorpion bodies. There were a hundred retainers: waiters, wine stewards, table setters, linen dressers, and more serving the guests’ every need.

  Aside from the raised thrones, the only furniture thought worthy to grace the palace were depictions of its royal inhabitants. Ranged along the round walls stood statues of the bakkal, the four samas, their parents, the princes and princesses of the realm, and many cousins; anyone of royal blood, a link in the chain of the reigning dynasty. Each statue was life-sized—the childrens’ were replaced yearly—and all were so exquisitely painted that the statues could be expected to applaud along with the living.

  High above the celebration, a waxing moon shone through the circular hole in the roof, for the palace’s royal court, the Chamber of the Moon, was also an erstwhile temple to the all-seeing orb. Amenstar was ferried around the room in her sedan chair to more applause and adoration. She nodded and bowed to all the guests.

  Her sedan was carried before her parents’ dais last, so the princess might be formally presented. As her high perch was eased down, Amenstar alighted and knelt before the throne. Her father, the Bakkal of Cursah, He Who Reigns from On High, Lord of the Living and Speaker for the Dead, wore his most formal clothes. His red tunic was gathered in multiple pleats, and a lacquered, jeweled collar jutted past his shoulders. His kaffiyeh was blue and gold with an upright cobra that hissed from his headband. His eyes were darkened with kohl, his frown distant and distracted. Standing behind his throne, an ancient general in full armor held aloft a ceremonial axe with a long silver shaft and a half moon shaped blade of shining gold. Immediately flanking the throne dais were the statue replicas of the bakkal and first sama, frozen in stone and paint like eerie doppelgangers.

  The bakkal was attended by his four wives, and Star noticed her mother frowning when she saw Gheqet and Tafir in Star’s train. Having been announced with her full titles, Amenstar rose, bowed, and remounted her sedan chair without turning her back on the bakkal. Hoisted, the samira was carried ninety feet, and again alighted before her own low and smaller throne at one side of the room. Standing nearby, mute, was a stone replica of Amenstar, perfect down to the incipient pout that lingered on her full lips. From her miniature throne, Star would entertain visitors, beginning with a reception line.

  As a band played a tune pleasing to the ear, Samira Amenstar greeted each local and foreign dignitary while Vrinda, the tasked administrator genie, towered behind and whispered names and ranks. Amenstar shook hands until her fingers throbbed and had her hand kissed until it wrinkled. People came in all colors, clothing, accents, and more than a few races. Star was surprised to greet northern elves in their soft brown leathers and capes with red stripes that celebrated Tethir Dragonslayer’s victory over Xaxathart the Retributor. Elves were rarely seen now that the forests were gone. She met dwarves of High Shanatar, whose tunics of orange fustian were blazoned with three gold urns and a hammer. All the while Amenstar greeted guests, despite her earlier protestations, she looked for her supposed suitors.

  Finally the line ended, and the genie hissed in her old-fashioned accent, “We go to meet the princes now.”

  Leading from behind, slate palette pinned under one arm, the ginger-topped genie in the flouncy folds steered Amenstar and her entourage—a mere six maids and six guards—toward a small group not far from the musicians.

  “Why need I, the guest of honor, walk to welcome a guest?” Amenstar hissed. “Shouldn’t it be the other way around?”

  “Don’t help me administer, please, Your Highness. Troubled times require compromises, and I’ve moved the moon and stars to prepare this ball,” Vrinda explained, then shook her head at some errant thought. Star noted that the genie’s ginger braid was longer than Star was tall. “Oxonsis and Zubat are on the verge of open war. I’ve separated the two princes to opposite sides of the hall. We pay them every honor, but it’s a delicate question as to whom you meet first. I’m banking on goodwill and minor enchantments to smooth the diplomatic bumps.”

  “You’d friend-charm an ally? Does my father know—”

  “Hist! Notice how the prince and his entourage are dressed plainly but alike?”

  “So?”

  Her tiara itched, yet she didn’t dare touch its shining surface and leave fingerprints. Putting on a royal display was exasperating at times.

  Vrinda almost sighed and said, “They wear military uniforms. Why, you might wonder, dress for battle in peacetime? Why show their uniforms to the gathered nobles of so many nations? Could it be Oxonsis is prepared, even eager, for war?”

  “I don’t know,” Star said. “Could it?”

  Inexplicably the samira’s heart fluttered as they approached the darksome prince and his attendants. Star’s maids fanned back to form wings framing the princess, while Captain Anhur stamped so precisely and so hard Star wondered that her hobnails didn’t crack the marble floor.

  Smiling, Vrinda raised her voice and said, “Your Esteemed Highness, may I present Amenstar, First Samira of the Palace of the Phoenix in Cursrah. Samira, may I present Samir Pallaton, heir to the throne of Oxonsis and commander in chief of her army.”

  Amenstar extended her hand for a kiss while staring boldly at the prince, who gallantly rose from a carved rosewood throne. Easy to look upon, the solid, swarthy young man boasted a wealth of dark hair curling around his head, wreathing his face, and erupting from his neckline. He wore a form-hugging tunic of undyed linen, leather crossbelts and shoulder wings, and on his breast a badge with the red ox-head emblem of his city. Very military and proper, Star conceded, as was the royal headband with upright serpent, much like her father’s.

  Pallaton was braced by a dozen hard-eyed attendants, all in military garb but without weapons. Their only artifact was a tall staff held by a page, and Star saw Vrinda study it. Taller than a man, the staff was artfully carved of dark wood and gilded to resemble a column of genie smoke. At the top, where the “cloud” coalesced, nestled a scintillating sapphire that itself contained a roiling, blue-white cloud. A queer thing to bring to a ball, Star thought, then dismissed it. The prince had trapped her hand.

  Although she strove to remain cool, Star was thrilled when Samir Pallaton kissed her hand. His mustache tickled, and his teeth almost nipped her skin. A shiver sizzled to Star’s toes and pointed her nipples, and the prince smiled slyly at their protruding. For a second Star wondered what it would be like to marry such a handsome, dashing man.

  Still, she chilled her voice to formal levels and said, “It’s kind of you to grace Cursrah with your presence, Samir Pallaton. I hope you find our humble entertainments amusing.”

  The prince held her hand as he stared, a half-smile hiding in his soft beard. “Cursrah is the center of civilization, Your Highness, so everyone comes here eventually,” he said. “I’d have come much sooner had I known Cursrah boasts such a fair first princess.”

  Again he kissed Star’s hand, and this time it was impossible to disguise her shiver.

  “Uh, we thank you … kindly, Sa-Samir.” No longer frosty and aloof, her voice quaked, “Now please ex—uh—excuse me. I have other guests to greet.”

  Star turned and marched off, feeling the samir’s eyes burning into her spine.

  “A handsome youth,” proclaimed Vrinda from her great height.

  “The desert wolf co
uld use a good brushing,” sniffed Star. “With those fangs, he’d probably eat a girl alive. Who’s next?”

  “Samir Nagid of Zubat, a man of considerable education.”

  “Unlike Pallaton the Wolf, eh, who’s been educated in the stable and the armory?”

  “You guess correctly,” fluted Vrinda. “Here we are.”

  As before, Samira Amenstar was formally introduced to Samir Nagid who was slender, tall, red-haired, and dressed in the gaudy elegance of a stage actor. He wore a long embroidered shirt, blooming trousers, pointed shoes, parti-colored hose, and a cutaway cape with a checkered hem and upright collar. Like Star’s, his hair was perfumed with lilac water. Attending him were four somber bodyguards and many happy, colorful youngsters Star took for students.

  The handsome, smiling youth kissed Star’s hand and said, “Ah, me. I’ve sought education in city-states throughout the world, Your Majesty, yet now I see my studying has gone for naught.”

  “Oh? Why is that?” Amused, Star smiled.

  “Never have I heard of, read of, or been told of any woman as lovely as you.” Nagid also didn’t loose her hand, and remained bowing as he continued, “From now on, with your gracious permission, I’ll forsake colleges altogether and simply worship at your feet, for surely a man can learn all that matters by gazing upon your exalted beauty. Perhaps, if the gods be kind, after years of effort I might compose one brief sonnet that could extol the smallest virtue of your heavenly features.”

  “Oh!” Head aswim with compliments, Star stammered, “Oh, uh, no, don’t do that. I mean, I—I hope you enjoy your stay in, uh, Cursrah, and I—I must go.”

  As genie and samira and entourage sailed across the crowded room, Vrinda had nothing to say, but her lofty smile was mocking. Star’s cheeks burned.

  Directed by the administrator, Amenstar remounted her small throne, which stood equidistant from her parents and the two parties of the visiting samirs. Behind the princess crowded maids, guards, and Gheqet and Tafir, whom no one had yet ejected. As master of ceremonies, Vrinda signaled the band to strike up a tune. Forty women, draped only in strings of colorful beads, tootled reed flutes, plucked harps, rattled sistrums, thumped drums, clacked bone clappers, and clanged bronze cymbals. Into the hall tiptoed a troupe of black skinned dancers in feathers and masks who swayed and spun hypnotically. Guests immediately put their heads together to gossip, and Star was certain every whisper recounted her reactions to the princes. She wondered if the storytelling tiara on her brow had really recorded her awkward and girlish stumblings.

  Over the music came Tafir’s voice, “Gheq and I have decided you should marry Hairy Hands and not Fancy Pants.”

  “Too many clothes to wash with Torchhead,” Gheqet added. “Your hands would chap from all that scrubbing.”

  “And Werewolf would be a better provider. If you want an antelope steak, he’ll run the poor critter down and bite its throat out for you.”

  “And Carrottop would borrow your clothes, leaving you nothing to wear.”

  “Then again, Hyenabreath might eat your children … and scare the horses.”

  “True, but Candlestick might drop a book on your toes—”

  “Belt up, you two!” Star hissed through an icy smile. “I should marry you two clowns, then make your lives miserable supporting my lavish and wasteful habits.”

  “You can’t marry two husbands, can you?” Gheqet and Tafir sounded unsure.

  “My mother laments that I’m spoiled, pampered, and always get my way. If I raised one finger, for instance, I could have two blabbermouths gagged and flogged.”

  The men didn’t respond.

  As the music climaxed the dancers whirled away. Vrinda glided to the center of the vast hall, under the round-cut roof hole, and gently shooed back the high-born audience. Announcing dinner was ready, Vrinda beckoned the waiters, stewards, and other servants forward. Marching in procession they took up rigid stances beside nothing at all. Leaving her slate palette hanging in the air, the golden-skinned Vrinda pointed to the nearest waiter and clapped her red-dyed hands once, sharply.

  Magically, there appeared a knee-high round table with a gleaming tablecloth and shimmering bronze tray. Piled atop was a pyramid of hard-boiled eggs surmounted by a stuffed peacock.

  Vrinda announced, “Peacock eggs pickled in plum wine and stuffed with artichoke hearts.” Polite applause answered the apparition.

  Two claps conjured another low table with a naiad-shaped tureen and heaps of crooked fare.

  “Frogs’ legs in dill vinegar sweetened with cane sugar.”

  Table after table winked into place, a dizzying array: squid in its own ink seasoned with lotus petals; baked grasshoppers on red-leaf lettuce; rye cakes daubed with pesto topped with sturgeon eggs; pigeon hearts minced with yogurt pressed into lambs’ bones; grape leaves on sliced antelope tongue; bee-laden honeycomb and grapefruit wedges in custard dusted with cinnamon; raw oysters and pounded almonds brown with cumin; saffron rice with carrots; myrrh-scented camel milk floating pickled watermelon rind; quails in nut sauce surrounded by garlic cucumbers. There were pitchers and punch bowls of drink: date and raisin wine; pomegranate and grape juice; mint tea syrupy with sugar.

  The crowd’s appreciation grew in murmurs and exclamations, but a queasy uneasiness stole upon Amenstar. Such a lavish gala must have taxed even her parents’ massive wealth. These plentiful and imported foods were not conjured from thin air—nothing could be conjured from nothing, she’d been told—but were whisked from the palace kitchens. They’d been costly to prepare, and rumors had it that the evening’s entertainment would be equally fabulous. For the first time, Star realized how seriously her parents wished to impress the suitor princes and gathered nations, which meant Star’s impending marriage was certain, with only the bridegroom in question. The samira found her stomach churning, and not from hunger.

  Before the slavering audience could partake of the lavish repast, the gods needed their share, so servants ferried offerings to a sacrificial table bathed by moon glow under the cut-out roof. The Grand Vizar was escorted forth for the invocation. This doddering crone was rail thin, branded with arcane sigils, and hideously tattooed with blue and red veins until she resembled an anatomy chart. She staggered under a bloated turban seemingly made of tiger skin with a tiger-head pin sporting amethyst eyes. A murmur circled the room, for everyone knew the legend: the turban was actually a living creature captured in the Burning Lands of Zakhara, “Where the Gods Dare Not Tread.” Magically cursed or blessed, the creature crouched atop the vizar’s head and siphoned her life-force. In return, the enigmatic monster granted strange mystical visions by telepathy. Amenstar had always suspected the turban was the smarter of the two, who steered the addlepated vizar as a rider steers a horse.

  Without preamble, the vizar raised one scrawny claw to the peeking moon, pointed the other at the offerings, and railed, “Our Lady of the Sky illuminates your vanity, but remember all beauty becomes dust. Death brings us closer to life, because light and darkness are joined. You cannot escape. The Grim One will sweep down, and you will cry upon your knees, but there is no halting the last passage when the Dark Spectre watches with nine eyes. Pain stalks the sunshine, and even gods weep.…”

  There was more, far too much more. Finally Vrinda touched a henna-hued fingernail to her ginger eyebrow. Instantly the scatterbrained vizar jerked as if whip-lashed. The turban rocked, and amethyst eyes flashed as the mystic creature gripped the crone’s bony skull. Stumbling as if bludgeoned, the Grand Vizar was ushered out by the vizar-in-waiting and her anatomists. Amenstar wanted to spit. The drooling, moonstruck moron was an embarrassment to the city.

  “And now,” pronounced Vrinda, “may your graces eat and enjoy!”

  The guests sighed with relief. Amenstar accepted a gold-rimmed plate, and leading the line, threaded the many groaning tables, taking a morsel here, a dram there. Chatter increased as people partook of sweetmeats, gossip, and laughter, standing in groups or sitting
in clusters on three-legged stools. The only ones not gorging themselves were the hollow-eyed vizars, who were never seen to eat. Rumors spoke of raw meat and cow’s blood, or worse.…

  The sacrificial table was toted away, and the evening’s entertainment began. Vrinda conjured a circle of red-painted stones, and as the band plucked and wheezed, a troupe of leather-clad dwarves on racing zebras stampeded into the room. The crowd gaped as the dwarves tumbled on the cantering zebras, vaulted headlong to change mounts, rode backward, behind the tail and beneath striped bellies, formed dwarven pyramids and crosses, and capered through a dozen more dangerous tricks. Vrinda clapped her red hands, and the dwarves disappeared. The breathless audience applauded.

  Another genie clap filled the red ring with a tall, complicated engine that resembled an orchestra hurled together by a tornado. A smiling woman with almond eyes bowed deeply, wound a long-handled crank, and stepped back. Atop the machine bubbled a fountain whose water was channeled into many tiny pipes. Slowly, streams of water dripped and jetted to spin wheels, compress bladders, tilt cups, and drop counterweights. With a collective wheeze, the contraption began to play the jumbled instruments. Horns blooped, strings hummed, flutes tooted, drums thumped, and bagpipes wheezed. Tongues wagged about the clever engine, called a “clepsydra,” a variant of the water clock. When the weird engine finally gasped to a halt, people clapped for more, calling wildly, and threw coins into the stone ring. At their insistence, the clepsydra was rewound, water bubbled and fell, and the gargling tune repeated. It was only when Vrinda pleaded to keep her schedule that the clepsydra was hauled away by four sturdy slaves.