Afterward they summoned a maid to help her get laced into her gown again — they didn’t seem to have any experience in that area themselves — and bade her a polite farewell. The maid was young and intoxicated, though whether with wine or excitement was not apparent. Making her way to the Great Hall, Fiona passed among a glittering forest of armor, halberds, and two-handed swords.
Once inside the Great Hall of the Acragas, however, there seemed little security at all. Servants, performers, guests, all milled about attracting little attention from the Acragas militia posted about the room. Fiona went backstage to prepare her act, made all ready, and then, since she would not be on till late, stepped out to watch the crowd as they entered. The privileged guests moved to the dining room for a feast, and the rest dined informally. She supped on a surprisingly good fish-and-porridge pie, sipped her ale, and talked with a pair of jugglers who were also awaiting their cue.
Then the trumpets cried out, filling the great room to the rafters and stilling all talk, and Acragas Necias walked into the room with his train of wives and cousins. Cheers and applause drowned the trumpets. Fiona stood on a bench for her first good look at the merchant-king of Arrandal, the man who had created the Elva and brought the Brodaini from their cold and violent northern land.
He was impressive, in spite of rather than thanks to the elaborate, lace-decorated, jeweled doublet and the fur-embroidered short jacket worn over one shoulder. The clothing was far too gaudy to be in good taste, and he did not wear it comfortably — it constrained him; there was an immense vitality in the man that was not to be inhibited by mere fashion.
He was tall enough to look a tall Brodainu in the eye, broad-shouldered, and barrel-chested, and was still a powerful figure despite the great pendulous belly that was roped in, with little success, by his wide belt. He walked with an assured, unconscious swagger, his first wife on one arm; she, a thin, hatchet-faced, cunning-looking woman, awkwardly matched his long-legged paces. He did not bother to match hers, but moved massively around the room at speed, bellowing greetings, laughing loudly, seeing friends across the hall and rushing to embrace them, his wife dragged along on his arm like a doll in the hands of a heedless child.
Necias’ round face with its fringe of dark hair, small eyes, and multiple chins bespoke a fierce animal vitality, bold self-reliance, and a confidence that seemed near-inspiring. A perfect example, Fiona thought, of a man of this time. A self-made man, of course: the Acragas had been a minor family before Necias had made them the most influential of all.
There was a group of Brodaini that followed, their upright bearing and simple clothing and armor standing out in this mob of embroidery and jewels. There was a lot of bowing and deferring to an old grey-haired Brodainu, and suddenly Fiona realized she was looking at Tegestu, their chief — a fierce-looking fellow still, tall, lean, and broad-shouldered in his armor. He must have been a terrifying warrior in his day, Fiona thought, though now he seemed to walk carefully, and with a hint of weariness. There were a pair of older Brodaini with him, a strapping woman about Tegestu’s age and another younger, though graying, man: the rest were all eagle-eyed young men, the Brodaini and their servants both, and Fiona recognized among them some of those who had searched her. The Brodaini stayed near Necias, she saw, and some of their liveried servants mixed with the oligarch’s hangers-on. A sensible precaution, she thought, in this atmosphere of war: she wondered if Necias even realized such care was being taken.
Necias and his party made a circuit of the room, greeting his guests, ending up at Fiona’s bench last of all. She stood to greet him, bowing with a flourish, and saw two Classani step quietly to either side of the Abessu-Denorru, ready to intercept a weapon. Necias simply nodded at her, a broad smile creasing his face, and said: “A lovely gown, young woman. Scarlet suits you. I like the hood as well. Isn’t it a lovely gown, Brito?” Fiona suddenly realized that his front teeth were artificial, ivory tied into place with silver wire.
“Very appropriate,” said the eldest wife in an uninterested tone, and the party passed on.
Necias returned to his place, and at a signal the many lamps that lit the entire hall were all extinguished, leaving only a thousand candles flickering outside the footlights on the stage. An orchestra began to play for its gallery. The music was intricate and compelling, the bass carrying a theme forward while the alto and tenor embroidered their way around it: and then a full-voiced chorus began to sing out from above, and Fiona realized this was a hymn to the god Pastas, of how he had learned wisdom from the dragons, who had created the world and stars, and how he had eventually surpassed even the dragons in knowledge, such that he counseled the dragons against beginning their war with the great sea-demons, who had created the watery universe and the things that dwell there — a war that destroyed the world and the deep and most of mankind, that resulted in the extinction of the sea-demons and the decimation of the dragons, who now, few in number, have retired to their hidden islands and dream away the eons, leaving the universe to the gods and their pets, the humans.
Was it memory of a great catastrophe, Fiona wondered, that had prompted this myth? Were the ancestors of these people, and of Fiona herself, disguised as the wonderworking, too-wise, and dreaming dragons? Or was there simply something in the nature of humankind that demanded a catastrophe myth? Her own world had them in abundance, different in detail though somehow alike in flavor: there were always a few virtuous chosen who survived the disaster, whatever it was — here it was inundation by the sea that seemed most universal; on her own world it was a holocaust of fire.
The choral hymn slowed, then came to an end; it was followed by a clear counter-tenor, with minimal accompaniment from the orchestra, who sang bell-like praise to the god; and then the chorus and orchestra boomed back in for a splendid fortissimo finale that had the hall ringing with applause. The composer, a chinless, shock-haired wonder, came out for his bow, and Necias gave him a jewel from his finger, while others flung him purses.
There followed a mechanical marvel, a metal mallanto that cocked its head, raised a very real shellfish between its webbed front toes and opposable claw, and bit down with an audible crunch from the curved beak; it then spread its wings and gave a great inspiring cry while its eyes winked golden fire. More applause, and a purse from Necias for the inventor.
Acrobats, then, and jugglers; afterwards there was a noisy intermission followed by the poet Campas. He was about thirty, small and slightly-built, with curling dark hair worn longer than that of most of the men present. He dressed simply, in somber colors — to stand out, Fiona supposed — but there was a white scarf thrown dashingly around his neck, and he wore a multitude of rings that flashed as he turned the pages of his manuscript.
The poem was clearly a part of a larger work, written to the specifications of some poetic tradition or other, and Fiona lost interest quickly amid a hopeless array of muses, minor deities, allusions to other poems in the cycle, appearances by past poets operating under a bewildering array of pseudonyms, woebegone shepherds longing after shepherdesses of ethereal beauty and cast-iron chastity... and then, just as she was prepared to go to sleep for the duration, something made Fiona sit up and take notice. His use of language was beautiful, Fiona thought, even though his subject matter was dead as the mechanical mallanto; his rhythms were perfect, his word-order exact and not over-clever, the vowel sounds ringing changes throughout the verse that echoed and sang: and sometimes, even when describing something as hackneyed as a young swain’s sighs for his mistress, or the disillusioned ’prentice abandoning the corruption of the city for the blissful simplicity of a shepherd’s life, he managed to introduce an invigorating breath of life into it.