‘Apparently you are not the only Ziodeans in Inxa,’ he said when he returned to his guests. ‘Two others currently living here have arrived to join the party. Perhaps you would like to meet them.’
‘Do you get many of our expatriates in Caean?’ Second Officer Borg asked in some surprise.
‘Very few, but that is probably because there is so little traffic between the Arm and the Cluster.’
‘And not because of the difficulties they would find in making out in Caean?’ Estru put in.
‘Oh no. It is an easy matter to live here. No one is ever made to feel out of place, however eccentric.’
‘Unless –’ Amara tittered, then caught herself before mentioning the forbidden subject again.
The newcomers came stepping diffidently through the throng. One was of medium height and slightly pudgy. He wore what seemed to her a perfectly ordinary conventional suit which would have passed without notice even back in Ziode. His companion was taller and slimmer, rather handsome in a lean, sardonic sort of way, his apparel more fetching: a brocaded lavender frock-coat, matched by a blue satin Bourbon hat trimmed with pearl fleur-de-lis. The outfit suited him perfectly.
They introduced themselves as Peder Forbarth and Realto Mast, both of Harlos. Forbarth, the pudgy one, puzzled Amara straight away. He was greeted with an inexplicable deference by both Caldersk and Trupp. Bearing an unmistakable look of authority, he yet behaved in a distant and offhand manner, keeping his gaze averted elsewhere.
The stylish Mast, however, expressed effusive pleasure at meeting his fellow-countrymen.
‘How long have you been living here?’ Amara asked him.
‘A few months.’
‘Oh? And what brings you here?’
Mast dodged the question. ‘May I ask what brings you here? Is this an official visit?’
She nodded dubiously, after a sidelong glance at Caldersk. ‘A fact-finding tour.’
‘Relations must have improved, in that case.’
‘Possibly.’
He sidled closer. ‘Perhaps I could be of some help. Not many people have lived right in the middle of Caeanic society.’
Amara could not disguise her suspicion of anyone who chose to live among foreigners. ‘What are you looking for, passage home?’ she said in loud, challenging voice. ‘Or are you wanted by the law?’
Mast looked uncomfortable, then uttered a feigning laugh. Caldersk, still giving no indication as to whether he understood their conversation, which had been in Ziodean, moved in. ‘You are still governed by a mistrustful, angry mood, dear lady. I wish you would take some pleasure in the evening. Come, this will soon help you relax.’
He poured her a large goblet of the fizzy yellow liquid and handed it to her. Amara sniffed it suspiciously, and made to put it down.
‘It won’t do you any harm,’ Peder Forbarth said in a disinterested voice, still not looking her way. ‘It is a mild stimulant, that is all, similar to alcohol. Drink it.’
She quaffed the goblet. The liquid tasted sweet and delicious.
An effervescent, warm sensation started up in her stomach. What the hell, she thought.
Already she felt better.
She turned to Peder. ‘And what about you? Are you looking for a job too?’
‘Oh, take no notice of him,’ Mast said lightly. ‘He’s not really Ziodean at all any more. He’s gone native.’
She tossed her head in disapproval. ‘Is that so?’ she asked Peder.
Peder smiled superciliously. ‘Yes, madam,’ he answered politely. ‘In Ziode I was a sartorialist. Here I find I am a natural Caeanic.’
‘And if there is a war, whose side will you fight on?’
Peder made no reply. He drifted away and procured for himself a drink which he sipped slowly and reflectively.
‘Frankly I would have thought it more of you,’ Amara said to Mast, eyeing his elegant frock-coat.
‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ Mast said smoothly. ‘I am Ziodean to the core. But I have never been anything of a mezzak – excuse me, that’s a Caeanic word.’
‘You speak the language well?’
‘I’m not an expert, but I don’t find it difficult. One can master the basic vocabulary quite easily in a few days, with the help of light hypnosis. But after a while one longs for the sound of one’s native tongue. Are you sure there’s no place for me in your work?’
‘Well, we shall have to see about that.’ She accepted a refill of her goblet. ‘I’m not quite sure exactly what’s going on around here yet.’
A good deal of the yellow beverage was imbibed in the ensuing hours. The Ziodeans began genuinely to enjoy themselves. The Caeanic were uninhibited hosts, and it was impossible not to be caught up in the festive mood. When full darkness came a magnificent fireworks display was set off to go blooming over the whole of Inxa. Then there was more drinking, dancing and general conviviality – a garden party to which it seemed the whole city had access.
Estru succeeded in keeping company with the girl in the sailing-ship hair-do. Towards midnight they slipped away.
She took him to an apartment some distance off, then left him alone while she went into an adjoining room. He hummed to himself, gazing absently through a window.
Softly she called to him from the other room.
He stepped tentatively into a spacious boudoir. The girl, having changed her dress, stood at the other end.
She still sported the sailing-ship, but the polonaise had been discarded in favour of a quite different affair. He did not really notice her corsage; his attention went to the skirt. Cinched tightly at the waist, it flared out into a full dome-like shape. Smiling, she came towards him, and as she moved he saw that the skirt really consisted of numbers of leaves which seemed capable of free movement.
On coming to the apartment Estru had not felt particularly aroused. But when she walked towards him those leaves lilted and swung in curvy motions which, inexplicably, evoked an irresistible sexual desire in him.
He realized suddenly that there was even more to the garments of Caean than he and Amara had known about. The Caeanic tailors had analysed the basic vocabulary of form, line and movement that spelled out sexual allure. The skirt was fashioned according to this vocabulary. It was a sartorial aphrodisiac. His instincts reacted of their own accord, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
Not that there was anything he wanted to do about it, except to go along with what was happening. But what was he supposed to do? he wondered. How did they go about it? The worst thing he could do would be to undress himself – or try to undress the girl.
She came up to him and tugged him towards the bed. As she sank down on the coverlet she lifted her legs on to it and her skirt belled, apparently supported by hoops. Beneath it he caught a glimpse that sent his blood pounding. Under the skirt were – petticoats, endless indicated, waved, ruched, rose-pink petticoats. Like the skirt itself, they utilized the full fury of erotic sartorial knowledge, and Estru’s senses went exploding in heady images of flowers opening in an infinite series one into the other, leading to a hot, intense, delirious centre.
She was looking deliciously wanton. The petticoats rustled and curled like the combers of an aroused ocean as he joined her on the bed, and she began to teach him the Caeanic ways of love.
Realto Mast’s evening ended on a slightly less felicitous note. He was caught off guard, having drunk more than was his habit of late. His intemperance sprang from the fact that he knew Peder was shortly going to desert him – would probably abandon him that very night, in fact – and that since his survival rating without him was slim, he was zealously eager to find a place aboard the Callan. After much importuning, and much imbibing, he had eventually extracted from Amara Corl a grudging promise that she would interview him on board ship the following day.