He regarded her for a moment, thoughtfully.
“Lady, because I doubt not you intend to raise arms against Valadon and do battle for it—which will be an act of genuine treason against my government, and an act of violence against the peace of these stars. I, who am named ‘traitor’—am not one. Though I am accused of criminal acts, I am not, in truth, guilty of them. I will not make myself a criminal in the eyes of my own people!”
She sank back into her chair, regarding him wistfully. “Ai!” she sighed. “I wish I were a man. But I am only a woman! I have none to press suit for me against those who have done me wrong. None to revenge my grievances. I must, therefore, either revenge them myself—with such help as I can raise about my banner—or be content to sit here on this dead ball of rock until I die of old age, wronged, innocent—helpless. Am I so very wrong—of gentility!—to seek redress of my ills, even at cost of ‘an act of violence against the peace of these stars’?”
“The right and wrong of this are beyond my telling, lady. Perhaps you are in the right. Perhaps there were well and good reasons behind the action the government took—I do not say there were, I say ‘perhaps.’ Almost all governments, I think, are filled by incompetents and fools … some mistakes, some injustices are bound to occur… .” She smiled. “This you, yourself, know, eh? Are not you, too, kazar, a fugitive from injustice?”
Before he could muster his wits to compose a suitable answer—she raised one small hand.
The lovely serving-girl in black-and-gold brocade appeared magically beside him. (And how cold and unstirring her beauty appeared, now, beside the warmth and vitality of the slim girl in white on the great black marble chair!)
“Enough!” the Kahani said, softly. “You are my guest—I weary you, perhaps, with my talk. … You will be my guest at dinner, and sit beside me, and meet the Chieftains of my host? You will do this much—at least?”
He bowed.
“Kahani… it will be a great honor.”
“Then go, for now, Lin-ton… .”
The girl led him out of the great, high-arched chamber. And as he passed between the thin gauze curtains, he stole a swift glance backwards.
She was sitting still, and looked very small and pitifully young, there in the great black chair. And her small, proud head was bowed a little, as if very, very weary… .
SEVEN
DINNER WAS HELD in yet a different chamber of this astounding, and seemingly infinite labyrinth of subterranean corridors and halls. This time, it was Sharl the Yellow-Eyed who came to fetch him, with a friendly smile and an urbane salute.
“Where did the kazar get that clothing?” he asked, with a depreciating glance at the forest-green and suede attire. Linton shrugged irritably.
“A servant brought it this morning—why? I wore it at my interview with the Kahani, and no one objected.”
“That was this morning, and—of honor—at a private audience. But this is a dinner, before all the lords and chieflings of the host. You must look more—ah—”
Raul grinned cynically.
“Impressive, Sharl? Like a real Shakar?”
“Well,—yes!”
“But I have not, nor do I intend to accept the Kahani’s invitation to become—”
“Never mind all that,” Sharl waved the talk aside impatiently. “You must look decent, or you shame your royal hostess. Here—”
He summoned scurrying servants and there was a brief, terse exchange, which sent them all off, sandals slapping the floor, in different directions. In no time they came back, bearing a variegated selection of glittering stuffs in which they hurriedly redressed Linton. Sharl brushed aside, ignored or overrode his half-hearted objections, and in no time—looking (he thought) like a video player cast for a historical pageant.
There was a helm of burnished bronze, the wavy-star sigil of Valadon set in pure rubies on the brow-piece; a great swashbuckling cloak of crimson velvet trimmed with snow- white fur and edged with a gold fringe; red leather boots with golden buckles, polished till they glittered; and a crimson jacket and tights, hung all over with jewels and decorations and amulets, a leathern girdle bristling like an angry porcupine with dag and dirk.
He felt like an utter fool.
The hall of feasting was low-ceilinged, lit with tall candelabra of solid gold, the walls hung with priceless, soft- colored and very ancient tapestries illustrating scenes of the hunt, of war, and of mythological loves.
The Kahani, in a simple white gown again, but literally covered with ice-blue diamonds that glittered on her arms and wrists and fingers, flashed at throat, breast and hips, and must have been worth the annual revenue of half a system, sat at a wide, low couch covered with brocade velvet, eating from bright dishes off a low taboret. She gestured him to a place beside her, and he ascended the dais to her side, removing his ridiculous helm. Rilké custom precluded conversation while at table, so there was silence, save for the sound of feasting.
Below them, in a wide semicircle, and seated on nests of cushions, sat twelve or fifteen men, all Planetary Princes, Clan Chieftains, or independent Warlords. Raul seized the opportunity to look them over piercingly … just as they were covertly examining him.
Most them were Rilké: Clan Chieftains, according to the heraldic totems blazoned on cloak or corselet, and hailing from Pendalar and Dorrhea in the Veil. Several were aged patriarchs with silver hair, but most were men of middle-age with gray-shot, grizzled beards, or fortune hunting youngsters with swagger and dash. They were garbed in extremes of jeweled and fantastic luxury that made his own absurd raiment look almost workaday.
One Nomad Prince, a Dorrhean from his purple plumes, caught Linton’s eye: a tall, sturdy, bronzed warrior in subdued black velvet with decorations of silver-painted leather and polished iron. He had a short, sharp, black beard and keen intense eyes. He looked like a good fighting man, a real leader of intelligence, forcefulness, and strong will. Raul liked him at a glance.
Among the others were two Planetary Princes, one from Arkonna with stiff, pointed beard dyed indigo and gems hung from his waxed mustachios; the other from one of the Desert Worlds, or so he assumed, seeing the cream-yellow silken robes worn loose over coats of bronze ringmail. The others were Warlords from Vaela, one also from Arkonna, and a lone Faftol kinglet from Shome.
Raul paid literally no attention to the food; he ate mechanically whatever was placed before him by silent slaves, and after the meal was done could not have described a single dish or even named the wines, save that they were iced and deliciously spiced.
When the meal was done, servants removed the dish-cluttered taborets and brought huge silver bowls of sweetmeats, jellied fruits, curious little dry cakes of something that looked like grated coconut and tasted like marzipan, which Linton had never seen before. And musicians entered the room, quiet, cowled and bearded men in dull, earthern-colored robes, and squatted, making wild, erratic music. One beat the tambang, another drew weird chords from the strings of his tittibuk, a third blew upon a zootibar, while nude girls with masked faces danced for the entertainment of the chieftains.