Hasselborg was beginning to wish for a bicycle when they halted at the entrance to a big official-looking room. At the far end he saw a man talking to another who sat on a raised seat—the dasht, no doubt. The major-domo whispered to another functionary. Other Rüzuma sat at desks along the walls or stood around as if for want of anything better to do.
The standing man bowed, put on his hat, and went over to one of the desks to talk to a man there. Then a drum rolled briefly, a horn went blat, and the functionary at the door cried:
"Master Kavir bad-Ma'lum, the distinguished artist!"
Who ever said he was distinguished? thought Hasselborg. Maybe they were trained to do that to im-press the yokels. During the long walk, the figure of the dasht grew larger and larger. Hasselborg realized that he was a big fellow indeed, in all directions, with plump ruddy features and bulging green eyes behind thick-lensed spectacles; except for the glasses, altogether like the Krishnan version of a jolly medieval baron.
When Hasselborg reached the end of the line down the middle he doffed his hat, knelt, and cried: "I abase myself before Your Altitude!"
Evidently he had done it right, for Jam bad-Kone said: "Rise, Master Kavir, and advance to kiss my hand. With this recommendation from my good friend Master Julio, all doors shall be open to you. What's your business in Rosid?"
Jam's hand was noticeably dirty, so that the thought of kissing the germ-infested object almost made Hasselborg squirm. Still, he managed the ceremony without a visible tremor, saying:
"I have some small skill at portrait painting, may it please Your Altitude, and thought you or some of your court might like their pictures painted."
"Hm-m-m. Have you mastered the new ertso style?"
"I'm tolerably familiar with the methods of the Ertsuma, Your Altitude."
"Good. I may have a commission for you. Meanwhile feel free to frequent the court. By the way, how's your hunting?"
"I—I've had but small experience—"
"Excellent! My gentlemen pine for amusement, and you shall attend my hunt on the morrow. If you're truly not good at it, so much the better; 'twill afford the rest of us some honest laughter. Be at the lodge an hour before sunrise. It's been a pleasure meeting you."
Hasselborg gave the formula and backed along the line until he came to the crossline that indicated that he could turn and walk out fowards. As he did so, the drummer gave five ruffles and the bugler a toot after each. The doorman shouted:
"A message from His Supreme Awesomeness, the Dour of Gozashtand!"
Hasselborg stood aside to let the messenger by, then went in search of the Charon who had brought him in. He walked slowly, partly to appear at ease, and partly to watch the others to observe how they behaved. There was even a remote chance of stumbling upon Fallon and Julnar; at least one should keep one's eyes open…
He got lost for a while, wandering from room to room. In one room a pair of bare-breasted women were playing Krishnan checkers while other people kibitzed; in another, a group of Krishnans seemed to be rehearsing for a play. Finally Hasselborg entered a room where Krishnans were snaffling food from a buffet table. He tried some of the stuff cautiously, although the heavy perfume used by the Krishnans kept his appetite down.
"Try some of this," said his neighbor, a man in white satin. "You're the portrait painter, aren't you?"
"Why yes, sir, how did you know?"
"Gossip, gossip. My good sir, with neither war nor jury duty at the moment, how else can one occupy one's time?" Presently they were in friendly chit-chat about superficialities.
"I'm Ye'man," the Krishnan explained, as if everybody should know the patronymic and titles that went with his given name. "This ugly wight on my right is Sir Archman bad-Gavveq the glider champion. Paint him not; 'twill curdle your pigments, as the salt demons curdled the Maraghe Sea in the myth. You should hear Saqqiz read his poem on the theme; a masterpiece in the old epic style—"
When he could get a word in, Hasselborg asked: "Who's the lady in the transparent blue outfit with hair to match?"
"That? Why, that would be Fouri bab-Vazid, of course. You know, old Haste's niece. Could you not tell by the Western hue of her hair? There are vari-ous stories of the whys and wherefores of her staying here; whether that she's enamored of our good dasht, or promoting her uncle's cult, or spying for the dour—But you'll hear all that in due course. You'll be in on the hunt? We should have a good fall, not like last time, when the field crossed the reach and the drum led porridge up the chimney—"
Since his companion's speech seemed to have become suddenly unintelligible, and since mention of hunting reminded him that he had preparations to make, Hasselborg excused himself and sought the exit. He found the major-domo in a kind of sentry box just inside the main entrance to the palace, whence he could keep an eye on the gate.
He said: "Thank you for your courtesy," and dropped a couple of silver karda into the man's hand. As the latter's expression implied that he'd guessed the size of the tip about right, he continued:
"I should like to ask you some questions. The dasht just invited me to go hunting tomorrow, and being new here and no hunter anyway, I don't know how to go about it. What do I need, and where's this lodge, and what's he going to hunt?"
"You'll need a hunting suit, sir, which you can get any good tailor to make you, though he'll have to hasten. His Altitude will probably hunt yekis, since the pair he kept for games died but lately. As for the lodge—"
Hasselborg copied down the directions, thinking that to one who had hunted the most dangerous game, man, riding out and spearing some poor animal would seem pretty stupid. However, orders were orders.
At the appointed hour, Hasselborg presented himself at the dasht's hunting lodge, ten hoda outside the city. The rest of the previous day he had spent buying himself a hunting outfit and a saddle and bridle for Faroun, and moving his gear to another and he hoped a more reputable inn within the walls.
The hunting suit he had obtained ready-made from the Rosido. This swank establishment had also tried to sell him a wagonload of other equipment: a short hunting sword, a canteen, and so on, all of which he had refused. The suit was bad enough—an affair of shrieking yellow satiny material with indecently tight breeches, which made Hasselborg feel as if he were made up to play the toreador in Carmen.
Hasselborg heard the racket in front of the lodge long before he reached the spot. The gentlemen were sitting on their ayas in the half-light, drinking mugs of kvad and all talking at once. It did Hasselborg little good to listen to them, because he found that hunting enthusiasts used a vocabulary incomprehensible to outsiders.
Other characters ran about afoot in red suits, some struggling with a pack of six-legged eshuna the size of large dogs but much uglier. Somebody pressed a mug of kvad upon Hasselborg, who downed half of it before he had to stop to keep from gagging. The dasht, trotting past, shouted:
"I'll watch you, master painter! If you play not the man, I can always feed you to the yeki, ha ha ha!"
Hasselborg smiled dutifully. A group of servitors were wrestling with a great net and a set of poles that went with it; another pair was lugging out a rack in which were stuck a couple of dozen long lances. (They must import timber for their bows and spears, thought Hasselborg; this country seems to have few decent trees.) As the workmen set up the rack in front of the lodge, the hunters began guiding their mounts past it to pick out lances. As Hasselborg snatched his, he heard the dasht shouting behind him: