“You don’t think I can achieve ‘the appropriate level of formality’? Of course, I’m proud of it. It means that when I go to the Palace as a Terran, I have certain rights and liberties. So does a citizen-rancher from Dangchao.”
“I don’t get it, then. If we’re legally outside the imperial system, why the fancy getups for—what did they call the audience? High Tea?”
The Fudir grunted. “There’s law and there’s custom, and custom is the stronger. They may lack legal recourse if we dress uncouthly—but that doesn’t mean they have no recourse at all.”
The harper wore a leine of pure white linen with fitted sleeves, and intricate red geometric embroidery at the neck, cuffs, and hem. It was pulled up and Housed though a leather crios at the waist, in the pouches of which were placed the tools of the harper’s trade. Over this she had thrown a woolen brat in bright green with gold borders. She wore it like a shawl fastened at the right shoulder by a large golden brooch showing a snake entwining a rose. She walked unshod and the nails of her feet and hands matched the color of the embroidery of her leine. Her red hair fell free, to indicate her unwed status, but she wore a silver ollamh’s circlet at her brow.
The scarred man wore Terran garb, and if fewer eyes caressed him than caressed the harper, it was because he was a moon to her sun. He dressed in a dark yellow sherwani over embroidered jutti and matching kurta paijamas. His sandals were plain and of brown leather with golden crescents on the straps. The scars on his head were decently covered by a skullcap, and across his shoulder he had thrown a gharchola stole. Gold lac-bangles adorned his wrists and ankles, and rouge had reddened his cheeks. When he wanted to, the Fudir could cut a figure.
In the anteroom to the audience chamber, the Fudir bowed to the Grand Secretary, and said, in a croak resembling Thistletalk, “This miserable worm prays that these poor rags do not find disfavor in the eyes of noble Grand Secretary.”
That worthy went by the name of Morgan Cheng-li and was known therefore among the backroom staff as “Jingly” in a play on both his name and the sound of the coins that so often crossed his palm. He had that air of self-importance often found among underlings. His frog-like mien—pigeon-chested, eyes bulged, cheeks blown out—gave the impression that he had been holding his breath for a very long time.
The Fudir had learned from the Terrans in palace maintenance that Jingly fancied himself a calligrapher, and so he produced a Gladiola Bill of significant denomination. “Perhaps,” he said, ducking his head by an appropriate amount, “most-accomplished-one might give this humble servant educated opinion on engraving of this wretched bill?”
The Grand Secretary made a motion with his hands, and an underling’s underling scurried over, took the bill between her fingertips, and held it before Jingly’s eyes. “Barbarian work,” the latter said after a moment, using the local term for off-worlders. He placed a loupe in his right eye. “Not without merit, but lacking…” A wave of the hand. “…panache. Perhaps,” he added distastefully, “designed on computer.”
“Your eminence is wise.”
“Pfaugh. Child see such flaws. Observe portrait visage. Where serenity? Where balance?”
“Perhaps expert hand may attempt improvement. Perhaps, use this bill as model.”
“Pfaugh, again. Work for apprentice draftsman. No great skill. But one may essay task as étude.” A nod to the underling caused the bill to disappear into a fold of her gown before she scuttled back to her station.
At the appointed time, the Grand Secretary directed the Assistant Palace Undersecretary of Off-World Affairs to escort them into the throne room. “Rags?” the harper whispered in Gaelactic as they proceeded down the hallway. “After all the work I put into this wardrobe?”
“Self-deprecation is mandatory here,” Donovan answered curtly. The Fudir added, “You should see officials defer for places at a banquet table.”
“Och. Mother and I hold to a faith that values humility, but that sort of servility smacks of unseemly pride. And I thought off-worlders were exempt from the rules on bribes…”
“Do you tip service workers? A bribe is simply a tip offered before the service. Besides, I only asked his opinion on the calligraphy of a Gladiola Bill.” Donovan interrupted and said, “Hush, both of you. And remember what we told you. Don’t mention that your mother has vanished. She came from the sky; and if she’s vanished into the sky—”
“Then she’s lost the Approval of the Sky,” the harper returned wearily. “I know. I know.”
Donovan turned to her. “And through her, the emperor she appointed. Tell them your mother’s gone missing and it’s tantamount to a call for revolution. And don’t think old Frog-Face back there won’t lead it, either.”
At the Assistant Undersecretary’s nod, White Rod knocked on the Golden Doors with the head of a mace. These doors ran floor-to-ceiling and were made of intricately carved rosewood displaying in each panel scenes from the life of Morning Dew. The whole was painted over with a golden lacquer. Méarana admired the attention to fine detaiclass="underline" the studied indifference of the scholar at his terminal, the boredom on the face of a bhisti shuttle-pilot. There would not be the like of these doors anywhere in the Spiral Arm.
The doors swung open on a broad room. The throne on which Resilient Services perched was fashioned of solid gold. The stiles had been molded in the form of climbing ivy and from them on threadlike wires hung leaves of artfully tarnished copper. This gave them a greenish cast and, when movement caused them to sway, they tinkled like wind chimes. Under the throne, for some age-long and forgotten reason, rested a large stone. The high back rearing above the yellow-robed emperor, bore four ideograms: the motto of the sheen. “Behold the August Presence,” the Voice of the Sheen cried out. “Behold the Resilient Services Reign, who provides the sheen with robust and reliable infrastructure!”
Now there’s a battle cry to rally the troops, said the Brute.
It works for them. The earthquake destroyed so much. Why not make its restoration a quasi-sacred duty?
The Fudir scolded them. “Quiet. We’re not here to mock their customs.”
“Who,” the Voice demanded, “approaches the August Presence?”
The Fudir bowed, sweeping his arm to the right and holding his left over his heart. “I hight Donovan buigh of Jehovah, special emissary of the Particular Service to the Court of the Morning Dew. My companion is the ollamh Méarana of Dangchao, master of the clairseach.”
The emperor had gone, first pale, then flushed. “Ah. So,” he said. “You much resemble my illustrious predecessor, and I had thought… Ah, I had thought she had returned to resume her duties.” He clapped his hands and a flunky struck a hanging gong. “Bring forth the crumpets and scones!”
Underlings and flunkies scurried about in what appeared to be absolute confusion, but from which in short order emerged a table in the center of the hall, dressed with cloth, napkins, and fine bone-china cups. Three soft-backed chairs were arranged around it, and a silver tea service wheeled into place. A tray of biscuits, ceremoniously escorted, was placed on the table, and the visitors were shown to their seats. The emperor stood and descended from the Ivy Throne, unhooking his yellow robes of state and handing them to the Assistant Deputy Undersecretary, Count Wardrobe, who bundled, folded, and scurried off with an economy of motion.