Compete (76 page)

Several floor-length mirrors stand around the walls, and ultra-modern digital paintings of various stunning natural landscapes hang next to ancient-looking stylized tapestries. There are stands with vases filled with fresh pale flowers that look like acacia blooms, and bowls of exotic fruit resembling mangoes and pears and prickly cactus. A pillow-covered settee reposes along another wall, and several comfortable chairs are placed around the perimeter. There’s even a small dining table and what looks like a writing desk and chair ensemble in another nook.

I notice there is a bathroom off to the side around the corner, and it’s equally grand, with a sunken tub that looks big enough to be a small pool. . . .

Okay, I feel like I’ve stepped into a Presidential suite.

“This is all for me?” I say. “No, that’s just crazy. It’s too much! My God!”

But the elegant porter puts my bags down discreetly on a nearby stand. And the Consul dismisses him with a wave. “This is nothing, dear girl,” he tells me. “By Imperial Palace standards you have been given a poor closet.”

I put my hand to my mouth.

The Consul turns to me, with a very sympathetic look. “Now, this is what you need to do for the rest of the afternoon. In a few minutes you will have some refreshments brought up to you, so you need to have a nice solid meal—think of it as a brunch.”

“Okay, thank you,” I say. “I am not really hungry yet. . . .”

“No matter. You
will
try to eat. And then you will go directly to bed and sleep for at least three hours. If you cannot sleep, simply lie down and rest your body, to get yourself accustomed to the gravity—this is very important.”

I nod.

“And don’t worry about the time, or setting alarms,” he continues. “If you do fall asleep, someone will come to wake you up gently. Next, you will be assisted with some spa treatments, and then you will be helped to dress. Finally, at five o’clock, I will arrive, with Kem, to do your final Court Face Art, and make sure you are ready to be presented before the Imperator. We will be done by five-forty-five, at which point we will proceed to the Imperial Reception. Court begins at six.”

“Okay,” I say. “As far as getting ready, I don’t really need any spa treatments, and I think I can manage dressing on my own—”

But Consul Denu raises his hand up to stop me. “Not another word. This is all part of the procedure, and is required by Protocol. So please, dear girl, don’t argue, and remember what I told you about
subtle acquiescence
. I know you are tired and overwhelmed, and you have had a
painful
emotional experience in more ways than one today. But, this is what must be done. We must follow the command given us by the Imperial Prince in regard to you.”

I smile tiredly and nod. “Yes, I understand. . . .”

And on that note the Consul leaves me in my grandiose guest quarters.

A
s promised, refreshments arrive soon, carried on multiple trays by not one but three palace servants. They set the trays on the table and place tall carafes of drinks nearby. I thank them in Atlantean, then sit down and try to eat and drink.

Then I drag myself over to the huge pillow-covered bed and collapse directly on top of the silken coverlet. I lie, breathing heavily, feeling the added weight of every limb like it’s not my own. . . . And then, tears come.

I cry silently, shaking, curled in a fetal position.

And then apparently I fall asleep.

I
am awakened out of a deep slumber by a gentle touch on my shoulder. As I stare groggily, a sweet-faced Atlantean girl dressed in the Palace uniform leans over me. As I look around, my head still thick with the sleep and strange gravity, I notice that while I was asleep someone must’ve come in to clear away the trays, and now, a beautiful violet-colored outfit ensemble lies ready for me on top of the settee, underneath a clear protective cover.

“My Lady, I am Miwat,” says the Atlantean girl in English. “I am going to help you wash and dress.”

“Oh,” I mumble, getting up. “Thank you.” And then I add, “But I am not a Lady, so you can just call me Gwen.”

“Forgive me, Gwen,” Miwat says with a flustered look. “I am instructed to call any female guest in these quarters at least a Lady, but I will do as you request, of course.”

“Oh, no problem!” Now I feel bad about even bringing this up.

I stand, feeling an initial head rush, but after having slept for a few hours, I do feel somewhat better, and my body is already adjusting to the slight additional weight.

And so we start getting ready.

While I take off my plain Fleet uniform and underclothes and shyly rush into the grand shower stall, with my arms and hands crossed over my chest, I notice that Miwat and two other servants I haven’t previously noticed are moving around the suite laying out items of clothing and accessories from the outfit package. Meanwhile a fourth servant is doing something to the sunken pool—I have no idea what, but the water is running there, and a smell of flowers comes wafting to me in the shower.

As I am shampooing my hair with what I
think
is shampoo from one of the aromatic vials up on a ledge nearby, I see Miwat peer inside the shower enclosure.

I make a little squeal and try to cover myself.

“Oh, I am sorry, Gwen, but you will need to come out and use the bath instead,” she says, completely ignoring the fact that I am buck naked, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world. Oh wow, do Atlanteans have different standards of privacy? I suppose I will find out.

“But I am almost done,” I say nervously. “And I’m not really comfortable walking around naked.”

“My apologies,” Miwat says with a small nod and no other reaction. “We will turn around and you can enter the bath, please.”

Oh, this is just nuts
. . . .

I let them step away and watch as four girls turn their backs on me after Miwat explains my probably weird request to them.

Dripping wet, with Atlantean shampoo still in my hair, I streak across the bathroom and wade into the deep sunken bath which, thank goodness, is now filled with some kind of bath treatment that makes the water butter-creamy and opaque. I sit down and make sure the pleasantly hot water comes up to my neck.

“Okay to turn around,” I say, feeling like an idiot.

But they don’t seem to mind. Miwat and the girls immediately come around me and start working my hair with some kind of other gooey cream stuff, and massaging my shoulders and scrubbing my back, and just basically being extremely personally intrusive.

Ugh, if this is what spa treatments are like, how can people stand it?
I think.

“Isn’t this nice and pleasing? Please try to relax, Gwen,” Miwat tells me constantly, and apparently to no avail. At this point I’m too polite to say anything, but I am as stiff and tense as a board. And no, all this fancy massage stuff is
not
relaxing.

About an hour later, I have been depilated, shaved, scrubbed, soaked, moisturized, and otherwise cosmetically tortured. But hey, my skin feels very, very smooth and clean!

Once out of the bath, I am covered in fluffy towels and then left to cool down for a few minutes while the girls do my nails, applying a glossy polish in pure liquid gold.

Oh, dear lord in heaven, I have gold fingernails and toenails
. . . .

After it dries, they return and start dressing me.

They allow me to at least put on the flimsy underwear by myself while they again stand with their backs to me. But then, as soon as I’ve pulled on the weirdly cut panties and whatever equivalent the Atlanteans have for a bra, they surround me and start putting on the layers. First, a slip-like long narrow tunic sheath of silky soft white fabric that goes to my knees. Then, a floor-length dark fitted violet dress of some kind of stiff, expensive and heavy material, with a high collar and no sleeves. Next, they put on a flimsy translucent gauze-like lavender over-dress that floats over the darker base dress like a cloud. My hands and arms remain bare.

Next, come the sandal shoes. They are also violet, a cross between open sandals and boots, with several ribbon laces that wind around my ankle and are secured with a golden button above my heel. At least I can be thankful these are flats and there are no awful heels to contend with. . . .

I stand, letting them do this to me. My mind is in a strange passive daze, a mixture of depression, shock, resignation, and alien wonder.

Just as they begin to brush out my long, almost dry hair, there is a loud knock on the door, and Consul Denu comes in, followed by Kem burdened with cosmetics boxes.

The Consul gives me a careful look-over and then nods in satisfaction. “You look well, my dear, precisely as intended,” he says. “And now, we will complete the look to make you fit the intended station.”

In other words
, I recall,
Low Court
.

I am told to sit down, and the Consul sits before me, watching me carefully, while Kem lays out his cosmetics.

“We will keep your hair down, but gather it behind you loosely in a demure wide tail, with a barrette brooch.” Consul Denu points with one polished finger to a box of accessories, and Kem knows immediately which to select.

Kem gathers my hair behind me, smoothing every unfettered strand into a perfectly controlled, deceptively loose wide tail. He clips it with the barrette, low at the back of my neck, leaving the nape covered.

Next, Consul Denu selects the colors of the Face Paints. Kem applies each layer as directed. I am given a very natural skin look, with faint traces of color, a delicate rose gloss over my lips, faint lavender and gold eyelid color, and in contrast very dark violet eyeliner and mascara that does give sudden drama to my eyes.

As final touches, Kem puts on two wide gold bracelets, one on each of my wrists, and hangs a pair of heavy gold pendant earrings with a tassel fringe of delicate chains through my earlobes. The earrings have great violet semi-precious jewels in the center to match my dress.

I stand up, and am told to look in the mirror.

Wow, I look ethereal, delicate, and stunning. If
this
look is Low Court, I’m afraid to think what High Court involves.

“Wow, thank you so much, Consul Denu—and Kem!” I say. “Yet again you work miracles and make me look amazing!”

“You are a fair canvas to work with, my dear,” the Consul graciously replies. “Now, we have only ten minutes to arrive, and we are late already. Let us hurry now, to Court! The Imperator must not be kept waiting!”

Chapter Forty-Nine

W
e arrive, through a confusing labyrinth of fine Palace corridors and levels, in the ante-chamber before a grand doorway that leads into the Imperial Throne Hall called the
Pharikoneon
—the ancient grand chamber dedicated to the highest Imperial ceremony.

As we walk, Consul Denu informs me as quickly as possible about the various specific details of this particular Court assembly. I try to absorb as much as I can, even though my mind is overwhelmed and I am sinking deeper and deeper into some kind of inexplicable numb state of terror and soul-sickness.

Crowds of splendidly dressed Atlanteans are gathering at the entrance, while the Imperial guards holding upright floor-length gold staffs stand in a line before us, preventing admittance until the proper time.

The formal outfits are amazing. . . . I see the difference now, between me in my delicate Low Court garb, my simple flow of hair and the austere fall of my dress, and the ladies in intricate headdresses, with upswept sculpted hair, dramatic makeup, sparkling webs and garlands of jewelry and dresses of so many layers that they are like sculptures in themselves. Yes, this is definitely High Court.

And the men are predominantly capped with grand golden wigs, also wearing amazing layers of makeup, perfectly fitted jackets and pants or floor-length robes and capes. To my untrained eye, the fine distinctions between Middle Court and High Court blur . . . but I suppose I can ask Consul Denu about it at some later date.

I also notice that here in this crowd of various degrees of nobility, there is a mixture of all ages, and not merely teens, as I’m used to seeing in the Fleet. I see many older Atlanteans for the first time—gilded matrons with wrinkled faces, and old men with neatly trimmed beards. Most people have the usual metallic hair dye, but there are a few standouts with natural hair color in the crowd—black, dark brown, auburn, red. I am momentarily reminded of raven-haired Xelio Vekahat. . . . Yes, he’s not alone in rejecting the metallic gold hair fashion.

“Notice, among the highest nobility of
Atlantida
, men and women wearing the long gold and white robes and the gold filigree skull caps,” the Consul points out to me. “These are the members of the Poseidon Imperial Executive Council, the other branch of government, who serve to offset and balance the power of the Imperator.”

“Okay . . .” I glance at the impossible crowds around us in this ante-chamber and note the white-robed individuals.