THE HELMSMAN: Director's Cut Edition (37 page)

Inside, soft lighting, walls of elegant display cases, magnificent furniture, and deep carpets identified the room as one of the ultra-private drawing rooms everyone heard of but seldom saw, rooms where the very course of history could be charted quietly, and frequently was. Two tall officers stood talking before a blazing fireplace: One a human, the other a flighted being from A'zurn. Their uniforms were heavy with ponderous badges of rank and decoration.

Khios stopped approximately halfway into the room and bowed from the waist. “Your Majesties,” he said. “May I present Lieutenant Helmsman Wilf Brim, Imperial Fleet, on detached duty from I.F.S.
Truculent.”
Then he rose to his full height and indicated the two men. “Lieutenant, Crown Prince Onrad, your host, and Crown Prince Leopold of A'zurn.” Startled, Brim saluted while Khios clicked his heels and bowed once more, then silently exited the room, closing the door gently behind him.

Nearly panicked and alone in the center of the room, Brim set his chin, collected himself as best he could, and strode purposefully to a position a few respectful paces before the two young dignitaries. He bowed, then stood looking first at one and then the other. “Your Majesties,” he said, seizing his emotions with an icy calm, “I am honored.”

Onrad spoke first. He looked to be approximately Brim's age and was powerfully built, with the square jaw and thick neck of a natural athlete. Expensively attired, his basic dress was the tailored blue uniform of a vice admiral. “So
you
are Wilf Brim,” he remarked, “the Carescrian who has caused all that trouble for Great Uncle Triannic.” His broad smile nearly squeezed his eyes shut. “Ha, ha! Well, your partisan campaign to prove out old Wyrood's Reform Act certainly seems to be working impressively.” He nodded to the A'zurnian beside him. “Isn't that right, Leo?”

Crown Prince Leopold exuded an ageless, almost ethereal restraint which, in its own understated manner, stood out like a beacon from all the heavy magnificence of the ornate drawing room. His folded wings reached at least six golden irals from the floor, his eyes were the huge eyes of a hunter hawk, and his look conveyed the very soul of dignity. Here was a man who never acted in haste, nor passion. He was beautifully clothed in the elegant, old-fashioned uniform of a brigadier general, and he stood with one polished boot on the high hearth. He also smiled at Brim, his an analytical and questioning smile that seemed to test its recipient without so much as a touch of challenge. “A 'gentle and daring leader,' as my cousins put it,” he said. His eyes narrowed and he seemed to look into the very soul of Brim's existence. “A 'complete' leader.”

“There, Leo,” Onrad interrupted hotly, “tell
that
to the anti-Wyrood idiots. They are
hard
to convince.”

Leopold sighed and stared into the fire for a moment. “Even
they
will learn, Onrad, or surely none of us will survive this tumult.” He nodded his head. “But those very factions
will
eventually learn — because the Wilf Brims of this Universe have the strength to persist, and in the final analysis,
they
do not.” Then he reached to the top of the great carved mantelpiece and took a golden chest in his hands. Stepping to a position opposite Brim, he opened it and extracted a tiny crystal image of a winged being: The same figure Brim instantly remembered from the twin pillars outside the quarry on A'zurn where Hagbut and his troops were held prisoner. It was suspended on a small red ribbon. The Prince smiled again. “I have sent all the meaningless text that goes with this to Gimmas/Haefdon, Lieutenant,” he said. “The only importance is that you understand how much your actions were appreciated in Magalla'ana and that we shall never forget your dedication to your mission and my countrymen.” He grinned a momentary, lopsided grin. “Lieutenant Wilf Ansor Brim,” he said, “in the presence of your liege, the Crown Prince Onrad, I award you the A'zurnian Order of Cloudless Flight.” He peered deeply into Brim's eyes. “Wear it proudly,” he said. “The decoration has never before been awarded to a groundling.” Then he fastened the ribbon to the left breast of Brim's tunic and resumed his original position at the fireplace.

Brim bowed again. “Thank you, Your Majesties,” he said. The A'zurnian nodded.

“And see that you take good care of my cousin Margot,” Onrad added with a grin and a half-sensed wink. “I have a distinct feeling you constitute the only reason we shall be honored with her blond presence this evening.”

Brim felt his face flush. Then he boldly returned the Prince's smile. “I shall certainly attempt to do
that,
Your Majesty,” he said quietly. After this, he stepped back, saluted, and exited the room, closing the door softly behind him. Outside, he stood for a moment gathering his thoughts. Mentally, he felt as if he had just come through a pitched space battle. Then he shrugged to himself. It certainly
was
a long way from the ore barges — not an inconsiderable accomplishment for a Carescrian!

He made his way back into the growing crowd, accepting another goblet of meem and unsuccessfully scanning the room for Margot's blond curls when a small stir occurred at the entrance doors.

“Her Serene Majesty, Princess Margot of the Effer'wyck Dominions,” the majordomo announced in a voice notably louder than before. The babble hushed, and heads turned expectantly.

Brim felt his breath catch as she swept through the door on the arm of First Star Lord Beorn Wyrood. No longer was she merely an attractive military officer, she now radiated that particular beauty exclusively reserved for the wealthy and powerful. She was
magnificent
.

She was wrapped in a meem-colored, full-length gown that crossed in front and tied at the neck, leaving her creamy shoulders and back stunningly bare. A matching sash nipped her waist, and a daring slit revealed enough of a long, shapely leg to considerably raise Brim's temperature. Around her neck, she wore an enormous, single-drop StarBlaze that flashed with an inner fire as she laughed and chatted with the First Lord.

“…had no idea the party was
that
important,” someone whispered behind Brim. “She hardly
ever
attends these affairs.”

“Voot's beard,” another said in a low voice. “She's wearing the Stone of the Empire!”

“And LaKarn isn't
anywhere in sight.”

“Noticed that.”

Brim watched transfixed as a small crowd formed around the couple. In a moment, both crown princes appeared, laughing and talking.

Then, the A'zurnian was bending close to Margot, she whispering in his ear. He grinned his lopsided grin and pulled himself to his full height, scanning the ballroom with his enormous eyes — which lighted on Brim and stopped. Smiling, he spoke rapidly to Margot, then she was peering Brim's way, too.

Their eyes met; she smiled — and frowned. In a moment, she was on her way through the crowd, never taking her eyes from him.

And in that instant, Wilf Brim knew for a certainty he was hopelessly in love.

Margot reached Brim amid murmured admiration from the gathered revelers, took his hands, and kissed him lightly on the lips. “Wilf,” she whispered with a breathless smile, “I knew you'd manage it tonight —
'Fresh evening winds have blown away all fear/From my glad bosom, now from gloominess!/I mount forever.'
“

Stunned for a moment, he could only stare at her blue eyes, moist lips, and perfect teeth. Never had he seen so much of her shoulders, the swell of her small breasts. He felt his heart rush. “Margot,” he said in a whispered croak. “How
wonderfully
beautiful you are.”

She laughed. “I suppose I am a little more presentable than the last time you saw me,” she said, her voice mellow and beautiful over the sparkling background of music and conversation. She touched the A'zurnian medal on his tunic and smiled, looking him directly in the eye. “I'm very proud of you, Wilf,” she whispered.

Somewhere far away, detached words announced the arrival of someone named Godille, but Brim hardly noticed. He wanted nothing in the Universe more than taking Margot Effer'wyck in his arms and holding her tightly. It was as if they were alone in the room.

Abruptly, she seemed to read his mind. She took his hands in hers and looked into his eyes. “Not yet, Wilf,” she breathed almost inaudibly. “I have additional functions I must perform with my new assignment on Avalon — and we shall have to share each other for a while tonight.” She gently guided him toward the lights and music, pressing his arm; her perfume was the very soul of seduction.

The
dance floor!
Brim almost froze. He'd learned exactly enough about social dancing to minimally satisfy his infrequent social commitments at the Academy — nothing more. Helmsmen especially had little time for anything else but flying. “Margot…” he warned, but he was already far too late. Abruptly, he found her in his arms… and they were moving, she flowing with the music, he stiff and suddenly a little frightened.

“Universe, Wilf,” she laughed in his ear, “you
are
a horrible dancer, aren't you?”

“I know,” he agreed. “Maybe we ought to...”

“Won't work,” she laughed. “You'll have to finish this set with me no matter what.” She nearly touched his nose with hers, looking deeply in his eyes and smiling. “Oh, Wilf, relax,” she said. “Here, hold me like … this. Yes. That's better.”

Brim suddenly found her fitted comfortably against him, her soft cheek pressing his. And it
was
easier. He felt her body — her breasts. He breathed her perfume, felt his movements become one with hers. He held her tighter.

And the music stopped.

In a rush, the world returned while she slowly released him. He held her hands, desperately trying to stop time's headlong rush. “I don't want to let go, Margot,” he heard his voice say; his heart was beating out of control.

She shook her head and placed a gloved finger to his lips. “Our time is later, Wilf,” she said. “Trust me. For we shall finish the evening together — pretending it is the Mermaid Tavern again.”

Then Brim felt a hand on his shoulder. He turned to confront a beaming Prince Onrad.

“We meet again, Lieutenant,” the nobleman said warmly. “May I interrupt your reunion with my blond cousin?”

Brim bowed. “My liege,” he said, gritting his teeth in spite of himself.

“Cousin Onrad,” Margot said with an abbreviated curtsy. “What a pleasure.”

Onrad laughed with a twinkle in his eye as the music began. “I shall interpose myself only temporarily, Brim,” he said mischievously. “We princes seldom venture into hopeless contests, especially those that are clearly lost before the play begins.” Then he bowed to Margot, took her in his arms, and they were instantly swept into the rush of dancers.

Brim soon found himself with another goblet of meem as he listened to the music and watched couples whirl by on the dance floor. His eyes strayed momentarily to a lovely oval face framed in a halo of soft brown hair. He looked away in embarrassment, but his gaze was drawn back like iron to a magnet.

And her eyes were waiting. She smiled and met his glance. Brim found himself moving through the crowd.

“Lieutenant Brim,” she said with a curtsy when he stepped to her side. “I hoped I should meet you tonight.”

Brim bowed. “I am honored, ma'am,” he said. “But I didn't catch…”

“Cintha,” she said. “Cintha Onleon.” She had enormous eyelashes, a tiny nose, and perfectly shaped lips. Her tightly fitting gown was tawny gold and reminded Brim of nothing so much as a large flower bud whose petals were just beginning to open. Like Margot's, her skirt was also slit high along one side, but the overall accent was clearly on bosom — white, stunning bosom.

And while they talked and drank, it became amply clear to Brim that neither he nor she had anything remotely interesting or important to say to each other — only empty, hackneyed words. He was mostly fascinated by her ample sensuousness, she (at least by her conversation) in his battle experience and later a shared bed.

It was not enough. He actually welcomed the Army officer (with large, red-veined ears), who noisily foisted himself upon them and provided opportunity for escape to another part of the room, alone.

In this manner, much of his evening passed: a tall, slim Marshia in revealing black lace followed Cintha — and was herself followed by a petite Beatrice scantily dressed in ruffled pink. Each was fascinating in her own way — and most probably available for much more serious dalliance. But none was Margot Effer'wyck. He discovered to his surprise that good looks and willingness — long his primary standards — were no longer
nearly
enough to satisfy the person whom he had lately become. Now he
also
required fascinating conversation, professional accomplishment, even a bit of elitism. He shook his head. Carescria was a long way off, indeed!

Now and again, he caught sight of Margot dancing with (he assumed) important guests — always someone different, always someone of considerable rank. And each partner appeared to be completely enthralled as she laughed and talked and danced. Often, he saw her standing centered in groups of admirers, constantly smiling and drinking with apparent girlish abandon.

Twice, she returned to him for a single — wonderful — dance set when she placed her cheek against his and he never even noticed if he was dancing or not. The second time, her eyes were even more heavily lidded than usual. Her cheeks had a pinkish tinge, and she held him tighter than ever before. “Voot's beard, Wilf,” she whispered in his ear, “I've never
seen
so much good Logish meem; Uncle Wyrood's certainly opened his best cellars for us tonight.” She giggled musically, then hugged him closely for a moment as the music ended — and as he was beginning to feel embarrassing sensations in his loins.

Finally, after what seemed like an age of eternities, the crowd began to thin and Margot returned to his arms to stay. 'The time of sharing is past, Wilf,” she whispered. “Now I shall have you all to myself.” They strolled into the coolness of the plaza — almost empty now — and made their way under the panthon trees to the fountain he had watched from his room. She brushed a dusting of tiny glowing blossoms from his hair and stared into his eyes, smiling enigmatically.
“'Night sublime, Oh night of love,’”
she recited in a whisper,
“'Oh smile on our caressing;/Moons and stars keep watch above/Our splendorous night of love.'“