The Waterless Sea (12 page)

She returned that evening with some information. ‘His name' s Amagis. He' s the Ambassador from Hathara, wherever that might be.'

‘Hathara is in the south, the harshest part of Merithuros,' said Heben. ‘Hatharan Ambassador! That must be someone' s idea of a joke. No one lives in Hathara. No one even goes there. There is nothing in Hathara but a dead, dry plain.'

Calwyn frowned. ‘Darrow' s ring, the one he took from Samis, is called the Ring of Hathara.'

‘Perhaps the gem was mined there, long ago,' suggested Heben.

I have heard Darrow call that ring by another name.

‘Oh?' Calwyn looked up quickly at Halasaa.

‘We talkin about Darrow, or Amagis?' demanded Mica. ‘Thought we was here to find them chanter kids, not moon about Darrow all the time.'

Calwyn flushed.

Mica helped herself to the platter of food she' d brought back from the kitchens. ‘These pastries ain' t bad. Shame they' re cold by the time I get back here.'

‘Did you find out anything else?' asked Calwyn.

Mica shrugged. ‘He come back from Gellan not long ago. That' s all. Keeps himself to himself. He comes and goes. No one likes him. And he ain' t got no servants.'

‘That is strange.' Heben frowned as he paced up and down the room. ‘But if he had reported you to the Imperial Guard, we would all have been arrested already. I think we' re safe for now.'

‘All the same, I think we should avoid him if we can.' Calwyn plucked at the stiff embroidery of her skirt. ‘No more questions about him, Mica.'

‘All right,' agreed Mica cheerfully. ‘I s' pose if he is an ironcrafter, he don' t need a servant, even with his gloves on. If he wants to pick up anythin, he can just
sing
it.'

One thing they hadn' t managed to buy in Teril was a pair of the long embroidered gloves that the courtiers wore, ladies and gentlemen alike. Richly decorated with gold thread and jewels, and festooned with silk ribbons, the gloves were made of supple leather. Holding one' s hands elegantly to show off one' s gloves was an important art of the Court, and the gloves could only be obtained from the master glove-makers of the Palace. Calwyn had come to court without them. Every day she endured the titters of ladies who passed her in the corridors; she had learned to thrust her bare hands into the folds of her robes whenever a stranger approached.

‘It' s so strange,' she complained to Mica. ‘I' ve never worn gloves in my life, except rabbit-skin mittens in the snow, and now I feel naked without them. I feel ashamed to walk around with bare hands.'

‘That' s how they want you to feel. Like you don' t belong here.' Mica sniffed. ‘Stupid gloves. Do you think, if these fine sirs and madams get an itch, they ask their servants to scratch it for em?'

Calwyn laughed. ‘I haven' t seen anyone do that yet. But perhaps they do.' She lowered her voice, and cast an anxious glance at Heben. ‘I must have gloves. Even now my hair looks right, I' ll never be allowed into the courtly gatherings until I have a proper pair of gloves.'

‘Can' t Heben get you some?'

‘Heben has spent everything he had.' She sighed. ‘Never mind. I' ll manage without them. I' ll just have to lurk around outside their story-tellings and their banquets.' She shuddered. ‘I don' t want to go to the banquets anyway. Did you know, Mica, because there aren' t any tables and chairs, they sit on those wretched stools, and their servants fetch them food on a tray? Then the servants kneel down, and feed them with golden forks, so they don' t soil their precious gloves! I' d rather stay and eat here in our rooms where we can all be together, and sit on the floor, and eat with our hands if we want to.'

‘Much better,' said Mica stoutly. But she knew that it was a blow to Calwyn, and especially to Heben, to have come so far and still be unable to penetrate the inner salons of the court. The poetry tournaments and banquets and smoke-parties were held in closed galleries; they would never be able to examine them unless Calwyn was invited inside.

The next day Mica went to the bazaar. Every day a hundred craftsmen and merchants set up their stalls inside the covered market. There were aisles of goldsmiths and fan-makers, shoe-stitchers and sweetmeat-cooks, hunched under striped awnings with their wares heaped before them, while a crowd of courtiers and their attendants buzzed all around.

Mica made her way slowly down the aisles, pausing to inspect the fine necklets and shiny buckles spread on the counters. She looked up at the delicate gossamer lattice that held out the sun' s glare. The bazaar was cool and shaded; it was easy to forget that they were in the centre of the desert. She leaned forward to admire some silver bangles. They were very large, too large for a human wrist, and Mica puzzled over them for a moment before she realised that they were meant to be worn over the embroidered gloves.

Next to Mica, a lady with towering hair pointed to a tray of extravagant hair ornaments. Seeing Mica' s brown skin and cropped hair, she drew herself away with a little shudder of distaste. Mica had come to expect that, though she didn' t like it. What made her angry was that the lady' s manservant, himself burnt bronze by the sun and wind, gave her a snooty look down his nose as well. ‘Puffed up swanker!' muttered Mica as she moved on.

At last she found the aisle of the glove-makers, stall after stall fanned with the enormous glittering gloves. Eagerly she scanned the array of goods. There was a pair that would do for Calwyn: not too flamboyant, but very beautiful, made of soft blue-dyed leather and stitched with golden birds and moons. The crowd pressed against Mica' s back as she bent forward, careful not to stare at the pair she really wanted, but at some gaudy ruby-studded gloves nearby. Swiftly, casually, she glanced about. The vendor was attending to a lady in pink and white, who was examining a pair of green gloves with silver lacework and lilac ribbons. Behind her, the crowd rippled, and parted, and she saw, not far away, a sinister dark-clad figure. That must be Amagis! He was the only one at Court who dressed so severely. Her heart quickened. It would be a double challenge, to get away with it under the nose of the Hatharan Ambassador.

Without hesitation, she reached for the blue gloves and tucked them quickly into her robes. Then with a nonchalant toss of her head – not too fast, be casual about it – she turned away.

‘Hey!' The heavy hand of the vendor clamped her arm. ‘What do you think you' re doing?'

‘I dunno what you' re talkin about!' Mica struggled to shake herself free, but he gripped her too tightly.

‘Hark at her! You know exactly what I' m talking about, girl! Maybe you don' t pay for your purchases in Phain or Geel or whatever sea-town you come from, but here in the Palace, we do!' His contempt as he spat out the word
sea-town
was palpable. The murmuring crowd gathered around the stall. Lords and ladies shook their elaborately coiffed heads, carefully, so as not to disarrange their hair.

‘Sea-town savages. . . riff-raff. . . shouldn' t be allowed!'

‘Let me go! I ain' t done nothin!' Mica was truly desperate now. If she were caught stealing, it would mean all kinds of trouble. Perhaps they would all be interrogated – tortured – expelled from the Palace. . .She tossed back her head and tried to glare down the stallholder with all the venom she could muster, but he was grim and self-righteous.

‘Undo your robe. Go on! Or I' ll send for the guards to do it for you!'

She could see that he meant it. She couldn' t hope to get away, the crowd was too thick. She would just have to find a way to keep the others out of it. Slowly Mica reached into her robe and drew out the blue gloves. The crowd gave a moan of disapproval.

‘It' s quite all right. Those gloves belong to me.'

Mica turned in surprise and saw the young lady in pink gesturing to her manservant to open the purse he carried. ‘I can pay with silver or gold, whichever you prefer,' she said to the glove-maker.

‘You' re too kind, my lady. This young – person – were stealing. That' s the point of it.'

‘Not at all,' said the pink lady calmly. ‘I asked my maid here to hold these gloves for me while I looked at the others, these green ones here which you
kindly
showed to me. I hadn' t quite made up my mind which I liked best. But now I
have
decided. I' ll take both pairs.'

‘Now, my lady, you know that' s not what happened.'

‘Are you calling me a liar?
Me?
' The lady' s ice-blue eyes flashed dangerously. Her blonde hair was arranged in an elegant fan shape, and even Mica could see that her pink and white robes were as stylish as could be.

The vendor swallowed uncomfortably. ‘Well, now, my lady, I wouldn' t say that.'

‘Then I' ll thank you to unhand my servant, and to cease making such a fuss about
my
property.' Silently the pink lady' s manservant laid some gold coins on the counter. The vendor, abashed, removed his hand from Mica' s arm. Furiously she began to rub the place where he' d clutched her.

‘Thank you.' The pink lady turned to Mica. ‘Come,' she said imperiously. ‘I must attend the Emperor at noon.'

A shiver of delight ran through the onlookers, and the lords and ladies cleared a respectful space for the pink lady and her servants to pass. In a few moments Mica found herself swept away from the bustle of the bazaar. The milling crowd closed up behind them and they stood in a quiet inner corridor.

‘You may thank me now,' announced the lady in pink. She gestured to her manservant, and he thrust the blue gloves at Mica. ‘But do, please, tell me
why
. Surely you don' t intend to wear them yourself ?'

‘They' re for a friend,' said Mica in some confusion. ‘I mean, for my – for my lady –'

‘Commendable loyalty!
Most
amusing. I only hope that Immel would do the same for me!' The pink lady nodded toward her impassive manservant, and gave a trilling laugh. ‘Well, my dear, I give you the gloves, but on one condition. Your lady must attend my poetry tournament tomorrow. I simply
must
meet the person who can command such touching devotion that her maidservant would risk the dungeons to steal her a pair of gloves. If she doesn' t come, I' m afraid I might have to make some teensy trouble for you both. Do you understand?'

‘Yes. But –' The lady narrowed her ice-blue eyes. ‘You don' t know who I am, do you?'

‘No,' said Mica bluntly.

The lady gave another of her trilling laughs, and tipped back her head so that her hair ornaments tinkled together. ‘You must be the only person in the Palace who doesn' t know me!
How
delicious! In fact, I' ve made up my mind not to tell you, so I can enjoy the sensation a while longer.You must find out for yourself. But by tomorrow! I do insist on your lady' s attendance at my little tournament. I do believe we' ll be friends! How
delicious
!'

With a charming smile and a flurry of blown kisses, the lady disappeared up a private staircase, her pink and white skirts rustling.

Her manservant lingered for a moment. ‘Her name is Keela,' he hissed. ‘The tournament is tomorrow evening, in the Gallery of Birds. Tell your mistress not to be late.' And with that, he vanished after the pink lady, leaving Mica to stare open-mouthed after him.

When Mica returned to their apartments, she pulled out the gloves and tossed them to Calwyn. ‘I got you these, Cal.'

Calwyn gazed at the gloves in dismay. ‘Oh, Mica! They' re beautiful, but – these must have cost three gold pieces, at least.'

Mica shrugged. ‘No need to worry bout that. Some lady took a fancy to me. She bought em for me.' She reached out for a slice of spiced cake. ‘Mm, I' m starved, I could eat a whale!'

‘What lady?' asked Heben in alarm, looking up from his cushion on the floor.

Mica swallowed. ‘Keela,' she said indistinctly, through a mouthful of crumbs.

Heben sank back with a groan. ‘Keela! She is the Third Princess, the chief gossip of the Court, a notorious intriguer. My sisters schemed for a whole year for an invitation to one of her famous poetry tournaments, but they never managed it.'

‘That' s right.' Mica wiped her mouth. ‘She said, she wants you to go to her poetry whatsit tomorrow night, Cal, in the Gallery of Birds. Wants to see what you' re like.'

Calwyn turned to Heben. ‘What is a poetry tournament, exactly?'

‘All the most fashionable courtiers gather and try to best each other in poetry. Someone starts – the Princess decides the order – they invent a verse, and then the next person has to use the last words of that poem to begin their own. And you must insult the person who went before, as wittily as you can. And you must try not to give the person who follows you any ammunition to insult you. And you must be original.'

‘You mean they make up the poems on the spot?' cried Calwyn. ‘And speak them, in front of everyone? How many people attend these tournaments?'

‘Oh, only thirty or forty,' said Heben reassuringly. ‘It takes too long otherwise.' Reserved as he was, Heben had been brought up with public story-telling and versifying and it held no terrors for him. But Calwyn had never done such a thing. In Antaris, the rituals of the priestesses were shared, many voices together, not one lonely individual standing up in front of a crowd. Calwyn had never liked crowds.

‘I suppose I' ll have to go,' she said dismally. ‘It' s the chance we' ve waited for, to get into one of those galleries. But –'

Do not fear. I will be with you.

Across the room, Halasaa' s dark eyes smiled at her. Calwyn smiled back, but she was not entirely comforted. She would rather have gone to sea in a hurricane than stand before a group of powdered Merithuran courtiers and make up poetry. At least she had the right gloves now, she consoled herself, pulling the soft blue leather over her hands. The embroidered moons winked at her. ‘The Goddess will help me,' she said, more cheerfully than she felt. She was beginning to wonder if the Goddess' s gaze could penetrate these ivory walls that shut out the sun.