slow growers who seldom reach full size until the end of their third age.”
“Then she’s still almost a child!”
“As Great Sultan says.”
“Look at me, child.”
I looked up, seeing his head cocked, his nostrils wide, his eyes actually interested, his mouth pursed, ready to make words. “My son has been ill,” said Sultan Tummyfat. “My son, Prince Keen Nose.”
I managed to make a tiny nod. The harim had talked of little else for days. Keen Nose was a favored son, Sultana Winetongue’s child. The harim thought he had been poisoned. Sultana Winetongue had rivals for the king’s affection, and her son was naturally the rival of every other woman’s son. Actually, there were a dozen sultanas’ sons competing for the king’s favor, not to speak of the constant ferment among the concubines, who bet on this one or that one, as though it were a race.
Sultan Tummyfat continued. “My son will journey to the Hospice of St. Weel, to be cured. Someone must go with him, to attend to him, to amuse him. Obviously, we cannot risk any of our own…palace people. He has heard of you from his mother. He has asked for you.”
“As…as the lord w-w-wills,” I stammered. Didn’t he know there were monsters out there, and strange trees that grabbed people in their viny hands and smothered them in leaves? Hadn’t he heard how people got turned into things at the Hospice of St. Weel?
“Why is she shaking?” the sultan asked, slightly annoyed.
Soaz murmured, “I suppose she’s frightened, Lord. The harim enjoys frightening the young ones with tales of afrits and jinni and the trees that walk, as well as the terrors of the strangers at the hospice.”
The sultan nodded, caressing his chin with the back of his wrist, as though stroking a beard. “It is well known that all females are as gullible as the guz.”
“Not all,” purred the eunuch.
The sultan quirked his lips and replied, “Your people excepted, of course, Soaz. You pheledian folk—though orthodox in belief—are notoriously cynical.” He smiled in my direction, saying loftily, “The strangers are not ogres, girl. They are merely a different sort of people, not even as strange as the onchiki or the armakfatidi, and you’ve worked with the armakfatidi. The trees are our dear friends, as the teachings of Korè make clear. Besides, there will be an armed escort and servants. You’ll get to see something of the countryside.”
Unable to speak, I bowed.
“This is my son,” the sultan said.
I turned to meet the eyes of the pale youth half reclining beside his father. He too was smooth faced, though he had two lines at the corners of his mouth, as though he gritted his teeth rather a lot. And he was thin. Perhaps he was in pain. He smiled, then laughed. It was the same laugh that had greeted my entry, a kind of malicious snorting. I felt myself turning red.
“Thank you, my Lord Father,” said the young one. “She will do very well.”
It was an indifferent voice. Neither kind nor unkind. Did he plan to laugh at me all the way to the hospice?
Tummyfat stroked his son’s head, keeping his eyes on me. “Soaz, have her outfitted properly. Prepare a conveyance, if necessary, or an umminha, if she can ride. Can you ride, girl?”
In the harim it was thought unfeminine, but it didn’t occur to me to lie. “Yes, Lord. There were umminhi on my grandfather’s farm. I had a filly of my own.” She had been a lovely caramel color, with a silvery mane.She had been very beautiful and very stupid and her name had been Honey. I wondered, as I did from time to time, what had happened to grandfather and the farm. I hadn’t seen him since the summer before father died.
The sultan nodded. “Well, then. Good. Take her back, Soaz. See that she’s ready by dawn tomorrow.”
We went back, me stumbling over my own feet, totally at a loss; Soaz making rumbling noises in his throat, preoccupied about something. He opened the courtyard door and shooed me
“Then she’s still almost a child!”
“As Great Sultan says.”
“Look at me, child.”
I looked up, seeing his head cocked, his nostrils wide, his eyes actually interested, his mouth pursed, ready to make words. “My son has been ill,” said Sultan Tummyfat. “My son, Prince Keen Nose.”
I managed to make a tiny nod. The harim had talked of little else for days. Keen Nose was a favored son, Sultana Winetongue’s child. The harim thought he had been poisoned. Sultana Winetongue had rivals for the king’s affection, and her son was naturally the rival of every other woman’s son. Actually, there were a dozen sultanas’ sons competing for the king’s favor, not to speak of the constant ferment among the concubines, who bet on this one or that one, as though it were a race.
Sultan Tummyfat continued. “My son will journey to the Hospice of St. Weel, to be cured. Someone must go with him, to attend to him, to amuse him. Obviously, we cannot risk any of our own…palace people. He has heard of you from his mother. He has asked for you.”
“As…as the lord w-w-wills,” I stammered. Didn’t he know there were monsters out there, and strange trees that grabbed people in their viny hands and smothered them in leaves? Hadn’t he heard how people got turned into things at the Hospice of St. Weel?
“Why is she shaking?” the sultan asked, slightly annoyed.
Soaz murmured, “I suppose she’s frightened, Lord. The harim enjoys frightening the young ones with tales of afrits and jinni and the trees that walk, as well as the terrors of the strangers at the hospice.”
The sultan nodded, caressing his chin with the back of his wrist, as though stroking a beard. “It is well known that all females are as gullible as the guz.”
“Not all,” purred the eunuch.
The sultan quirked his lips and replied, “Your people excepted, of course, Soaz. You pheledian folk—though orthodox in belief—are notoriously cynical.” He smiled in my direction, saying loftily, “The strangers are not ogres, girl. They are merely a different sort of people, not even as strange as the onchiki or the armakfatidi, and you’ve worked with the armakfatidi. The trees are our dear friends, as the teachings of Korè make clear. Besides, there will be an armed escort and servants. You’ll get to see something of the countryside.”
Unable to speak, I bowed.
“This is my son,” the sultan said.
I turned to meet the eyes of the pale youth half reclining beside his father. He too was smooth faced, though he had two lines at the corners of his mouth, as though he gritted his teeth rather a lot. And he was thin. Perhaps he was in pain. He smiled, then laughed. It was the same laugh that had greeted my entry, a kind of malicious snorting. I felt myself turning red.
“Thank you, my Lord Father,” said the young one. “She will do very well.”
It was an indifferent voice. Neither kind nor unkind. Did he plan to laugh at me all the way to the hospice?
Tummyfat stroked his son’s head, keeping his eyes on me. “Soaz, have her outfitted properly. Prepare a conveyance, if necessary, or an umminha, if she can ride. Can you ride, girl?”
In the harim it was thought unfeminine, but it didn’t occur to me to lie. “Yes, Lord. There were umminhi on my grandfather’s farm. I had a filly of my own.” She had been a lovely caramel color, with a silvery mane.She had been very beautiful and very stupid and her name had been Honey. I wondered, as I did from time to time, what had happened to grandfather and the farm. I hadn’t seen him since the summer before father died.
The sultan nodded. “Well, then. Good. Take her back, Soaz. See that she’s ready by dawn tomorrow.”
We went back, me stumbling over my own feet, totally at a loss; Soaz making rumbling noises in his throat, preoccupied about something. He opened the courtyard door and shooed me
Similar Books
