The Family Tree by Sheri S. Tepper Page A

through it, shutting it behind me to go off on business of his own.
    One of the personal servants was waiting, a squarely built, dark-haired person everyone called Frowsea. “Sultana Winetongue wants you,” she said, without preamble, taking me by one wrist. “Come, quickly.”
    She hauled me up a dim half flight of marble stairs and down the elaborately tiled corridor behind the royal balconies, stopping outside the curtained arch of the largest one. Though the curtains were heavy, a good smell leaked out, roasted veeble and onions and raisins and spice, making my mouth water. The curtain was lifted from inside, and I was dragged in.
    “There, there you are,” said the sultana, fastening her black-rimmed, long-lashed eyes on me, a hungry look, as though she might like to eat me. Her limbs were beautifully round and plump, and she was dressed in a low-cut shazmi that showed her smoothly ample breasts. “Have you seen my son?”
    “I saw Prince Keen Nose,” I said. “With his father.”
    “How is he? Did he look well?”
    I thought of lying and decided against it. Doubtless the sultana had spies among the servants outside, and if I lied, the sultana would learn of it.
    “He looked very thin, Uplifted One. As from a wasting disease. He was in good spirits, however. He laughed, several times.”
    “At you, no doubt,” said the servant. “Don’t they feed you, girl? What a draggletail.”
    I hid my annoyance at this, for whatever one mightsay about me, it was unfair to say I dragged my behind!
    “Her appearance is not why we picked her,” said the sultana. “Are you going with him?”
    “So says his father, Great Sultana.”
    “There, didn’t I tell you!” She pulled me farther into the balcony. Waist-high carved stone screens separated it from the courtyard beyond, with wooden sliding screens above to give privacy. The screens were closed and more of the sound-deadening draperies had been pulled shut inside them, making as private an enclosure as could be achieved in the harim. To one side an open arch gave upon a twisting staircase; one of only two ways to the sultana’s own rooms, above. The other was a corridor opening in the sultan’s quarters, to which he had the only key. This was common knowledge.
    “When?” the sultana demanded softly. “When do you go?”
    “Tomorrow morning.”
    “So soon,” breathed the sultana, tears in her voice. “Well, then. It’s good we were prepared. Were we correct in thinking you can ride? Or will my son need a palanquin?”
    “I think we are to ride. The Great Sultan asked if I knew how.”
    “Then the boy can’t be too ill,” murmured the other woman. “Not if he’s riding.”
    “Frowsea, that-bitch-Amberknees said he was like to die.”
    “That-bitch-Knees doesn’t care what she says.” The servant rummaged in a basket and began removing clothing. “Here, girl, try these on. We’ve been making preparations. Riding trousers. Shirts. A mantle. A cloak.”
    I took one look at the clothing and went rigid with shock. “Great Sultana, this is male clothing.”
    “And so it is! Did you think you’d be shut in like a lady, behind curtains? You’d be no good to him so. On the back of a beast, you’ll draw no attention. You’re a common person, and common persons are not slaved totradition as we royals are. Because it is written that our remote ancestors wore veils and hid themselves in harims, so must we, to honor tradition, but commoners may wear whatever their malefolk allow. When you came here, you weren’t wearing lady’s clothes, were you? You’re skinny as a fencepost, titless as any boy, so let you dress like a boy. The matter will go easier for it.”
    She was right about how I’d been dressed when I came. It was true I’d had no flesh on me at all, and I’d been dressed in sandals, shirt and trousers that my half-brother had discarded long years before. I had no objection to wearing boy’s clothing, though considering the rules in