Erland was impressed. Under the rule of Mad King Rodric, the city of Rillanon had been beautified to become the most splendid city on Midkemia, or that was Rodric’s stated ambition. But Erland was forced to admit that even had Rodric’s plan come to fruition, even with the marble facings on all public buildings, the gardens along the walking paths throughout the city, the waterways around the palace, even with all that, Rillanon was a poor thing next to the city of Kesh. It was not that Kesh was a lovely city; it wasn’t. Many of the streets they had ridden were packed tight with dirty little buildings thick with the odours of life: cooking, the acrid smell of the forge, the pungent leather of the tanner, and the ever-present stink of unwashed bodies and human waste.
There was little that was lovely in the city of Kesh. But it was ancient. It held the echoes of centuries of history, a city rising to become a state, then a mighty nation rising to become a great empire. There was a culture that produced artists and musicians here when Erland’s own ancestors were fishermen who had just turned their hand to raiding their neighbouring islands from their safe harbour at Rillanon. The point had been made to him by his history teacher as a child, but now he could see exactly what his teacher had meant. The stones under his horse’s hooves were worn with the passage of raiders, captive chieftains, and triumphant commanders before Rillanon had come under conDoin rule. And conquering armies under legendary generals passed here to bring subjugation to other nations when Rillanon and Bas-Tyra first began their trade wars, two city-states seeking dominance over what would come to be called the Sea of Kingdoms. Kesh was old. Very old.
Kafi said, ‘Of course. Your Highness, those who are guests of the Empress, will be housed in a special wing of the palace, overlooking the Overn Deep. It would be unkind to require you to ride this route daily.’
Erland came out of his reverie and said, ‘But you ride this route each day, do you not?’
There was a tiny tightening around the man’s mouth as he said, ‘Of course, but those of us not of true Keshian blood understand our place in the scheme of things. We serve gladly, and such a small inconvenience is not even to be discussed.’
Erland took the clue and let the subject drop. Coming down to meet him was an assortment of officials, each more colourfully dressed than the one before. The thundering drums ceased, and a band of musicians played something that sounded suspiciously like a Kingdom tune but played by those who had never heard such.
To James, he said, ‘Welcomed in grand fashion.’
James nodded absently. Since reaching the city, he had let old habits of watchfulness come to the fore. His eyes constantly scanned the crowd, looking for any sign that trouble was coming at Erland. Messages had been dispatched to Krondor and an answer had overtaken them, as the Keshian rider post had operated with amazing efficiency in carrying word to Arutha of Borric’s death and bringing his answers. There had been many letters in the pouch the rider had carried. The Kingdom rider was exhausted as he had been ordered not to surrender the contents of the diplomatic pouch to any but Earl James, Baron Locklear, or Prince Erland. He had been escorted by a changing succession of Keshian post riders, changing fresh horses at stations along the way. The man had ridden without stopping for over three weeks, halting only when exhaustion was overwhelming, otherwise napping in the saddle as well as eating while riding. James had commended the man and sent back word to Krondor with him, along with an order to return at a more sedate pace, as well as a recommendation for promotion and reward for his heroic ride.
Arutha’s reply to the news of Borric’s death had been what James expected: closed off, all personal reaction to the news absent. The Prince of Krondor let nothing sway him from the hard choices he faced as ruler of the Western Realm. He had cautiously instructed Earl James to see to recovering Borric’s body, but that under no circumstances was there to be any significant change in their demeanour. The envoy’s first duty was to pay the Kingdom’s respects to the Empress, on the event of her seventy-fifth birthday Jubilee, and nothing was to cause more friction between the two nations. James smelled trouble. Borric had been murdered to plunge the Empire into war with the Kingdom, but Arutha had refused to rise to the bait. This could only mean an escalation in the provocations. And the only thing James could imagine more provocative than killing one would be killing both of them. He felt personally responsible for Borric’s death, and he had put his own grieving aside for a time while he protected Erland. Glancing at his side, he noticed his wife watching him. To Gamina, he thought, How are you doing, my love?
I will be glad to be off this horse, at last, my love, came the answer, as Lady Gamina showed no outward signs of discomfort. She had born up under the rigors of the long trip without complaint, and each night as she lay at James’s side, she was well aware that their happiness at being together took away the day’s discomfort but could not eradicate James’s pain at Borric’s death, nor his concern for Erland’s well-being. She nodded toward the front of the procession. The most official welcome yet, my darling.
At least a hundred officials stood just a short distance beyond the white-and-gold banner, to welcome the Prince and his retinue to the upper city. Erland’s eyes opened slightly at the sight. The first impression was disbelief, as if some odd joke was being perpetrated upon him. For standing before him were men and women wearing very little clothing and a great deal of jewellery. The common dress was a simple skirt or kilt, fashioned from gauzy silk, wrapped once about the hips, from waist to mid-thigh. Ornate belts held the kilt in place, with golden clasps of complex designs common throughout the party. But both men and women alike were bare-chested, and the footgear of choice was an unadorned cross-gartered sandal. All the men had their heads shaved and the women wore their hair cut short, at the shoulder or at the ear, with magnificent rows of gems and gold woven into the tresses.
Kafi spoke with his head turned slightly toward Erland. ‘Perhaps Your Highness didn’t know, but the nudity taboo common to your nation and some of the people of the Empire does not exist among those of the true Keshian blood. I also had to become accustomed to the sight – among my people, to see another man’s wife’s face is to die.’ With an ironic note, he said, ‘These people are from a hot land, Highness, but not so hot as my home desert, where to dress as such would be to invite death. When you experience the long, hot, sultry nights up on the plateau, you will understand why here clothing is a matter of fashion only. And the Keshian truebloods have never been terribly concerned with the sensibilities of their subject peoples. “In Kesh you do as the true Keshians do,” goes an old adage.’ Lowering his voice as to not be overheard, he added, ‘And they are a vain people.’
Erland nodded, attempting not to stare at so much skin. He found himself thinking that if they were a vain people, that vanity was hardly undeserved. There were exceptions, but for the most part the trueblood Keshians were a handsome breed. The men were muscled and the women slender. Even those who were unusually portly or thin carried themselves with pride and that manner went a long way to overcoming any hint of the ridiculous.
A man stepped forward, not much older than Erland, powerfully muscled and carrying a shepherd’s crook and a bow, both of which appeared ceremonial rather than functional. His head was shaved like the others, but for a lock of hair, tied with loops of precious stone, gems, and gold. An instant later, another man, stout and obviously discomforted by standing in the hot sun, stepped to the first’s side. He was the first truly fat true-blood Erland had seen and it was hard not to stare at the waddles of fat that jiggled as he walked. Ignoring the perspiration which coursed off his reddening skin, he said, ‘We welcome our guests.’
To Erland, Kafi said, ‘Highness, may I present Lord Nirome, First Counsellor to She Who Is Kesh, and her beloved nephew?’ The fat man bowed. To him, Kafi said, ‘My lord Nirome. I have the honour of presenting His Highness, Prince Erland, Heir to the Throne of Isle, Knight-Captain of the Armies of the West, and envoy to She Who Is Kesh from his Majesty, Lyam, King of the Isles.’
‘Your Highness,’ said the stout Nirome. ‘To honour your arrival, one of the Imperial blood comes to greet you. It is my great honour to present Prince Awari, son of She Who Is Kesh.’
The young man stepped forward again, and spoke directly to Erland. ‘We welcome our brother Prince. May your stay here be happy and for as long as it pleases you, Prince Erland. For the King of the Isles to send his heir is an honour indeed. She Who Is Mother To Us All is pleased enough to have sent her poor son to bid you welcome. I am to tell you that all Kesh’s hearts are gladdened the moment you come to us and that each moment of your stay is as riches in our treasury. Your wisdom and valour are unrivalled and She Who Is Kesh waits with anticipation at welcoming you to her court.’ So saying, Prince Awari turned and began walking up the road. The men and women of the Imperial welcoming committee stepped aside so the Prince and Lord Nirome could pass, then Kafi indicated the Prince and Baron Locklear should follow, with himself and Earl James behind.
As they moved up the ramp, James turned to Kafi and said, ‘In truth, we know so little about the Empire, save what we see along its northern border. It would please His Highness if you could guest with us and perhaps tell us more of this wondrous place.’
The man smiled and James saw something in his eyes. ‘Your wish has been anticipated. I shall be outside your door at first light each day and not be gone from your side until you have given me leave to depart. The Empress, blessings be upon her, has ordered it so.’
James smiled and inclined his head. So, he’s our watchdog.
Gamina smiled at those nearby and said, Among many, I’m sure, beloved.
James turned his attention to the front of the company, where Erland followed the Imperial welcoming delegation. His wits and talents might be tested in the next two and a half months, he knew. And he had but two basic tasks: keep Erland alive and the Kingdom out of war.
Erland was almost incapable of words. His ‘apartment’ was a six-room complex set off in the ‘wing’ of the palace set aside for them, which itself was nearly as large as his father’s palace in Krondor. The Imperial palace was indeed a city unto itself. And the guest apartments were opulent beyond imagining. The stone walls had all been faced with marble, polished to a brilliance that reflected back torchlight like the sparkle of a thousand jewels. Rather than the Kingdom fashion of many small rooms, all the rooms in the apartment were large, but able to be partitioned by hanging curtains of varying opacity. Right now, the only curtains were to his right and left, and both were transparent gauze, allowing him to see that divans and chairs were arrayed in anticipation of his need for holding conferences. And at his left, a large terrace permitted a stunning view of the Overn Deep, the gigantic freshwater lake that was the heart of this Empire. The sleeping chamber lay just beyond a pair of doors in this, the audience chamber, where he could meet with his advisors if needed.
Erland signalled one of his two guards, detailed to act as servants, to open the large door. Before they could react, a young woman appeared at his side. ‘M’lord,’ she said, clapping her hands loudly, once.
The doors swung open and Erland nodded absently as he stepped through to what was his sleeping chamber. The Prince halted at the sight which greeted him. Everywhere he glanced, he saw gold. It was used on the tables and divans, stools and chairs that were arrayed around the room, for whatever needs he might have while dressing, composing messages, or eating a solitary meal. High upon the wall, the marble ceased and was replaced by sandstone, upon which murals of bright colour had been painted against the muted ochre of the sandstone. In the stylized Keshian fashion, they showed warriors, kings, and gods, many depicted with animal heads, as the Keshians gave aspects to the gods that differed markedly from how they were perceived in the Kingdom.
Erland stood silently taking in the splendour of the room. A giant bed dominated the chamber, surrounded on three sides by gauzy silk curtains, hanging from a ceiling twenty feet above his head. The bed was twice the size of his own large bed at home, which had seemed immense when he and Borric had returned from their service with Lord Highcastle, given what they had been used to sleeping on, the narrow cots of Highcastle’s barracks.
Thinking about Borric made Erland wistful for a moment, as he wished he could share his astonishment with his brother. For a countless time again since the attack, Erland could not admit to his brother’s death. Somehow it just didn’t feel within as if Borric was dead. He was out there somewhere, Erland was certain. The young woman who had entered with them clapped again, and suddenly the room was filled with activity.
The Prince’s guards stood in mute amazement at the seemingly endless parade of Keshian servants who paraded through the suite, first for their quick efficiency in unpacking the Prince’s baggage and laying out formal clothing upon an armoire nearby, but mostly for the fact they were women, all beautiful and all clad in the same scanty fashion as the welcoming committee. The only difference was the lack of jewellery. The plain kilt was bound about the waist with a linen belt. Other than that, the women were naked.
Crossing to where the two guards stood, Erland said, ‘Go get something to eat. If I need you, I’ll send word.’
The two saluted and turned, obviously uncertain of where to go, but as if reading the Prince’s mind, a young woman said, ‘This way,’ and led them off.
Another young woman, with eyes mahogany brown, came to stand before Erland. ‘If it pleases m’lord, your bath is ready.’ Erland noticed her belt was red, with a gold clasp, instead of the common white one, and assumed her to be the one in charge of this host of young women.
Feeling suddenly both overdressed in the motionless hot air in the palace, and dirty from two days’ ride, Erland nodded and followed the woman into the next chamber. There a pool at least thirty feet long awaited. At the far end a gold statue of some sort of water spirit held a vase pouring water into the pool. Erland glanced around, for at least five women waited for him in the pool, all without clothing.
Two others stepped to his sides, while the one who led him turned and began unfastening his tunic. ‘Er …’ began Erland, reflexively stepping away.
‘Is there something amiss, m’lord?’ asked the young woman with the mahogany eyes. Erland was suddenly aware that her dark skin was several hues: a reddish warmth of suntan over the naturally dark olive-tinged duskiness. Her black hair was pulled back in a tight braid, and Erland noticed her very long neck.
Erland started to speak, then stopped, uncertain of what to say. Had Borric been with him, he was sure the two of them would both be splashing about in the pool, testing the limits of their prerogatives with the lovely serving women. But alone … he felt awkward. ‘What is your name?’
‘Miya, m’lord.’
‘Ah, Miya …’ He glanced at all the lovely ladies waiting for him to make his requirements known. ‘In my land it is not the custom for so many servants to … so many are not needed.’
The young woman’s eyes searched his for an instant. Softly she answered, ‘If m’lord would indicate which servants he finds pleasing, I will send the rest away.’ She hesitated a second, then added, ‘Or should you wish but one, I would be most honoured to … care for your needs, m’lord.’ The last was said with clear meaning.
Erland shook his head. ‘No, I mean …’ He sighed in resignation. ‘Just get on with it.’
Deft hands stripped him of his clothing, and when he was nude he stepped quickly into the pool, feeling awkward and self-conscious. The water was hot, he was surprised to discover, when he descended the steps into the shallow pool. Feeling foolish, he sat upon the bottom step, the water coming to his chest. Then Miya unclasped her own belt and her small kilt fell to the floor. Unselfconsciously she entered the water and sat upon the step just behind Erland. Clapping once, another bath attendant signalled those outside of the pool to begin bringing oils, soaps, and unguents.
With gentle pressure on his shoulders, Miya drew him back until his head was resting upon her soft breasts. Then he felt her fingers working upon his scalp as she rubbed scented oils into his hair. Two other servants were now at his side, rubbing his chest with soaps that smelled faintly of flowers. Another two then began to clean and trim his fingernails, while two more were busy kneading the tired muscles in his legs.
After the first moment of tension at being handled so intimately by seven strange women, Erland took a deep breath, willing himself to relax. This was not much different from having one of the serving men scrub his back at home, he told himself. Then he glanced around at the dozen beautiful women standing on the side of the pool, and the seven in the water with him, and chuckled. Sure it was just like back home.
‘M’lord?’ asked Miya.
Erland let out a long breath. ‘This takes some getting used to.’
The woman ceased washing his hair, rinsing his head with water from a golden bowl, then she began to knead the muscles of his neck and shoulders. Despite his self-consciousness at being in the pool with the nude servants, he found that the persistent massage was causing his eyelids to feel heavy. Smelling the lovely sun-touched fragrance of Miya’s damp skin along with the soft aromas of the oils, he closed his eyes and felt fatigue and worry begin to slip away from him.
He sighed deeply, and Miya spoke softly. ‘Does m’lord desire anything?’
Erland smiled for the first time since the bandits’ attack and said, ‘No, I think I could get used to this.’
‘Then rest, my handsome young lord with the fire hair,’ she whispered in his ear. ‘Rest and refresh yourself, for tonight She Who Is Kesh will receive you.’
Erland settled back against the soft body of the servant and let the warmth of the pool and the kneading fingers of the women, as they probed tense and tired muscles, overtake him. Soon he felt himself drifting off into a hazy, sensuous doze, and as he relaxed, he felt himself responding to the gentle caresses of the women. Through lowered lashes he saw smiling faces looking at him with expectation, as two of the servants exchanged whispers and stifled a giggle. Yes, he thought, I could get used to this.
One of the servants shook his foot, as she whispered, ‘M’lord!’
