Exile (13 page)

At the top of this hole Dalin shouldered up a hatchway, and pushing aside dirt which had covered the opening and which now spilled down on top of him, he climbed up into the world outside the palace grounds.

He was just within a stand of fir trees blocking the view from the palace of the city beyond; through the tree line he could see the palace, lit as if for a ball, the lights of its spires making it appear magical against the night's starry blackness.

But there was nothing magical about the shouts of soldiers or the occasional line of raser fire penciling the night sky like an angry insect's flight—

"You are the one I was sent to meet?"

The voice sounded so close by Dalin's ear that he started violently. But already strong hands were on him, covering his mouth and pulling him deeper into the woods.

"Do not struggle," the voice whispered fiercely. "I will set you free in a moment. But you must be quiet."

Dalin ceased his struggling in time to see a column of armed guards file close by the spot they had just vacated, but still outside the tree line. Their spotlamps brightly lit the ground before them in a precise, mowed swath.

When they had passed, the voice said, straight and clear into Dalin's ear, "We have little time. They will be back within minutes. We have to hide your passing."

The strong hands let him go, and Dalin tried to make out the features of his companion as the two of them scurried back to the site of the tunnel portal; but the light was bad and he dared not shine his handlight.

Impatient with Dalin's attempts at cover, the other finally pushed him away and expertly brushed dirt, pine needles, and leaves over the spot; soon it looked as it must have before.

"They will not see it," the stranger said, nodding in satisfaction. He looked quickly at Dalin, who saw sharp features.

"We must go," the stranger said.

Dalin followed the other deep into the woods, trying to keep up in the near dark. They proceeded for perhaps a kilometer before the stranger stopped, laying his hand on Dalin's chest to check his progress.

"All right," the other said, his whisper a bit louder. "It is time for you to change."

Bending to study the bole of a tree, the stranger produced a bundle of clothing which he thrust into Dalin's hands.

"Do it quickly, and give me what you have on." Seeing the king's hesitation, the other said, "Quickly!"

Dalin stripped in the darkness, pulling on an uncomfortable ensemble, of whose nature he had not a clue. He could be dressed as a jester or mountaineer, for all he knew of the baggy pantaloons, large blouse, and other strange items he was being forced to don. When finished slipping into a pair of odd boots which nonetheless fit him, he gathered his original clothing and put it into his companion's hands.

"I feel like a circus performer!" Dalin said.

The other laughed. "Worse than that, my friend," he said, pushing something into Dalin's hands that felt like the pelt of an animal. "Put it on."

"Where?"

"Your head!" the other said, laughing, and dropped Dalin's clothing to help him adjust the wig to his cranium. In a moment, the truth had dawned on the king.

"I am dressed as a girl!"

"A woman!" the other said with a laugh. "And though I can't see you very well, I'd say you're a mighty ugly one at that!"

"I will not—" Dalin blustered, moving to remove the wig—but the stranger's hard grip held him fast.

"Listen to me once," the stranger said. "If you do not wear it, you will die. And not by my hand, but by those of your own people. If you do not follow my every instruction, that fate will befall you. And before the sun has risen. Do you understand?" the stranger spoke fiercely, giving a slight twist to Dalin's arm.

Dalin let his breath out slowly. 'Yes," he said. "Good." The stranger nodded. Then, in the darkness, Dalin made out a grin on the other's face.

"My, but you do make an ugly woman." The stranger laughed before gathering Dalin's clothing into a new bundle and dropping it where the other had been.

When they left the small wood, Dalin's real fear began.

Here was a place he did not know. These were his people, and yet he knew little of them and little more of their city. From the palace, Nairobi was a colorful place, steeped in four thousand years of history, a blending of the ancient and the modern, one of the few tourist meccas left on earth. Its zoos, brilliant arboretums, and ancient African ruins made it a must-see place for any visitor; and its financial institutions made it the money capital of the planet. Most of Afrasia's economy was centered in Nairobi; its governors met in session in its Grand Capitol building, a monument of modern architecture which Dalin's father had built only forty years before. Its polished dome, grand colonnades, and sweeping arches recalled an earlier time on Earth and never failed to provoke comment in visitors accustomed to clear tall spires—or, in the case of Martian visitors, the wan pale tones of sandstone and pyrite.

Nairobi's opela was the finest on the planet and rivaled only that of Lowell for dominance on the Four Worlds; its symphony was only bested by those in Cairo and Peking, though the recent signing (some said stealing) of the Cairo Philharmonic's
great conductor promised that in the near future the Nairobi Symphony might hold that crown.

But it was a place unknown to Daliri Shar. Though he had visited the opera house and symphony hall, though he had toured the Goodall Zoo and the last animal preserve left on Earth, the Zambire Range—where two lions still roamed free and the last rhinoceros, artificially conceived twenty years ago, splashed its bulk through its own watery grounds—Dalin knew nothing about the streets of the city. He had never been
on
the streets of Nairobi, traveling always in small shuttles from palace to destination point, then back again.

And here he was, at the edge of it.

What struck him at first was the smell. As his companion led him out of the trees and then quickly over a small stretch of open parkland, past a quaint set of children's outside play toys—including an ancient steel swing set and a contraption with a ladder leading to a smooth corkscrewing slider—and through an entry in a low chromium wall, Dalin was struck by the city's particular smell. It smelled like dirt and life. At the palace, surrounded by roses and fresh trees and, in the colder months, the scent of pine and spruce trees which had been planted hundreds of years before and now grew in a thick ring around the grounds, the odors of the faraway city never penetrated. Dalin's entire life had seemed perfumed; even the human sweat from a game of old rugby or ten shot would be washed away almost
instantly in prepared baths of rose petal and jasmine.

But here there was no rose smell, no jasmine—only the raw smell of human sweat and work. Even at this deep hour of the night there was traffic, both human and machine; tens of pedestrians hurried between buildings in walkways or down on the Street; and road walks and the occasional brightly lit closed tram were occupied by scattered passengers.

"Is it always this crowded?" Dalin asked in wonder.

His companion's features now became apparent for the first time. Under the night lights of the city, his face was shadowed and sharp: a nose like a knife blade; slitted, careful eyes; and a thin-lipped mouth that now turned up in a grin.

"In the daytime we would have to wait in line," he said with a laugh.

"I don't believe it."

The other said, "Believe it. And follow me now or we will be stopped. They are confining their search to the palace grounds at the moment, but that will quickly change."

And so Dalin Shar was given a quick night tour of his own capital city: streets like labyrinths, with buildings so close on either side that Dalin felt closed in; modern buildings side by side with ancient structures of brick and even wood; walkways so high they made Dalin dizzy looking up at them; and the constant hum of activity and life, and the smells.

"This is marvelous," Dalin said in wonder.

"Better for you not to speak," his companion said, tensing at a crossroads. He restrained Dalin with a hand; then, to Dalin's amazement, he slipped that hand around the king's shoulder and drew him near, pinching Dalin's neck from behind.

"Put your head down," he hissed.

Dalin did as he was told, briefly catching a glimpse of a caravan of police vehicles, sleek black silent machines, gliding in front of them; inside were vague dark shapes.

Through all this his companion acted in the oddest fashion, kissing the top of Dalin's wigged head, acting drunkenly and loudly proclaiming words of love.

When the procession had passed, Dalin was set free, and his companion gave him another sharp grin. "Why, you're not so ugly after all!"

Dalin scowled, but already they were crossing the thoroughfare and continuing their walk.

Eventually their feet took them into sections of the city where the streets were not so congested and the buildings not at all tall. The smells were even more repugnant herer the lights dimmer, the structures older and less well cared for. And, for the first time, Dalin saw rubble in the streets: an abandoned vehicle, its plastic shell pitted and scored with what appeared to be burn marks, its windows missing; an
open container of refuse, giving off a foul tartness which overrode the other smells; pieces of broken furniture piled in front of one building like so many abandoned toys. Looking up, Dalin saw that the sky was lightening; and, off in the distance, there was the constant sound of sirens.

"We're there," Dalin's companion said, as if reading the question in his mind. They turned abruptly into the doorway of one structure huddled in a line of disreputable hovels. Dalin's escort pushed him into dimness ahead, checking the street up and down before following the king inside-

--where hands fell on Dalin, pulling him into a deeper gloom.

"Is this him?" a screeching voice demanded. "Is this really him?"

"There isn't time to talk," Dalin's chaperon said. "Take him upstairs."

A handlight was abruptly shone in Dalin's face, whereby the screeching voice began to laugh.

"Gawd! He looks worse than me, he does! What have you done to him, Erik?"

"I did what had to be done."

"Girlied him up, you have! Gawd!"

The light beam was pulled away from Dalin's face, leaving him blinking; it was shone deliberately by the screeching person up into its own face.

"What do you think of this, Your
Majesty?"
The screeching creature laughed.

Dalin's vision cleared, giving him a start: a face that was not a face at all, but a metal bowl, scored
and scorched like the burned vehicle Dalin had seen outside—with holes through which two human eyes protruded whitely, and a mouth whose two red lips pushed out of the bowl altogether.

"Ho! Surprised, he is! Wait until he sees himself, then!"

Sighing with impatience, Erik turned on another handlight and said, "I'll take him upstairs myself!"

"Whatever!" The screeching creature laughed, pushing Dalin toward his erstwhile guide. "I've got to tend to the cooking anyways!"

Erik took Dalin firmly by the arm and escorted him to a stairwell against the near wall; the steps were planked with wood, and missing in spots.

"Watch your step," Erik said, urging the king ahead of him, tightening his grip when Dalin sought to step on a place where no stair existed.

Downstairs, Dalin heard the screeching creature singing to itself and banging metal against metal.

At the top, Erik held the king in place and shone the light to the right, down a hallway. The planking in the hall, at least, looked sturdy. There were three doors in a row on the left, all with ancient knobs, and Dalin was brought to the first one; Erik knocked lightly.

"Come in!" a voice called.

Erik opened the door and nudged Dalin in ahead of him.

"Ah! Here already! Any problems?"

There was dim light in this room, courtesy of dawn outside, which shone heroically through a sooted window at the back. In the room was a chair, a bedstand and a bed itself, from which rose a man naked but for a pair of briefs; he had been reading and tossed his hand Screen on the bed as he rose to shake Dalin's hand.

"Your Majesty! Welcome!"

He had the overabundant manner of a performer, and Dalin merely nodded, not taking the proffered hand; courtesy dictated that this lowly, undressed fellow had no right to familiarity with anyone such as Dalin Shar.

"Oh, well," the man said, not losing his smile. Suddenly he bent forward and kissed Dalin hotly on the cheek. "Where are my manners, anyway? A lady needs
kissing,
not hand-shaking!"

The undressed man laughed, and Erik suppressed a smile.

"Don't mind our friend Porto here, Sire," Erik said. "He is crude, boorish, often drunk, and always unchaste, but he will help you to stay alive."

Porto bowed, sweeping one hand in a gallant gesture. "At your service, my queen."

A new figured appeared in the doorway; a dour young man with hooded eyes.

"They're sweeping the nearby streets," he said. He glanced briefly at Dalin, and there was no friendliness in the look. "They found his clothing before it could be retrieved."