The Family Tree (6 page)

“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 to
tradition 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 effect in the harim, I wondered if she might not be risking beheading for it.

“I have already spoken to Tummyfat,” said the sultana, as though she knew what I was thinking. “He will allow it. And I’ve spoken to my son. A caravan traveling with females or with treasure is a temptation to the angels and would lure bandits from as far as Isfoin. An armed troop, without females or treasure, travels safer than a caravan, though if someone important is along, seizure for ransom may be attempted. An armed troop following the banner of a minor, and thus unprofitable, official travels safer yet, which is the way you will go. I don’t want my son leaving one danger merely to fall into another.”

I heard myself asking, “Was he really poisoned, Great Sultana?”

Frowsea grasped my shoulder, lifting, and for a moment my feet left the ground.

“Put her down, Frowsea!” said the sultana in a fervent whisper. “She didn’t mean to be impertinent; she’s merely curious.”

Reluctantly, Frowsea set me down.

The sultana said, “We don’t know that he was poisoned, girl. We are not priers and pokers, like those at the hospice, able to peer into our bodies to see what is awry. He may have been poisoned. He may have been cursed. He may simply be ill, there are illnesses enough
that have no known cause. Whichever, among the Strangers at St. Weel, he may be healed, and the Great Sultan has permitted me this favor, to send him thence.”

“He loves his son,” said Frowsea.

“He loves his comforts,” said the sultana, pouting. “And those who know how to provide them. He has enough sons to afford wasting a good many. Such wastage is traditional. It is the custom of great kings to sow their seed widely, begetting sons by half dozens to assure much rivalry, much connivance, many plots, from which the clever, the ruthless and the strong emerge as victors to ascend the throne. Of such struggle comes tutelage in both diplomacy and power, creating a lineage to brag of!”

She sighed. “Unfortunately, Keen Nose is not ruthless, as the king well knows. He is an intelligent lad, rather old-fashioned, cleverer than all his rivals! Also, he is my son, and the king favors me by permitting this journey. Now, girl, do you understand your place in this?”

“No, Uplifted One. Except I am to tell the prince stories?”

“We cannot send one of us! Obviously! So, we send you. You are to amuse him. Because you are still a virgin girl, shut in here since childhood, you are probably healthy and thus no threat to him should he require intimate services from you. No male has given you a disease, the stinking air of the markets has not tainted your lungs. Because you were well reared as a child and have been always well treated here, you have still a sweet and unwounded character that does not bite without warning. My embroiderers tell me you have skill with the needle. You cook well, so the armakfatidi say.”

The armakfatidi were the kitchen people. I helped in the kitchen from time to time, and I had learned much. The armakfatidian people could taste things others could not and smell things others could not, and their dishes were recognized throughout all Tavor as the highest form of cuisine. Armakfatidian dishes, however, were
not for commoners. Only the wealthy had sufficient treasure to hire armakfatidi and to afford the spices and flavorings they required, some of them from far, strange outlands. In Tavor, the armakfatidi mostly ran restaurants, grew specialty fruits and vegetables, or involved themselves in the perfume and spice trades.

“Well?” the sultana prompted, waiting for an answer.

“Yes, Great Sultana,” I said.

“Yes, what?”

“Yes, I cook fairly well, Uplifted One. Well enough to see your son does not go hungry or uncosseted.” Cosseting a scuinic prince went without saying. Scuini liked their food. “Yes, I can do ordinary stitchery, well enough to see his laces stay on and his headscarf stays hemmed and his stockings are darned. But I don’t know what you mean by intimate services….”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, child. He may need you to scrub his back. Something of that sort. Surely you didn’t think I meant…” She snorted, not finishing the sentence, amused by the thought.

“No, Great Queen.” I turned red again. Of course the prince would not want sex with a…a draggletail, as Frowsea called me. Or one as untutored as I in the amorous arts.

“Do you know where the Strangers live?”

“I have heard they live afar. The Hospice of St. Weel is on the back side of beyond.”

The sultana’s mouth twisted in amusement. “Not quite. Say rather the near side of beyond, on the west coast of the Crawling Sea. Pay great attention to everything on the way. Use your eyes well, and your ears. When you return, we will want you to tell us all about it.”

As I tried on the various articles of clothing, I wondered why Sultana Winetongue had really picked me to go with Keen Nose. None of the reasons given seemed enough. And why not send a male? Males could scrub backs and tell stories, too. There was nothing gender specific about either! Perhaps Soaz would tell me the
real reason. He was unlikely to have me beaten for impertinence so close to the time of departure, as this would inconvenience the prince and Sultan Tummyfat. On the other hand, if I proved too curious and importunate, they might choose someone else, and I really, really wanted to go! All in all, best keep my questions locked inside. Perhaps Prince Keen Nose would tell me on the way. Seemingly we were to have much time for conversation.

I peeled off the last shirt. All the clothing in the pile would fit, more or less. None of it was too tight, though some was a trifle loose, as though made for a larger person.

“That’s all right,” said Frowsea. “I’ll put the bigger ones in the bottom of the pack. It’s a long journey and likely you’ll grow into them.”

The sultana directed me: “Pack your own shoes and underclothing and any small treasures you cannot bear to leave behind. Come up here before first light. Don’t say anything about the prince to those, down there.” The sultana gestured at the curtained wall, meaning the women in the courtyard. “Make up a tale, you’re good at that, but don’t tell them the truth. And here, girl. Put these in your shoes, or sew them into your underclothes. They are for my son’s help and safety. You may need them on the way.” And she spilled gems into my hands, cut rubies and emeralds and a shimmer of poinuid pearls, glowing blue as the depths of the sea. These pearls are fished up by the onchiki or the Onchik-Dau, all along the coast below Isfoin.

I had only time to bow my acquiescent thanks and to thrust the gems deep into a pocket before I was seized up by Frowsea, jostled back down the stairs, and turned out into the courtyard as though nothing had happened. Except that something had happened, which everyone within sight or hearing knew. People drifted in my direction, as though aimlessly. Questions were whispered from mouths hungry for happenings; eyes peered rapaciously. What? What was going on?

“The Great Sultan learned that my father had been falsely accused,” I said, surprised at the firmness of my own voice. “He wished me to know that no stain attached to my family, that my brother is safe, that I may join him if I wish.”

“Why did the sultana want to see you? Her. Winetongue? Why?”

“The sultana said a kind word. She gave me a gem for my years of service.” And I showed one cupped in my hand, a very small one, not enough to incite envy. In the harim, envy was as dangerous as a carpet snake; as readily hidden, it too could kill without warning.

Disappointed, they went away. No one cared about my years of service, or my father who had been falsely accused or my brother. Truth to tell, by this time I didn’t care about my brother. He was older than I by a good fifteen years, born to a different mother, and gone to the outskirts of the city to live in a house of his own by the time I was five. All that was long ago, but today was now, and tomorrow morning would come soon.

All of the day had been interesting, though some of it had been slightly scary and at least one thing had been annoying. Why did Sultana Winetongue assume that I would tell them stories about my adventures? Now that they were letting me out, did they really think I would return?

F
inding a place of her own had sounded simple when Dora had said it. At the end of two weeks, spending every evening looking at houses and condos, she was sick of the idea. Every place she’d been shown was either filthy, or dilapidated, or badly located, or too expensive. Each place was either the size of a phone booth or the size of a barn. Then on Friday, three weeks after Jared was hurt, Phil’s wife called saying she’d found the perfect place, she’d meet Dora there.

Dora told herself not to be hopeful. She’d been disappointed too many times. Still, when she found the address and parked out in front, just behind Charlene’s car, the surroundings gave her a tiny thrill of excitement. Something was right about this place! When she got out of the car, however, she shook her head slowly. The three-story stone house was huge!

“This isn’t it,” said Charlene, who’d driven in behind her. “Follow me.”

She stalked down the concrete driveway toward the
gable end of a wide, two-storied garage. Its overhead doors were tightly shut; the two windows above were shuttered. The stone wall of the big house was on their left, and where it ended at the back corner, a high, wooden fence took its place, running from house to garage, with a gate at the garage end. Charlene unlocked the gate padlock to let them through into an area of scattered paving stones and cracked, hard-packed clay. The space was separated from the big house by a cross fence that ended at the neighbor’s garage wall and separated from the alley by a chain-link fence with a gate giving access to the garbage cans. Across the alley was…well, nothing much: a field of ragged grass with sprays of white flowers blooming in it. Queen Anne’s lace? Whatever, it was more attractive than the enclosed area.

“This little yard is a mess, but don’t get your mind set yet,” Charlene cautioned. “Come on.”

Beneath a dangling lantern, a door opened into the side of the garage. Charlene unlocked it and fumbled inside for a switch. The lantern came on as well as an inside light, disclosing a closet-sized laundry room on the right, an empty cavern of garage straight ahead, and on the left a narrow flight of stairs which led up to a peaked and skylighted space, airy and open, with one wide window looking westward across the alley toward miles of uninterrupted country. The stairs were separated from the big room by a long, low bookcase. In the back corner opposite the stairs, cupboards and appliances made a U-shaped kitchen, and beside it a tiny hallway opened into a roomy bedroom and a sizeable bath, each with windows facing the driveway they had walked along. Charlene went from window to window, opening them and thrusting the shutters wide, letting in the evening.

“What was this?” Dora asked as she wandered about, trying to stay cynical and practical despite her growing elation.

“Chauffeur’s quarters,” Charlene crowed. “This used
to be a country estate, before the city swallowed it. The people who bought the big house are converting it into apartments. They want to sell this little piece outright to give them some remodeling capital. There’s enough ground set aside to comply with the zoning, and everything goes with: washer-drier, kitchen appliances, everything. The bedroom has a huge closet under the eaves. The fenced-off part gives you a yard or garden. You can either come in from the street, or, if you want more privacy, you can move the garage doors around to the alley side. It’s a three-car garage, so there’s lots of storage room.”

“Where did all this vacant ground come from?” Dora asked, staring out the west window.

“It’s part of the old air base. They closed it back in ninety-five, and it’s been zoned as greenbelt. You could have a dog and take him for walks over there.”

Charlene had three poodles that, according to Phil, ran Charlene’s life for her, but Dora wasn’t thinking about dogs. She moved slowly back to the kitchen. New built-in oven and stove top, compartment sink and dishwasher, decent-sized refrigerator-freezer, pine cabinets under a wide counter where she could put two or three stools. More than adequate. Not huge, but then, she’d only be cooking for one. The bathroom was nice, all newly tiled in white with bright Caribbean stripes of blue and pink and apricot. The place could have been designed with her furniture in mind. Everything she had would fit!

“How much?” she asked.

Charlene mentioned a price and Dora said a silent prayer of thanks. She could handle it. She would even have enough left over to do something with that messy bit of yard down below. When Charlene left to go type up a contract, Dora stayed there, hugging the place to herself, as though it were a child. She could have a little garden, and the garage beneath the living space was perfect for her car, and for storage. And a place to paint! Before she married Jared, she used to get a kick out of
painting, but he’d said it was too messy to do anywhere at his place. All her painting stuff was…Damn! It was still at Jared’s place. In the garage! She hadn’t remembered to clean out the garage!

Never mind. She’d do it right away. And she’d plant a tree and some evergreen shrubs in the little yard. And the lavender she’d wanted. And the pansies. And this fall she’d put in some bulbs. She was amazed to find herself a little weepy at the idea. A place of her own. It would be the first time she’d had a real, honest-to-God place of her own.

Closing was set for ten days away, but the people told her she could move in before closing if she wanted to. On Tuesday she moved. Her furniture came out of storage: her own bright rugs and comfortable rocker, Grandma’s pine bedstead and dresser. A new sleeper sofa for when one of the younger kids came visiting, Grandma’s honey pine table and chairs, the coffee table she’d had made from a fancy old door she’d found at a flea market, the two leather chairs she’d bought on time payments while she was still at the farm.

She found some ready-made curtains at Sears, ones that would blow in the wind, and at the nursery a big terra cotta pot for planting lavender in. She found pansies at the Wal-Mart to put by the stoop downstairs. The final step was to drive to the post office nearest Jared’s place and turn in a change of address form. Then, on her way home, she went down the alley at Jared’s place and used her spare key to get into the garage. Jared had been out of the hospital for a week now, but Jared’s mother had called Dora at work to say he was staying at the boardinghouse, with her.

“Jared doesn’t want you to leave,” she had said in her firm, unemotional voice, as though her saying so might change Dora’s mind.

“Jared doesn’t need a wife,” Dora had told her. “He needs a cook-housekeeper. And he’s making enough to hire one.” Still, she hadn’t filed for divorce. Not yet. She had a feeling it would be like poking a snake that
was coiled to strike. She could let the legal part wait while Jared got used to the idea.

All her painting things were in the garage, dusty but undisturbed, not even dried out. She stumbled on her way in, for the floor was as badly cracked as Jared had said, and she stumbled again coming out, but she didn’t forget to relock the door. She drove down the alley and came back to park at the curb. She used the key in the front door so she could pick up the mail that had arrived in the past few weeks. No more would be delivered to her at this address.

The weed had evidently won the war with Jared, for it was still there, ten feet tall now, anchored to the front wall with tiny sucker tendrils, its lacy foliage completely covering half the front wall of the house.

“Good-bye, weed,” she said, as she relocked the door.

All the leaflets turned in her direction.

“I’m moving over to Madera Street,” she said. “Ten thirty-two and a half Madera.” The leaflets trembled. Or maybe she only thought they did.

Crossing the bridge on the way back to her new home, she started to toss the spare key into the river, but then stopped. She wouldn’t be needing it again, but still…she hadn’t remembered the painting stuff. Maybe she’d forgotten something else as well. When she parked the car, she put the key to Jared’s place in the little magnetic box where she kept her spare car key, up behind the steering column. No one was likely to find it who didn’t know it was there.

That evening she served herself supper at her own table, laid with her own china. Later she sat in her own leather chair, looking out the window toward the sunset, watching the sun sink past all that lovely emptiness, no buildings in the way at all, the feathery clouds flushing pink and fading to violet. Then she went to bed in her own bed, with the windows open so the night air could come in.

The next morning she went out to get the paper, and
when she came back through the gate, she saw the weed thrusting up between the brick of the stoop and the wall of her house, tiny and green and indomitable.

“Hello, weed,” she whispered.