Three Princes (10 page)

Zaydane, riding ahead of Mabruke, halted his mount and turned in the saddle, frowning at the impromptu performance going on behind his back.

The teacher who had been leading the group of children also frowned at the display. She clapped her hands sharply, calling to the group to behave. The children fell quiet, responding to the command. They drew away with giggles, each touching the pointed toe of the Silly Rider’s boots before hurrying after the teacher.

Mabruke smiled after them, then resettled into his awkward riding pose. Zaydane was frowning as he nudged his horse forward.

Oken was felt better about woolen clothes and camel rides.

ZAYDANE TOOK
his leave at the entrance to the embassy grounds. One of his men had gone ahead to have Mabruke’s little red rental vehicle waiting for them in front of the hotel entrance. Zaydane had also made reservations for them, a royal suite.

Oken was delighted to see civilization blossoming in this stony, hard place. He was particularly delighted to see his luggage again— gloves and not a single item of wool.

“It has been good to see you,” Zaydane said to Mabruke. The two men stood gazing into each other’s eyes. Their farewell hug was tender.

“We will see you again upon our return.” Mabruke glanced at Oken as if to get his consent.

“I doubt we will see you coming, sir.” Oken smiled at Zaydane as he spoke.

“I will make certain of that.” Zaydane patted Oken on the shoulder in farewell.

Mabruke hurried into the lobby, without waiting to watch Zaydane and his men ride off.

OKEN DIRECTED
himself at once to their vehicle, parked at the curb in front of the embassy hotel. Four of Zaydane’s men stood guard. Private vehicles were rare. People in the crowds passing by on the sidewalks wanted to touch it. Before Oken had the storage compartment fully open, a half dozen uniformed bellhops, doormen, and liverymen swooped upon him, ushering him and the luggage inside to the lobby. Oken was fluent in the language of the kindly lord to servants, concierges, maids, footmen, and head waiters. He learned a great deal from their chatter as the luggage was whisked away. Apparently, he and Mabruke had arrived on the eve on a major social event, with ladies and gentlemen from around the empire in attendance. The lobby was busy with guests and their entourage.

The hotel interior was marble and gilt, similar to the embassy in Novgorod. The ever-present potted palms were especially splendid specimens here, with golden lights sparkling among the sharp spines of the towering trunks. Gentle guitar chords drifted over them from the lounge in the balcony above the lobby.

Oken joined Mabruke at the front desk. He was at last on familiar ground.

“WE’RE GOING
to a party? Already?”

“Well, I packed all these clothes,” Mabruke said matter-of-factly. “I have to wear them somewhere.”

“We’ve been at this hotel for less than an hour—how did you manage to get invited to a party?”

“I ran into someone I know in the lobby. There’s a world-famous opera house here, you know. All manner of wealthy nomads gather for that.”

“You always run into people you know, no matter where you go. You must have more friends than the Pharaoh!”

Even as he said it, Oken realized he was blundering into the older man’s private self. The look of gentle bantering between friends vanished from Mabruke’s face, replaced for a flicker with a thoughtful, pained inward glance, gone swiftly, leaving only an outward calm that Oken knew was restraint covering a powerful emotional surge.

“People just love that professor fella.” Mabruke picked up one of his valises to search through it.

Oken watched him. “If it bothers you so much to be spying on your friends, why did you take another field assignment? You said you were happy just teaching the art. Why did you let the queen talk you into this?”

Mabruke turned to him with a look of genuine surprise. “She is the Queen of the world! One does not refuse her!”

“You could.”

“That’s why I never would.”

“Maybe once we’re on the other side of the Atlantic, among the tropical folk, you won’t feel so much like you’re spying on your friends?” Oken said this on impulse, then realized it was true.

Mabruke thought about that while taking items out of his valise. “Until they get to be friends. People do just love that professor fella, don’t they?” He spoke with grim sadness.

Mabruke suffered from overly powerful charismatic charm, the kind of ka, to use the sacred word, that functioned like a natural force, personal magnetism that was neither trained nor acquired, an attractiveness almost independent of the person within its field, yet irrefutable. People thus afflicted (as Mabruke was wont to say to Oken, describing himself in the third person) could be brutes and utterly selfish, yet be steadfastly loved, surrounded by unshakable loyalty. Mabruke, however, was also a man of singular compassion. He suffered from a terrible empathy with everyone he encountered. He had been set on the path of espionage at a very young age, a destination determined by his father’s royal court, not truly by his own intention. Mabruke’s combination of attraction and understanding made him so good at espionage that eventually he fell in love with his work, even though it troubled him deeply. The very nature of his work kept him removed from the humanity whose attention fascinated and sustained him. The tension of this inner discord made him an excellent teacher in the subject. It also made fieldwork a fiendish strain on his nerves and on his conscience.

Oken turned to his own set of valises. “What do you want me to wear?”

AT THE
entrance to the embassy’s private ballroom, Oken saw something that struck him cold, frozen in place for an instant: the opera house posters displayed beside the entrance. The artwork spotlighted the lead figures, clinging to each other atop a windy cliff. Her hair blew across her face, revealing only her green eyes. Her long, long legs were unmistakable, unique. No other such pair of legs existed in the world. Oken felt sure of that.

de sertvoices
was printed in bold letters of gilt-edged crimson at the top of the poster, followed by the tagline: the world premiere of giuseppe verdi’s anasazi opera, based on the magical love story of long walker and his beloved corn maiden, played out against the landscape of the incan-egyptian rescue of the anasazi from the collapse of their kingdom, six centuries ago!

The premiere performance was tomorrow night.

Oken stepped closer and saw the palm- sized, oval publicity photographs of the performers, their names printed in silver glitter beneath. She smiled out from the poster with the imperious lift to her chin he had appreciated the first moment he saw her.

Oken strolled into the main ballroom, alert to every face and gesture, but he did not see her. Mabruke was talking with a group of well-dressed men at the side of the musicians’ stage. They were flirting and laughing with the musicians, one of whom Oken recognized as young Aziel, transformed from the simple goat-herder to a court entertainer, resplendent in elaborate makeup. Golden jewelry spilled across his bare chest and covered his arms from shoulder to elbow. A diamond gleamed in one ear.

Mabruke flicked the feather in his top hat in a way that said he did not want to be interrupted.

To Oken’s surprise, he also recognized a youngish woman of noble lineage whom he had sometimes seen at School. She wore a dress similar in style to that of Princess Astrid Janeen, in crimson silk. She was of Caesar’s line, born of one Caesar’s favorite house hold servants, thus she had been studying to be a lady-in-waiting to those from the line born of Cleopatra or her sisters. Oken’s acquaintance with her had been casual. He remembered her because he remembered everyone. He wondered if she might remember him?

She did, drifting his way as soon as he made eye contact.

He bowed. “Mademoiselle Marietta—I travel in the wilderness and find a lovely compass rose.”

She gently brushed the back of his hand with her fingertips. “Lord Oken, how delightful to find you here in the wilderness. I heard you were in pursuit of princesses in Oesterreich.”

“Yet I remain unattached, ma de moiselle, having safely escaped the numerous wiles of Europe.”

“Could it be that you are here for the occasion of the new opera, Lord Oken?”

He let a smile cover his flicker of alarm. “Why else, ma de moiselle?”

“I find it difficult to picture you seated at an opera.”

“I have become an ardent admirer of every aspect of the stage.”

Mademoiselle Marietta’s laugh was practiced, easy. “Oh, of course you have.”

“I promise!” Oken said with mock dismay, “Mademoiselle, you mistrust me!”

“You are traveling with a prince, I hear?”

Oken gestured toward his friend across the room, using the wineglass in his hand. “Professor-Prince Mikel Mabruke.”

“I thought I recognized him.” Mademoiselle Marietta’s attention was directed across the ballroom. “He was our professor for makeup and perfume.”

“He was also our professor for wine-tasting.”

“He was. I never liked those classes. He was always so distracting.” She turned her smile on Oken a curious look in her eyes. “You are accompanying him as companion, or in his employ?”

“He needed a memoryman for his new line of research in Andalusia.”

“You became a memoryman? Intriguing. So you will remember me?”

“Always.”

“Then you will introduce me, so that I may ask him to dance?”

“Happily, ma de moiselle. You will find Prince Mabruke to be an excellent escort, a superb conversationalist, a magnificent dancer, and a gentleman, first to last.”

Her lovely brow drew in as she considered his words, then smoothed and a slight smile touched her lips as she comprehended his meaning. She tilted her face up to meet Oken’s eyes, the question in her mind clear in her expression.

“I am his greatest love because I am completely unattainable.” There was no jest in Oken’s voice. “I am a man with full respect for love, and I am hopelessly in love with every woman I have ever met.” He leaned more closely toward her, tentatively touching the circle of her personal space, the invisible barrier she kept between herself and the world.

She tilted her face away, raising her hand to place her fingertips on the golden rectangle of the Neith pendant resting between her breasts. She drew back slightly, a gesture showing the grace of gentle disappointment. “That is a charming speech, Lord Oken, but women do not wish to be loved as a group.”

Her gaze lingered on Prince Mabruke, then back to Oken. “A pity. I will dance with him, though.”

“Certainly you will, my dear.”

Oken also drew back, more amused than disappointed. He was well accustomed to the power of his friend’s charisma to draw the attention of sensitive souls. Animals and children responded to him the same way. Oken was also accustomed to being the lesser light in his friend’s presence. He had learned not to feel threatened. He knew the price Mabruke paid, the constant, internal struggle to maintain the balance of power between himself and that ka-image. Too often people did not want him so much as they wanted to stand in his light. Oken gently took her hand to rest it across his arm. “Allow me to introduce you.”

She let her hip brush across his thigh once as they walked together, a silent thank-you. Oken smiled down at her. Her attention was fully on the tall, dark man across the room.

“Mademoi selle Marietta is an acquaintance from School,” he said as they met up with him. “You may recall her from our classes on fragrance and tasting.”

Mabruke bowed, smoothly covering any dismay at being interrupted. “Indeed, and your lovely mother, Mademoiselle Marcella. I trust she is well? Your essays were always far more entertaining. Please, do not tell her I said so.”

Mademoiselle Marietta smiled up at him. “Thank you, sir.”

“She has turned me down, in order to request the honor of a dance with you.”

“Indeed, ma de moiselle,” Mabruke said, meeting her smile. “I applaud your taste and discrimination. I am certainly a finer dancer than Scott.”

She nodded once in ac knowledgment of the compliment, putting her hand out to rest on Mabruke’s sleeve. Her expression was thoughtful and self-confident. She was a tall woman, yet she had to tilt her head back to look into his face. He took her hand, smiling at her with a solemn and penetrating gaze as he rested his other hand on the bare skin of the small of her back.

Oken stepped aside as they swirled away to join the dancers in the center of the room. Other dancers did not interest him, just the one. She made no appearance at this gala event. Oken continued to drift through the crowd, acknowledging respectful greetings from those who recognized the symbols of rank on his silver torque, slipping in and out of conversations as protocol demanded.

A woman who had come to the party with Mademoiselle Marietta caught Oken up, boldly introducing herself as Marques Glorianna from the Andalusia Spate. Her gown and jewels were a match to Marietta’s, in a sunny yellow that offset her olive skin and dark hair. Oken was delighted to meet her. Glorianna chattered at him happily about her travels with her friend Marietta, and their traveling companion, Simone.

In a quick whisper behind her fan she said, “Please, Lord Oken, he must see me speaking with someone whom Marietta knows.”

Oken did not inquire. Her large dark eyes had flashed with fear.

He learned from her that the opera company was at dress rehearsal this eve ning. “Isn’t it a shame that dress rehearsal is not open to the public?”

“Truly,” Oken said.

“The opera is new, Lord Oken, not yet performed in public. The world premiere is tomorrow night—but, of course, you know that. Wasn’t that your reason for coming to far Marrakech?”

Oken allowed as how that must certainly be the truth.

Mabruke, across the ballroom, was standing close to Aziel. Their unheard conversation looked breathy and bold. Aziel was only slightly shorter than Mabruke, tanned an amber bronze against Mabruke’s plum-dark skin. The two whispered face-to-face, flirting with subtle gestures of shoulders and eyes.

Oken watched until they disappeared into the moonlit shadows of the garden terrace beyond the ballroom’s glass doors; then he turned back to the warm glow of the party and asked the marques to dance.

She was astonished into silence, and danced with exhilarated grace. He enjoyed it. As they spiraled around the dance floor, he reviewed in his mind the security of the embassy grounds. The terrace was the only public entrance. The garden itself was walled in for privacy. Guards watched at strategic sites along the outer wall. Mabruke had gone there with the young man because he knew it was safe.

After several more dances, Glorianna thanked him with a breathless and excited smile, and excused herself. She hurried over to Mademoiselle Marietta, who sat with a pair of elegantly dressed older women. They wore matching orchids. He made note of the flower arrangement as he drifted toward the terrace entrance.

Oken sought out one of the servants in the crowd and asked for a glass of wine. He continued to enjoy the delights of the party without letting his attention waver from that garden entrance, keeping faithful watch on his friend’s back.

Aziel returned first, looking flushed and happy as he stepped up onto the stage. The rest of the musicians had begun playing without him. One of them leaned forward to whisper to him, something teasing, making him blush deeply.

Five minutes passed, leaving Oken momentarily concerned; then Mabruke reappeared, slipping back into the crowd with practiced ease. His clothes and jewelry were perfectly arranged, his makeup untouched, with only the slight and tender smile he flashed to Oken.