head, wreathing his face, and erupting from his neckline. He wore a form-hugging tunic of undyed linen, leather crossbelts and shoulder wings, and on his breast a badge with the red ox-head emblem of his city. Very military and proper, Star conceded, as was the royal headband with upright serpent, much like her father's.
Pallaton was braced by a dozen hard-eyed attendants, all in military garb but without weapons. Their only artifact was a tall staff held by a page, and Star saw Vrinda study it. Taller than a man, the staff was artfully carved of dark wood and gilded to resemble a column of genie smoke. At the top, where the 'cloud' coalesced, nestled a scintillating sapphire that itself contained a roiling, blue-white cloud. A queer thing to bring to a ball, Star thought, then dismissed it. The prince had trapped her hand.
Although she strove to remain cool, Star was thrilled when Samir Pallaton kissed her hand. His mustache tickled, and his teeth almost nipped her skin. A shiver sizzled to Star's toes and pointed her nipples, and the prince smiled slyly at their protruding. For a second Star wondered what it would be like to marry such a handsome, dashing man.
Still, she chilled her voice to formal levels and said, 'It's kind of you to grace Cursrah with your presence, Samir Pallaton. I hope you find our humble entertainments amusing.'
The prince held her hand as he stared, a half-smile hiding in his soft beard. 'Cursrah is the center of civilization, Your Highness, so everyone comes here eventually,' he said. 'I'd have come much sooner had I known Cursrah boasts such a fair first princess.'
Again he kissed Star's hand, and this time it was impossible to disguise her shiver.
'Uh, we thank you… kindly, Sa-Samir.' No longer frosty and aloof, her voice quaked, 'Now please ex-uh- excuse me. I have other guests to greet.'
Star turned and marched off, feeling the samir's eyes burning into her spine.
'A handsome youth,' proclaimed Vrinda from her great height.
'The desert wolf could use a good brushing,' sniffed Star. 'With those fangs, he'd probably eat a girl alive. Who's next?'
'Samir Nagid of Zubat, a man of considerable education.'
'Unlike Pallaton the Wolf, eh, who's been educated in the stable and the armory?'
'You guess correctly,' fluted Vrinda. 'Here we are.'
As before, Samira Amenstar was formally introduced to Samir Nagid who was slender, tall, red-haired, and dressed in the gaudy elegance of a stage actor. He wore a long embroidered shirt, blooming trousers, pointed shoes, parti-colored hose, and a cutaway cape with a checkered hem and upright collar. Like Star's, his hair was perfumed with lilac water. Attending him were four somber bodyguards and many happy, colorful youngsters Star took for students.
The handsome, smiling youth kissed Star's hand and said, 'Ah, me. I've sought education in city-states throughout the world, Your Majesty, yet now I see my studying has gone for naught.'
'Oh? Why is that?' Amused, Star smiled.
'Never have I heard of, read of, or been told of any woman as lovely as you.' Nagid also didn't loose her hand, and remained bowing as he continued, 'From now on, with your gracious permission, I'll forsake colleges altogether and simply worship at your feet, for surely a man can learn all that matters by gazing upon your exalted beauty. Perhaps, if the gods be kind, after years of effort I might compose one brief sonnet that could extol the smallest virtue of your heavenly features.'
'Oh!' Head aswim with compliments, Star stammered, 'Oh, uh, no, don't do that. I mean, I–I hope you enjoy your stay in, uh, Cursrah, and I–I must go.'
As genie and samira and entourage sailed across the crowded room, Vrinda had nothing to say, but her lofty smile was mocking. Star's cheeks burned.
Directed by the administrator, Amenstar remounted her small throne, which stood equidistant from her parents and the two parties of the visiting samirs. Behind the princess crowded maids, guards, and Gheqet and Tafir, whom no one had yet ejected. As master of ceremonies, Vrinda signaled the band to strike up a tune. Forty women, draped only in strings of colorful beads, tootled reed flutes, plucked harps, rattled sistrums, thumped drums, clacked bone clappers, and clanged bronze cymbals. Into the hall tiptoed a troupe of black skinned dancers in feathers and masks who swayed and spun hypnotically. Guests immediately put their heads together to gossip, and Star was certain every whisper recounted her reactions to the princes. She wondered if the storytelling tiara on her brow had really recorded her awkward and girlish stumblings.
Over the music came Tafif's voice, 'Gheq and I have decided you should marry Hairy Hands and not Fancy Pants.'
'Too many clothes to wash with Torchhead,' Gheqet added. 'Your hands would chap from all that scrubbing.'
'And Werewolf would be a better provider. If you want an antelope steak, he'll run the poor critter down and bite its throat out for you.'
'And Carrottop would borrow your clothes, leaving you nothing to wear.'
'Then again, Hyenabreath might eat your children… and scare the horses.'
'True, but Candlestick might drop a book on your toes-'
'Belt up, you two!' Star hissed through an icy smile. 'I should marry you two clowns, then make your lives miserable supporting my lavish and wasteful habits.'
'You can't marry two husbands, can you?' Gheqet and Tafir sounded unsure.
'My mother laments that I'm spoiled, pampered, and always get my way. If I raised one finger, for instance, I could have two blabbermouths gagged and flogged.'
The men didn't respond.
As the music climaxed the dancers whirled away. Vrinda glided to the center of the vast hall, under the round-cut roof hole, and gently shooed back the highborn audience. Announcing dinner was ready, Vrinda beckoned the waiters, stewards, and other servants forward. Marching in procession they took up rigid stances beside nothing at all. Leaving her slate palette hanging in the air, the golden-skinned Vrinda pointed to the nearest waiter and clapped her red-dyed hands once, sharply.
Magically, there appeared a knee-high round table with a gleaming tablecloth and shimmering bronze tray. Piled atop was a pyramid of hard-boiled eggs surmounted by a stuffed peacock.
Vrinda announced, 'Peacock eggs pickled in plum wine and stuffed with artichoke hearts.' Polite applause answered the apparition.
Two claps conjured another low table with a naiad-shaped tureen and heaps of crooked fare.
'Frogs' legs in dill vinegar sweetened with cane sugar.'
Table after table winked into place, a dizzying array: squid in its own ink seasoned with lotus petals; baked grasshoppers on red-leaf lettuce; rye cakes daubed with pesto topped with sturgeon eggs; pigeon hearts minced with yogurt pressed into lambs' bones; grape leaves on sliced antelope tongue; bee-laden honeycomb and grapefruit wedges in custard dusted with cinnamon; raw oysters and pounded almonds brown with cumin; saffron rice with carrots; myrrh-scented camel milk floating pickled watermelon rind; quails in nut sauce surrounded by garlic cucumbers. There were pitchers and punch bowls of drink: date and raisin wine; pomegranate and grape juice; mint tea syrupy with sugar.
The crowd's appreciation grew in murmurs and exclamations, but a queasy uneasiness stole upon Amenstar. Such a lavish gala must have taxed even her parents' massive wealth. These plentiful and imported foods were not conjured from thin air-nothing could be conjured from nothing, she'd been told-but were whisked from the palace kitchens. They'd been costly to prepare, and rumors had it that the evening's entertainment would be equally fabulous. For the first time, Star realized how seriously her parents wished to impress the suitor princes and gathered nations, which meant Star's impending marriage was certain, with only the bridegroom in question. The samira found her stomach churning, and not from hunger.
Before the slavering audience could partake of the lavish repast, the gods needed their share, so servants ferried offerings to a sacrificial table bathed by moon glow under the cut-out roof. The Grand Vizar was escorted forth for the invocation. This doddering crone was rail thin, branded with arcane sigils, and hideously tattooed with blue and red veins until she resembled an anatomy chart. She staggered under a bloated turban seemingly made of tiger skin with a tiger-head pin sporting amethyst eyes. A murmur circled the room, for everyone knew the legend: the turban was actually a living creature captured in the Burning Lands of Zakhara, 'Where the Gods Dare Not Tread.' Magically cursed or blessed, the creature crouched atop the vizar's head and siphoned her life-force. In
