He was interrupted by the shrill voice of the Italian princess on his left — a very thin lady with mauve blotches on her parchment cheeks, a coil of mauve hair and a black taffeta dress in which her body sat stiffly folded like a wireframe doll. She had begun talking excitedly in a confused accent which made her words hard to follow.
Sarah, who had said little so far, gathered that she was complaining about some aspect of Italian politics. Her voice grew to a screech as her bony fingers dug into Steiner’s arm and her eyes stared distractedly past him at the quiet face at the head of the table.
Shiva Steiner nodded gravely, and with exquisite tact extricated his arm from her grasp; then turned, with a small bow of his head, towards the Ruler. ‘Your Highness, the Princess seems disturbed by the state of the trade unions in Italy. Perhaps you could reassure her?’
The Ruler’s stare settled at a point just below the chandelier. When he spoke his lips seemed scarcely to move, his voice slow and gentle: ‘I fear that I cannot reassure you, Princess. It is a regrettable fact, but in Italy — as in the rest of the Western democracies — the politicians have chosen to entrust the power of the State to the ignorant masses, who in turn have become the pawns of such people as Communists, anarchists, Trotskyites, and other political epileptics. In my country, these people are not permitted.’
There was a reverent pause. Even the Princess was subdued.
Sarah, who was sitting on the right of the Ruler, had so far found the evening somewhat perplexing. The Ruler had not addressed her once, since exchanging a formal greeting in the antechamber when he had received her, and had spoken rarely to the others. He seemed content to treat them like a party round a roulette table, on which he occasionally tossed down a very large plaque — a gesture received with excited anticipation. Otherwise the conversation had been almost entirely waged between Shiva Steiner and the Princess. The American archaeologist and his wife — a grey bespectacled pair who looked like twins — were lost to Sarah in the gloom at the far end of the table.
Sarah smiled into the Ruler’s bored face and said, ‘You’re very sensible not to have trade unions in your country, Your Majesty.’
The Ruler’s eyes slid round and fixed on her. ‘But we have trade unions. They are the spearhead of our labour movement.’
Sarah concealed her confusion. ‘But you don’t have strikes?’ she said innocently.
The Ruler’s gaze remained on her, deep and unblinking. ‘No, we do not have strikes. Everything in my country belongs to the people. And the people cannot strike against themselves. That would be illogical.’
There was a tense pause, as the plates were deftly removed and replaced by others, and glasses refilled. The Ruler was not drinking.
Steiner had grown suddenly quiet. Sarah guessed that he had either expended himself, or perhaps felt that he had done his duty and could now leave the conversation to others. For several minutes they ate in silence.
Throughout the evening, Sarah had been alertly mindful that she was in the presence of an absolute monarch; and although Shiva Steiner had assured her that the dinner would be a private informal affair, she remembered that etiquette usually demanded that a subject speaks to a monarch only when first spoken to. She was not one of the Ruler’s subjects, and not even in his country; yet she felt uneasily aware that her question about strikes had perhaps been tactless, even provocative; though the Ruler had shown no sign of being offended. He showed no sign of anything.
The fact that just over twenty-four hours ago Sarah had been part of a well-concerted plan to kill this man sitting less than two feet from her, was too outrageous for her properly to appreciate. What did disturb her was the fact that the Ruler seemed not even to notice her.
She had never met anyone as rich or famous or powerful as the man on her left; but she was also not used to being ignored. Her initial nervousness was now giving way to petulance. She felt no ill will towards the Ruler, for there was no contact between them — his very proximity made him seem all the more distant — but she was beginning to feel very angry indeed with Shiva Steiner. He had given her no briefing, no hint during the helicopter ride of how she was to treat her host, or react to him; and now Steiner was giving her no help at all. As for the Ruler, she had decided that a man who is revered by thirty million subjects must be allowed a degree of social licence; but for Shiva Steiner, the procureur royal, to abdicate all responsibility for her even before the second course, seemed unforgivable.
She was eating breast of wild duck in a bigérade sauce, sitting stiffly forward and pretending to listen to the garbled conversation about antiquities from the end of the table, when she became aware of a slender finger pointing at the centre of her breast. As she looked down, the finger scooped up the emerald on the end of the necklace which Pol had given her; paused as though weighing the gold, then let it fall gently back on to the velvet of her caftan.
‘It is very beautiful. You are fond of emeralds?’
She nodded, with a vivid smile; but before she could think of a reply, the Ruler spoke again. ‘The emerald is my favourite jewel. Although the blue of the peacock is the national colour of my country, I consider the emerald to be our symbol.’
He was looking at her again with his empty gaze, and her mind filled with a confusion of judgements.
