Display his wares tonight? the captain asked in nicely feigned disbelief. Who would look at his poor goods after sundown?
Certain people, she said, had indicated that they might be persuaded.
The captain demurred. Surely not.
There was so little amusement in Nacifia, she persisted, with a flounce, a sidelong look, and maidenly laugh.
Until, at last, the captain gathered up a dozen torches and set them around the Stugos Queen while ordering three of his men to open the hatches of the small, forward hold and bring out what was there.
Cages of silver peacocks and lengths of shining silk. Incense and carved sandalwood boxes. A half-lifesize mechanical ballerina who danced upon her toes, click, click, click, like a cricket, coming to the edge of her stage and raising her tiny hands in mechanical fright before turning to begin her dance again. Pots of perfumed ointment and hand-blown bottles of cologne. Monkeys with gold collars and iguanas in jeweled chains. Lace from the convent at St. Mole and confections from the monastery of St. Cloud. How so many things could come out of the little hold was a wonder to everyone, no less to me. Each thing brought out smelled, too, that old, mysterious smell which I had never identified: the chapel smell, the smell of Westfaire.
Coins changed hands. The Viceroy’s wife went home with lengths of sparkling fabric. Other wives contented themselves with the piece goods Flatulina had overlooked. Daughters sniffed at the crooks of their arms where drops of ointment deliquesced in silken folds. The robust Malisunde carried off an ape in a cage, as a substitute for a husband who was never home said someone, not meaning to be heard. Only the shadows and I heard, and only we laughed.
In the half-darkness, at the edge of the torchlight, a young lieutenant stood with Constanzia, murmuring, “His Excellency, your father, has been somewhat distraught of late.”
“Do you think so?” Constanzia asked. “I had thought he was rather less irritable than usual. This business in Novabella has quite set him up. He hasn’t tried to kick Grandma for at least a week. Even when she got soap under his feet and knocked him down in the long gallery last Friday. And he is sending Mrs. Gallimar as plenipotentiary. With a provisional permit!”
The lieutenant agreed that the issuance of even a provisional permit betokened the possibility of novelty, even, perhaps, of change. He was gazing at her as at a wonder, but she did not seem to notice.
Constanzia nodded thoughtfully. “I believe the people of Novabella have promised him a virgin with a difference. He has all the ingredients but that one. Think what it will mean if she truly is what they say she is!” She smiled on the young man, at which he blushed red as a rose. But then, just as he put out his hand to touch hers, she excused herself and went trotting off up the street toward the citadel. He turned away in confusion. Poor boy.
I stood sleepily by the gangway of the Queen as the place emptied and night settled. Only a few persons remained when I, with considerable surprise, saw Constanzia peering around a corner near the square. I thought again, as I had several times during the evening, how lovely she was. Her face had a spontaneous liveliness about it. Very dark. Very sexy. Very sly, at the moment, and cautious not to be heard or seen. She came out into the street, carrying a basket from which protruded the dusty cover of the book with the word “Forbidden” stamped upon it. She came nearer, slipped up the unguarded gangway onto the Queen, opened a hatch cover, and disappeared below. When the boat left in the morning, evidently she intended to be aboard.
I heard the stumping footfalls of the captain moving along the quay. I followed him onto the riverbank, where Mrs. Gallimar still sat as she had throughout the evening, bidding for nothing at all, dreamily watching the torchlit flow of the water. The captain was not content to leave her so. He carried a bottle of ruby glass in which, so I heard him say, she might find a wine which a master vintner would envy.
Mrs. Gallimar was so touched with his gift that she suggested they share it then and there. They sat in the flamelit night, watching the reflected flares shimmering on the Stugos, avenues of silken light reaching away from them away into unimaginable darkness where the flood moved silently in the night. As they watched the light, ignoring their glasses, I drank their wine. A divine vintage. One of the wines, perhaps, of Baskarone.
“We are at the center of the universe,” purred Mrs. Gallimar. “See how the light reaches out from us in all directions.”
Silently, I agreed that it was so. In daylight, things seemed to vanish at the horizon, joining there. Here in the firelit dark, all lines plunged toward us across the waters, ending at our feet, a fan of radiance with ourselves at its center. All things centered upon the observer. I was the axle of a wheel of light. It seemed important to remember this moment when the universe wheeled upon my hub, the moment in which I was impaled upon a fan of light.
“Remember this,” said a voice. It was the voice of the ambassador from Baskarone. “Remember this. All things end here, with you, Beauty. Remember this.”
“Remember,” whispered
