“Idiot,” hissed Phaed. “Slob-lipped, turd-sucking idiot!”
Epheron’s face became dead pale, but he turned away with an apprehensive glance at the prophet.
On the stage, the bemedaled officer leaned across Saturday to speak to Maire.
“Karth,” Preu Flandry hissed in a carrying whisper. “Commander Karth.”
“What’s he doing with her?” the prophet asked. “And what’s the woman doing there? She wasn’t supposed to be there! When this was planned, she was expected to come here, to Voorstod!”
The men looked at one another, shrugging.
“Who’s that with her, boy?” demanded Mugal Pye of Jep.
“Topman Sam Girat,” said Jep. “Maire Girat’s son. And the girl is my cousin, Saturday Wilm.”
“Who’s the other girl?”
“I don’t know.” There was another girl, talking to Saturday.
“Why are Sam Girat and your cousin there? Why?”
“Probably to keep Maire company,” said Jep. “She probably didn’t want to come alone.” His heart told him she hadn’t wanted to come back at all, that his capture had brought her.
“Maire’s gotten fatter,” mused Phaed, staring at the stage. She was stouter than he remembered her, but she was still, he thought, a fine woman. Her skin was smooth, her eyes clear, her hair a wealth and a treasure. The bright garments were flattering to her. Something old and mostly forgotten stirred deep inside him. “She’s gotten fatter,” he whispered again, almost fondly.
“She’s older,” said Mugal Pye, angrily.
“She doesn’t look quite like herself, I mean,” said Phaed softly. “My son’s a fine man, isn’t he. But she doesn’t look like the Sweet Singer I remember.”
“The Singer was a young woman. It’s been thirty years,” said Epheron. “What did you expect?”
“What did you expect?” snarled Phaed. “You’re the fools who brought her here.”
“We expect she’ll do what we need done. We’ve got it all planned,” said Preu. “Doesn’t matter what she looks like. Or sounds like. It’s her being here in Voorstod that’s important.”
“She’s not here yet. You still think she’ll come?”
“She’s on her way here,” said Epheron. “What do you mean, Phaed! We’ll send out the boy, she’ll come in. Even the prophet thinks so.”
“The boy?”
Epheron pointed at Jep. “This is your grandson, Phaed Girat. It’s how we got the woman here.”
Phaed scarcely glanced at Jep as he sneered at Epheron, shaking his head.
“What’s the trouble?” Preu asked.
Phaed pointed at the stage, where the concert hall was almost completely filled. “None of you expected her to be there, did you? In that particular company? You expected her to be here, where she would see nothing, hear nothing you didn’t control. But where is she now? This minute, where is she? She’s in that concert hall, across from Queen Willy, beside the Commander of the army, where the Gharm’s going to play the harp. I ask again, you think Maire’ll come to Voorstod? After what’s been planned?” Phaed was snarling like an animal. He turned back to the stage and stared at it ravenously.
Jep kept his head down, his body quiet, attracting no attention. This man was, by the tenets of Voorstod, his granddaddy. This man had been Maire Girat’s husband, and he had obviously not forgotten her. As for the rest, Jep had no idea what was going on, except that something had slipped up, somewhere along the line. Some plan had gone awry. They had not planned on Maire Manone being at this celebratory concert. Something was going to happen at the concert that Maire Manone was not supposed to see.
THREE
Maire and Saturday were well-dressed at the concert because they had been escorted to a shop by the Commander’s daughter, Eline, where they had selected clothing with Eline’s help and at Ahabar’s expense.
“It’s the Queen’s wish,” Eline had said. “She knows why you’re here. She knows what those vile men in Voorstod have done. She wants you to have a pleasant evening before you have to go there and struggle with those … those …” She shut her mouth grimly, and nodded her thanks to the young woman who was running a heat-seamer along the garments they had chosen, taking them in to fit. “She thought you’d have more fun if you had some Ahabarian clothes. We’ve become very dress conscious here in Fenice. It’s an affectation we’ve adopted from Phansure, this concentration on style and fashion. Unimportant in itself, but we enjoy it, the men as well as the women.”
“It is kind of the Queen,” Maire had said, ignoring nine-tenths of the girl’s chatter. She supposed it was kind of the Queen. Queens could be kind, like anyone else, or think they were. Maire had no wish at all to attend a concert, to appear in public, to see or be seen. Mostly she felt inclined to slink or skulk, to be hidden in some dark corner from which she could spy out whatever trouble was coming, for she felt trouble, as she could sometimes feel a thunderstorm gathering. The air prickled, and her eyes itched.
Saturday, who had said nothing during the shopping expedition, who had tried not even to hear the conversation, laid her cheek against the warm red gown she had chosen and wished more than anything that Jep could see her wearing this dress.
She was dragged out of her reverie by Eline’s hand on her shoulder.
“You’re sure now?” Eline asked her, pointing at another dress, a blue one, with a low-cut neck.
“I’m sure,” said Saturday. Her chemise would show at the neck of the low-cut gown, and she dared not lay the chemise aside until she no longer needed it. Besides, she hadn’t enough breasts yet to go wearing nakedy things. And the red dress was prettier. It was softer and moved like leaves in the wind.
Maire noticed Saturday’s eyes, dreaming and eager. Interesting, she thought, what pretty gowns could do to raise one’s spirits. Would women face death and danger with more aplomb if they could wear beautiful gowns? Perhaps she and Saturday had better wear these dresses when they went to Voorstod, to encourage themselves. But, no. No. The prophets would surely condemn any woman
