Teel was giving her no hint. She had found all the high-ups increasingly obscure recently, Teel even more enigmatic than usual. She had no choice but to go along with their schemes, whatever they were, and wait for the chance to make her own decisions, take her own chances.
When the procession formed up at the foot of the Wall, people stopped what they were doing to come and stare. Children leaned over soot-stained galleries, adults labouring to rebuild defensive ditches and ramparts stopped their work and leaned on heavy shovels, the priests looked down from the roof of the Wall. Even now Milaqa felt distanced from it all. It was as if she was the only real person in a world of puppets. Save, perhaps, for Qirum.
Following the great Etxelur Way south, they were passed without trouble through the Trojan lines, the desultory besieging force left in place for the winter. Most of the Northlanders walked. Kilushepa, however, preferred to ride with her ladies in a horse-drawn carriage. She had gifts for Qirum and his basileis, a custom in the countries they all came from, she said. The queen herself took special care of these items, which were wrapped securely in linen blankets and ox-hide and stored in her carriage and other carts.
Milaqa, like most people in the Wall, had seen little of the country since Qirum had begun his siege, and she was shocked at its state, the canals and weirs blocked, the dams broken, the hearthspaces weed-choked or flooded, the houses burned. But the people had survived, mostly. After the first Trojan attacks they had melted into the countryside and lived as their ancestors had, supported by the land’s natural bounty. And now they too came out to stare as the procession passed, strange, wild-looking people.
‘The land itself is flourishing,’ Raka observed at one rest stop, as they sat by a broad marsh. She watched a family of harvest mice busy in a nest woven in the tall grass. ‘Perhaps there’s a lesson in that. The land, you know, that’s what’s important in the end, not our petty human squabbles. Perhaps we have lost sight of the will of the mothers.’
Teel nodded. ‘Those who are to follow us will listen to the mothers’ wisdom, I am sure.’
More of his enigmatic obliquity. Those who are to follow? Would Raka not be leading the recovery when peace came, Teel not still be gliding among the Annids with his hints and tricks?
One of Muwa’s men, bored, pulled his sword from its scabbard and began slashing at the long grass, where the harvest mice had made their nest. Kilushepa stopped him with a sharp word in the Hatti tongue. That surprised Milaqa. She would not have thought the Tawananna, who had refused even to acknowledge the existence of her own daughter in Etxelur, would care anything for mice.
They were still a long way out from New Troy when they were met by a patrol. And as they passed through deep layers of earthworks Teel looked quietly pleased. All this defensive effort was a response to the campaign of petty retaliatory raids he and others had been organising ever since Qirum had begun his own assaults on Northland communities.
Their reception at the gate in the wall around the lower town was prickly at first. Highly trained soldiers on both sides, some of whom must have met in battle only months before, faced each other down. But there was no trouble, both sides kept their discipline.
Qirum’s man Erishum came out to meet the Northlander party, and escorted them through the gate. The city inside the wall seemed emptied out to Milaqa, depopulated, with none of those hungry crowds she had seen last time. She wondered if the Northlanders held here had found a way to slip away from this kingdom of mud and hunger and gone back to the country, quietly abandoning Qirum’s dream.
They were shown to a house of mud brick and thatch, in the shadow of the walls of the citadel itself, evidently the house of some warlord evicted for the purpose. Carpeted inside and with tapestries on the walls, it seemed grand to Milaqa. Kilushepa said it was small and poky, but it would do. Erishum waited with them until a runner brought a message that Qirum would be prepared to meet Milaqa at sundown.
This sent Kilushepa into a kind of regal panic. ‘And it is already mid-afternoon! There is barely time to make this wild woman anything less than grotesque — oh! How I hate to rush these things.’
Milaqa glared at her, suspicious. ‘What “things”?’
Kilushepa chased out everybody but her serving women, Raka, and Teel — the only man, ‘but, ball-less, you will cause no offence,’ she said dismissively. Then she turned on Milaqa. ‘Strip.’
‘What? I will not.’
‘Do it, child, or I will have the soldiers do it for you, I don’t have time to waste.’ She clapped her hands. Her ladies, barefoot on the carpeted floor, hurried in with trunks of clothes and cosmetics brought from the carts.
Milaqa turned to Teel and Raka in outrage. ‘What is this? Is she to dress me up? Am I a doll, a toy?’
‘No,’ Raka said. ‘You are our ambassador. You must make an immediate impression on the Trojan, and the right one. Put yourself in Kilushepa’s hands. Look — Qirum calls himself a king. Kilushepa is a queen. How such people behave towards each other is a mystery to us, and with the mothers’ blessing it always will be. But she knows how you should present yourself to him.’
Teel lay back on a couch, sipping water and wine. ‘Don’t argue for once, Milaqa. Trust the judgement of others.’
‘If I didn’t trust you I wouldn’t be here at all.’
Teel shrugged. He would not look her in the eye, which was unlike him.
And Kilushepa was waiting, arms folded, glaring.
Milaqa shrugged, and began to peel off her travelling clothes.
‘We will burn those,’ said Kilushepa.
‘We will not,’ replied Milaqa.
As soon as she was naked the serving women closed in on her. They scrubbed her from head to toe with water and soaps, and washed her hair and dried it vigorously with towels. They even shaved her armpits, but she baulked when they tried to shave her pubic hair. Then they began to rub scented oils into her skin and hair.
She sneezed. ‘There’s something getting up my nose.’
‘Stop complaining, child,’ Kilushepa snapped.
‘Try to enjoy it,’ Teel advised. ‘This is called being pampered.’
‘Give me the life of a soldier any day.’
Now they dressed her in a robe of thick, colourfully striped wool. It looked beautiful, Milaqa had to admit. It seemed to shine in the light, and felt greasy to the touch; the wool was thick with oil. But the robe was cut so low in the front that her breasts were bare.
She tried walking around. ‘Are you sure you’ve put it on the right way round? I feel ridiculous walking around with my udders hanging out. And it’s so heavy and clumsy I keep tripping up.’
‘No,’ Kilushepa all but snarled. ‘It’s you who are heavy and clumsy, you great she-aurochs. Lift your feet when you walk. Lift!’
Now she was sat on a stool with a mirror of polished bronze held up before her face, and the cosmetics were applied. These came from tiny boxes of glass and silver and gold, themselves ancient and exquisite, the travelling kit of a queen. Milaqa’s oiled hair was teased into curls and glossy tumbles down her neck. A white power was applied heavily to her face, so she turned pale as a ghost, then bright red starbursts were carefully painted on her cheeks, chin, forehead. Black kohl was delicately applied around her eyes, by a girl younger than she was, who came so close Milaqa could smell the spiced meat on her breath. Perfume was dabbed at her neck, her breasts, a scent of rich flowers.
Then she was made to stand, and the finishing touches were applied. A bodice and golden belt were tied around her waist — the belt was heavy, she was astonished to find, it was not plate, it was solid gold, from Kilushepa’s personal collection. A brooch was fixed to each side of her bare chest, and bangles, more gold and silver, were slipped over her arms. Kilushepa herself set a headband in her hair, richly jewelled.
When Milaqa stood to face Raka and Teel, she rattled.
‘You are beautiful,’ Raka said.
‘I’m ridiculous.’
‘Not in Qirum’s eyes,’ Kilushepa said. ‘To him you will be the embodiment of royalty, of a Trojan princess. The fulfilment of a dream — a woman fit for the king he imagines he has become. And within this beautiful shell is you, Milaqa, the mate of his soul. To him, you will be perfect.’
‘And irresistible,’ said Teel, grinning sourly.
There was a murmuring outside the house. A lady came running in.
‘It is time,’ the Tawananna said. ‘You have been summoned. Already! I told you, we did not have a breath to
