“They wouldn’t want it while they’re awake, with those fair skins,” Gar agreed.
“Where did you learn these words, sir?” Maora asked, frowning.
“In school,” Dirk told her. “We’re from very far away.”
“In space or time? For you speak as good a Galactic Standard as we, though with a slight accent.”
“Do I really?” Dirk asked, looking up with interest. “Say, can you tell the difference between my accent and my friend’s?”
“It is noticeable,” Maora said, with an odd frostiness to her words. Her glance was concerned. Dirk decided to relieve her mind. “If only Magda were here to see these wonders with me!” he sighed, and promptly fell despondent.
“He loves a lady, then?” the woman asked, interested.
“Totally smitten,” Gar told her.
“That explains it, Maora,” another woman said, and to Gar, “No Milesian man can resist a woman of the Fair Folk. Therefore we know you for one of us.”
“Really?” Gar asked, amused. “How do you know I’m not just in love with the girl I left behind me?”
“If you were, your young friend’s state would make you sad, reminding you of your love,” Maora said, nodding toward Cort.
“I fear there’s some truth to that,” Gar sighed, glancing at the lieutenant. “What am I going to do with two lovesick comrades? Have pity, ladies! Tell your friend Desiree to free my companion from her spell!”
“She cannot,” Maora said simply. “His heart is hers; he is past her control in that.”
“But only in that,” Gar qualified.
Maora smiled, relaxing, almost gloating. “In all else, he will gladly do as she bids.”
Gar knew there were limits to that, but wasn’t about to bet on what they were.
As they came toward the center of the dome, the buildings grew taller, having more headroom. They began to hear music, reeds and strings, with an odd beat from softened drums that seemed to invade Cort’s head and work itself into his blood, until his heart beat to its rhythm. Finally they came to a palace that towered three stories high in the very center of the town. It was brightly lit both inside and out, and in the wide plaza before it, the Fair Folk were dancing—stately, courtly measures that were somehow also completely voluptuous.
“What make you of that, my friend?” Gar nudged Dirk.
“Hnnh?” Dirk tore an envious gaze away from Cort’s infatuated face and looked about him. “Hey! It’s the town square of the colony dome. And the courthouse, probably, or at least City Hall.” He inhaled deeply. “I don’t know what they’re serving for refreshments, but it smells delectable!”
Cort snapped out of his daze, turning to stare at them, appalled. “Don’t eat or drink anything! If you do, you’ll be in their power, and they can keep you as a slave or companion for twenty years!”
Amused, Desiree assured him, “Do not flatter yourself, mortal man. We would scarcely want you for so long a period.”
Cort turned to her, dismayed. She laughed at the look on his face, then, instantly contrite, touched his cheek and told him, “But if I did, be sure that you would want to stay, and we would have no need of enchanted food or drink.”
Cort let himself drift into her eyes and knew her words for truth.
“Indeed, you are far more likely to want to stay than we are to desire your presence,” Maora said, though the measuring look and sultry smile she gave Gar belied her words.
“Come, hero of daring.” Desiree turned, holding out her hands and making an invitation somehow into a challenge. “Are you bold enough to dance with a woman of the Sidhe?”
She pronounced it “shee,” and Cort grinned, taking her hands. “Bold enough for a she indeed!” Then they were off, whirling and turning as though they were thistledown in the wind, instantly lost in a world of their own, in which nothing existed except the music, and each other. Maora smiled, taking Gar’s hand. “Will you dance, too, sir?”
“I thank you, but shanks so long as mine are clumsy in such giddy measures… Trouble breathing, friend?”
Dirk’s whole body shook, as though strangling a coughing spasm. “Yes, you might say I had trouble swallowing something,” he wheezed.
A golden-haired boy as tall as Dirk’s shoulder came twisting through the crowd and bowed to them. He was already broad in the shoulder. “My lady, the duke wishes to speak with these Milesians.”
CHAPTER 15
Milesians?” Dirk frowned, turning to Maora.
“Mortals” she explained “who are not of the Fair Folk. Go with the lad; he will lead you to the duke.” She turned away to a tall, handsome man who stepped up to take her hand. She laughed gaily as he swept her off into the dance. Gar followed her with his gaze.
“Regrets?” Dirk jibed.
“Yes, but not about her specifically.” Gar turned back to the youth. “We shall be honored by an audience with His Grace.”
“You are courteous, for Milesians,” the boy said in surprise. “Follow, then.” He turned and went.
“ ‘Milesians,’ ” Dirk mused as they followed “I think there’s an awful lot of Celtic influence here.”
“Not my area of study,” Gar said. “What are the signs?”
“The Irish called their last wave of prehistoric invaders Milesians,” Dirk explained. “The scholars think they were the ancestors of the modern Irish. They drove the earlier invaders, the Tuatha de Danaan, ‘the people of Danu,’ before them, until finally the Old People withdrew into the Hollow Hills in disgust. The medieval Irish referred to them as the Daonine Sidhe.” He pronounced it “Theena Shee.”
“They lived inside the green hills or in a land under the waters.”
“Let’s hope these people see themselves as Daonine Sidhe, then,” Gar said grimly. “Put on your happy face—here’s the duke.”
Their young guide led them up to a high dais, where the oldest of the Fair Folk sat alone, in a gilded, high-backed, intricately carved armchair that gleamed with the look of neither wood nor metal, but of some sort of synthetic. The boy bowed. “My lord duke, here are the Milesians.”
“Bravely done,” the duke said, and waved him away. “Go now to the dancing, Riban.”
“I thank Your Grace.” The boy bowed again, and went.
Dirk gazed after him. “How old is he? Fourteen?”
“Ten,” the duke snapped. “The Fair Folk grow tall from childhood—and you are most lacking in courtesy, Milesian!”
“Oh, sorry.” Dirk turned and bowed. “Thank you for your hospitality, Your Grace.”
“Better,” the duke said, mollified. He turned to Gar, who bowed and said, “You are gracious, Lord Duke.”
“This one, at least, knows manners.” The duke looked him up and down. “I might almost think you were of noble birth.”
“I am the grandson of a count, Your Grace, and the son of a lord.”
“Then you are no man of this world of Durvie!”
“Your insight is excellent,” Gar confirmed. “We have come from off-world.”
“I might have known it, from the things you’ve said! Have you laser rifles of your own, then?”
“Not with us, my lord, but we have both fired them in battle, yes.”
Dirk stared at him in alarm—he was giving too much away.
“How much else have you recognized?” the duke demanded.
Dirk sighed. If the cat was out of the bag, it might as well yowl. “This Hollow Hill is a colonists’ atmosphere dome, the portal into the hill is an airlock that’s no longer used for keeping the breathable air in, and your medallion is a wireless audio pickup that feeds loudspeakers high up on the hill. Its amplifier has a digital reverberation unit, a frequency equalizer, and a basso enhancer.”