“Bow,” the voice said urgently. “Slow and deep.”
Flint faced Queen Bess and bowed.
“Well, it has manners after all,” the Queen said. Her voice was harsh and somewhat scratchy. She was a robust woman, not young but not yet old, with makeup caked on her face so that it looked like a fright mask. Flint suspected that her body under the elaborate dress did resemble the outer configuration: bloated into the shape of a hogshead of strong liquor. Maybe that was why she had set this style: to cover her defects, and make all others cover their assets.
“She’s the spitting image of the original Elizabeth of England, you know,” the Ambassador remarked. “She uses the caked makeup deliberately, because that’s the way the original did it; underneath she’s actually a somewhat younger woman. Like Elizabeth, Bess is tough and smart. No coincidence, of course; she’s studied history. Don’t forget that for one instant. Wish her happy birthday, but don’t mention her age.”
Small chance; Flint didn’t know her age, and the Ambassador had warned him about this before. But she was obviously older than the average Outworld tribeswoman. “Planet Outworld bids you an enjoyable birthday, gracious Queen.”
“The whole planet!” she exclaimed, chuckling mannishly. “We welcome the emissary of the Dragon.”
“Now back off,” the Ambassador said. “There are others to be introduced, but you’re home free. Queen Bess has accepted you.”
Flint backed off. So far so good; if this were the worst of it, he would have an easy evening. The smell of the feast was already circulating through the room, and he saw barrels of liquor being set up in a corner. He was hungry and thirsty, and he might even get a chance to go out and look at the stars at greater leisure. That was one thing about having a party at night: the stars were out.
He bumped into someone. A young man was standing in his way, a man who hadn’t been there a moment ago. He wore brown tights with a padded codpiece, a brilliant red cape, and a supercilious sneer. “I beg your pardon,” the youth said loudly. “I was not aware of your optical infirmity. Stupid of me not to realize that anyone as green as you could not be in the best of health.”
“He’s baiting you,” the Ambassador advised. “Ignore him. The court’s full of young dandies on the prowl for trouble.”
“Green is my natural color,” Flint said mildly. “It has to do with the radiation of my star and the atmosphere of my planet, as most people know. My vision is satisfactory—but the eyes of my head were on the Queen, and I do not possess eyes elsewhere.”
“Are you suggesting that I do?” the dandy demanded, his hand going to the hilt of his sword. He seemed more than willing to be insulted. “I, Lord Boromo of the Chariot?”
“Ignore him,” the voice in the skull repeated. “I recognize the name. He’s a notorious troublemaker, but an expert swordsman, as these things go. He’s killed several innocent men, but if he draws in the presence of the Queen, he insults her, and his head will roll. And don’t you draw!”
Flint turned away from the young man, though he would rather have bashed him. But Boromo would not let it drop. “Only a complete barbarian stumbles into his betters and lacks the wit to apologize.”
“Agreed,” Flint said, moving on. There was a ripple of laughter through the hall. There had been more than casual interest in the encounter.
“Boromo must be jealous of you,” the Ambassador said. “He was trying to provoke you into a duel, so he could kill you, or at least humiliate you, and win favor for himself. Politics is like that, here. You handled it well, reversing the insult—but I had not anticipated this. Perhaps you’d better excuse yourself and return to the embassy.”
“When the party’s just beginning?” Flint demanded. And let the young punk have the satisfaction of putting me to flight? he added mentally “I’m enjoying myself.” And he drifted toward the liquor.
From behind a drape an orchestra starting playing. The fancy courtiers began to dance with the hoopskirted girls. The movements were measured and stately, stylized like the courtship ritual of certain animals. The barreled skirts began to sway, then swing like great bells, in time to the music, while hinting at enticingly shapely derrières beneath them. There was, Flint realized, some point in this complicated clothing; proper suggestion had a refined sex appeal that could build to a higher peak than mere exposure. Honeybloom, back on Outworld, was lovely in her nakedness—but she lacked the artful challenge of these boxed beauties.
Delle glided up. “Do you care to ask me to dance, handsome envoy of the Dragon?” she inquired pertly.
Flint had no notion how to do this dance, suspecting he would make a fool of himself if he tried it. But he thought it inexpedient to advertise this. “I prefer to watch,” he said.
She made a moue. “Sir, you humiliate me.”
Another dandy came up, as brightly and tastelessly clad as the first. “Do you have the audacity to insult a lady?” he demanded.
“That depends on the lady,” Flint replied.
The dandy swelled up. “This insolence cannot be tolerated!”
“Why not?” Flint asked.
The first dandy, Boromo, approached. “The animal lacks the wit to take umbrage.”
“A prick of the sword could be the cure of that,” the other said. A glance of understanding passed between them.
Delle faced Flint angrily. “Are you going to let them talk about you like that?”
Flint affected surprise. “I thought they were addressing each other.”
There was another ripple of laughter in the hall. Both dandies glowered, their hands going to the hilts of their swords in an obviously well-rehearsed gesture.
“Ho! What is this?” the Queen demanded, sailing forward majestically.
“Oh oh,” the Ambassador said. “Bess is in on it too, and the maid. They must know what you are, Kirlian and all.”
Flint agreed. It did look like trouble. There had been too many little episodes. Suppose these people, antiscience as they were, opposed the formation of the galactic coalition? They could strike a real blow for their dubious cause by eliminating him. But still they dared not do it openly, lest a twenty-fourth-century battleship be dispatched from the nearest Imperial space armory. One barrage from such a ship could put this planet back into the Dark Ages, literally. So they had to be at least somewhat subtle.
He had walked into a nest of vipers. Still he had certain assets. One was the putative battleship; another was the Ambassador in his skull; then there was his own ingenuity. A bit of bold initiative might work. It really wasn’t worse than being a transferee in an alien Sphere!
“This oaf insults Your Majesty,” Lord Boromo said.
Flint made a little bow to the Queen. “I fear there has been a misunderstanding, Queen Bess. I proffered no insult.”
“And now he calls me a liar!” the dandy exclaimed theatrically. “I call these assembled to witness…”
And the others would back the dandy up, of course, completing the frameup. They were only waiting to see which way the Queen wanted it.
“I’m sending an Imperial Guard to get you out of there!” the Ambassador said. “But it will take a few minutes. Stall them if you can. Whatever you do, don’t draw! Then we’d have no case at all.”
The Queen faced Flint, and he saw the calculating glint in her eyes. She had not quite decided what she could risk. “I had not supposed the Dragon would send a minion to disrupt our party,” she said.
Flint had had enough of this mousetrapping. “Even the Dragon can at last become annoyed at the yapping of curs.”