Julian made a snorting noise of disbelief. “May I borrow your bedroom, Alice? I'm slow, I'm afraid."
"Go ahead.” Alice wondered how she could ever dispose of such horribly bloodstained clothes.
He limped out, carrying his parcel. When the bedroom door clicked shut, Ginger turned to her and smiled triumphantly—the invalid was shedding no tears today.
"What's so funny?” Edward demanded, seeing her answering smile.
"Nothing,” she said.
"Next train's not till four-something,” Ginger said.
Alice relaxed. “Then you and Julian go first. Edward and I can follow."
They would have time to hammer out his emotional problems, and she could hear more of his adventures in that magical world of his. She had a suspicion that he had been harping on the Nagian savages to discourage Smedley's interest. There must be a brighter side to Nextdoor—perhaps that mysterious Prince Goldfish he had mentioned.
18
GOLBFISH SLAMMED THE BEDROOM DOOR ON YMMA'S MOCKING laughter and stamped off to face his ordeal. He stopped stamping quite soon, because he was barefoot.
His honor guards were waiting in the antechamber. He had expected them to be in dressed much as he was, but they all wore Joalian-style armor of shiny bronze. The colored symbols of their devotion to Olfaan and the other gods were marked on the armor, not slobbered in paint all over their faces. The leader saluted. Puish Lordservant bowed and waved forward two flunkies. One presented Golbfish with a spear, and the other a circular shield. It was so massively ornamented with gold that he almost dropped it. Anything less useful for battle had never been invented.
He glowered around the guards, searching for any hint of a smirk hiding inside a helmet, but their expressions were all studiously noncommittal. Growling angrily, he strode off without a word, leaving them to follow in any order they liked.
For the first—and, he fervently hoped, the last—time in his life, he was clad in the traditional garb of a Nagian warrior. Not that there was much garb to it—a skimpy leather loincloth. He felt naked. His face was ludicrously painted up with colored hieroglyphics. His hair and beard had been trimmed short, because that was warrior style, but he knew how it emphasized the smallness of his head. He felt a freak. He knew he looked a freak, too. Perhaps there was a funny side to it, and someday, at some elegant dinner party, he would laugh with his friends, relating how he had been forced to dress up as a barbarian. Perhaps. But if his friends back in Joal could see him now they would ... they would laugh just as hard as that slut on the bed was laughing.
He was not the right shape. His torso tapered upward instead of downward, although that did not stop him worrying that his absurd garment might slide right off him in the sweltering heat. With both hands occupied, he would be able to do little to stop it if it tried. He had no hair on his chest—and no ritual scars, either. If Mother thought he would rouse the warrior caste of her primitive kingdom to blood lust and patriotic fervor, then she was going to be sadly disappointed.
Even stupid Ymma knew that. Her mocking words still rang in his ears: “What will they think of you? What will your precious friends think of you when they see you like that? What verses will your poets compose, what songs will your singers sing? And that sculptor man—will he carve your likeness?” She had started to laugh again—hard, cruel laughter like the strokes of a lash.
Golbfish shuddered. Fortunately his best friends were all far away in Joal, and the few he had in Nag would not be close enough to see any of the details. They were civilians all, talented artists whom he had brought back from Joal to aid him in his efforts at improving the cultural life of the kingdom. Civilians would be kept to the back of the temple.
The Joalians will understand! he told himself. They know I must conform to local custom in raising the horde. They trust me, as they will never trust Tarion. It was the Joalians who insisted Mother appoint me hordeleader.
But Tarion had been made cavalryleader, and Golbfish did not understand why the Joalians had agreed to that. They were relying on the Nagian cavalry far more than on the Nagian infantry, which would be of little help to them. Nagland had plenty of moas, but no tradition of using them in warfare. Joalian lancers were as good as any in the Vales—except the Thargians, of course—but they had not been able to bring their mounts over Thordpass. A moa was a one-man steed that needed many fortnights to be imprinted by a new rider. Little brother Tarion would be technically under the hordeleader's command, but he was far more likely to win glory in the coming war than Golbfish himself was.
He was not looking forward to the war at all. He was a patron of the arts, not a fighter. He was looking forward to this afternoon's mustering ceremony least of all. He would rather face a horde of armed Thargians than go before his own people dressed like this, but there was no way he could escape the ordeal. Joalia had demanded the support of its ally, and the horde must be mustered in the ancient ways.
What Joal wanted, Joal got. That was the law in Nagia.
The palace was a dingy affair of endless stone corridors, badly designed and poorly built, an insipid imitation of Joalian architecture. There was no decent building stone near Nag, not like the lustrous variegated marbles of Joal. Everything was made of the same drab, purplish sandstone. It was so soft it crumbled, and the floors were permanently gritty. Nagland had no tradition of building in stone.
Nagia had no tradition of hereditary monarchs, either. The Joalians had imposed the monarchy by force of arms when they put his grandfather on the throne. His mother, it must be admitted, had astonished everyone by managing to hang on to it, crushing the predictable revolts with Joalian help and ruthless cruelty. It was true she favored Tarion as her successor, for she made no secret of the fact. She maintained that Golbfish was not sufficiently ruthless. She was right about that, but was ruthlessness necessary anymore? After three generations, he thought, the Nagians had adjusted to the situation. They would tolerate a king to keep the Joalians quiet, just as long as he was benevolent and well intentioned.
Mother did not agree.
Golbfish's left foot was already sore by the time he reached the Garden of Blessings, which was a feeble copy of the Garden of Blessings in Joal. Anyone who had seen the original found this one pitiful. Imported Joalian seeds never thrived, and Nagian vegetation just did not have the same luster. The wickertrees gave a feeble shade, the sunblooms and starflowers were almost invisible amid their rioting leathery leaves. Now, in late summer, the fountains had run dry and the ornamental pools looked scummy and dead, as if they should have fish floating belly-up in them. The statuary had been carved from the inevitable purplish sandstone, so that most of the figures were weathered to faceless mummies already.
The honor guard had halted somewhere. Golbfish advanced alone, following the winding path through the shrubbery. He heard voices ahead, many voices, and felt a twinge of uneasiness. He had expected only Mother and Kammaeman, the Joalian commander. Possibly Tarion. He could hear a large party in progress.
Rounding a tangle of bamboo, ruby bushes, and salmon vines, he came in sight of the throne. The queen was holding court, elevated above the crowd. She seemed to be the only woman present. As he approached, he searched in vain for signs of anyone at all gaudied up as he was. Some were clad in bronze, gleaming and warlike, the rest were dressed in the loose breeches and tunics of Joalian civilians. He recognized the usual ministers, envoys, and secretaries. He could understand their being here, but there were others he would never have expected. Mother seemed to have invited every officer in the visiting Joalian army, plus all the court officials and most of the important local notables—and all Golbfish's personal friends, too! There were dozens of faces he had never seen within the palace before: Toalmin Sculptor, Gramwil Poet, Gilbothin Historian, and innumerable others. These were the people he had happily assumed would be relegated to the back of the temple. Why had they been invited to this reception?