“His Eminence asks that your crew and passengers remain on board until he contacts you again,” the officer said. “He advises that there could be complications, if any of your people were to leave the ship prematurely. Tambia he asks that you fly this.”
He handed the bundle under his arm to the captain. With the first mate’s help Rozca carefully unrolled it.
It was a flag—a pennant, more accurately—with a red band at the base and a long black tip that would flutter in the wind. On the red section was a series of seals, too small to be made out from a distance. Official markings, Damien guessed, for the benefit of the ship it guarded.
“What is it?” the captain asked.
“It warns other ships not to approach you,” the officer explained. “You understand that we can turn the larger ships away ourselves, but the private boats sometimes go where they want . . . this will warn them off.”
“And if they do come on board?” Damien heard himself asking. “What then?”
“They die,” the officer said coolly. “As all men do, who defy the Regent’s will. So you see, it would be best if the warning were raised as soon as possible. Verda?”
With those words for farewell he formally bowed his leavetaking and lowered himself once more over the ship’s side. This time he had no difficulty with the ladder, as his arms were unencumbered.
For a moment there was silence, thick and uncomfortable. As each man wondered in his own way what manner of land they had come to, that combined hospitality and ruthless quasi-justice with such casual, numbing grace.
“All right,” the captain said gruffly. Breaking the spell. He handed the pennant to his first mate, who in turn handed it to a lesser crewman. “You heard the man. Fly the vulkin’ thing.”
7
Toshida never ran—he thought it lacked dignity—but he had long legs and a quick stride and he put them both to use with gusto. Thus it was that he walked from the harbor to the Matria’s Sanctuary in record time, well ahead (he hoped) of any gawking voyeurs who might have anticipated his route.
The doors were open and he stepped inside. The guards spared him a sharp look—do you belong here? - to which he responded with a glare of his own—what does it look like, you fool? - and he continued on his way. His face had been in at least a thousand newspapier features, not to mention the Mercian five dollar credit note and an Octecentennial coin; if they didn’t know it by now, he wasn’t going to waste time educating them.
He found a Church attendant and didn’t have to state his business; the boy simply nodded and led him upstairs. Thick velour carpet scrunched softly underfoot, a welcome alternative to the coarse planks of the ship. All about him the wealth of his nation welcomed him home: fine white numarble walls with crimson veins, elaborately carved fixtures plated with rose gold, stained-glass windows designed and executed by the most prestigious artists in the Five Cities. Gifts, all of them, and freely given; the house of the Matria would no more pressure its citizens to part with items of value than it would expect the tax department to pick up the tab for her decorating. Which was as it should be, he reflected. Exactly as it should be.
On the second landing there was a small waiting area, and the attendant indicated that he should make himself comfortable there while he announced him. He disdained to sit on the tapestried couch, but spent a moment studying the two engravings that adorned the wall behind it. One was of a sailing ship that had clearly seen better days; its sails were tattered and its mizzenmast had been split in a storm and black ash coated the standard that had been rigged to fly from a forward jib. That would be the First Holy Expedition, Lopescu’s company. The second depicted a handful of ships coming into a primitive harbor; that would be Nyquist. The other walls featured paintings of nature, trees and flowers and a brilliant seascape that stretched across three large panels. No pictures of the other expeditions, he thought. Is that a sign of our honesty, or of hypocrisy?
Then the door before him opened and the attendant stepped out. “She’ll see you now, your Eminence. Please forgive the delay.”
With a gracious nod he passed the boy and entered the Matria’s audience chamber. It was a large space, richly carpeted, whose narrow stained-glass windows cast jewel-like shapes across the floor and walls. A broad desk of polished rosewood dominated the space, with matching chairs on either side. The Matria was seated behind it. As always, he felt strangely awed when ushered into her presence. And as always, that awe was coupled with a deep-seated resentment.
She nodded her welcome as he bowed. “The newsmongers say there’s a foreign ship in our harbor.”
“Then newsmongers can fly, your Holiness, because I came here as fast as a man can travel.”
She smiled. “Actually, I like Raj’s theory that each newspaper has only one common brain, and all those bodies who go running about are merely its limbs in disguise.” She rose from the desk and approached him, extending one slender hand. She was no longer a young woman, but age had been kind to her, and the features that had been striking in her youth had matured into something no less impressive. The white robes of her Order swept the floor as she came to him: narrow sleeves, full skirts, a tight-fitting coif that hid most of her hair from view. Her eyes were large and arresting, and for a moment—just a moment—Toshida was reminded of the Sanctified woman on board the foreign ship.
He took her hand and kissed it reverently, dropping to one knee as he did so. The fact that his station permitted him to remain standing made the gesture doubly dramatic and he knew it. “I came to report to you as soon as we landed.”
“And?”
She returned to her seat behind the great desk and signaled for him to join her. He took a chair opposite.
“It appears to be a trading vessel,” he told her. “Some four dozen passengers and crew with a good bit of merchandise. They claim to have set sail from the West, and I see no reason to doubt them. They all come from different cities, I gather. We’ll get a list before we let them disembark.”
“Did you inspect the pilot’s books?”
It took effort to keep from smiling. In all of his inspection there had been only one rough moment, inside the pilot’s cabin. He remembered the woman—what was her name, Maraden? Marades?—seated atop the thick leather volumes, blue eyes flaring with indignation. No, she had said. This is where I draw the line. I don’t care who you are. Her sun-whitened hair gleaming like silver, so oddly short, so strangely alluring. Ask your own pilots what the custom is. He had. And they’d told him. And since he wasn’t ready to declare war on her ship, or to take her prisoner for personal reasons, he’d left the books alone.
“I saw the captain’s log,” he responded evenly. “It supports their story. And there were other signs. I believe them.”
Her golden eyes fixed on him. “There’s a lot riding on your judgment.”
“Verda, Matria. I was thorough, I assure you.”
“And their cargo? Did you check that?”
“Luxury goods for the most part. Some livestock. I counted seven crates that contained dried vegetable matter in one form or another; we’ll check them for narcotic content before they unload. Nothing else of any concern.” As an afterthought he added, “It’s a rich load, and they brought no guards. Security may be a problem. What courtesies may I extend to them?”
She narrowed her eyes, considering. “A dozen of your private guard for the first week, compliments of the city. After that, supply them with a reference for suitable independents. It sounds like they’re carrying more than enough to pay for it.”
And then her eyes met his and he had the dizzying sensation of falling; for a moment his vision clouded and he could see only soft shapes, red and blue and amber shadows and the hazy outline of what must be her desk. It took effort to pretend that nothing was wrong, to keep from reaching out to take hold of the desk’s edge to stabilize himself. But he was damned if he was going to let the Matria—or any Matria—unsettle him that much. He had come too far and dealt with them too often to quake in the face of their power now.