“I see no further need to question them,” the Regent responded smoothly. Which said it all.
Was there anything other than religious faith that could have kept this man from demanding his own long ago, from toppling kingdoms to achieve it? Was there anything that could succeed in holding him down now, once he fully understood his options? Damien felt like he had indeed thrown a match into a powder keg. And that keg was sitting on an arsenal.
The Regent pushed back his chair and stood. “It’s clear you prepared well for this voyage, and I see no reason why you should remain under quarantine. I’ll inform the Matria of that decision.” As he spoke his ruler’s title there was just a trace of hostility in his tone, almost imperceptible—but Damien was sure that if he Worked his vision he would see the fury inside him seething like a demon, screaming its indignation. “My aide will give your people a brief tour of the city tomorrow, so that they know their way around. After that, you’re all free to come and go as you please. I anticipate the merchants will be able to unload their cargo by the end of the week, or move on with it as they desire.”
“Thank you,” Damien said. “I’ll tell them.”
The Regent nodded, his dark eyes narrow. Piercing gaze, oh, so piercing. What future world was he gazing upon, that made his look so fierce? What secret potential had Damien’s words unveiled, which had previously been unspeakable?
“No,” Toshida said softly. “Thank you.”
If Damien had been concerned that there would be any further investigation of his role on board the Glory, he was quickly reassured. Their tour of the city, attended by most of the passengers and all the lesser crew, went without a hitch. There were the predictable swarms of reporters, of course, who flanked them like hunting dogs throughout their journey. Is it what you expected? Was it worth the crossing? How have we surprised, disappointed, impressed, intrigued, appealed to you? And of course the inevitable queries from tabloid artists regarding ghost islands, sea monsters, and western sexual practices. At one point their guide made a point of gathering them together and explaining to them in simple words and an almost decipherable accent that their stories were worth quite a bit to these people, and they shouldn’t part with too much information without getting paid for it. To which Anshala responded, in a tone that was equally patronizing, “We’re not brainless savages, you know.” And they were left to conduct themselves as they saw fit.
On the third night a celebration was declared in honor of the travelers, to include a display of fireworks when the Core set after dusk. The invitation to attend was hand-delivered by the captain of Toshida’s guard to Rozca himself, no doubt in recognition of his stubborn refusal to leave his ship the day before. Despite the fact that Rozca loudly refused to attend that gala display or any other until he was satisfied with the security of his ship, he appeared to be pleased by the attention. And later, when that same officer returned at dusk to take personal charge of the Golden Glory, Rozca allowed himself to be talked off his bridge and across the dock and into town itself.
Fireworks: controlled small-scale explosions, performed for entertainment. An old Earth custom, the Regent’s man assured them, and Damien was amazed at how casually the phrase rolled off his lips. Damien’s own people had been struggling with the basics of survival for so long that they had all but forgotten what true Earth custom was, and used the phrase only rarely to denote a ritual whose roots were so ancient they could no longer be remembered. Here, where relative stability had been achieved a mere three centuries after the Landing, oral tradition had preserved much more of Earth’s heritage. The West might have recorded Earth’s facts in its struggle to preserve its scientific heritage, Damien reflected. But the East alone remembered Earth’s spirit.
Impressive. Like everything else about this land. And, like everything else, utterly alien.
They were led to a vast park in the center of the city, bounded at one end by the Regent’s Manor and at the other by the Governance Center. The central portion of the park was immense, acre upon acre of meticulously landscaped terrain that seemed to Damien a living symbol of the carefully controlled order of this land. No plants grew at random. No weed would dare to sprout. Pink blossoms bloomed exactly where pink blossoms ought to be, and the rows of towering trees that flanked the sides of the central lawn were a living testament to man’s dominion over Nature in this one tiny corner of the universe. Damien wondered if the children who now sported about those trunks would ever understand that fact, or if they took their power for granted. In much the same way that Earth once had, to the detriment of all its inhabitants.
The numbers gathered in the great square were already too great to count, but to Damien’s untutored eye it seemed that the whole city must be present, and then some. Some had clearly come to see the fireworks, and they spread out their blankets on those sculpted hillocks where the view promised to be the best. Their children sported merrily across the crowded plain, as excited by the prospect of staying up this late as they were by the coming spectacle. Others had clearly come to see the strangers, and they crowded about the reviewing stand in ranks so thick that their children could not run, but resorted to playing hide—and-seek behind the bodies and between the legs of strangers. Until some well-meaning relative caught hold of one of them them and tried to imprint upon that child’s brain the importance of the night’s display. Damien smiled as he watched, and estimated the message would remain with them for about five minutes, if that long. He had been that age. He remembered.
The sun had set nearly three hours ago, but the Core had only recently followed. The sky was that curious shade of blue which was neither sun-cold nor Core-warm but that in-between shade, twilight. A fine mist had gathered over the city, hinting at the imminence of rain. Toshida said not to worry, that the fog would only make the fireworks more enjoyable. Damien couldn’t begin to explain to him how utterly alien such a reassurance seemed. If the same thing had happened in Jaggonath, the nervous uncertainty of ten thousand viewers would have stopped the performance dead, or at least made it very dangerous to proceed. Fear had a way of feeding on itself and then altering the fae, which in turn was capable of affecting any physical event. Did these people have such faith in their leaders that they no longer questioned their decisions? Or had centuries of faith finally weakened the link between fearing and being - as it had been meant to do, as the Prophet had designed it to do, so many years ago? The thought was almost too awesome to contemplate.
Today fireworks, Damien mused. Tomorrow the stars.
The reviewing stand had been erected near one end of the great lawn, within the shadow of the Regent’s Manor. No accident there, Damien observed, as he watched the Governor and his retinue make their way to their seats. Damien glanced over toward the Regent, found him in animated conversation with Rasya. Toshida seemed to be fascinated with the Glory’s pilot, although whether or not that interest was mutual remained to be seen. Damien wondered if he might not be put off by her total lack of regard for landbound authority . . . or whether that might not be the attraction. Certainly there were at least a hundred women here who made it clear, by their dress and their gaze and their constant proximity to the reviewing stand, that they were his for the asking.
Maybe he needs a break from that, Damien thought dryly.
Then there was a murmur at one end of the platform, and a wave of motion as the tightly packed crowd rearranged itself to make way for someone. Damien made out the form of a woman, middle-aged, dressed in dun-colored robes that concealed her from wrist to ankle, loose folds obscuring whatever details of her figure might otherwise have been visible. He recalled men and women on Toshida’s ship who had been dressed similarly, and the Regent’s strange response to Hesseth’s presence on board the Glory suddenly became clear. Indeed, as the woman approached them, Toshida stood so that he might bow deeply, a gesture redolent with genuine respect, perhaps even with awe. No ritual obeisance, that. Even Damien felt its power.