On the private rooftop garden outside his apartment, Brokols ate a quiet, solitary supper, a late meal, watching the fading bands of silver and old rose in the western sky, beneath the brilliant bit that was Little Firtollio in his first quarter. Something in bloom perfumed the evening with a fragrance he hadn't noticed during the day.
He was in a strange mood, random detached thoughts drifting idly through his consciousness. Jerrsio. The man had impressed him, but from a perspective of eight hours there seemed to have been no cause for it. In anything the man had said or done. Maybe the initiates droning Hrum had had some psychological effect, rendering him susceptible.
Interesting that the frequent bare torsos and even limbs in Hrumma weren't usually offensive. Perhaps subconsciously he knew that droids weren't truly human and human rules didn't fully apply. He looked at the thought and rejected it. And anyway the monks really should wear something, some undergarment, or else sit differently to better conceal their genitals while they intoned the name of their god. And the aged should definitely not be allowed to expose their unsightly wrinkled limbs.
In general though, the Hrummean physique tended to be quite superior. As one might expect of the progeny of pleasure droids. His own physique should get back into shape here. There were five long flights of stairs to climb from the street, each time he came home; he took them fast and hard, and his thighs had burned from it. And Hrummean food promised to be less fattening. He'd had Stilfos downstairs at the kitchen of their landlord part of the day, learning Hrummean cookery.
Stilfos was important to him, someone he needn't hide things from. Any servant Eltrienn might have procured for him would be a spy. Of course, Eltrienn was too, in a manner of speaking, but Eltrienn didn't have the run of the apartment, access to the wireless room or arms chest.
Feet sounded softly on the deck behind him, followed by quiet words in still-awkward Hrummean. "Milord, there's a gentleman at the door. A Tirros . . ." Stilfos hesitated over the unfamiliar polysyllable. "A Tirros Han-o-riss-i-o. And a male companion. Mr. Tirros appears to be noble, and he'd like to speak with you. He gave me this."
Stilfos handed Brokols a folded sheet of paper, or something like paper, its wax seal impressed with a sigil he couldn't make out in the thickening twilight. Not, he thought, that he'd recognize it in any light.
But Hanorissio. That seemed to mean his visitor was a member of the amirrial family. "Thank you, Stilfos." Brokols said it without rising, without turning. "Tell him I'll be with him in a moment."
As the footsteps receded, Brokols sat staring not at the paper but down the harbor, through its entrance at the ocean beyond. Serpents. How much intelligence could something have, use, without hands to go with it? The water people had hands, even if they used them for little besides catching fish.
He got to his feet, feeling the slight soreness in his thighs as he did so, and turned to the terrace door. Soft fluttering light shone from the glass globes of oil lamps. He entered, then waited standing till Stilfos ushered the visitors into the sitting room. The smaller, less well-dressed of them stopped a pace behind the other, as if perhaps a servant. Brokols recognized the first, a slender youth, inches taller than himself, who'd stood behind the amirr's shoulder that first day. They shook hands, the strength in Tirros's long slender fingers surprising the Almite.
"I'm Tirros Hanorissio," the young man said. "The amirr is my father." He gestured at his companion. "This is Karrlis Billbis, a friend of mine."
Brokols nodded. "Pray be seated," he said, gesturing at chairs. "A cup of satta perhaps?" As Tirros Hanorissio sat down, his eyes took in the room.
Its furnishings were Hrummean, of quality. "We prefer wine," he answered. "At your pleasure."
Brokols nodded, then instructed Stilfos. When the servant left, Brokols sat.
"I've never talked with a foreigner before," Tirros told him. "This is a nice apartment, though I'm surprised that Eltrienn took an upper floor for you. For someone of your position, that makes a lot of steps to climb. Are you satisfied with it?"
"Entirely satisfied. I specifically asked for an upper floor. The view, you know."
"Ah. And is Eltrienn a satisfactory representative of my father?"
"Entirely satisfactory."
"Good." Tirros paused, his gaze frankly calculating. "Eltrienn's a herdboy from the Neck, you know—intelligent enough, but common. And provincial. He's ignorant about our level of society—yours and mine."
He paused again, as if watching for a reaction, then changed the subject. "My father has instructed me to arrange a reception for you. On Fiveday night."
A reception, Brokols thought, would allow him to meet and evaluate a lot of important people. And Fiveday was only two days off.
Stilfos came in carrying a small tray with three glasses and a decanter. He poured for them and left, and they drank.
"There'll be young women of quality at the reception," Tirros added smirking. "They're all interested in the ambassador from across the ocean. Very interested. Your social life can be highly enjoyable here, if you'd like."
"Indeed?" Brokols wasn't sure what Tirros meant by 'social life'; the smirk had triggered suspicion.
The mirj's eyes gleamed darkly, lizard-like and watchful beneath half-closed lids. "But of course, you needn't wait till Fiveday if you'd like to meet young ladies. As I said, Mr. Ambassador, you're interesting, and I know some who'd like very much to meet you. At your convenience. Some very accomplished young ladies. I know at least one who'd happily meet you this evening; a charming girl."
Brokols felt his loins stir. The pup is deliberately tempting me, he thought. Or testing me. "Indeed!" he answered stiffly. "In The Empire we are cautious about young ladies."
The smile returned, a grin this time. "None of these has committed herself to anyone. They prefer their freedom yet awhile. Is there anything else I can do for you? Any entertainment you'd prefer at the reception? Dancing? Music? Anyone you'd particularly like to have attend? Or not attend? Food or drink you like especially well? That we might have in Hrumma?"
Brokols felt angry annoyance. He could think of one person he'd prefer not to be there, but he wasn't in Hrumma to make enemies gratuitously, certainly not in the amirrial family. "I'm sure that whatever you provide will be satisfactory. After all, the amirr is your father."
The curly head bobbed, a miniature bow. "Indeed, Your Excellency."
"And where is this reception to be held?"
"At the Palace. It is written in the invitation. Eltrienn knows the place. Or I can have someone else bring you, if you'd like a change of companionship."
"Not at all. I consider Eltrienn a friend, as well as guide and tutor." Brokols got to his feet. "Well. I'm sure you have—more interesting things to do this evening than talk with me. While I have things that I must attend to."
For a long moment, Tirros Hanorissio made no move to get up, and Brokols wondered if the youth would have the insolence just to sit there when his host had indicated the conversation was over. Or—perhaps it was inappropriate in this country to send someone on their way on such short notice.
But then the mirj unfolded his long body from the chair and stood. "Thank you, Your Excellency, for your hospitality. I may call on you again before the reception. If I don't, I'll see you there. And don't hesitate to call on me if there is, um, any favor I can do for you."
* * *
After leaving Karrlis Billbis, a grinning Tirros Hanorissio strode alone down a dark street. Except for the amirr himself, male aristocrats seldom had bodyguards in Hrumma, and Tirros would have felt restricted by one.
Karrlis's reading of the foreigner had been more than promising. If there proved to be no profit in him, at least this ambassador could provide amusement; he'd even blushed a little.
* * *
Elver Brokols read till his eyes felt red and tired. Oil lamps were no substitute for electricity. He set aside one of the books Eltrienn had given him, a history of Hrumma. It was interesting, if perhaps a bit imaginative. As he read though, his mind kept slipping off to the impudent mirj and his offer of girls.
He'd have trouble going to sleep tonight, he knew. Since Valda had died in childbirth, almost two years past, he'd had a woman only once, a comely wench in a place of illicit sex. Being there had been risky, a felony, and he'd found no pleasure in it, only brief excitement and subsequent self-disgust.
Somehow he felt sure that Hrummean girls would be far beyond anything he'd known with sweet but proper Valda. Or with the prostitute. He shivered. Pleasure droids! He'd avoid this Tirros at all costs, he decided.
But beneath the surface of his decision, he felt fantasies lurking to distract him from sleep.