It was early evening, still daylight, when Elver Brokols and Eltrienn Cadriio arrived by hansom at the amirr's palace. Brokols hadn't been there before. It was large but not huge, not in the sense that the imperial palace was, in Larvis Royal. Slightly smaller than the Brokols family seat in the Falmar Valley.
And different; the architecture and landscaping were much simpler. But the simplicity was elegant, its beauty deriving from a harmony of proportions and relationships, not relying on, or even much using, ornamentation. Like almost all of Theedalit's buildings, it was white, but the white of native marble, not whitewash. There were roundnesses and angles never clashing, many large and awninged windows, mostly open now, and double doors giving onto terraces, promenades, balconies.
The doormen were well covered, uniformed in chalk white hose and tunics, with soft boots and stiff-shouldered vests of golden velvet. Swords in gold-plated scabbards were worn thrust into sashes of scarlet or cobalt blue. The overall purpose was clearly aesthetics, but Brokols felt sure the swords were entirely functional, and no doubt the men who carried them. The amirr and naamir were waiting in a foyer, and to Brokols' brief confusion, both embraced him.
They led him to the reception then, in a spacious suite obviously intended and furnished for galas. Although he'd arrived almost exactly at the time prescribed, there already was a crowd. Apparently the other guests had been assigned an earlier arrival time, to be there when the guest of honor appeared.
And apparently there was to be no banquet in the usual sense, though the assortment of food and drink, still being set out on several long serving tables, seemed equal to a banquet. A sort of casual half cheer, half called-out greeting met Brokols when he walked in—or was it for his host and hostess they cheered?—and as waiters circulated with trays of drinks, people began to drift toward Brokols.
The drinks too were visually aesthetic, and the one he took seemed only weakly, if at all, alcoholic.
There was no formal reception line nor any swarm of greeters. They came up to him singly, for the most part, introduced themselves, said something polite, then gave way to someone else. Brokols was grateful for his gift of remembering faces and the names that went with them—a gift that had already helped his career in government service and may well have been a factor in his selection as ambassador.
After ten minutes or so a gong sounded, and a steward announced that food was now being served. There were plates of several sizes and kinds, to suit individual wants, and numerous tall tables, some small, some not, at which one stood to eat. Talk continued, though more slowly.
Some of the conversation was trivial, but he was asked many questions, and given a number of suggestions dealing with his functions as ambassador. Meetings were offered. After a bit, Eltrienn suggested to Brokols that he might wish to circulate, then left him on his own.
Among the affluent, dressing was obviously an art form. Variety was considerable, though white was the basic color. There was no semi-nudity to perturb him except for the almost invariable, though not monotonous decolletage. He couldn't entirely keep his eyes from straying to female breasts exposed halfway to the nipples, and the sight, so close, made him slightly uncomfortable, though not actually unhappy.
Mostly, though, he managed to ignore the display, and being asked so many questions helped a lot. Hrummeans were especially interested in Almeon, its culture and government. Part of what he told them was truth, and part was lies well-rehearsed before he'd left home, with the Minister of State and with Kryger.
Eventually he had moments when no one was talking with him. It was one of these that Tirros Hanorissio interrupted. Brokols was standing beside a double garden door when there they were—Tirros and two lovely girls of about the mirj's age.
"Elver Brokols!" said Tirros, sounding delighted. "I'd hoped we might talk. My father told me I could if I'd behave myself and not intrude when others wanted to talk with you. I've been waiting to find you unoccupied."
Brokols nodded, concealing his annoyance.
"This," Tirros said, indicating the girl on his right, "is Marinnia. And this"—he nodded to the smaller of the two—"is Lerrlia. Twins, though they don't look it. Ladies, this is His Excellency, Ambassador Lord Elver Brokols of Almeon."
Both girls smiled, showing white and even teeth, and for the first time that evening, Brokols felt out of place in his Almeaic dress suit. And for the first time that evening he found himself truly distracted by decolletage, for theirs was dangerously lower. "I'm charmed," he said, somewhat short of convincingly.
"I've hoped I'd have a chance to meet you," Lerrlia answered. Her hair was straight and shiny black. Her eyes were sapphire blue, and they fastened on his. "It's intriguing to think of an entire nation, an entire people, that we'd never imagined existed. How long will you be in Hrumma?"
"I'm not sure. Presumably several years. I'm to learn all I can about you—about your country. The better to see the possibilities and potential problems for trade, you know, and develop proposals."
"I saw the ship you arrived on," she said. "What a marvelous vessel! And for more reasons than its size. There was the way it entered the harbor with neither sails nor oars!" She paused, an eyebrow raised. "I've heard it's driven by fires inside."
"True," Brokols said, "it is. Driven by fires inside." When he'd said it he felt his cheeks warm, and knew he was blushing. This is ridiculous, he thought.
She smiled again. "Perhaps you'll show it to me. When it comes back."
"Perhaps. Unfortunately though, it's not my ship. That would be up to its master."
Tirros had turned to a passing waiter, and when the man had gone on, the mirj had a glass in his hand. He held it out to Brokols. "I saw this and wondered if you'd tried one yet," he said. "It's called claerrmed. Very warming. Here."
Brokols had had one that looked like it earlier, but before he could say so, Lerrlia spoke again. "Try it," she said. "I think you'll be surprised."
He took it and sipped. It was different. There was a distinct bitterness, and a slow warmth began diffusing through his chest.
Her eyes were bright, expectant. "Did you like it?"
"I'm—not quite sure. It's a little bitter."
She laughed. All three laughed. "Here," she said, extending her hand. "Let me taste it."
He gave it to her, almost twitching when their fingers touched, and she raised it to her lips, then licked them with a pointed and delicate tongue. "Nice," she said, and gave the drink back.
Again their hands touched, and he felt it all the way to his chest. "Where will you go after the two or three years are over?" she asked him.
"I'm sure it hasn't been decided, or probably even thought about. Quite possibly I'll continue here, if I want to."
"Elver," said Tirros, "I have a boat, a pleasure boat. We'd planned to take a turn around the bay, in the moonlight, and hoped you'd come with us. We'll be glad to wait, if you'll be available after a bit."
Brokols raised his glass again and took a larger drink. Claerrmed. By then the warmth had diffused throughout his body, and colors seemed brighter, sounds clearer.
Pleasure boat. Pleasure droids. "I think I'd like that," he heard himself say. "Definitely I would like that."
Tirros grinned. "We'll wait. When you're ready to leave, go out in the garden." He motioned toward a pair of open doors. "We'll watch for you."
Brokols shook hands with all three of them, and watched them leave through the garden door. Then he sought out the amirr.
"Your Excellency," he said, "I've had a busy day, and with the food and drink, I've become rather sleepy. Does protocol allow me to leave soon?"
The amirr's brows lifted. "Of course, of course. Whenever you'd like. The reception is first of all for your pleasure, and surely no one can say that you've been other than approachable and affable." He looked around. "I'll have someone fetch Eltrienn for you."
"No no," Brokols said, "don't bother. He needs a vacation from me, or deserves one at any rate. I'll take a brief stroll around your grounds and walk home." He grinned, surprising the amirr as well as himself. "I drank more than I'm used to. It's less than a mile, your streets are safe, and the walk will do me good."
They shook hands, Brokols thinking how much more amiable the amirr was than the emperor; then he sauntered to an open garden door and out into the night. His eyes found no one else there just then. With a delicious sense of conspiracy such as he hadn't felt since he was twelve, he walked to a hedge that formed a shadowed alcove. There was a bench there, and he'd have sat down, but Tirros and the two girls were already coming, from a different door than he had. Recklessly Brokols waved an arm at them.
As they approached, he could feel his grin stretching his cheeks, and they grinned back. "I've had a carriage waiting," Tirros said. "This way."
The mirj led down a flagstone path to a marble balustrade, and he and Brokols let themselves over it to a lawn a bit lower than the garden. The girls had swung their legs over, too, and reaching up, Tirros grasped Marinnia by the waist and helped her down. A grinning Brokols followed his example, and when Lerrlia's feet touched down, he held her against him for a moment, looking into the eyes that sparkled at him. Then they ran, actually ran!, across the lawn to a waiting carriage, keeping to the shadows of a row of trees, arriving with low giggles, soft male chuckles, a vibrant sense of anticipation.
Tirros and Marinnia had gotten there first, and when he'd given an instruction to the coachman on top, Tirros opened the front door and helped her in, then got in behind her. Brokols and Lerrlia got in back. When they were seated, Tirros tugged a little cord and the carriage began to move, the hooves of the two kaabors clopping on the flagstoned street.
There was something in the drink, Brokols told himself as he reached for the girl beside him, and the realization didn't bother him at all. She was as eager as he, their hands groping, lips finding lips in the darkness.
He wasn't immediately sure whether to be glad when the carriage stopped. Straightening their clothes, they got out. They were near one end of the city's wharf, at a place where several pleasure boats were tied. Tirros gave their coachman instructions, and the man drove off into the darkness.
The boat they boarded had a sort of cabin forward, curtained with thick rich material that could be rolled up. Amidships and aft were eight deserted rowing stools, and in the stern a tiller. The oars lay in the bottom. Brokols chuckled. There were no oarsmen; of course not. Tirros had never intended an excursion. The front of the "cabin" was open, and they went inside. On either side was a broad couch, and Tirros and Marinnia lowered themselves onto one of them to take up where they'd stopped when the carriage arrived.
For just a moment, Brokols had a brief, faint unwillingness. There was no privacy here! But Lerrlia's quick fingers had moved to his buttons, and his reluctance evaporated.
* * *
He'd never imagined, truly never imagined, a night like that, nor anyone like she was. Nor a performance like his own! It was the drink, he knew, something in the drink, and she was a pleasure droid, beautiful beyond his dreams. When finally Tirros dropped him off in front of his apartment house, it seemed to Brokols he could detect the first hint of dawn in the east. His head was starting to ache, and it was becoming difficult to stay awake.