Sea lokkras wheeled and swooped on pointed wings, their high-pitched piping seeming too thin for so large a bird. A different species than at home, thought Elver Brokols. White instead of gray, and larger. He was expecting the differences to be bigger, eight thousand miles from home.
He stood at the rail a little aft of the bow, a place where he supposed he'd be out of the way. Glembro Dixen stood a pace or two aft of him. The ship's engine had stopped, its vibration stilled, and they continued on momentum, slowing gradually.
Both men gazed up the firth toward the town that climbed the sloping valley at its head. A sizeable town, but Brokols didn't think of it as a city, never imagined it to be much the largest in Hrumma. A town. In Almeon, Larvis Royal, Larvis Harbor, and numerous others were many times larger, with buildings much taller, far more massive, decorated with statuary, elaborate filigree, gold plate. This town, whatever its name was, looked nothing like any of them.
But to Elver Brokols it was very beautiful. It seemed to him he'd like it here.
He looked around him. Dixen, and those seamen who were not actively engaged in some duty of the moment, were also gazing at it, some impressed, some simply curious. Kryger too was on deck to watch, as if already taking new life, here where the water was smooth. His expression was calculating.
The captain broke Brokols' mood. "Look lively, you loafers!" Steamer shouted. "Look lively!" Crewmen who'd been standing, gazing, quickly found something to do, needful or not, For a moment Brokols felt a pang of guilt at his own inaction, then resentment at having felt guilty, and turned his gaze once more toward the town ahead.
The taller buildings—here they no doubt thought of them as towers—were unlike any he'd seen before. Several, the tallest, were simply spires, slender and graceful and invariably white, none reaching even a hundred feet. Mostly, though, the taller buildings were somewhat steplike, the ground story larger, the second stepped back at one end or both to make a terrace, and subsequent stories each smaller than the one below, terraced at both ends or all the way around. And every terrace seemed a garden. The walls were mostly white—a vivid white with flashes of color. At many places among the buildings, and frequent on their terraces, were the barbered crowns of trees, glossy green in the late morning sun.
Overarching it all was a high blue vault of sky accented by puffs of white.
Then Brokols realized he'd overlooked the most impressive building of them all, at the foot of town to one side of the wharves. Not tall but massive. Water lapped the lower courses of its wall. Being whitewashed like the other buildings, it failed at first to register as a fortress. A belltower stood well above its north wall, sunlight flashing bronze off polished bells.
Even recognized, its white walls strong and massive, it seemed somehow unfortresslike, intensifying a sense of unreality and heightened awareness that Brokols felt. At points upon its walls bright awnings clustered, as if to shield loungers from the glare. Irregularly among them, small trees stood brightly verdant—umbrella-like, columnar, or pyramidal. And doubtless there were flowerbeds, Brokols thought.
At the corners though, erasing any doubt, were overhanging turrets. Their slots were undoubtedly for archery instead of guns, for half a century ago the droids seemed not to have explosives. While here and there, sharing the wall with trees and awnings, stood machines for hurling blocks of stone. And even these war machines were painted white, sky blue, or gold.
The deck began to vibrate hard beneath Brokols' feet; the engineer had reversed the engine to stop the ship.
Kryger's voice spoke almost at Brokols' shoulder, taking him unawares. "Primitive," Kryger said, and seemed to find satisfaction in the word. "Windmills. Not a smokestack anywhere."
Brokols nodded. From a pocket, Kryger drew a globe fruit, dried and wrinkled now, popped it into his mouth, chewed for a minute, then expelled the pit into the water. Brokols wondered how much capacity Kryger's stomach might have after weeks of little but broth.
They dropped anchor five hundred yards from the long low wharf, chain rumbling out the hawse pipe. A crowd had gathered along the waterfront, several hundred at least, brightly dressed as if for the occasion, and innumerable others watched from roofs. A floating dock extended out from the wharf, apparently for small boats, with steps to the wharf top. It was clear of people, and at its head, uniformed police or soldiers kept a small area free of onlookers.
It was time. Brokols straightened.
Beside him Kryger chuckled, a sound that surprised Brokols, for one of the things that irritated Kryger, and more than just Kryger, was Brokols' occasional laughter. The younger man looked around to see what might have brought even this low-keyed laughter from Kryger. The crew of the forward swivel gun was cranking its muzzle somewhat skyward; one man held its lanyard. Brokols stared. Stedmer shouted sharply, and both fore and aft guns roared together. Flame shot from their bores—flame, smoke, carbonized particles of powder—but no projectiles. They had fired blank. Explosion rolled across the water, met the steep slopes that walled it, and rolled back with booming, overlapping echoes.
Brokols turned to the wharf again. There was no screaming, no yammering that he could hear, no apparent commotion at all. Too stunned to react, he decided. The crews reloaded the guns, and once more the captain shouted. Again the doubled roar, and when the echoes died, they fired a third time. Then the captain gave a further order, and the crews began to swab the carbon from the rifled bores.
Kryger chuckled again. "That made an impression."
Now the captain's gig was swung outboard on its davits, and men at a windlass lowered it to the water. Brokols walked to the gangway. This would be the first time he'd spoken the droid tongue with a native speaker, the first time he'd even seen anyone not of his own people. His stomach and bowels were nervous; he told himself the problem was mental, and would pass once he was ashore.
A bosun went down the ladder, followed by six oarsmen. After them came Brokols, followed by the ship's master-at-arms, and finally Argant, Kryger's aide, who would carry back to Kryger what was said ashore. Assuming Brokols stayed ashore, which was the sole reason for his being there at all. Argant, with his trained memory, could recite back entire conversations virtually verbatim, though it seemed to Brokols that the man lacked somewhat in intelligence and volition.
Brokols sat in the bow on the captain's seat. As they drew up to the floating dock, he could see the waiting droids more clearly. Three of them, wearing rich cloaks loosely draped, stepped into the open space at the dock ahead, escorted by troops in marvelously quaint gear—a kind of short skirt, harness, breast plate and plumed helmet, each wearing a sword at his belt. None of the three seemed to be the king; people made way for them, but no one even bowed, let alone prostrated themselves in the manner described by the first expedition. They must simply be high officials.
The oarsmen shipped their oars. Two grasped the dock's edge; two others clinched lines around cleats and made fast. Cleats, Brokols thought. Considering what The Captain's Book told of the droids, they must have invented cleats here independently; invented everything independently. Now one of the seamen stepped onto the dock and helped first Brokols, then Argant from the boat, and finally the master-at-arms. Straightening his waistcoat, Brokols marched up the dock, preceded by the uniformed master-at-arms, with Argant a step to the rear.
Briefly, as he walked, he wondered what the droids made of his clothing. It could hardly be more different than theirs: light-gray velvet knee breeches and pearl-gray blouse; velvet waistcoat matching the breeches; wide-lapelled open jacket, slate-gray, extending almost to mid-thigh; expensive shoes, their silver buckles and glossy leather highly polished; and a hat of lustrous stiffened fur, rithgar, the brim pinned up on one side by a jade and silver brooch. Such garments were affordable only by men of means, and even the droids would no doubt appreciate it, unconsciously comparing it with Argant's less splendid garb and the uniforms of the sailors.
He stopped ten feet from the men who awaited him. Tall as he was, and considered handsome, Brokols had been prepared for men larger than himself and better looking. But face to face, the droids were more impressive than he'd expected.
The three met him soberly, but they failed to bow, so he simply nodded civilly. They duplicated the gesture. Gathering himself, Brokols spoke.
"I bring you greetings from the emperor, Dard of Almeon." He said it in the language he thought of as droid. But droid, so far as he knew, had no term for "emperor," so he used the Almaeic. Their eyebrows lifted. "I wish to speak with your king," he finished.
One of them, the one in the middle, spoke back then, and to Brokols' chagrin, he didn't understand a word of it. All he could do was stare. The man paused, assessing his reaction, then turned and spoke to a guard who stood near. The guard came forward, and facing Brokols, spoke.
"Sir," he said, "I speak your language. We have no king here. In Hrumma, the amirr rules, with the acquiescence of the Two Estates." He gestured at the other man who'd spoken. "His Eminence can understand some of what you say. Djezian and Hrummean are much alike; the differences are in large part matters of idiom and pronunciation. But it seems appropriate to speak through me and let me interpret."
Even some of this Brokols missed, but he understood the essentials of it. A ruler not born to the throne. A strange way to operate. For a moment he wondered how to deport himself toward him. Watch how the others act, he decided, and when in doubt, treat him as royalty. "Thank you," he answered. "The emperor has sent me to serve as his ambassador to your—your amirr, that their two realms may be friends and enjoy commerce and profit with one another."
The guard, surely an officer, repeated it to his ruler, then translated the ruler's reply, obviously paraphrasing. "The amirr would like to know more about your"—he paused over the unfamiliar word—"your emperor. And your nation, and what commerce you have in mind." The amirr spoke again. "He suggests we retire to a more comfortable place, where you may sit in relative privacy and quiet."
Brokols agreed, and with Argant and the master-at-arms, went with the amirr and his retinue into the Fortress, passing through a massive gate and up open stone stairs. It didn't seem as strong or sophisticated as some of the old fortresses in Almeon, preserved as museums from the two centuries of bitter warfare before Kaitmar III had successfully reunited the Islands twelve centuries earlier.
This fortress was more aesthetic—less grim, lighter, brighter. It seemed to Brokols that this was more than a fortress, perhaps the seat of government, though it did seem small for that. Inside, the corridors were richly carpeted, the walls panelled. The third-level room which they entered opened onto the inner court through wide glass doors, and a balcony with chairs and planters. Those doors, Brokols told himself, required technology as well as art. The inner court itself, what he could see of it, was a stone-paved mustering ground, but with spreading trees at intervals around the perimeter.
The furnishings in the room were handsome too: polished oval table; richly patterned carpet; small and elegant statuary, mostly geometric forms; and a tapestry and paintings on the walls.
The droids, Brokols decided, were definitely sophisticated when it came to aesthetics. The people of Almeon, having read The Captain's Book, had assumed that "pleasure druids" meant engineered for sexual prowess, and perhaps for singing and dancing. Nor had the report of the first expedition disabused them of it. Now it occurred to Brokols that the ancients who'd designed the droids may have included engineering for a broad aesthetic orientation.
The amirr motioned for the others to take seats, then sat down himself. Only his six guards and three aides remained on their feet. He rested his eyes on the foreign ambassador.
An interesting face, the amirr told himself. The nose was well-formed, if a bit long, hair nearly black and a riot of close-cut curls, the chin unusually narrow, and most peculiar of all, large eyes slightly slanted. Interesting and aesthetic. "Tell me," the amirr said, "how have you come to know the Djezian speech, if you are not from either Djez?"
Brokols had concentrated on the amirr's words, but the only ones he'd recognized, from his knowledge of Djezian, were come, and speech, and Djez itself. To know what had been said, he'd needed the guard officer's translation. Still, it felt to him as if some other words were almost familiar.
"Fifty-five years ago," Brokols began, "a ship much like the one I came on arrived at the city of Haipoor l'Djezzer, in the kingdom of Djez Gorrbul. The people on the ship knew nothing of the language there, or the name of the kingdom, but the ship's commander and some of his officers met with the king, and they spoke as best they could with their hands. They were shown the city, and some of the plantations around it. Then the commander gave the king a gift, and the king in turn gave him three of his people as gifts.
"And while the ship was traveling the long distance back to Almeon, these gift people, who were slaves, teachers in the king's palace, taught some of the ship people their language—how to speak it and how to write it—and much about the world on this side of the ocean. Thus we knew there was a kingdom, or nation, called Hrumma, though no one from Almeon had ever been here."
Brokols smiled ruefully. "But they did not tell us you spoke a different language."
The amirr smiled back. "Perhaps they didn't consider it important. Tell me, how far is it to—Almeon?"
"From here it's about one-third the distance around the world. Our voyage required fifty-five days, with the wind behind us most of the time."
The amirr raised his eyebrows. "Ah! And you arrived without sails, though your masts wore them when you were first seen. How do you travel, using neither sails nor oars?"
"We have fire inside the ship to drive it. Perhaps we might show you how fire can be used that way, when we know one another better. In trade for something you have that, we would like from you."
Brokols' eyes had watched the amirr carefully as he said it. He was reasonably sure the man understood even before the guard officer repeated it. The amirr simply nodded.
"And the thunders you made when you arrived—how was that accomplished?" the amirr asked.
Brokols answered with deliberate nonchalence: "The thunders were from mighty weapons we carry. When we wish, they can destroy like lightning bolts, but of course we would not use weapons here. You have not threatened us in any way."
Again the eyebrows lifted, not in anger—there was no trace of that—but simply as if the amirr was impressed. "And what," he asked, "was the purpose of releasing those thunders when you did?"
"It was a salute. The Empire of Almeon is composed of numerous separate kingdoms banded together in mutual friendship and commerce. And when officials of the emperor visit a kingdom, or when a king visits the emperor, such thunders are made in honor of the visit."
The amirr nodded thoughtfully. "How long will you be in our land? If I accept your embassy."
"I would like to remain here to represent the emperor continuously."
"And how would you know your emperor's will, at so great a remove?"
"I have been well trained."
The amirr gazed calmly and long at Brokols, and it seemed to the Almite that there was a distinct danger of being refused, not in hostility but for some other reason. Nevertheless he kept quiet; attempting to bolster his case unasked might do more harm than good.
"And would your emperor accept an embassy from me in your land?"
"If you wish to send one, Your Highness, the emperor would make him welcome. You may be sure of it."
"Would your emperor be offended if I did not send one to him?"
"Not at all. You may not wish to until you know more about us and what we have to offer in commerce. Which I will discuss over time, when I have come to know your country better.
"But excuse me, sire. I'm forgetting something." Brokols hadn't forgotten; he'd been waiting for what seemed an appropriate moment. Rising, he reached into a pocket, brought out and opened a folded handkerchief, beautiful in itself, and removed something from it. "A small gift from the emperor, if it pleases you." He reached out a hand, and the amirr, curious, received the object from it, a gold ring set with a flawless thirty-carat stone, a brilliant. "We call the stone 'diamond'; they are quite rare in Almeon. The ring may not fit your finger as it is, but it can be enlarged or made smaller of course."
The amirr studied it, impressed, turning it about, watching its facets scintillate, and with seeming ingenuousness blew silent admiration through pursed lips.
"It is very beautiful. I accept with thanks." His hands were large; he fitted it on a little finger, then looked up. "I must give thought to a gift for your emperor."
Brokols looked down at his own hands, palms pressed together before his chest. "The emperor would consider your friendship more than gift enough. It is his wish to be friends with all nations."
Again the amirr nodded. "And how long will your ship stay in our harbor?"
"It is intended that it leave tomorrow, to take ambassadors to the two djezes. But it will be back in a few weeks. Perhaps by then, in council with yourself or with men in your government, I can arrange to buy a cargo for it to take to Almeon."
"And will these others"—the amirr gestured at Argant and the master-at-arms—"will they remain here with you?"
Brokols hoped his relief didn't show on his face. If the translation was accurate, the amirr had used the future tense this time, not the conditional, which seemed to mean that his embassy was accepted.
"No," he answered. "I have an assistant who will come ashore, but these gentlemen will leave with the ship. They are to tell the emperor what is said in each court—yours and in each of the Djezes—and give him their impressions."
"Well then, I'll be glad to have you here." The amirr turned to his captain of guards. "Eltrienn, please show the ambassador and his companions to the courtyard and wait with them there while I discuss his accommodations." He smiled and nodded to Brokols in dismissal.
When the Almites had left, the amirr looked around at the others, then at his privy counselor. "What did you read, Allbarin? What do you make of them?"
Allbarin shrugged. "Only that his emperor has designs embracing much more than commerce. He intends to rule us. As for the ambassador, he is no evil man, but he has the capacity to be devious. As you'd expect."
The amirr's lips tightened. "And the distance he told us; was that the truth?"
"I have no doubt of it. I got no sense of lying when he said it."
"Indeed!"
It seemed to the amirr that this situation required careful handling. And protocol for dealing with embassies was not well defined. Hrumma had not exchanged ambassadors with Djez Gorrbul for almost two centuries. An amirr forty years past had sent an envoy to Haipoor l'Djezzer to propose an exchange of embassies. Only the envoy's head had returned, in a sack. Djez Seechul had an occasional envoy in Hrumma, but these served little function beyond occasional attempts, half-hearted, to obtain Hrumma's alliance in an attack on Djez Gorrbul, which lay between them. A syndicate of Hrummean merchants had a commercial agent, Sechuuli born, to arrange business connections between themselves and Djezian merchants.
Allbarin continued. "And there is something more. He will have among his effects . . ." The privy counselor paused, in hesitation, not for emphasis. "He has a means . . . a physical means of communicating with his superior at a great distance. I don't know what it is—what to call it or how it functions—and I realize the reading is hard to credit, but he has such a means. And that superior will be located in Haipoor l'Djezzer."
The amirr contemplated the new ring on his finger thoughtfully, moving his hand about, admiring the flash. "This physical means of communicating at a distance: does it involve adepts?"
Allbarin shook his head. "I'm sure it does not, Your Eminence. But it brings me to what may be our biggest advantage. I can tell you with certainty that not only is the ambassador no adept, but he has no screen whatever for his mind! Nor do the two who came in here with him. I have never encountered such mental transparency before, except in infants. It seems to indicate a complete unawareness that anyone might read their thoughts or see their pictures. In children, the mind screen forms automatically when the child becomes aware that others can read his mind. I believe we can assume the same of these people."
The amirr pursed his lips. "Then—we must take care that he doesn't find out."
"Exactly, sir. In Hrumma he is almost certain to find out sooner or later, but we should take steps to delay it as long as is practical.
"Also, with your approval and perhaps your assistance, I will try to visit their ship, to speak with its master and the ambassador's superior. I may learn things from them that will help us."
"Look into it."
The amirr paused, looking at a thought of his own and frowning slightly. "Allbarin, I may not be an adept, as you well know, but sometimes I perceive things, whether from Hrum or from my own imaginings and prejudice. And I like this ambassador, regardless of his purposes."
The counselor nodded. "And I, Your Eminence, though I will still beware of him."
"Exactly, Allbarin, exactly."
The amirr looked around at his staff then. "Gannet, arrange suitable quarters for this ambassador. Perhaps Arnello Bostelli has something satisfactory. Trello, go down and tell Eltrienn that he is to serve as companion to the ambassador, to be the ambassador's ears and tongue and to tutor him in our speech. I'll have him replaced on the guard for now." He paused, a hand raised to stay his aide. "Better yet, remain with the ambassador briefly and send Eltrienn up to speak with me. I need to warn him that the ambassador must not hear of mind reading. Then, when Eltrienn gets back down, you will guide the other foreigners to their boat."
Trello hesitated. "Your Eminence, rather than Eltrienn, might it be better to have an adept with the ambassador?"
The amirr examined the suggestion, then shook it off. "It must be someone who speaks Djezian fluently, and Eltrienn is my choice. Others can read him when we wish it."
Trello bobbed an abbreviated bow and hurried out.
"And now, gentlemen," said the amirr, "we still have everything to do that we had before this unusual visit. This is Festival, and there are final plans to look at and approve. Let's get started."