Hegira by Greg Bear Page B

near-heroes, welcomed after a long absence at sea by a kingdom the Trident had saved from starvation during droughts three years before. The crew and officers were led along the bund in the late afternoon after the day's business had been completed. They were seated in a shady building of white wood slats and rattan roofing. While they were served drinks in the hard rinds of sari, a juicy red-fleshed fruit, wagons pulled by large island deer parked in front. They climbed in with drinks in hand and were driven along a path that snaked through an orchard, rose gently to a hilltop, and after an exhilarating downhill gallop, presented them to the stone city of Mappu.
    Mappu was at least ten thousand years old, Avra told Kiril and Barthel as they rode in the cart. A thousand years ago it had been rebuilt because its stones had grown too worn to be dignified. In all that time it had known only three dynasties of royal families. Each had succeeded without bloodshed under the decrees of the priests and priestesses of Dat, the goddess whose statue rose on the island's eastern peninsula. There had been some war with western islands during the past two hundred years, but Golumbine was now at peace. Its hundred-and-fifty-kilometer length supported fifty thousand people comfortably.
    She finished her history just as the carts pulled up to the crystalline palace. The officers and crew stepped down and milled at the base of the white marble steps. Footprints had worn grooves in the stone. Above the steps a half-circle arch of white quartz led to the alcove of the main hall. The arch was covered with etched figurines engaged in every aspect of living — fanning, herding, studying, building, eating, making love, giving birth, dying. . . coronation and funerals, life and death in dizzying detail. Barthel patiently ignored them. Kiril was less circumspect. He walked with the others into the alcove beneath the arch, frustrated and curious to examine it longer. They were taken into the main hall.
    Curtains and banners hung rippling with red and green ribbons tied at their ends, suspended from rafters of dark rich wood inlaid with bone and ivory friezes. Low tables covered by white cloth with a bowl at each place setting awaited them, covering the floor of the hall. The men and women and children of the Trident took their seats on pillows. The captain was given a seat of honor next to a simple wooden throne.
    At one side of the hall was a curtained stage. The curtains coursed with the activity behind them, sequins twinkling in the red and green and blue silk.
    Everyone stood. Whispers passed — the Queen and King were approaching. Kiril expected long, fine robes and blaring trumpets, but there was no fanfare or pomp. He could barely see the throne over the heads of his crewmates, but what he did see caught him off guard.
    The Queen and King were little more than a meter high, well proportioned and graying with age, dressed in simple gray suits and lacking crowns or any overt signs of distinction. They took their seats — the Queen on her throne, the King at her feet. The meal was served.
    The first course was clear broth soup with bits of crunchy vegetables floating in it, spiced with curry. Then came a dish of wheat grains steamed and topped with a sauce of shellfish and green beans. The main course was matu paka, beef and pork cooked in broth and butter and garnished with thick leaves of sweet cabbage. Barthel picked at it without enthusiasm — pork was a forbidden item for him — but Kiril thought he'd never tasted anything so delicious. A grain liqueur, sweet and biting, was served with thick cream and a coffeelike brew. Dessert followed. When the company was through with the spiced fruit and cream-egg chiffon, the entertainment began.
    The curtains drew aside, showing a stage empty except for voluminous folds of blue cloth draped over hidden set pieces and lighted by dozens of insect-wax lamps. A single man dressed in blue rose from