paving-stone trail. As they approached the tent, they saw that a red carpet had been rolled out from the entrance to the edge of the trail. Neila exclaimed in delight at being treated so royally, but to Paama it resembled a great red tongue waiting to furl up and fling them into the warm glowing maw of the tent's main entrance.
As soon as they stepped off the trail and onto the carpet, a servant came hastening towards them and escorted them in. Paama discreetly turned the brooch in his direction as he guided them to the entrance, but nothing happened, no lightning flash, no sound of alarm. Then she entered and forgot about him instantly. The lanterns hanging from the ceiling were shaded with amber-tinted glass, heating the cool evening air to an uncomfortable temperature and making the very air ruddy. However, when Paama looked around at the guests in the reception area, everyone appeared contented and relaxed, sipping iced drinks and marvelling at the sumptuous interior of the merchant's tent. Many of the faces were known to her, but she remembered Giana and shuddered. It could be anyone.
She tried to copy them, tried not to look suspicious of everything and everybody, but even the servant who offered her a drink from a tray seemed to be secretly laughing at her. That was a horrible thought. She was looking for one adversary, but suppose they were all part of it, willing co-conspirators for their own gain? She drank gingerly, alert to any alien flavour, and sighed. Paranoia was an exhausting state to be in.
Neila nudged her. ‘There's Alton.'
She pointed out a man with an expression of discomfort on his face, a young face under greying hair. He looked slightly out of place, the usual appearance for those whose status was neither guest nor visibly busy servant. Paama wondered if he would perform one of his works later in the evening, or if he was there to soak up more inspiration for another poem. She touched the Stick idly through her bag, hoping vaguely that it could help her in some way, but it was as ordinary as any piece of wood.
'Paama.'
The ghostly voice made her jump, and she stared at the Stick before she remembered the purpose of the headband she wore.
'Paama, Sister Elen says that the young man before you is not all that he seems. He has the mark of alteration upon him. Be careful of him.'
So, it was him! And he looked so harmless, so timid and self-effacing. She pulled her horrified gaze away before he noticed her stare.
'And that one,’ continued Neila, ‘is the head man.'
Paama looked in the opposite direction and saw a man standing on the other side of the room. He had quite a different air. Although he, too, seemed to have nothing to do, he did it splendidly, his eye on every servant, every tray, measuring the speed of service and the quantity of food and drink, and issuing orders with the smallest of nods. Only once did he need to beckon someone over and whisper, perhaps to make a more forceful point that could not be conveyed by a gesture. His eyes were??lat, expressionless. He could have been a piece of furniture animated for the evening.
'This one also bears the mark of alteration. Watch him closely.'
Paama was shocked. How was this possible? Could he be manipulating two at the same time? Sister Deian anticipated her question.
'It may be that they have had their memories altered, nothing more,’ she cautioned. ‘These are probably the men who have spoken to him directly.'
'And that's Lord Taran,’ breathed Neila.
A tall man, veiled and robed in ivory linen, came up and greeted Semwe, courteously thanking him for his gift. He ignored the three women, but Paama knew that was only more courtesy according to his culture. He would pretend that they did not exist until Semwe introduced them, thus giving him permission to speak to them.
'My wife, Tasi,’ Semwe said.
The foreign prince bowed, his hands clasped decorously behind his back. Paama noticed that he was also gloved, and she began
As soon as they stepped off the trail and onto the carpet, a servant came hastening towards them and escorted them in. Paama discreetly turned the brooch in his direction as he guided them to the entrance, but nothing happened, no lightning flash, no sound of alarm. Then she entered and forgot about him instantly. The lanterns hanging from the ceiling were shaded with amber-tinted glass, heating the cool evening air to an uncomfortable temperature and making the very air ruddy. However, when Paama looked around at the guests in the reception area, everyone appeared contented and relaxed, sipping iced drinks and marvelling at the sumptuous interior of the merchant's tent. Many of the faces were known to her, but she remembered Giana and shuddered. It could be anyone.
She tried to copy them, tried not to look suspicious of everything and everybody, but even the servant who offered her a drink from a tray seemed to be secretly laughing at her. That was a horrible thought. She was looking for one adversary, but suppose they were all part of it, willing co-conspirators for their own gain? She drank gingerly, alert to any alien flavour, and sighed. Paranoia was an exhausting state to be in.
Neila nudged her. ‘There's Alton.'
She pointed out a man with an expression of discomfort on his face, a young face under greying hair. He looked slightly out of place, the usual appearance for those whose status was neither guest nor visibly busy servant. Paama wondered if he would perform one of his works later in the evening, or if he was there to soak up more inspiration for another poem. She touched the Stick idly through her bag, hoping vaguely that it could help her in some way, but it was as ordinary as any piece of wood.
'Paama.'
The ghostly voice made her jump, and she stared at the Stick before she remembered the purpose of the headband she wore.
'Paama, Sister Elen says that the young man before you is not all that he seems. He has the mark of alteration upon him. Be careful of him.'
So, it was him! And he looked so harmless, so timid and self-effacing. She pulled her horrified gaze away before he noticed her stare.
'And that one,’ continued Neila, ‘is the head man.'
Paama looked in the opposite direction and saw a man standing on the other side of the room. He had quite a different air. Although he, too, seemed to have nothing to do, he did it splendidly, his eye on every servant, every tray, measuring the speed of service and the quantity of food and drink, and issuing orders with the smallest of nods. Only once did he need to beckon someone over and whisper, perhaps to make a more forceful point that could not be conveyed by a gesture. His eyes were??lat, expressionless. He could have been a piece of furniture animated for the evening.
'This one also bears the mark of alteration. Watch him closely.'
Paama was shocked. How was this possible? Could he be manipulating two at the same time? Sister Deian anticipated her question.
'It may be that they have had their memories altered, nothing more,’ she cautioned. ‘These are probably the men who have spoken to him directly.'
'And that's Lord Taran,’ breathed Neila.
A tall man, veiled and robed in ivory linen, came up and greeted Semwe, courteously thanking him for his gift. He ignored the three women, but Paama knew that was only more courtesy according to his culture. He would pretend that they did not exist until Semwe introduced them, thus giving him permission to speak to them.
'My wife, Tasi,’ Semwe said.
The foreign prince bowed, his hands clasped decorously behind his back. Paama noticed that he was also gloved, and she began
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