removed-obviously:
he could see blurred candles, shapes behind them and around, vague as
yet. His hands appeared to be free. He reached up and very gingerly
felt around the egg-shaped lump at the back of his skull.
At the edge of his vision, which was not, under the circumstances,
especially acute, someone moved then, rising from a couch or a chair.
He had an impression of gold, of a lapis hue.
The awareness of scent-more than one, in fact, he now
realized-intensified. He turned his head. The movement made him gasp.
He closed his eyes. He felt extremely ill.
Someone-a woman-said, 'They were instructed to be solicitous. It
appears you resisted.'
'Very . . . sorry,' Crispin managed. 'Tedious of me.'
He heard her laughter. Opened his eyes again. He had no idea where he
was.
'Welcome to the palace, Caius Crispus,' she said. 'We are alone, as
it happens. Ought I to fear you and summon guards?'
Fighting a particularly determined wave of nausea, Crispin propelled
himself to a sitting position. An instant later he staggered upright,
his heart pounding. He tried, much too quickly, to bow. He had to
clutch urgently at a table top to keep himself from toppling. His
vision swirled and his stomach did the same.
'You are excused the more extreme rituals of ceremony,' said the only
living child of the late King Hildnc.
Gisel, queen of the Antae and of Batiara and his own most holy ruler
under Jad, who paid a symbolic allegiance to the Sarantine Emperor
and offered spiritual devotion to the High Patriarch and to no one
else alive, looked gravely at him with wide-set eyes.
'Very ... extremely ... kind of you. Your Majesty,' Crispin mumbled.
He was trying, with limited success, to make his eyes stop blurring
and become useful in the candlelight. There seemed to be random
objects swimming in the air. He was also having some difficulty
breathing. He was alone in a room with the queen. He had never even
seen her, except at a distance. Artisans, however successful or
celebrated, did not hold nocturnal, private converse with their
sovereign. Not in the world as Crispin knew it.
His head felt as if a small but insistent hammer inside it were
trying to pound its way out. His confusion was extreme, disorienting.
Had she captured him or rescued him? And why, in either case? He
didn't dare ask. Amid the perfumes he smelled flour again suddenly.
That would be himself. From the sack. He looked down at his dinner
tunic and made a sour face. The blue was streaked and smeared a
greyish-white. Which meant that his hair and beard . ..
'You were attended to, somewhat, while you slept, 'said the queen,
graciously enough. 'I had my own physician summoned. He said bleeding
was not immediately necessary. Would a glass of wine be of help?'
Crispin made a sound that he trusted to convey restrained, well-bred
assent. She did not laugh again, or smile. It occurred to him that
this was a woman not unused to observing the effects of violence upon
men. A number of well-known incidents, unbidden, came into his head.
Some were quite recent. The thought of them did nothing to ease him
at all.
The queen made no movement, and a moment later Crispin realized that
she had meant what she said quite literally. They were alone in this
room. No servants, not even slaves. Which was simply astonishing. And
he could hardly expect her to serve him wine. He looked around and,
more by luck than any effective process of observation, encountered a
flask and cups on the table by his elbow. He poured, carefully, and
watered two cups, unsure whether that was a presumption. He was not
conversant with the Antae court. Martinian had taken all their
commissions from King Hildric and then his daughter, and had
delivered the reports.
Crispin looked up. His eyesight seemed to be improving as the hammer
subsided a little and the room elected to stabilize. He saw her shake
her head at the cup he had poured for her. He set it down. Waited.
Looked at her again.
The queen of Batiara was
he could see blurred candles, shapes behind them and around, vague as
yet. His hands appeared to be free. He reached up and very gingerly
felt around the egg-shaped lump at the back of his skull.
At the edge of his vision, which was not, under the circumstances,
especially acute, someone moved then, rising from a couch or a chair.
He had an impression of gold, of a lapis hue.
The awareness of scent-more than one, in fact, he now
realized-intensified. He turned his head. The movement made him gasp.
He closed his eyes. He felt extremely ill.
Someone-a woman-said, 'They were instructed to be solicitous. It
appears you resisted.'
'Very . . . sorry,' Crispin managed. 'Tedious of me.'
He heard her laughter. Opened his eyes again. He had no idea where he
was.
'Welcome to the palace, Caius Crispus,' she said. 'We are alone, as
it happens. Ought I to fear you and summon guards?'
Fighting a particularly determined wave of nausea, Crispin propelled
himself to a sitting position. An instant later he staggered upright,
his heart pounding. He tried, much too quickly, to bow. He had to
clutch urgently at a table top to keep himself from toppling. His
vision swirled and his stomach did the same.
'You are excused the more extreme rituals of ceremony,' said the only
living child of the late King Hildnc.
Gisel, queen of the Antae and of Batiara and his own most holy ruler
under Jad, who paid a symbolic allegiance to the Sarantine Emperor
and offered spiritual devotion to the High Patriarch and to no one
else alive, looked gravely at him with wide-set eyes.
'Very ... extremely ... kind of you. Your Majesty,' Crispin mumbled.
He was trying, with limited success, to make his eyes stop blurring
and become useful in the candlelight. There seemed to be random
objects swimming in the air. He was also having some difficulty
breathing. He was alone in a room with the queen. He had never even
seen her, except at a distance. Artisans, however successful or
celebrated, did not hold nocturnal, private converse with their
sovereign. Not in the world as Crispin knew it.
His head felt as if a small but insistent hammer inside it were
trying to pound its way out. His confusion was extreme, disorienting.
Had she captured him or rescued him? And why, in either case? He
didn't dare ask. Amid the perfumes he smelled flour again suddenly.
That would be himself. From the sack. He looked down at his dinner
tunic and made a sour face. The blue was streaked and smeared a
greyish-white. Which meant that his hair and beard . ..
'You were attended to, somewhat, while you slept, 'said the queen,
graciously enough. 'I had my own physician summoned. He said bleeding
was not immediately necessary. Would a glass of wine be of help?'
Crispin made a sound that he trusted to convey restrained, well-bred
assent. She did not laugh again, or smile. It occurred to him that
this was a woman not unused to observing the effects of violence upon
men. A number of well-known incidents, unbidden, came into his head.
Some were quite recent. The thought of them did nothing to ease him
at all.
The queen made no movement, and a moment later Crispin realized that
she had meant what she said quite literally. They were alone in this
room. No servants, not even slaves. Which was simply astonishing. And
he could hardly expect her to serve him wine. He looked around and,
more by luck than any effective process of observation, encountered a
flask and cups on the table by his elbow. He poured, carefully, and
watered two cups, unsure whether that was a presumption. He was not
conversant with the Antae court. Martinian had taken all their
commissions from King Hildric and then his daughter, and had
delivered the reports.
Crispin looked up. His eyesight seemed to be improving as the hammer
subsided a little and the room elected to stabilize. He saw her shake
her head at the cup he had poured for her. He set it down. Waited.
Looked at her again.
The queen of Batiara was
Similar Books
