Kate Elliott - An earthly crown

A brisk wind blew on deck, and though it was cold, it was clear, the sun a fine golden disk in the purpling-blue sky. A shoal of harbor boats crowded up against the ship's low-slung hull. Dr. Hierakis stood supervising the loading of her mysterious selection of crates and barrels into the forward boat. Charles Soerensen appeared from his cabin. He swung two bags-no heavier, Diana judged, than her own-over the rail and dropped them the two meters. They landed next to a meter-square crate. He climbed down the ladder, into the boat.

"Hello, Marco. Coming with us?" Margaret O'Neill, Soerensen's assistant, appeared at the railing beside them. She glanced at Diana, at Marco, grinned, and then hid her mouth behind one hand.

"But of course, my flame-haired vixen. I could not bear to be parted from you even for so short a time. Do you know Diana?"

"Of course I know Diana. We spent a companionable two days together at the beginning of the voyage, throwing up over the stern."

Diana smiled but could think of no reply. Maggie treated Marco with a casual irreverence that Diana could only marvel at, and certainly could not hope to imitate.

Without asking, Marco took Diana's second carry from her grip and slung both bags down into Charles Soerensen's waiting hands. A gaudy gold ring flashed on the duke's right forefinger. Looking up, Soerensen caught Diana's gaze on him and he nodded in greeting. Diana blushed and waited to descend into the boat until Maggie and Marco had gone before her. The boat rocked on the wind-whipped water. Dr. Hierakis secured the last of her crates and then sat. As one of the boatmen poled them free of the ship, Diana could not resist turning to wave to the handful of actors who had by now arrived on deck. Four sailors began the steady stroke of the oars, and the boat headed in to the docks, leaving the rest to follow in its wake.

A line of red rimmed the dockside. It had a shimmering, restless texture like, Diana thought, a festival decoration or some religious iconography. But as they neared the shore, she realized that it was a long line of figures-of men mounted on horses. There were many, many-perhaps a thousand-along the wharf, three deep and snaking in lines up into the town. Each and every one of the mounted men wore a similar costume: a brilliant scarlet shirt and black trousers and boots. The oars beat rhythmically as the boat scudded across the harbor, closing, and Diana saw that the riders were armed with sabers, and that most of them held long spears, some with pennants tied up near their heads, snapping in the breeze.

"They're armed!" she exclaimed. "We're rowing straight into them."

Soerensen shaded his eyes with one hand to stare. One of the rowers spoke rapidly in a foreign tongue.

Marco listened and nodded, and then translated for the others. "He says the barbarians came into town two days since, that they came to wait for the Prince of the far city, which is Charles, of course."

"Of course," Maggie echoed, glancing sharply at Soerensen. If he was paying attention to this conversation, he did not show it.

"He says," Marco continued, beginning to smile, "that it's the Bakhtiian's own private guard, his picked troops, and that Bakhtiian himself is with them."

"But isn't, he the conqueror?" Maggie demanded. "The king? Why would he be here?" But Marco fell silent as the boat slipped in among pilings and the sailors tied her up to a pier.

Soerensen disembarked without taking his packs. The others scrambled after him. The little party walked at a brisk pace up the pier to the waiting guard. This close, the riders were even more impressive-each horsed and seated magnificently, a long line of men, fair and dark, set off by the intense red of their shirts. Soerensen moved with an impatient, clipped stride.

Maggie dropped back beside Diana and whispered, "He'll see his sister Tess at last. It's all he's been speaking of." Soerensen slowed, surveying the line, and halted at the end of the pier, faced with the barbarians. Diana and Maggie stood behind him, Marco and Dr. Hierakis on either side of him.

First there was silence. Diana scanned the line for any sign of the sister, but she saw only men. Each one in turn, those close enough for her to look at, cast down his eyes, as if they had some taboo about looking on a stranger. Then, to the far right of the line, a rider appeared, flanked by two others.

"Enter, the king," said Diana under her breath.

Soerensen lifted a hand in greeting, but as the three riders neared, he lowered it. All three were men, and the one in the fore rode a splendid black horse. The trio halted in front of Soerensen, and the dark-featured man on the black horse dismounted and handed the reins to one of his companions. Then he examined his audience, making no immediate move to come forward. He wore the brilliant clothing of his people with impeccable neatness, and he had that air of utter authority that comes from having one's will obeyed instantly.

Marco made a hiss of amazement. "That's him," he said in a voice pitched low, for Soerensen's ears. "That's Bakhtiian."

"Of course it is," whispered Diana. "Only kings or actors make entrances like that."

Soerensen did not acknowledge either comment. "I don't believe it," said Maggie.

Marco glanced back over his shoulder and shook his head. "No, really. I met him once. He's not a person I would forget."

"I confess I thought a great conqueror would be taller.'' Maggie said it in a low voice, but the conqueror's gaze flashed her way for an unreadable instant.

"For God's sake," said Marco, "you're damned well taller than everyone else in this party as it is, Maggie."

Diana could not help herself, Tamburlaine was so fresh in her mind. " 'His looks do menace heaven and dare the gods, His fiery eyes are fixed upon the earth, As if he has devised some stratagem.' " She faltered, because he moved.

He walked forward with easy grace and halted in front of Soerensen. There was a pause. This close, Diana felt compelled to stare at him. He was not handsome, exactly, but rather one of those people who attracts the eye as much by force of will as by physical perfection. He was exceedingly well-proportioned and his features were precise, marked especially by a pair of dark, passionate, and impatient eyes. Of course he had a scar, a white line running diagonally from one high cheekbone almost to his chin, doubtlessly suffered in a battle, or a brawl, or perhaps in an assassination attempt. Diana realized that she was holding her breath and staring, and she let air out deliberately and breathed in again.

In Jeds, the natives bowed to Soerensen as one would to a prince. Bakhtiian inclined his head, as one equal greets another. "I am Bakhtiian," he said. In Rhuian, the language of Jeds.

Soerensen returned the nod and replied in the same language. "Charles Soerensen."

"I give you greetings."

"And blessings in return."

What their true feelings were, Diana could not guess through the mask of politeness they wore. Soerensen had always been an enigma to her, a rather pale man with sand-colored hair who showed humor readily and never gave the slightest inkling of how he felt at having been turned from a failed revolutionary leader into the only human duke in the massive and labyrinthine Chapalii Empire. Most people she could read, she could get a sense of, but Soerensen was a blank.

The two men studied each other, but what they made of that examination did not show on their faces.

At last Bakhtiian spoke. "I have arranged that we leave morning after next, for our camp some ten days ride inland. That will give your party a day to organize their goods on the wagons we've brought for the journey."

After a beat of silence, Soerensen said, "Where is my sister? I expected that she would be here to greet me." His face maintained its mask of politeness, but the air changed quality, as if charged by a net of electricity.