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He came to rest under the high, beaked prow of a galley, a ship far older than the Incari, much mended and smelling of a curious blend of spice, joss and tar. Faces looked down from the deck; he heard whispers as here and there someone recognized him, and the word spread like wildfire through the gypsy company.
So they knew him. Soran put on a smile, inclined his head before them, and when two of the water gypsies began to prostrate in the sand he beckoned them swiftly to their feet. The Incari and the Neftish bowed deeply, but the Zeftimen stood straight-backed before him. They were a broken people but their pride was undiminished, and it was a dangerous quality. They could never quite forget they had been a warrior race -- and why should they forget? Their ballad singers and bards kept the stories alive, and the lore of their forefathers made them stiff necked with arrogance.
If Druyus had been present, or Baobo -- the swarthy, hulking captain of the palace guard, who loved nothing better than beating respect into lesser men -- there would have been flogged backs tonight, and these Zehefti merchants would have learned the price of pride. Soran had seen it before, and had been powerless to stop it; the law was the law, and the people of Zeheft seemed to relish breaking it.
They came into Vayal to trade and promptly seemed to forget how to kneel, much less how to prostrate. A high priest of Helios strode by, and they had the audacity to stand up and look him in the face. The witchfinder stalked among them, and they met his eyes as if he were a common man. Druyus was merciless. He liked to ply the whip himself, and his rage was slow to quell.
Tonight Soran smiled and threw a handful of silver coins into the sand. Children scrambled for them with shrill laughter, and he called for another cup of wine. The harpers and pipers had lapsed into silence as he approached, and he called out to them to play. They were Incari, Iliosian, Zehefti. Their style was wild, a blend of the melodies and rhythms of other lands, other times. Soran admired their spirit, and the music was infectious.
The wine was rich, heady. It kindled a heat in his belly, a throb in his loins. As the gypsies began to relax he walked among them, looking at faces, limbs, peacock-hued silk, shimmering jewelry. Searching.
No one would touch him, to rob or assault him -- they were too busy peering in the shadows beyond the firelight, wondering where the guards were concealed. They expected to see polished helmets and streaming banners, and any other reaction would have astonished Soran.
But not tonight. He indulged himself in a soft chuckle as he came up on a low table where an old woman was selling ale from an ancient black keg. He had drunk one cup at his father’s table -- and that, only with care. He had wondered if Azhtoc might have drugged the wine to keep him in the palace. But Azhtoc must have known Soran would be suspicious. The wine was stronger than anything in this gypsy camp, but it was untainted. The two cups he had swallowed since joining the wanderers were already buzzing in his head, and he wanted something lighter now, lest the night go to ruin.
The old woman tapped a deep mug of amber liquid and refused payment for it. As he set his lips to the bronze cup he surveyed the dancers with rich satisfaction.
Every one of them was waiting to be chosen, and he felt their eyes on him, appraising him, appreciating the lines and planes of his body. A tall girl with copper skin and hip-length hair caught his eye; she was Aegyptian, with high young breasts, rouged nipples, long legs, and a great weight of gold bangles on wrists and ankles. A young man vied for his attention -- half Keltoi, from his looks, with a mane of fiery red hair, fine muscles, a sleek, thick root, and blue-green tattoos over every span of his body. Soran smiled at them both, remembered them and looked further.
The Incari ale was light and sweet. This, he could drink all night and keep a clear head. A girl began to sing, and he turned toward the sound. She was little more than a child, dressed in the Incari way, in swathes of sky blue gauze and chains of tiny silver bells that tinkled as she moved. She was singing to a young man who sat on a barrel in the lee of the ship, an old song with the lilt and harmony of Zeheft.
The young man was tall and lean, half-wrapped in a raw silk cloak woven in the colors of chestnuts and emeralds. He was otherwise bare, save for a little yellow wrap about his hips, and a pair of sandals thronged to his knees. Soran feasted his eyes on skin like brown velvet, long muscles and fine bones. His hair shone in the firelight, red as the Keltoi locks, like a cape across his back and shifting about his face in the restless sea wind.
Was he eighteen or twenty? Soran was entranced. This was what he had come here for -- all day, he had known he would find the one freeman who stood out from the mass of his fellows, and this one was without peer. He had the unmistakable look of the Zeheftimen, and as if Soran could have harbored any doubts, his face was painted in the old ritual symbols.
Once, those marks would have been seen as the signature of the House of Diomedas, but in these latter years the same geometric symbols were being used simply for decoration in Incaria, Ilios, and even Vayal. Soran saw only that they seemed to caress the young man’s features, outlining and enhancing them.
And he had realized he was being watched. He came to his feet, lithe and graceful as any of the dancers, lifted his chin and surveyed the encampment as if it fascinated him. The wind caught his hair, tossed it into his face. He raked it back with long-fingered hands, and Soran saw the thin gold rings in his earlobes, his nipples. They were surely sleepers, Soran guessed, and he wondered what gorgeous jewelry this one would wear, when he did not have to worry about thieves.
He was beautiful, with a look Soran almost recognized. Part of him wanted to demand, ‘Have I seen you before?’ Was this one of the young dancers to whom he had tossed a coin in the marketplace in Zeheft, and allowed himself to be led into a courtyard of nodding palms and whispering fountains, where the moonlight pooled on alabaster, and the shadows embraced lovers who met for a single hour?
“Turn your head, boy,” he murmured, “look this way.” And then he caught his breath and smiled as the sea wind picked up the cloak and tossed it back, displaying the lean, perfect body. He was beautiful down to the curve of buttock, the turn of wrist and ankle. Desire made Soran’s fingers itch to touch and he said audibly, “Look this way, Zeheftiman.”
Did the young man hear him? He turned, raked back his hair, and the firelight danced in his eyes, making them gold. Soran’s wayward heart gave a heavy double thud, and he smiled again at the lush pout of lips, the spirit of youth that made the boy lift his chin almost defiantly.
His voice was deep enough, despite his youth. The accent was rich with the Old Kingdom. “What do you want of me?”
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