Star of Cursrah

6

The 383rd Anniversary of the Great Arrival

"Am I some dung-shoveler's daughter? A goose girl? A street smoother? A fat-bottomed milkmaid? A soldier's trollop?"

Midnight was approaching, and Amenstar stood naked-save for the bandage on her leg-before an armoire holding thirty feet of dazzling apparel.

"Why do I have no decent clothes?"

"Your Majesty," simpered her eldest maid, "the seamstresses stitched seven gowns-"

"I didn't want to attend this stupid gala in the first place," Star snapped.

"But the ball's in your honor, Highness," put in her secretary-maid. "You must greet both the samirs of Oxonsis and Zu-"

"I must marry them," Amenstar shrieked in outrage. She slammed her closet doors, and her modest breasts swung in time. "One of them, anyway… That's what this party's about. Showing me off like a beribboned heifer at the Solstice Fair, a greased pig for farm boys to fight over. I might as well be a chicken in the meat market with my head on the block-"

"If only you were a prize pullet," interrupted a cool voice, "we could stuff you in a sack and stifle your cackling."

Star whirled to find her mother filling the doorway. Behind her, six maids and four bodyguards stared at a high spot on the wall. The samira's dozen maids trooped behind their mistress and curtsied deeply.

The first sama arched a kohl-darkened eyebrow and said, "Is that your intended garb, dear daughter? This is only your coming out party, not your wedding night."

Huffing extravagantly, Star extended a limp hand and received a robe. Tartly, she sneered, "If the samirs have journeyed this far to seek my hand, perhaps they should see the whole package. Kingdoms may collapse if I'm returned on my wedding night because the goods weren't delivered as bargained."

The sama sighed in imitation of her daughter. Waggling her fingers caused maids to scurry to retrieve a low, armless chair. The queen sat, accepted a silk handkerchief, and dabbed her brow.

"Amenstar," she sighed, "why must my most difficult daughter be the eldest? Try to listen, dear, for the novelty if nothing else. You must understand that nobles, male and female, have a duty to marry well."

"I know what you're going to say, Mother," Star groaned, "I've heard it a thousand times."

"Then hear it again," her mother glowered. "Royals' lives are not their own. We belong to the city, to history, to our ancestors, and to our descendants. Commoners may marry whom they please because their lives don't matter. Ours do. The price we pay for wealth and prestige is that we marry not for love, but for position, for the good of our homeland and families. That is why-" the Sama leaned on her words-"you must welcome the Samirs of Oxonsis and Zubat. Your father, myself, and the other wives have spent many long days comparing their military and economic merits-"

"— and which shall be awarded the prize mare?" Star jabbed.

"More like a sow, and a bristly one at that," the sama said. "No, you'll marry whoever proves the more powerful prince. Both are heirs to thrones, but negotiations have so far proved unfruitful. Cursrah needs to ally to protect our-"

Star slapped both hands over her ears and shrilled, "One more word about politics and I'll scream until I faint!"

The sama shot from her chair and snatched her daughter's hands. Stunned, Amenstar stepped back. Her mother hadn't touched her since birth.

The sama's black-rimmed eyes blazed. "I wish you weren't highest born," she hissed, '"so you could be whipped raw like some guttersnipe. Hear this: you will dress in your finest gown, you will appear at the stroke of midnight, and you will dazzle both samirs. If you can waste pleasantries on common friends-who are not invited to this reception-you can please royal guests as well. Do you understand me?"

"Yes, First Mother."

Never had Star's mother grown so angry, and Star was too stunned by her reaction to make further trouble.

"You'd better, or I'll see you sold to a cannibal prince past the Dragon's Wall, and your sister Tunkeb can entertain our guests," the sama threatened. Her glare did not soften, but she bid a retainer step forward. The courtier carried a pillow upon which sat a bright, bundled handkerchief. "Enough, now. For this historic occasion, your sixteenth birthday, your father and we wives have fashioned a present."

Still rattled, but curious, Amenstar picked away the handkerchief's corners carefully, as if fearing a deadly asp might uncoil from its folds. Seeing the present, she frowned.

"Am I to wear this tonight?" the young samira asked. "I'm not sure it goes with my outfit."

The queen stifled a sigh and said, "Wear it anyway."

On the pillow was cradled a tiara, a silver headband scrolled with zigzagging squares around a square-cut moonstone of milk white radiance. Star settled it on her head and found that it fit perfectly; naturally, since the royal silversmiths knew all her sizes. Star remained aloof, since she received exquisite gifts daily.

"How does this complement tonight's… historic occasion?" she asked her mother.

"The moonstone is a storytelling charm. It remembers all it sees and can later recall the images for the wearer, as if dreaming. Wear it tonight and record your coming-of-age ceremony, though you refuse to come of age. There's a matching piece of jewelry to go with it-but that's a surprise for later."

Star admired her tiara in a polished bronze mirror. It went well with her dusky skin and accented her noble nose and brow. Mention of matching jewelry intrigued her, but before she could ask, her mother rambled on.

"… Everyone will be eager to see you, so do arrive promptly at midnight, dear, or else."

Her mother swept from the wing with a score of retainers in her train.

A dozen wide-eyed maids awaited Star's next move. Opening her closet door, she grabbed an armful of clothes, all her new-sewn gowns, and flung them to the floor.

Tou heard my mother," she said. "I need a fine gown. Throw these rags in the fire pit. We've got two hours before midnight. Fetch me a dozen seamstresses if you have to break down doors and drag them here by the hair."

Maids scurried like quail, but Star snagged her secretary's wrist.

"Bring papyrus and quill," Star ordered, "I'll send a message to Gheqet and Tafir… and see what my mother thinks of that!"

"Are you sure your family won't object?''

By the light of a dozen bronze lamps, Amenstar held various outfits in front of Gheqet and Tafir, clothes looted from her brothers' apartments. "Trust me," she said.

Star had finally settled on a red sheath with many delicate pleats that complemented her red-brown skin, all sewn with silver thread that matched her silver tiara. The gown clung from just above her nipples to the floor, its sheerness providing a peekaboo effect she hoped would detract from her limp-her calf still ached as if a dagger were buried in the muscle. Her hair was freshly braided into cornrows with pearls and silver beads that jarred musically when she moved, and perfumed with myrrh for a resinous, woodsy smell. The moonstone tiara, newly polished, glittered as if alive.

"You look stunning, Star," said Tafir, "almost like a princess."

"Except all that kohl around your eyes makes you look like a cross-eyed zebra," smirked Gheqet.

"Yes. Don't your eyelids droop from the weight?" returned Tafir.

Maids standing along the walls tittered.

"Hush." The princess flung clothes at the men, a green samite tunic to Tafir and a yellow-and-white striped toga to Gheqet, and said, "Wear that, Taf. It goes with your coloring. Gheq, this makes you look taller. Hurry! Strip!"

The young men balked, and the maids giggled. Since arriving, Tafir and Gheqet hadn't been able to take their eyes off the maids, each selected for personal beauty in imitation of Star, and dressed in the palace's next-to-nothing shifts.

Actually, the men were boggled just being in the royal residence and Star's personal chambers. Summoned with messages delivered by maids in dark cloaks, they'd been smuggled into the royal compound's dizzying tunnels-the same tunnels, so ran rumors, where trespassers died excruciating deaths at the hands of the vizars. Amenstar assured her visitors that they were safe, and her personal bodyguards stared right through them, yet a nervous queasiness lingered.

Star's fabulous, casual wealth stunned them. Room after room of her chambers exhibited embroidered rugs, exotic pets with jeweled collars, gold-leafed mirrors, blue glass chandeliers, elegant guards with lyre-shaped halberds, glowing mosaics, even two gold chamber pots, and now the First Samira of Cursrah wanted them to crash a formal ball in the Palace of the Phoenix.

"I said hurry!" Star clapped her hands, and the fellows jumped. "Don those clothes so the maids can dress your hair, and stop gawking. They're just common hussies. You can take a few home if you like, after the ball. Heaven knows they're useless to me. Now get dressed!"

Precisely at midnight, Samira Amenstar and her entourage marched into the Palace of the Phoenix.

First stamped M'saba, the gigantic rhinaur, her kinky hair upswept and painted blue, her long body draped in a blue, star-painted mantle as big as a tent. In hands the size of bushel baskets was clutched a halberd with a lyre-shaped blade, its keen top edge winking. The halberd's pole trailed a banner emblazoned with Star's eight-pointed emblem. Next strode two regal horn blowers with four-foot, silver-chased ram's horns, then Captain Anhur and twelve bodyguards, all in blue and gold, and six maids in demure sheathes and shawls of brilliant beads. Star reclined on a leopard skin draped across a sedan chair decorated with gold leaf that sat atop the shoulders of more guards. Trailing came a page girl carrying a giant rainbow fan of ostrich feathers, more maids, the thunderstruck Gheqet and Tafir in princes' finery, and finally more stone-faced guards leading or carrying the slate-blue saluqis, gabbling parrots, sleepy ocelot, and on a velvet blue pillow, a rarely seen tressym. This unusual creature from the far north was a silver-furred, slant-eyed cat with gossamer wings dappled like a peacock's.

A band blared, and five hundred guests applauded as the princess's procession filed to the center of the palace.

The circular hall was ablaze with lamps and candles. The gorgeous wall frescoes, recently scrubbed, glowed as if the flat, angular subjects might step out to join the party. The milling party guests were equally gorgeous: men and women, nobles, scholars, diplomats, and royalty from the four corners of the civilized world. Stationed along the walls and between archways and columns ornately carved with zigzags, stood the most impressive of the Bakkal's Heavy Infantry. They were humans in shimmering red tunics and kilts, tall, hulking rhinaurs, and even four strange manscorpions, foreign mercenaries with rust-red torsos and scorpion bodies. There were a hundred retainers: waiters, wine stewards, table setters, linen dressers, and more serving the guests' every need.

Aside from the raised thrones, the only furniture thought worthy to grace the palace were depictions of its royal inhabitants. Ranged along the round walls stood statues of the bakkal, the four samas, their parents, the princes and princesses of the realm, and many cousins; anyone of royal blood, a link in the chain of the reigning dynasty. Each statue was life-sized-the childrens' were replaced yearly-and all were so exquisitely painted that the statues could be expected to applaud along with the living.

High above the celebration, a waxing moon shone through the circular hole in the roof, for the palace's royal court, the Chamber of the Moon, was also an erstwhile temple to the all-seeing orb. Amenstar was ferried around the room in her sedan chair to more applause and adoration. She nodded and bowed to all the guests.

Her sedan was carried before her parents' dais last, so the princess might be formally presented. As her high perch was eased down, Amenstar alighted and knelt before the throne. Her father, the Bakkal of Cursah, He Who Reigns from On High, Lord of the Living and Speaker for the Dead, wore his most formal clothes. His red tunic was gathered in multiple pleats, and a lacquered, jeweled collar jutted past his shoulders. His kaffiyeh was blue and gold with an upright cobra that hissed from his headband. His eyes were darkened with kohl, his frown distant and distracted. Standing behind his throne, an ancient general in full armor held aloft a ceremonial axe with a long silver shaft and a half moon shaped blade of shining gold. Immediately flanking the throne dais were the statue replicas of the bakkal and first sama, frozen in stone and paint like eerie doppelgangers.

The bakkal was attended by his four wives, and Star noticed her mother frowning when she saw Gheqet and Tafir in Star's train. Having been announced with her full titles, Amenstar rose, bowed, and remounted her sedan chair without turning her back on the bakkal. Hoisted, the samira was carried ninety feet, and again alighted before her own low and smaller throne at one side of the room. Standing nearby, mute, was a stone replica of Amenstar, perfect down to the incipient pout that lingered on her full lips. From her miniature throne, Star would entertain visitors, beginning with a reception line.

As a band played a tune pleasing to the ear, Samira Amenstar greeted each local and foreign dignitary while Vrinda, the tasked administrator genie, towered behind and whispered names and ranks. Amenstar shook hands until her fingers throbbed and had her hand kissed until it wrinkled. People came in all colors, clothing, accents, and more than a few races. Star was surprised to greet northern elves in their soft brown leathers and capes with red stripes that celebrated Tethir Dragonslayer's victory over Xaxathart the Retributor. Elves were rarely seen now that the forests were gone. She met dwarves of High Shanatar, whose tunics of orange fustian were blazoned with three gold urns and a hammer. All the while Amenstar greeted guests, despite her earlier protestations, she looked for her supposed suitors.

Finally the line ended, and the genie hissed in her old-fashioned accent, "We go to meet the princes now."

Leading from behind, slate palette pinned under one arm, the ginger-topped genie in the flouncy folds steered Amenstar and her entourage-a mere six maids and six guards-toward a small group not far from the musicians.

"Why need I, the guest of honor, walk to welcome a guest?" Amenstar hissed. "Shouldn't it be the other way around?"

"Don't help me administer, please, Your Highness. Troubled times require compromises, and I've moved the moon and stars to prepare this ball," Vrinda explained, then shook her head at some errant thought. Star noted that the genie's ginger braid was longer than Star was tall. "Oxonsis and Zubat are on the verge of open war. I've separated the two princes to opposite sides of the hall. We pay them every honor, but it's a delicate question as to whom you meet first. I'm banking on goodwill and minor enchantments to smooth the diplomatic bumps."

"You'd friend-charm an ally? Does my father know-"

"Histl Notice how the prince and his entourage are dressed plainly but alike?"

"So?"

Her tiara itched, yet she didn't dare touch its shining surface and leave fingerprints. Putting on a royal display was exasperating at times.

Vrinda almost sighed and said, "They wear military uniforms. Why, you might wonder, dress for battle in peacetime? Why show their uniforms to the gathered nobles of so many nations? Could it be Oxonsis is prepared, even eager, for war?"

"I don't know," Star said. "Could it?"

Inexplicably the samira's heart fluttered as they approached the darksome prince and his attendants. Star's maids fanned back to form wings framing the princess, while Captain Anhur stamped so precisely and so hard Star wondered that her hobnails didn't crack the marble floor.

Smiling, Vrinda raised her voice and said, "Your Esteemed Highness, may I present Amenstar, First Samira of the Palace of the Phoenix in Cursrah. Samira, may I present Samir Pallaton, heir to the throne of Oxonsis and commander in chief of her army."

Amenstar extended her hand for a kiss while staring boldly at the prince, who gallantly rose from a carved rosewood throne. Easy to look upon, the solid, swarthy young man boasted a wealth of dark hair curling around his head, wreathing his face, and erupting from his neckline. He wore a form-hugging tunic of undyed linen, leather crossbelts and shoulder wings, and on his breast a badge with the red ox-head emblem of his city. Very military and proper, Star conceded, as was the royal headband with upright serpent, much like her father's.

Pallaton was braced by a dozen hard-eyed attendants, all in military garb but without weapons. Their only artifact was a tall staff held by a page, and Star saw Vrinda study it. Taller than a man, the staff was artfully carved of dark wood and gilded to resemble a column of genie smoke. At the top, where the "cloud" coalesced, nestled a scintillating sapphire that itself contained a roiling, blue-white cloud. A queer thing to bring to a ball, Star thought, then dismissed it. The prince had trapped her hand.

Although she strove to remain cool, Star was thrilled when Samir Pallaton kissed her hand. His mustache tickled, and his teeth almost nipped her skin. A shiver sizzled to Star's toes and pointed her nipples, and the prince smiled slyly at their protruding. For a second Star wondered what it would be like to marry such a handsome, dashing man.

Still, she chilled her voice to formal levels and said, "It's kind of you to grace Cursrah with your presence, Samir Pallaton. I hope you find our humble entertainments amusing."

The prince held her hand as he stared, a half-smile hiding in his soft beard. "Cursrah is the center of civilization, Your Highness, so everyone comes here eventually," he said. "I'd have come much sooner had I known Cursrah boasts such a fair first princess."

Again he kissed Star's hand, and this time it was impossible to disguise her shiver.

"Uh, we thank you… kindly, Sa-Samir." No longer frosty and aloof, her voice quaked, "Now please ex-uh- excuse me. I have other guests to greet."

Star turned and marched off, feeling the samir's eyes burning into her spine.

"A handsome youth," proclaimed Vrinda from her great height.

"The desert wolf could use a good brushing," sniffed Star. "With those fangs, he'd probably eat a girl alive. Who's next?"

"Samir Nagid of Zubat, a man of considerable education."

"Unlike Pallaton the Wolf, eh, who's been educated in the stable and the armory?"

"You guess correctly," fluted Vrinda. "Here we are."

As before, Samira Amenstar was formally introduced to Samir Nagid who was slender, tall, red-haired, and dressed in the gaudy elegance of a stage actor. He wore a long embroidered shirt, blooming trousers, pointed shoes, parti-colored hose, and a cutaway cape with a checkered hem and upright collar. Like Star's, his hair was perfumed with lilac water. Attending him were four somber bodyguards and many happy, colorful youngsters Star took for students.

The handsome, smiling youth kissed Star's hand and said, "Ah, me. I've sought education in city-states throughout the world, Your Majesty, yet now I see my studying has gone for naught."

"Oh? Why is that?" Amused, Star smiled.

"Never have I heard of, read of, or been told of any woman as lovely as you." Nagid also didn't loose her hand, and remained bowing as he continued, "From now on, with your gracious permission, I'll forsake colleges altogether and simply worship at your feet, for surely a man can learn all that matters by gazing upon your exalted beauty. Perhaps, if the gods be kind, after years of effort I might compose one brief sonnet that could extol the smallest virtue of your heavenly features."

"Oh!" Head aswim with compliments, Star stammered, "Oh, uh, no, don't do that. I mean, I–I hope you enjoy your stay in, uh, Cursrah, and I–I must go."

As genie and samira and entourage sailed across the crowded room, Vrinda had nothing to say, but her lofty smile was mocking. Star's cheeks burned.

Directed by the administrator, Amenstar remounted her small throne, which stood equidistant from her parents and the two parties of the visiting samirs. Behind the princess crowded maids, guards, and Gheqet and Tafir, whom no one had yet ejected. As master of ceremonies, Vrinda signaled the band to strike up a tune. Forty women, draped only in strings of colorful beads, tootled reed flutes, plucked harps, rattled sistrums, thumped drums, clacked bone clappers, and clanged bronze cymbals. Into the hall tiptoed a troupe of black skinned dancers in feathers and masks who swayed and spun hypnotically. Guests immediately put their heads together to gossip, and Star was certain every whisper recounted her reactions to the princes. She wondered if the storytelling tiara on her brow had really recorded her awkward and girlish stumblings.

Over the music came Tafif's voice, "Gheq and I have decided you should marry Hairy Hands and not Fancy Pants."

"Too many clothes to wash with Torchhead," Gheqet added. "Your hands would chap from all that scrubbing."

"And Werewolf would be a better provider. If you want an antelope steak, he'll run the poor critter down and bite its throat out for you."

"And Carrottop would borrow your clothes, leaving you nothing to wear."

"Then again, Hyenabreath might eat your children… and scare the horses."

"True, but Candlestick might drop a book on your toes-"

"Belt up, you two!" Star hissed through an icy smile. "I should marry you two clowns, then make your lives miserable supporting my lavish and wasteful habits."

"You can't marry two husbands, can you?" Gheqet and Tafir sounded unsure.

"My mother laments that I'm spoiled, pampered, and always get my way. If I raised one finger, for instance, I could have two blabbermouths gagged and flogged."

The men didn't respond.

As the music climaxed the dancers whirled away. Vrinda glided to the center of the vast hall, under the round-cut roof hole, and gently shooed back the highborn audience. Announcing dinner was ready, Vrinda beckoned the waiters, stewards, and other servants forward. Marching in procession they took up rigid stances beside nothing at all. Leaving her slate palette hanging in the air, the golden-skinned Vrinda pointed to the nearest waiter and clapped her red-dyed hands once, sharply.

Magically, there appeared a knee-high round table with a gleaming tablecloth and shimmering bronze tray. Piled atop was a pyramid of hard-boiled eggs surmounted by a stuffed peacock.

Vrinda announced, "Peacock eggs pickled in plum wine and stuffed with artichoke hearts." Polite applause answered the apparition.

Two claps conjured another low table with a naiad-shaped tureen and heaps of crooked fare.

"Frogs' legs in dill vinegar sweetened with cane sugar."

Table after table winked into place, a dizzying array: squid in its own ink seasoned with lotus petals; baked grasshoppers on red-leaf lettuce; rye cakes daubed with pesto topped with sturgeon eggs; pigeon hearts minced with yogurt pressed into lambs' bones; grape leaves on sliced antelope tongue; bee-laden honeycomb and grapefruit wedges in custard dusted with cinnamon; raw oysters and pounded almonds brown with cumin; saffron rice with carrots; myrrh-scented camel milk floating pickled watermelon rind; quails in nut sauce surrounded by garlic cucumbers. There were pitchers and punch bowls of drink: date and raisin wine; pomegranate and grape juice; mint tea syrupy with sugar.

The crowd's appreciation grew in murmurs and exclamations, but a queasy uneasiness stole upon Amenstar. Such a lavish gala must have taxed even her parents' massive wealth. These plentiful and imported foods were not conjured from thin air-nothing could be conjured from nothing, she'd been told-but were whisked from the palace kitchens. They'd been costly to prepare, and rumors had it that the evening's entertainment would be equally fabulous. For the first time, Star realized how seriously her parents wished to impress the suitor princes and gathered nations, which meant Star's impending marriage was certain, with only the bridegroom in question. The samira found her stomach churning, and not from hunger.

Before the slavering audience could partake of the lavish repast, the gods needed their share, so servants ferried offerings to a sacrificial table bathed by moon glow under the cut-out roof. The Grand Vizar was escorted forth for the invocation. This doddering crone was rail thin, branded with arcane sigils, and hideously tattooed with blue and red veins until she resembled an anatomy chart. She staggered under a bloated turban seemingly made of tiger skin with a tiger-head pin sporting amethyst eyes. A murmur circled the room, for everyone knew the legend: the turban was actually a living creature captured in the Burning Lands of Zakhara, "Where the Gods Dare Not Tread." Magically cursed or blessed, the creature crouched atop the vizar's head and siphoned her life-force. In return, the enigmatic monster granted strange mystical visions by telepathy. Amenstar had always suspected the turban was the smarter of the two, who steered the addlepated vizar as a rider steers a horse.

Without preamble, the vizar raised one scrawny claw to the peeking moon, pointed the other at the offerings, and railed, "Our Lady of the Sky illuminates your vanity, but remember all beauty becomes dust. Death brings us closer to life, because light and darkness are joined. You cannot escape. The Grim One will sweep down, and you will cry upon your knees, but there is no halting the last passage when the Dark Spectre watches with nine eyes. Pain stalks the sunshine, and even gods weep…"

There was more, far too much more. Finally Vrinda touched a henna-hued fingernail to her ginger eyebrow. Instantly the scatterbrained vizar jerked as if whip-lashed. The, turban rocked, and amethyst eyes flashed as the mystic creature gripped the crone's bony skull. Stumbling as if bludgeoned, the Grand Vizar was ushered out by the vizar-in-waiting and her anatomists. Amenstar wanted to spit. The drooling, moonstruck moron was an embarrassment to the city.

"And now," pronounced Vrinda, "may your graces eat and enjoy!"

The guests sighed with relief. Amenstar accepted a gold-rimmed plate, and leading the line, threaded the many groaning tables, taking a morsel here, a dram there. Chatter increased as people partook of sweetmeats, gossip, and laughter, standing in groups or sitting in clusters on three-legged stools. The only ones not gorging themselves were the hollow-eyed vizars, who were never seen to eat. Rumors spoke of raw meat and cow's blood, or worse…

The sacrificial table was toted away, and the evening's entertainment began. Vrinda conjured a circle of red-painted stones, and as the band plucked and wheezed, a troupe of leather-clad dwarves on racing zebras stampeded into the room. The crowd gaped as the dwarves tumbled on the cantering zebras, vaulted headlong to change mounts, rode backward, behind the tail and beneath striped bellies, formed dwarven pyramids and crosses, and capered through a dozen more dangerous tricks. Vrinda clapped her red hands, and the dwarves disappeared. The breathless audience applauded.

Another genie clap filled the red ring with a tall, complicated engine that resembled an orchestra hurled together by a tornado. A smiling woman with almond eyes bowed deeply, wound a long-handled crank, and stepped back. Atop the machine bubbled a fountain whose water was channeled into many tiny pipes. Slowly, streams of water dripped and jetted to spin wheels, compress bladders, tilt cups, and drop counterweights. With a collective wheeze, the contraption began to play the jumbled instruments. Horns blooped, strings hummed, flutes tooted, drums thumped, and bagpipes wheezed. Tongues wagged about the clever engine, called a "clepsydra," a variant of the water clock. When the weird engine finally gasped to a halt, people clapped for more, calling wildly, and threw coins into the stone ring. At their insistence, the clepsydra was rewound, water bubbled and fell, and the gargling tune repeated. It was only when Vrinda pleaded to keep her schedule that the clepsydra was hauled away by four sturdy slaves.

A sage from Cursrah's college stepped into the ring, dressed in square-cut hair, green tunic and kilt, bare feet, and a black poncho beaded with the moon's phases. Two students in similar garb lugged in a clay jar. Big as a peck basket, turquoise in color, it was stippled with marks of black paint and its lid was tightly sealed with yellow wax. Gingerly the students eased the jar to the ring's center then scurried away. The sage made a short speech about the ongoing wonders to be learned from Cursrah's college, then drew a small knife and squatted to dig away the sealing wax.

The audience murmured, wondering what they'd see, with the word "genie" bubbling up most often. Cursrah had been founded by the greatest of genies, built by lesser genies and genie slaves, and still employed two or three carefully bound to their tasks or habitats. No doubt the college had extra genies bottled up and stored on shelves. The crowd leaned in on tiptoes.

One student had fetched a bamboo pole. The sage raised an eyebrow to Vrinda, silently asking if precautions had been taken. People rocked back and buzzed at the hint of danger. Getting a nod from the administrator, the sage stood outside the red rock circle, and using the pole, tipped the lid off the jar.

Instantly there spewed into the air a howling whirlwind, big around as the enchanted ring of stones, high as the round opening in the roof. People recoiled, for the tiny tornado screamed, screeched, hissed, keened, and wailed like souls of the dead in torment. Viewers gasped, for within the spinning dervish they glimpsed forms, long and sinuous. They were snakes, thousands of them, from twenty-foot serpents to tiny adders. Most were sand- or stone-colored, limbless children of the desert. Were the snakes caught in a dervish? Or did they actually form the tornado?

To a bombardment of questions, the sage raised both hands and bellowed, "What you see, gentle nobles, is not a simple whirlwind. It is a living creature of the elemental plane of air, a servant to djinns, a windwalker summoned through a portal in the jar, drawn here with Cursrahn magic for your delight and amazement. For such wonders do we practice daily at our college, where all the fathomable knowledge of the ancients resides…"

There was more speechmaking that the crowd largely ignored, mesmerized by the ethereal servant. The wind-walker's fury increased as it adjusted to this new plane, so the whirlwind spun faster and faster until little puffs of not-snakes whipped away and vanished in midair. Flecks of red paint from the inside of the protective ring flaked and spun too. The sage droned on, extolling the college's virtues, until Vrinda coughed and touched her golden throat. Immediately the sage's voice faltered. Dazed, he nodded at no one, plied the bamboo pole to catch the clay lid and recap the jar. The windwalker winked away with a sudden compression that made people's ears pop.

Vrinda clapped her hands once and sage and jar winked away too. The masked and feathered dancers reappeared, this time bobbing and swirling through the audience. The band struck up a bouncing tune, and people laughed and relaxed. Vrinda glided away to administer dessert. Courtiers steered to the lesser throne to compliment Amenstar on the food, display, entertainment, and more.

"What happens now?" Gheqet hissed. The two were still stationed behind Star.

Tafir scanned the audience for eligible girls and asked, "Will this party drag on all night?"

"I've no idea," she said. "Vrinda is in charge."

Star wrinkled her forehead; her tiara itched.

"Must we stand here?" Gheqet, who had also spotted some interesting young women, whined. "I'm bored."

"I know we crashed the party, but-oops! Pucker up, Princess. Cursrah's flanks are penetrated by a scouting probe from Oxonsis and a butterfly brigade from Zubat."

Courtiers fell back as two large entourages converged on Star's small throne. From the right marched Samir Pallaton's military escort in lock step, with the dark prince the point of the spear. From the left flowed Samir Nagid's entourage, light and colorful as wax paper balloons. The two princes stopped, an arm's length apart, before Star's throne. The samira smiled carefully, flattered at their attention, but recalled that the two heirs should be kept apart, lest their kingdoms' impending war explode here in the palace.

"My compliments, Samira." A military man, Pallaton got off the first shot, saying, "Cursrah shows its riches are its strength of mind. Oxonsis too knows knowledge is true power."

"Which makes one wonder, Fair Amenstar," the sprightly Nagid interjected, "why Oxonsis shut down its college and banished its scholars? What did their military elite fear to hear?"

"Oxonsis fears nothing, but our college proved a viper pit of treason." The swarthy Pallaton looked only at Amenstar as he continued, "In times of trouble, citizens should support their rulers and join in the mutual defense. It's different in Zubat, I hear. In that city, fops and fools spend their time stargazing and reciting poetry, while enemies infiltrate the streets and poison the minds of the populace."

"I'm amazed Oxonsis has any populace left," Nagid breezed. "Trumped-up criminals and enemies of the state hang along the city walls like rotten fruit. Soon the civic butchers will be forced to recruit sheep into their burgeoning army, but then, that's appropriate isn't it? Sheep never know the shepherd's plan until their throats are cut…"

Star's head oscillated between the two bickering princes.

"I know› some throats that need cutting," Pallaton's voice rose as his face darkened. "The soft-headed populace of Zubat will scream for blood when they learn the city council secretly plots to make them slaves to Coramshan!"

"That's not true," a jarred Samir Nagid hedged. "Zubat exchanges diplomats with Coramshan, as does everyone, but we'll never submit to thralldom by-"

"Mush-mouthed lies. Pap," sneered Pallaton. "Coramshan seeks to conquer all of Calimshan. Zubat is the first stepping-stone in their path, but rather than fight like men, Zubat flops on her back and lifts her skirts for the almighty Bullies of Bhaelros-"

"Excuse me, I'm still hungry."

Amenstar rose from her throne and pushed between the quarrelers, who didn't notice. Gheqet and Tafir slipped behind her. Star wasn't hungry, but her male friends piled their plates high for a second round. Hovering courtiers paid Star compliments, but she made only vague answers and watched the argument escalate.

Mouth full, Gheqet offered, "Neither samir seems to really care about his people. They seem more interested in banging heads and increasing their personal power."

"Same way in the army," Tafir mumbled as he munched squid. "Politics never change."

"Politics bore me," huffed Amenstar. "Look at those two. They're supposed to court me, and instead they bluster like puffed-up gamecocks."

"They'll duel soon," chuckled Gheqet, "then you'll only have one choice for a husband."

"My husband would need to stay close and have a sense of humor." Star studied the two princes, who now shouted in each other's face and added, "I wonder if they qualify…"

"What are you doing?" asked her two friends.

With a wicked leer, the princess grabbed a honey roll from Gheqet's plate. Taking aim, she pegged it at the two princes and laughed as it bounced off Pallaton's shoulder wing. Startled, the samir jumped back from his enemy. Both princes goggled at Amenstar, who returned a gay wave.

"Are you mad?" asked Gheqet.

"No, I'm… politically savvy," giggled Star. "I was told to keep the two princes apart. Besides, it's my party, so join in!"

Grabbing a spiral-sliced orange, Amenstar lobbed it at Nagid, but missed and splattered one of his retainers. Tafir chucked a stuffed peacock egg that exploded amidst Pallaton's grumbly soldiers. Gheqet skipped an oyster shell that ricocheted into Nagid's knee. The music faltered, and a stunned silence fell.

"Then again…" Amenstar stood very still, trying to shrink from sight. Perhaps if she apologized for her rash act-

A glob of red sugared ice whisked overhead. It bombed a pair of aged diplomats in gray and gold. People gasped, but the elder dame, an old hand at diplomacy, stood, snatched up a stuffed crab, and winged it across the room.

Someone roared. An almond cake zipped past Tafir's ear. A lamb chop smacked a man to Star's left. Shrills and laughter exploded from a distant table as every occupant rose, dug their hands into their plates and hurled the lot. Within seconds, the air was full of flying food.

Star shrieked with laugher as she dodged a smoked duck. Gheqet slung a handful of rice and caught a melon rind with his forehead. Let off the leash, Tafir hurled a mountain of pineapple and cherries into the air like a volcano. People screamed, laughed, shouted, and called names as they grabbed whatever they could and threw it. A few cowards scurried to the walls, a few servers tried to block the deluge, but most guests just pitched in and pitched. The fabled Palace of the Phoneix was upended like a market in a hurricane.

Star was splatted by an octopus, splashed with gravy, pelted with olives. Her friends fared the same, and she shrieked with laughter at their food-smeared faces.

"See?" Star howled. "Politics can be fun!"