Silk Dreams - Songs of the North 3 (18 page)

Publius rifled through Valdis's cache of paint pots and rimmed her large eyes with kohl. Then, to her surprise, he darkened her pale eyebrows and even extended them with feathery strokes, so they nearly met over the bridge of her nose.

“There,” he said, resting his hands on his protruding belly. “That's better. Now, can you do anything besides prognosticate?”

Valdis frowned at him, hearing implied criticism in his question. Then she realized he meant to ask what other feminine skills she might possess. She blessed Chloe for her tutelage.

“I have been trained in the arts of an odalisque, serving at table and leading an engaging conversation.” She ticked off her accomplishments on her long slim fingers, purposely leaving off the instruction Chloe had given her in pleasuring a man. “And I can dance.”

“Can you?” He seemed surprised. “A demonstration, please.”

Valdis assumed the pose Chloe had taught her and closed her eyes, imagining the reedy instrument they danced to in Damian's mountain villa. When she opened them, she began to move, slow and sinuous, in the prescribed steps of the dance.

After a few well-executed turns, Publius stopped her with a clap of his fat hands.

“Enough. That will do,” he said. “Yes, indeed, the master will be pleased. Come, Valdis. It is time. Veil yourself.”

The scent of night-blooming narcissus was heavy in the air as she followed Publius back along the open corridor and through the
zenana
common room. All the women, their beauty enhanced by expert use of cosmetics, their competing perfumes warring in the air, were dressed in their finery as they waited to see which of them would be called to attend the master's needs, sexual or otherwise.

Only one woman kept to a corner, as if she wished to avoid the sharp piggy eyes of their keeper. But Valdis noticed her, and when the girl looked back at her there was a spark of recognition on her heart-shaped face.

It was the Frankish girl who'd lost her twin on the slave
caique
to Miklagard. The girl opened her mouth to call a greeting, then seemed to think better of it and turned away.

After Valdis met her new master, she'd seek out her old shipmate. In this strange place, they could both use a friend.

“Now, in order to truly impress the master, this is how you must proceed.” Publius stopped outside the entrance to the dining hall, where given the sounds of music and male conversation, Valdis guessed there was a small banquet in progress. “I will go in and announce you. When the music begins again, you will enter the master's presence with the dance.”

Valdis nodded. The prescribed movements would relax her and make this meeting easier. She smiled at Publius. He really seemed to be trying to smooth matters for her. So far, he'd shown no sign of being the fool Damian asserted he was.

Publius turned to go, then stopped short. “Oh! The master has dinner guests tonight.”

“I guessed as much from the noise.”

“Even though there will be many eyes upon you, be careful only to direct your fondest gaze at the master,” Publius warned. “Habib Ibn Mahomet will not tolerate a woman with wayward eyes, not even if she is a soothsayer extraordinaire.”

“Very well. How will I know which one is the master?” Valdis asked. “I have never seen him before.”

“You are a seeress,” Publius said, drawing his darkened brows together. “The master expects you to know him by your art. He was very particular on that point. You may look at each of the men in the room for a moment, then once you have located the master, you are to dance as if he is the only man in the room. Surely it will be no trouble at all for you to divine his identity with but a look, and what a triumph for me when you do.”

“How is that a triumph for you?” The blood drained from her head and she forced herself to draw a deep breath.

“It was I who suggested you be given the opportunity to publicly display your abilities before his guests and the master devised this small demonstration, with my prompting. No need to thank me now. You may show your appreciation later.”

“But you don't understand,” Valdis said in a panic. “That's not how
seid
craft works. It's not as if I can summon up a message from the spirit world. It comes when it will or not at all.”

“If that's the case, don't despair. The master will always welcome another comely maiden into his embrace. But if you wish to retain the virginity that feeds your power, well, hope that the spirits speak with you now.” Publius cocked his head to listen. “Oh! There's a lull in the music. A perfect time for me to announce you. Now, dance beautifully, Valdis and all will be well. See to it you do not disgrace me.”

The eunuch left her speechless in the hallway. Damian was right. Publius was indeed a fool, but there were clearly no soft edges on her new master. Habib Ibn Mahomet wasn't fully convinced by the fortuitous profits she'd predicted for him. He meant to test her.

If failure only meant she'd be sent back to Damian as a fraud, she'd take her chances with the chief eunuch's displeasure. But the thought that Mahomet might decide to keep her to use as his concubine rather than admit he'd been taken in by a cunning plot made Valdis's belly churn with distaste. How in all the nine worlds could she be expected to do this?

A pair of flutes played, accompanied by a shimmer of percussion and a steady sensual beat. Valdis drew a deep breath to steady herself. Ready or not, the music beckoned her to make her entrance. Somehow, she must try to identify Mahomet or be exposed as a sham before she even began her secret life as Damian's informer.

She entered the room without looking around, her gaze affixed to the polished floor a step or two ahead of her own light tread. When she reached the spot she judged to be the center, she lifted her arm to provide an additional veil for her face and let the sinuous music translate itself into the undulations of her body. She turned a slow circle, rising on the ball of her left foot, her arms extended palms up as though she held a full platter balanced on each hand. As she pivoted, she took in the seven men seated cross-legged on cushions about the room. The conversation died as her dance captured their attention.

A turbaned fellow was seated dead center along the eastern wall. The plumper cushion beneath him raised him a hand's width higher than his companions. Surely Habib Ibn Mahomet wouldn't seat himself in a place of honor and then set the puzzle of his identity before her. Or would he expect her to discount the obvious and therefore, hide in the most obvious spot?

Her head spun at the labyrinthine trail her thoughts must travel.

At that man's elbow, there was servant—a lean, hawkish man with a raptor's glint in his dark eyes. A tingle of recognition fingered over her spine, but she couldn't place him. Perhaps his had been one of the many faces gawking at her on the slave dais when she first arrived in Miklagard. She need waste no time on a servant, but it bothered her that she couldn't remember where she'd seen him.

She allowed her gaze to move to the man's right as she started a grapevine pattern with her feet. While alternating her steps forward and back, her long arms first issued a stylized invitation and then held up a palm in rejection.

One of the guests was a Nubian who flashed his blindingly white teeth at her. She resisted the urge to smile back at the man, because he was clearly not her new master. She knew Habib Ibn Mahomet was a son of the Prophet from Cordoba. She could safely eliminate the Nubian from consideration as well as the beardless young man with pale skin at his side.

The third fellow on the southern side of the room was a Greek with clipped bangs curled across his forehead. Unless Mahomet was a true master of disguise, she could forgo putting this man on the list of potential candidates.

Valdis executed a graceful turn to grapevine her way back along the northern side, but she nearly stumbled when she got a clear look at the man seated at the end of the row of diners.

It was Erik.

Bold as brass, he lifted a goblet of pomegranate juice and pledged her over the red-stained rim.

Valdis jerked her gaze from him.
What is he doing here?

She forced herself to concentrate on the steps, to point her toes whenever a foot left the floor, to tuck her thumbs to present her hands in the most flattering light, as Chloe had taught her. Valdis fought to draw a breath and sneaked another glance just to be sure she hadn't imagined him.

Erik raised one pale eyebrow at her.

She often wished to dance for Erik, but not like this, not when her path to freedom hung in the balance. He met her gaze squarely, then flicked his eyes toward the raised cushions. On Erik's left, nearer the seat of honor, were two men, either of whom might be Habib Ibn Mahomet. They were both brown-skinned, as Valdis imagined her new master would be. They wore garish, striped silk trousers in the baggy Arabic style. Winking gems encrusted their fingers, proclaiming their wealth.

Was Erik trying to tell her one of them was her new master?

The one nearest Erik had a scraggly scarlet beard and narrow eyes. Valdis suppressed a shudder and glanced at the next man. He was portly as a eunuch, but the naked desire on his face made her dismiss that notion immediately. If this man were her new master, whether she possessed
seid
powers or not, she doubted anything would trump his lust.

She turned on her toes and began drawing circles with her hips, large slow ones at first, then spiraling down to small and fast. Valdis closed her eyes, weighing her options. The pompous fellow on the tall cushion, the scarlet-bearded gent, or the lecher. What a miserable choice. She forced her lips into an enigmatic smile, as Chloe had advised, even though her face felt brittle enough to crack like Frankish glass.

What had Erik tried to tell her with his darting glance?

She peeped from between her lowered eyelids at the man on the cushion, and as she continued to spin, she caught the flash of a ring. But it wasn't on the turbaned man's hand. It was on the hand of the servant at his side. The piece was a heavy one, spreading from the base of the servant’s forefinger to the first knuckle. She'd swear it was a signet ring, a ring of power and prestige, the seal of a man's will and symbol of his authority. It was similar to the one Damian never removed from his hand.

Her eyes flew open wide. She looked the servant full in the face. Heavy dark brows frowned above deep-set eyes and an elegantly crooked nose was set above an unsmiling mouth. Even though his dark beard was shot with silver, he had a proud, fierce, dangerously attractive face. With a shock, she remembered where she'd seen it before.

Through Erik's strange ocular device at the Hippodrome. Wasn't this servant one of the two men Damian asked her to describe as she observed them in their opulent box? But the man wasn't dressed as a servant that day. He was the confidant of the emperor's nephew.

So this was Habib Ibn Mahomet.

She smiled in earnest now and never let her gaze stray from the man she supposed to be her new master. As she began the dizzying twirls that ended her dance, she used his face as her touch point to retain her balance and keep from becoming disoriented by the final whirling moments of the dance.

Faster and faster, she spun until the music climbed to a fever pitch. On the final note, Valdis collapsed into a graceful bow, one leg tucked beneath her, the other extended as she bent down to touch her forehead to her knee. She let her veil flutter to the ground around her as her toe pointed to the servant she suspected was really Mahomet.

The men pounded the floor with their palms in appreciation, but Valdis didn't move. She tried to settle her racing heart. If she were wrong, she'd just confused her new master with a servant, an unmistakable insult.

Habib Ibn Mahomet did not have a reputation for forgiving slights.

When she lifted her head, the servant had not moved a muscle.

Valdis gritted her teeth and determined to brazen it out. She rose to her full height and looked him squarely in the eye. “Have I the pleasure of addressing Habib Ibn Mahomet?”

The man's cheek ticked and a grudging smile tugged at the corners of this thin-lipped mouth. “You have,” he said as he gave the man sitting on the raised cushion a swift kick. “Back to the kitchens with you, Ibrahim. You failed to present a convincing decoy.”

The man on the cushion scrambled to his knees and pressed his forehead to the floor. “A thousand pardons, my master. Your poor servant is unequal to the mighty task of impersonating so great a man as yourself. Please don't send me from the light of your presence, lest the sun grow dark in my eyes.”

“Very well,” Mahomet said. “You may remain as my valet and butler, but see that you look well to your duties.”

The servant raised himself to his feet, quickly stripping off the fine silk outer tunic he'd donned for the deception. He held the garment for Habib to slip into.

“Fool!” Mahomet backhanded the groveling servant's cheek and Valdis flinched in sympathy. A slap was the most demeaning insult one could offer in the Northlands. “Have that cleaned before I wear it again. Better yet, burn it.”

Satisfied he'd chastised his valet enough, Mahomet settled onto the cushion and turned his attention back to Valdis. He studied her frankly for several moments before speaking. “You are too tall for a woman.”

“Where I come from, the men grow like mighty trees,” she said with poetic license. “Such towering men must come from tall women.”

He weighed this reasoning for a moment. “It is a failing easily remedied. Sit beside me, Valdis Ivorsdottir,” Habib Ibn Mahomet said, the harsh syllables of her name clearly grating his tongue. He motioned to a spot on the thick carpet that edged the room. She settled next to his cushion, the difference in their seating guaranteeing her head was a good bit lower than his. “It's a good thing you dance well; otherwise, I'd have to shorten you by cutting off your feet.”