“So, when the Sultan and his ladies go through the streets, how do they travel? Do they walk? Ride horses? Have a carriage?”
“Sometimes they will ride an elephant, or they are carried in a, a, I do not know the word, it is like a box with a chair in it and poles so men can carry it.”
“I don’t think I know a word for that either,” muttered Captain Larroche. “And what in the bright blue sea is a damn elephant?”
“It is like a very big cow, very, very big, maybe three times as high as a big one, and it has a long nose that reaches to the ground and it can use it like a hand. It has no fur, but grey skin. The Sultans put chairs on their backs. They use them for war, as they have long teeth that stick out like a pig and they are very fierce.”
The three of them stared at him.
“You’ve seen this, this giant cow?” asked Sara, frankly disbelieving.
“Yes, I have seen. There are many here. I have not seen them fight, but sometimes they go mad and run around killing people.”
“Can we hire one?” asked Suzanne, her eyes sparkling. “We could make a procession.”
“I am not getting on a bloody great cow with a hand for a nose,” said Sara with finality.
The following morning the Archan was reading reports in the palace when a servant came to him, warning him there was a procession coming to the palace.
“What sort of procession?” said the Archan, without looking up.
“From the big foreign ship, Lord,” said the servant, “it is ...different.”
Something in his tone caused the Archan to look up; sweat beaded the servants brow and he realised the man was worried.
“Show me.”
The servant led him to a window where he could see down the Royal Parade, the main road leading to the palace, lined with magnificent Royal Palm trees whose white trunks soared high overhead. Coming up the road from the harbour was indeed a procession, and the Archan saw what concerned the servant. He suspected the guard commander had sent the man.
For the procession was led by four huge savages, cannibals from the islands, monsters of men with their frizzy hair ballooning out from their heads, dressed in grass skirts and shells, but over their shoulders not the crooked wooden clubs he would expect, but monstrous, gleaming steel axes, sparkling in the sun. Wonder of wonders, the cannibals were marching in time! He barely noticed the palanquin swaying behind them, as his eyes were drawn instead to the two men marching behind the palanquin.
Each was dressed in bright white clothing, not wrapped around them, but rather following the body. The legs were separated into trousers. Each had some sort of stick over their shoulder, and while small compared to the giant savages, were far bigger than the eight coolies who carried the palanquin.
The Archan smiled. Today was going to be different, he could see, and promised to be far more interesting than the reports he had been reading. Protocol be damned, he decided, he would meet this procession himself. Besides, he didn’t trust the guards not to panic at the sight of the cannibals.
“Get my second court jacket and meet me at the gates,” he snapped at the servant and headed off to ensure the guard did nothing stupid.
His arrival at the gates was opportune, not to prevent stupidity but to stiffen the backbone of the guards, who were young men. They had clearly been regaled on tales of savage cannibals, and were ready to run.
They were dressed in the Royal Kochin Infantry uniform, baggy white knee-length trousers, with a red jacket and yellow surcoat, armed with long spears.
“Steady lads,” said the Archan kindly, “remember your duty. They won’t hurt you.”
The two guards stiffened a little, standing at ramrod attention, remembering their drill sufficiently to stamp their feet and cross their spears in front of the gate.
One of them called out, “Welcome to the Palace of his Royal Highness, Ravi Varma, Gangadhara Kovil Adhikaarikal of Perumpadapu Swaroopam. Who seeks entry?”
The Archan watched enchanted as the savages came up, showing wonderful, perfect timing, stopping in unison with a stamping of feet in front of the guards who quivered.
The largest one opened his mouth and spoke in Belada, “We bear a message for the Sultan. Summon one who can receive it.” He clearly bit down on some sort of insult at the end of this, looking down on the quivering guards.
The Archan realised it was probable the guards could not speak Belada, and made a mental note to ensure that was a future requirement. He stepped forwards.
“I have the honour to be the Archan to the Maharajah of Kochin, Ravi Varma. I will bear your message to the Maharajah and discuss it with him.”
The savages said not a word, eyes fixed straight ahead. The Archan noticed a good crowd gathering, at least five hundred people lining the road, even a few hawkers selling things.
The moment dragged out, the palanquin shook and out slid a lithe island girl, to his shock and that of the crowd, virtually naked, a tiny grass skirt and some shells across her small breasts preserving her modesty. Ignoring him, she raised a parasol made of bamboo and gaily painted. He recognised it as a Sung artefact and wondered. She held it high over the door of the palanquin. A long leg came out. He could see the ankles, and blinked. It was not the femininity that astonished him, but the colour. It was white. Not the glorious ivory white of the high born Brahmin, but more the lustrous gleam of cream on the top of a cool pail of rich milk.. The leg was followed by silks, and a figure emerged from the palanquin, causing shouts of astonishment and consternation from the watching crowd. From her head fell a mane of glorious, shiny, lustrous hair.
It was yellow.
Her face was veiled, but above the veil were two eyes, eyes of a Goddess perhaps, for they were a vivid blue, piercing eyes that surely saw through to the depths of his soul.
For a moment, the Archan was unsure and taken aback, the first time he could recall. He recovered and fell back on protocol, bowing low and bending his knee.
“Madam,” he whispered, then repeated it loud enough to be heard. “Madam, welcome to our Palace.”
“Thank you.” Her voice was like music, low and melodious. “I apologise we do not possess an interpreter on board our ship that speaks your language, never having encountered your people before. Rather than use a local interpreter, who may not pass on our exact meaning, we beg your leave to converse in Belada which we have learnt to allow us to speak with you.”
‘
Where is she from,
’ he thought to himself, ‘
never having encountered any of us before!
’ He composed himself mentally, before responding. “Your voice is beautiful in Belada and it gives me great pleasure to hear you speak it. I await the day you speak to me in my own language, and shall endeavour to reply in your language, my Lady. Would you care to come in?”
“Thank you, that will not be necessary. I am here simply to bear a message.”
The Archan nodded, inwardly regretful.
“My name is the Lady Suzanne Delarosa, second officer on the Royal Ship, Queen Rose, out of Rikklaw’s Port in Harrhein. On board we have the Crown Princess Asmara of the Starr Line, Lady of High Reaches and Commander of the Royal Horse. We sailed across the Great Southern Ocean and are visiting our neighbours here on the far side.
“The Princess sends her greetings to her Royal Cousin, Ravi Varma, and begs leave to visit him on the morrow. She bears gifts for him and wishes to establish friendly relations between our two noble countries.”
Suzanne inspected the Archan, seeing a tall, aquiline man with a thin moustache and eyes with laughter lines around them, offsetting the creased brow.
“I am expecting to receive a response from you later, to the ship. May I suggest you send with the response a protocol officer, so we can discuss the correct procedures?”
“Good Lady, I shall do no such thing. I shall come myself to discuss with you, as I have no faith in any of our protocol officers to do justice to this monumental meeting.”
“In that case, sir, please do me the honour of taking refreshment with me on board ship an hour before sunset, in the cool of the evening.”
“I shall speak with the Maharajah over luncheon and anticipate our renewed acquaintance with pleasure.”
The blue eyes sparkled. “In my country, sir, on the conclusion of a mutually satisfactory and enjoyable conversation such as this, it is the custom for the lady of quality to offer her hand to the gentleman, like this, and for him to raise it to his lips in farewell.”
“A custom I am delighted to discover,” he replied, bending down slightly to kiss her hand.
The eyes sparkled again, and she turned and climbed gracefully into the palanquin, followed by the island girl, with a twitch exposing a shapely buttock. The Archan smiled deeply, then checked as he caught the eye of one of the men behind the palanquin, and a chill went through him. This was a killer. The girl was well protected indeed - savages in front and, unless he missed his guess, an even bigger savage behind. Though this one was a more usual colour, if considerably lighter than normal. The stick he now saw was a massive war bow, three times the size of the bows carried by his own soldiers. Indeed, judging by the quiver, the arrows were as long as the bows his soldiers carried. He surmised they would go clean through the leather armour of his soldiers as if through paper. Sex and violence, he mused, these are a clever people. Harrhein? Never heard of it. He watched the procession depart, and went straight to the library to confer with the geographers.
Sweat trickled down his spine, causing Pat to wonder if his scent would give him away. He stood in plain sight, his nondescript trousers and shirt blending in with the cabin wall where he stood feet from the door from which the Archan and Suzanne emerged, occupying a scrap of shadow. Suzanne’s behaviour fascinated him, able to see her wiles with the extra perception he was learning as part of his studies. He noted the deeper breathing, the tiny pressure of her hands, the way she curved her body, just sufficient for her bodice to gape, and the angle at which she stood. The Archan was taken by her, wily old bird though he might be. He took longer this time in kissing Suzanne’s hand, possibly because she held it closer to her chest. Pat tracked his progress back to the dock, smiling at the bounce in his step as he climbed on to the dock and headed back to the Palace.
He was prepared to go and find Hinatea, who should be back from some ceremony the girls wished to conduct, when Boersma emerged from the Spakka quarters and rushed up to the heads, the rigging suspended from the side of the bows they used as a toilet. Pat smiled at his urgency but paused as the sound of liquid spattering floated up. A second and third Spakka emerged, and Pat became concerned. He slipped into their cabin and found the rest of them prostrate in their hammocks, sweating profusely. A strange odour in the cabin led him to some plates with an indeterminate substance congealed in smears.
Pat debated with himself briefly before electing to report the matter before calling Walters. He thought the priest’s remedies ideal for this, as retribution if nothing else. He swung up the steps to the poop.
“Sir,” he said to Brian, “the Spakka are all down with the flux. Looks like they smuggled some local food in to their cabin. No idea how. Shall I report it to Walters?”
“Very well, Pat. Why don’t you know? Thought you three knew everything.”
“Oh, do you want us to monitor the crew, sir? Can do, no problem.”
“Oh don’t be so blasted eager, boy. I was just pulling your hawser. Go and tell Walters, but first get me Starr.”
“So, Lieutenant Starr, can you explain how members of your watch managed to obtain local food?” Captain Larroche spoke in a low level tone, but Sara was not misled, and knew he was furious. So was she.
“Sir, they purchased it from a little boat.” Sara sat opposite the Captain, although she would prefer to stand at attention for the chewing out.
“And where did they get the money?”
“Sir, they traded a dagger. An old dagger.”
“Bosun, explain to me why you allowed the boat close to my ship.”
“It was my watch, sir, and I am afraid I did not foresee the problem in the crew talking with the locals,” Stevens interjected. “It won’t happen again.”
“Don’t try and take the blame, laddie,” said the Bosun. “I guess we should have learnt the lesson from Pahipi, when the girls came aboard. Sorry, boss, but it’s something new for us to learn. Different ways we need to get used to and prepare for them. There are so many people. We are used to boats being impossible to get out to the ship, while here you can’t keep the bastards away. Everybody trying to sell you something.” She decided the Captain didn’t need to know about the girl Little smuggled up from one of the boats.
Brian came into the Captain’s cabin, face drawn and grave. “There is worse, sir. All the Pahippians and some of the kai Viti are down sick. Pat and Suzanne are with them now. It seems one of the bum boats sold fruit and they couldn’t resist it.”
The Captain ran his hand through his hair. “They don’t even understand money. How in hell did they pay for it?”
“Ah, they dived for them, sir,” said Brian trying to be circumspect.
“Dived for them? From the ship? Well, so what? How did they pay for them?”