The Garments of Caean

She took a deep breath, at which her head seemed to clear. There was a hubbub of talk and laughter all around her. She lifted her eyes to the bowl of the stadium and the greater bowl of Inxa beyond that, with the dusk settling all over it.

Suddenly there was a flurry far up on one of the topmost terraces, and what she took to be a flock of birds exploded across the sky, soaring and swooping towards the stadium. Only when they made ready to land on the moss did they become distinguishable as human beings wearing various types of bird costume – including the girl in the flimsy Amara had noted earlier.

I should have anticipated it, she told herself wryly. Personal antigrav units.

The bird-people alighted all over the stadium. A flamboyantly plumed flier, wearing on his head a gilded balzo which completed his likeness to a scintillating, strutting cock, came striding towards the banqueting table. Caldersk, evidently recognizing him as a messenger, stepped forward and they spoke briefly.

‘Apparently you are not the only Ziodeans in Inxa,’ he said when he returned to his guests. ‘Two others currently living here have arrived to join the party. Perhaps you would like to meet them.’

‘Do you get many of our expatriates in Caean?’ Second Officer Borg asked in some surprise.

‘Very few, but that is probably because there is so little traffic between the Arm and the Cluster.’

‘And not because of the difficulties they would find in making out in Caean?’ Estru put in.

‘Oh no. It is an easy matter to live here. No one is ever made to feel out of place, however eccentric.’

‘Unless –’ Amara tittered, then caught herself before mentioning the forbidden subject again.

The newcomers came stepping diffidently through the throng. One was of medium height and slightly pudgy. He wore what seemed to her a perfectly ordinary conventional suit which would have passed without notice even back in Ziode. His companion was taller and slimmer, rather handsome in a lean, sardonic sort of way, his apparel more fetching: a brocaded lavender frock-coat, matched by a blue satin Bourbon hat trimmed with pearl fleur-de-lis. The outfit suited him perfectly.

They introduced themselves as Peder Forbarth and Realto Mast, both of Harlos. Forbarth, the pudgy one, puzzled Amara straight away. He was greeted with an inexplicable deference by both Caldersk and Trupp. Bearing an unmistakable look of authority, he yet behaved in a distant and offhand manner, keeping his gaze averted elsewhere.

The stylish Mast, however, expressed effusive pleasure at meeting his fellow-countrymen.

‘How long have you been living here?’ Amara asked him.

‘A few months.’

‘Oh? And what brings you here?’

Mast dodged the question. ‘May I ask what brings you here? Is this an official visit?’

She nodded dubiously, after a sidelong glance at Caldersk. ‘A fact-finding tour.’

‘Relations must have improved, in that case.’

‘Possibly.’

He sidled closer. ‘Perhaps I could be of some help. Not many people have lived right in the middle of Caeanic society.’

Amara could not disguise her suspicion of anyone who chose to live among foreigners. ‘What are you looking for, passage home?’ she said in loud, challenging voice. ‘Or are you wanted by the law?’

Mast looked uncomfortable, then uttered a feigning laugh. Caldersk, still giving no indication as to whether he understood their conversation, which had been in Ziodean, moved in. ‘You are still governed by a mistrustful, angry mood, dear lady. I wish you would take some pleasure in the evening. Come, this will soon help you relax.’

He poured her a large goblet of the fizzy yellow liquid and handed it to her. Amara sniffed it suspiciously, and made to put it down.

‘It won’t do you any harm,’ Peder Forbarth said in a disinterested voice, still not looking her way. ‘It is a mild stimulant, that is all, similar to alcohol. Drink it.’

She quaffed the goblet. The liquid tasted sweet and delicious.

An effervescent, warm sensation started up in her stomach. What the hell, she thought.

Already she felt better.

She turned to Peder. ‘And what about you? Are you looking for a job too?’

‘Oh, take no notice of him,’ Mast said lightly. ‘He’s not really Ziodean at all any more. He’s gone native.’

She tossed her head in disapproval. ‘Is that so?’ she asked Peder.

Peder smiled superciliously. ‘Yes, madam,’ he answered politely. ‘In Ziode I was a sartorialist. Here I find I am a natural Caeanic.’

‘And if there is a war, whose side will you fight on?’

Peder made no reply. He drifted away and procured for himself a drink which he sipped slowly and reflectively.

‘Frankly I would have thought it more of you,’ Amara said to Mast, eyeing his elegant frock-coat.

‘Appearances can be deceptive,’ Mast said smoothly. ‘I am Ziodean to the core. But I have never been anything of a mezzak – excuse me, that’s a Caeanic word.’

‘You speak the language well?’