"Where is the stone in her nose to show the status of her husband?"
"We come from another land, and we have a different custom." Miro barked a laugh. "But whatever the highest status is, then that's what she would have."
"I am sorry," the soldier said. He nodded to his fellows, and Amber was led away.
Miro watched as his wife was taken from him.
He wondered why he'd brought her along on this foolish quest.
23
MIRO paced the length of his cell, staring at the windowless walls and thinking dark thoughts. He supposed it wasn't fair to think of his chambers as a cell; it was the size of the small house he'd lived in with Ella and Brandon back in Sarostar, and had a sleeping chamber, a toilet chamber, and a room with a table and chairs where he took his meals. Yet, he was a prisoner, so it was a cell.
He'd been fed an evening meal of dumplings and broth and then slept, a long sleep of exhaustion after which he felt like a new man. In the morning he was given another meal, this time of tart creamy cheese and fruit. His midday meal consisted of dark bread and heavily-spiced soup.
Miro hadn't eaten so well since leaving Altura.
With nothing better to do, he now awaited his evening meal. He looked at the panelled wooden door; it was heavy and opened inwards. Until he found out what these people intended to do with him, there was no use trying to break free.
Miro heard the jangle of a key and the door opened on well-oiled hinges. Two guards beckoned to Miro, and he followed them out. They weren't here to give him his evening meal.
Miro was once more taken to the bathing house, where he was again washed and oiled. This time the white garments were woven with golden thread, as fine as anything made in the Empire.
"What about my wife?" Miro asked a guard.
"She is well, barbarian," the soldier said.
"Where am I being taken?"
"You are being taken to the Emir."
Miro followed the guards along covered walkways and through tiled halls. He quickly became lost but couldn't help but gape at the splendour of the palace.
Passing a series of marble columns he felt soft carpet under his feet, shimmering silk material reflecting the light of flickering torches. Every column bore a torch in a sconce, and not a single torch was unlit.
It was perhaps an hour past sundown, and Miro again heard the strange warbling music, though far away this time. He passed a room where a group of women ate seated in a circle, but he returned his attention to the path when one of his guards squeezed his arm and frowned.
Miro finally reached an expansive chamber where carpets and cushions lay spaced around low tables. Light sparkled from a hanging chandelier, the glow of a hundred candles flickering through crystalline shards. Columns supported the high ceiling, while on all sides the chamber was open to the air, affording an unparalleled view of the city and harbour below.
Miro looked again at his guards, examining them as a group under good light. They had the look of the free cities, with their stocky builds and round faces, but they also had something of the swarthiness of the Hazarans, along with the desert tribes' passion for elaborate custom and opulent surrounds. Who were these people? Long ago, had there been contact between these people and those in the Empire's west?
Miro scanned the chamber that could easily accommodate several hundred men, only seeing two. The closest was a man who could only be a seneschal, standing still and holding a tall pole topped with gold. In the distance, a second man ignored the newcomers as he gazed out at the harbour.
The seneschal lifted the pole and let it fall to the ground, the thump echoing throughout the chamber.
"Kneel," the seneschal called. "You are in the presence of greatness."
Miro was pushed down to his knees by his guards, who then followed suit. The soldiers bowed their heads to the floor, before returning to their feet. Miro was pulled up.
The man in the distance turned and came forward, his steps smooth and graceful. He wore a long flowing robe of crimson silk, held at the waist with a belt of gold. As he came closer, Miro saw he had grey in his trimmed beard and silver in his black hair, with a sharp patrician nose and smoky dark eyes. He had a gold earring in one ear and wore a jewelled dagger at his belt.
"The Ruler of the Seas, the Protector of Veldria and the Bearer of the Seal, Emir Volkan," the seneschal announced, clapping his staff to the floor with a boom.
The soldiers again prostrated themselves, leaving Miro standing. Miro placed his fingers over his heart, and touched his lips and then his forehead in the Alturan manner.
"Ah," the Emir said, his eyes lighting up when he saw Miro's movements. "So, barbarian, you are familiar with our customs."
"My customs, not yours," Miro said.
The Emir frowned. "You're not from the Crown Islands in the west, I can see that. Nor from Gokan, that much is clear. You're not from Narea, that's certain. Nor are you from Oltara, or Muttara."