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"A few words, Captain," he said.
"Ah-" Alston cleared her throat, and Swindapa and Isketerol jumped and started at the amplified sound. "It's all right," she said, flicking the thing off for a second.
Then: "We're all happy to be back, and back with the food the island needed. The trip was… interesting… and there'll be a report, film, and photographs handed out. We accomplished our mission, and we'll probably be able to trade in Britain again later this year. The crew of the Eagle have worked very hard for the community, and in their name I'm honored to accept your thanks." She paused. "That's all. Thank you again."
"Short but to the point," Cofflin murmured, and took the microphone from her. "Three cheers for Captain Alston and the Eagle!"
At least nobody can see me blush, Alston thought as she endured it.
Cofflin led the way. Trestle tables had been set up on Main Street, and from the looks of it Nantucket's abundant cooks had been at work. Mostly seafood, of course, but well prepared, and a surprising abundance of poultry, roast goose and duck, and big plump birds that looked a little like chickens but weren't. They'd raided the accumulated stores, too; there was even a butter sculpture of the Eagle. Sitting in crisp brown glory with an apple in its mouth was proof of why Cofflin had been so considerate in getting the first load of pigs off the Eagle via the tug; glazed with the honey that had also been a part of the cargo, it waited on a bed of rice. Alston shrugged with a rueful chuckle, sat next to the chief, and poured herself a glass of wine-the island's own vintage, she noticed. Cadets and crew were already pouring ashore and filling the tables below her, interspersed with the townsfolk.
"Thanks-my boys and girls deserve a blowout," she said to Cofflin.
"They and the town," Cofflin said, sharpening a carving knife and falling to.
"What's this?" she added, looking at a bowl surrounded with crackers, full of a jellylike substance. Daubed on a cracker, it had a creamy, salty taste. "Tastes interestin'… some sort of seafood?"
"Caviar," Cofflin said. "It's sturgeon-spawning time over on the mainland. We sent some boats to the mouth of the Co
Alston looked and gave a silent whistle. "Now, that's a big fish." The section sitting in the middle of one of the trestle tables was three feet thick and ten long, resting on a base of steamed seaweed.
"Half a ton," Cofflin said, smiling a little. "We had to harpoon it, and nearly lost the first boat that tried. Things've been a bit… hairy here at times. It's a good idea to give everyone some time off, throw a party, celebrate-and you've given us a fair bit to celebrate."
"Starting with this most excellent pig," she said, loading her plate; the mashed potatoes were the instant type, but edible. "Pass those drumsticks too, please… Ms. Swindapa, Mr. Isketerol, Mr. Jared Cofflin, our chief executive officer."
Hell, I deserve a holiday, she thought, as the two Bronze Agers leaned across her to shake hands with him. And here's everything necessary. Of attainable things, she thought, looking wistfully at a young man and woman freed of the Eagle's rule on Public Displays of Affection and holding hands as they ate. It would be nice to have someone myself. Or even just to get laid.
Isketerol of Tartessos sipped at the odd-tasting, bubbly beer and watched silently as the feast wound down into the night. He'd left the public square when most of the others did, finding his way to this half-underground tavern in the basement of another of the strange, magnificent houses; he could tell What it was, from the sounds and scents making their way out the door. He sounded out the words written on the wooden sign above.
Brotherhood of Thieves. The sign pictured a man with short bullhorns on his head, holding a small chained woman on one hand and a sack on the other. A god of trade, perhaps? But it was a Brotherhood of Thieves…
His eyebrows rose at the thought. The Amurrukan seemed like far too orderly a folk to have an open thieves' den flaunting itself here in this impossibly clean city… but he was confident enough of what he'd read. His English was as good as his Egyptian now, and he'd spent many months, in visits over the years, to learn that.
"Brotherhood of Thieves," he sounded out aloud, and looked around. This street was one of the ones with the strange smooth dark substance coating it, not the honest cobblestones of Main Street. The buildings were mostly wood, covered in shingles and white or gray paint; some had little courtyard gardens. He could see the spire of a temple… no, they called it a church… not far away. Large trees grew on either side of the street, which was broad-enough for two loaded wagons to pass abreast, at least. The temple tower had another one of the clocks in it. He shuddered. Cutting away your life, second by second, the way the Crone's knife did at the last when she put you in the Cauldron. Seconds, he thought. Only the Amurrukan would divide time up into pieces like that, like a cook dicing onions for soup.
"A name for every street, and a number on every house," he muttered to himself.
Oh, he could see how useful that would be, but it was a bit daunting. What was really useful was the counting system. It had taken him two days of questioning-driving Arnstein and his woman almost insane-before it sank in that there was some use in a symbol for nothing. Humiliating, that the Earth Folk slave girl had grasped it earlier. He scowled slightly. It would be more convenient if the bitch weren't along, or if she'd been too stupid to learn a new language. Scant hope of that; the Star Priest families bred for wit.
He mustered his courage and walked through the door; there was a short corridor, two more doors with the symbols for the wonderful better-than-Cretan interior latrines the Amurrukan had (but why separate ones for men and women?), and a half-door to the left where the taproom was.
Even before William Walker waved him over to a table it was reassuring. After so much that was alien, things so strange that he had to force his eyes to see them, this was only middling unsettling. The lights on the walls came from lamps of wonderful design, glass and bronze, but they burned with honest flame-he recognized the smell of whale oil. So did the candles in more glass holders on the tables. There was a fire of wood in a tiny alcove set into the wall, with an opening above to take away the smoke through a brick tu
He slid onto the bench across from Walker. The Amurrukan had his arm around the shoulders of a girl, wonderfully and scandalously dressed in nothing but a halter for her breasts and short breeks tight enough to show the shape of her mound. Her jewelry was strange, but would have bought a good-sized farm in Tartessos, although her hands were work-roughened. She had long black hair, skin the color of old ivory, a tiny nose, and eyes that seemed to tilt up at the corners, lovely in an exotic way. The one on his bench was even prettier, nicely plump, dark-haired and colored like an Egyptian herself. Need stirred. It had been a long time since they left the White Isle, and the Amurru-kan had not allowed him to bring a servant.
Careful, careful, he told himself. The easiest way to get yourself into killing trouble in a strange land was over women, if you didn't know the customs. It wasn't enough to know formal laws, you had to understand the ways those were bent or changed by unspoken taboo. These probably weren't harlots and certainly weren't slaves; the Amurru-kan had none, none at all. He decided to think of them as young priestesses of the Grain Goddess, to be courted.