Caliphate полностью

"Oh, stop it, you. At least they'll be young, strong and virile, with normal urges, and not grotesque, smelly, perverted old men. Now get up, lazy bones, and start making yourself gorgeous. There's money to be made and fun to be had."

"I don't want to have any 'fun.' The money, on the other hand . . . "

"Exactly!" Ling said. "Now pull on a robe and let's get down to Costuming and Jewelry before all the nice things are taken."

Sometimes Petra thought she could see elaborate paintings under the plain, off-white of the walls. Certainly the gilt, the blue and purple columns of what some of the staff still called "the Throne Room," suggested that the original builder—of whom Petra knew precisely nothing—had intended something very elaborate. Yet the masters insisted on "no graven images," and took this to include paintings of living creatures. She understood that if there ever had been paintings on the walls, these would have been covered up or destroyed.

Hurrying with Ling along one covered and arched walkway, framed by blue columns on one side and walls covered with erratic geometric shapes on the other, Petra stopped for a moment to gaze down at the "Throne Room."

It's makes no sense . . . it was not part of the builder's design . . . that this room should be only color. It calls out for something . . . more . . . something alive.

"Hurry, silly!" Ling demanded, impatiently.

Most of the girls were still asleep from the night's revelries. Of those who were awake, not all had heard of the arrival of a large party of janissaries. Of those who had heard, not all cared. Of those who cared, none had quite the fire of Ling.

She raced through Costuming and Jewelry, pulling this dress from that rack, that dress from this. Some she held up to herself. Still others, more others, actually, she sized and colored to Petra. For herself, Ling settled on a simple but painstakingly embroidered black silk, thigh-length tunic, the embroidery being of golden dragons and silvery phoenixes. Ling had learned over the years to accentuate her exoticism. The little voice in her head, the one she never told anyone about, pushed her in that direction as well. Ling sometimes wondered about the double standard the masters showed regularly: paintings on walls of real things were right out for them; embroideries of mythical beings for infidels were just fine.

Petra though . . . she was classic and only classic, in Ling's opinion, would do. For the Nazrani slave, Ling selected an ankle-length gown of white, crumply material, mostly silk as well, cut in the Empire fashion (the French Empire, not the American). The gown was high- waisted, with a golden belt just under the breasts. Those the gown left half-exposed, covering only the nipples and—were a girl a bit daring—not necessarily all of them.

"Try it on! Try it on!" Ling urged. "I've wanted to see you in this for ages."

Once satisfied with the fit of Petra's gown, Ling dragged her to Jewelry. There she selected pearls—earrings and necklace both—for herself, and golden pendants for Petra. Unsatisfied with just the pendants, however, Ling insisted that the slave managing the Jewelry department also produce a pair of gold torques for Petra's upper arms. For her necklace Petra could continue to wear the crucifix she always did.

"Classic," Ling said when Petra had donned both gown and gold. "Now take it all off and change back. We have time to make love before everything is ready and before we have to report to Cosmetics and Hairdressing—yes, I've already made us appointments. And you're too beautiful for me not to show my appreciation for it."

Honsvang, Province of Baya, 22 Sha'ban, 1536 AH

(18 June, 2112)

"Really, Abdul Rahman," Rustam said, "this is just too much. Sure, it's beautiful but when I think of the cost—"

"Oh, be still," the senior janissary trainer said. "The boys have done well. They deserve this bounty. Soon enough they'll be going off to different schools . . . or to face the infidels across the English Channel, or the Russian border or the Balkan Front. There'll be little enough beauty there. Let them enjoy."

"But the expense . . . "

"Twenty score gold dinar for three days of carousing? Seems fair to me."

"But . . . "

"You didn't bitch when Captain Masood brought you and your mates here, Rustam."

The junior sniffed. "That was different."

Abdul Rahman laughed aloud, the sound echoing off the rocky steeps surrounding. "Oh, yes, of course. Then it was your dick getting wet. I see it all clearly now. That makes all the difference in the world. You are absolutely right, Rustam. Go fetch the busses. We're heading back to the barracks . . . "