the gate. “You needn’t stand
right there
, Declarant.”
“Of course,” he mumbled, his eyes still flicking around hungrily, taking it all in.
“It’s been a while since you’ve seen anyplace new,” she observed, with some degree of sympathy.
“Indeed,” he said, nodding absently. “One forgets the sensation. The overwhelmingness of it. Without realizing, one forgets how to
be
overwhelmed.”
His gaze finally came to rest on her face, finding the expression there amused. This displeased him. “Is it intentional, Highness, to distract me from the very problem I’m summoned to solve? Changes of scene undermine one’s concentration. If your desire is to frustrate me, I admit you’ve succeeded.”
“Oh, hush.”
“De Towaji?” another voice, a man’s, said. Bruno turned, saw four strangers clustered at the fax gate now. Strangers, yes; he was quite sure he recognized none of them. The man who’d spoken was tall and thin, dressed head to toe in crimson, and—if Bruno dared think it—possessed of the sort of shallow, almost effeminate beauty he generally associated with actors and politicians. Two of his associates were female, swathed respectively in yellow and green velour dresses that seemed little more than long, endlessly winding scarves. The third, a portly man in indigo, was looking wide-eyed at Bruno.
“De Towaji,” he echoed.
Oh, bother.
“Gentlemen,” Bruno said, bowing slightly. Then, with greater conviction, “Ladies.”
The ladies eyed him skeptically, this clownish figure late of the wilderness.
“My God,” the indigo man exclaimed. “Her Majesty went and got you, didn’t she?”
And the woman in green said, “You’re here to fix the Ring Collapsiter.”
And the crimson man, at a loss but apparently feeling the need to say something, added, “Er, that’s quite a handsome jacket!”
“Doctors,” Tamra said, placing a hand on Bruno’s back, “allow me to present Declarant Bruno de Towaji.”
“Pleased,” the crimson man piped.
“To meet you,” the woman in green finished, half apologetically, touching the crimson man lightly on the hand. He was, Bruno saw at once, her husband, whose sentences she was well accustomed to finishing. The love and shyness and exasperation between them radiated out in invisible rays, like infrared. Warming.
The indigo man simply nodded.
Well, they made Bruno feel less clownish, at any rate. Or in better company with his clownishness, perhaps. Nice to know he wasn’t the only awkward chap in the worlds.
Tamra looked at him sidelong and said, “Doctors Shum and Doctors Theotakos, of Elysium province.” She paused, then added, “Mars.”
And here were court nuances aplenty: Her Majesty had given these people’s titles and last names, but not their firsts, meaning she knew them, but not well. And she’d made a point of emphasizing Bruno’s rank over theirs; the Queendom’s educational system being by far the best humanity had ever known, “Doctor” was very nearly no title at all. There were more subtle levels in the exchange as well, as invisible and inevitable as the basalt pastry layers beneath Maxwell Montes’ outermost surface. That Bruno couldn’t parse them—and wouldn’t even if he knew how—didn’t mean their presence had escaped him. This much he knew: that these Martians had been smartly, artfully dressed down, acknowledged for their value but instructed in no uncertain terms to keep their distance.
It was perhaps a necessary gesture, reflexive, else Her Majesty would be mobbed at all times with admirers. Such was her job, after all: to be admired. But it was still a snotty thing to do, this enforced distance, and Bruno felt an instant sympathy for its victims.
“I am very pleased to meet you all,” he said sincerely, realizing that these were, in fact, the first people he’d met in five or six years. He bowed again, and felt a friendly smile creeping onto his face. “We’ll talk later, if you
right there
, Declarant.”
“Of course,” he mumbled, his eyes still flicking around hungrily, taking it all in.
“It’s been a while since you’ve seen anyplace new,” she observed, with some degree of sympathy.
“Indeed,” he said, nodding absently. “One forgets the sensation. The overwhelmingness of it. Without realizing, one forgets how to
be
overwhelmed.”
His gaze finally came to rest on her face, finding the expression there amused. This displeased him. “Is it intentional, Highness, to distract me from the very problem I’m summoned to solve? Changes of scene undermine one’s concentration. If your desire is to frustrate me, I admit you’ve succeeded.”
“Oh, hush.”
“De Towaji?” another voice, a man’s, said. Bruno turned, saw four strangers clustered at the fax gate now. Strangers, yes; he was quite sure he recognized none of them. The man who’d spoken was tall and thin, dressed head to toe in crimson, and—if Bruno dared think it—possessed of the sort of shallow, almost effeminate beauty he generally associated with actors and politicians. Two of his associates were female, swathed respectively in yellow and green velour dresses that seemed little more than long, endlessly winding scarves. The third, a portly man in indigo, was looking wide-eyed at Bruno.
“De Towaji,” he echoed.
Oh, bother.
“Gentlemen,” Bruno said, bowing slightly. Then, with greater conviction, “Ladies.”
The ladies eyed him skeptically, this clownish figure late of the wilderness.
“My God,” the indigo man exclaimed. “Her Majesty went and got you, didn’t she?”
And the woman in green said, “You’re here to fix the Ring Collapsiter.”
And the crimson man, at a loss but apparently feeling the need to say something, added, “Er, that’s quite a handsome jacket!”
“Doctors,” Tamra said, placing a hand on Bruno’s back, “allow me to present Declarant Bruno de Towaji.”
“Pleased,” the crimson man piped.
“To meet you,” the woman in green finished, half apologetically, touching the crimson man lightly on the hand. He was, Bruno saw at once, her husband, whose sentences she was well accustomed to finishing. The love and shyness and exasperation between them radiated out in invisible rays, like infrared. Warming.
The indigo man simply nodded.
Well, they made Bruno feel less clownish, at any rate. Or in better company with his clownishness, perhaps. Nice to know he wasn’t the only awkward chap in the worlds.
Tamra looked at him sidelong and said, “Doctors Shum and Doctors Theotakos, of Elysium province.” She paused, then added, “Mars.”
And here were court nuances aplenty: Her Majesty had given these people’s titles and last names, but not their firsts, meaning she knew them, but not well. And she’d made a point of emphasizing Bruno’s rank over theirs; the Queendom’s educational system being by far the best humanity had ever known, “Doctor” was very nearly no title at all. There were more subtle levels in the exchange as well, as invisible and inevitable as the basalt pastry layers beneath Maxwell Montes’ outermost surface. That Bruno couldn’t parse them—and wouldn’t even if he knew how—didn’t mean their presence had escaped him. This much he knew: that these Martians had been smartly, artfully dressed down, acknowledged for their value but instructed in no uncertain terms to keep their distance.
It was perhaps a necessary gesture, reflexive, else Her Majesty would be mobbed at all times with admirers. Such was her job, after all: to be admired. But it was still a snotty thing to do, this enforced distance, and Bruno felt an instant sympathy for its victims.
“I am very pleased to meet you all,” he said sincerely, realizing that these were, in fact, the first people he’d met in five or six years. He bowed again, and felt a friendly smile creeping onto his face. “We’ll talk later, if you
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