Free Of Machines & Magics by Adele Abbot Page B

raised so they could see inside where people—the villagers, they assumed—were reclining on silk cushions and thick carpets. Tall golden jugs stood everywhere and from these the villagers poured clear liquid into enameled goblets. They drank from their cups and ate fruits and sweetmeats from beaten gold plates. Men gazed at dark-eyed women and smiled, the dark eyed women smiled back and licked their red lips in anticipation.
    So engrossed in each other were they, that no one seemed to notice the travelers until they stood between the sun and the nearer of the village folk.
    “A good day to you all,” Calistrope greeted them. Some nodded, a few replied with murmured words, most turned their gaze in other directions and ignored the newcomers. The sun vanished but even so, darkness did not come at once as was the case with eclipses or storm clouds.
    “Perhaps I should bid you a good evening, for that is what it seems to be.” And even less interest was shown.
    Roli asked, “Why don’t we just join them? There seems to be plenty of food and drink here. Enough and to spare.”
    “There is the philosophy of a street thief,” Calistrope said to Ponderos. “Taking without asking.”
    “In this case, I think Roli has the right of it. No one here seems capable of caring one way or the other.”
    Roli had found a tray of cups and passed three of them to his comrades. He took up a jug and filled them with an effervescing liquor which smelled of apricots and lemons.
    They drank. It was the most refreshing draught any of them had ever tasted. As they drank, a moon rose in the darkened sky—a silver boat against a velvet sea sparkling with individual snow crystals. They became drowsy. They sat, overcome by a delicious languor which could only be dispelled by more of the delicious liquid.
    Those who reclined closest to them began to notice them and to complement them on their choice of garments. Calistrope was dressed in a blue silk gown belted at the waist with a jeweled tie which supported a curled sheath holding a dagger. Ponderos was similarly clothed though the color was peach and a vast round turban covered his bald head with a chrome yellow feather raised to one side. Calistrope touched his own head to find that he was also wearing a turban. He took it off to look at it—blue to match his coat though smaller and less enthusiastic than Ponderos’. A tuft of crimson bristles sprang from a diamond clasp which held the folds together. Calistrope replaced it and looked to see how Roli was accoutered but Roli was nowhere to be seen.
    Calistrope shrugged. What did it matter? He poured another cup of sherbet and investigated a plate heaped with sweet pastries.
    “They are good? You like them?” asked someone, a female someone whose lips were so close to his ear that her breath stirred his hair.
    He leaned back a little and turned. “Oh yes. Yes thank you,” he said. The woman was beautiful, her pale features set off by a cap of hair as black as the night above. Her skin was as white as alabaster almost everywhere, he noted, for she wore a few wisps of gauze and save for a cluster of gold rings on either hand, little else.
    His pastry broke in half and crumbs fell all over his new companion’s knees. Calistrope brushed rather ineffectually at the debris. “I’m terribly sorry.”
    She looked steadily into his eyes and took his hand. “That’s quite all right. Please, do it again.” And she brushed his fingertips across her knees again. She asked temptingly, “Should we find somewhere alone?”
    Calistrope considered her suggestion carefully, for several moments—long enough to swallow nervously, just a little nervously; well—hardly nervous at all, really; he decided. “An excellent suggestion.”
    He got to his feet and helped the woman up. Calistrope would have told Ponderos he intended to be back soon but like Roli, Ponderos was no longer there either.
    The hours of the sorcerous evening passed in delights that