Dancing With Bears - Michael Swanwick [144]
Down on the street below, the duke saw an artillery crew swarming about their piece. They were as cunningly detailed as the very best of toy soldiers and he loved them as fully and uncritically as a little boy would have. There were tiny plumes on their shakos and all-but-invisible brass buttons on their jackets. They were tamping down powder and ball while their commander gestured with a sword that was the merest glint of reflected moonlight.
Then his heart failed. In the instant before the world went dark, the Duke of Muscovy saw a puff of white smoke at the mouth of the cannon.
Dying, he regretted that he would never know what came next.
The first thing Arkady heard upon regaining consciousness was one of the Pearls saying, “Well, that was pleasant. What shall we do next?”
He was, Arkady realized, lying on his back, with his trousers around his ankles. One of his shoes was gone, as were his shirt and jacket, but the helmet was still upon his head. Every muscle in his body ached as if he had been beaten with a cudgel. Further, he was utterly and completely exhausted. He could not so much as lift a finger. He had not the energy even to speak. Nor could he bring himself to open his eyes. Worst of all, he had no memory of whatever it was these six perfect Daughters of Ishtar had just done to him.
“I want to see the face of our bridegroom,” Aetheria said. (He recognized that dulcet voice which he had once worshipped, and which still tugged at his heart.) His head shook from side to side as she tugged and tugged, before finally undoing the chin-strap.
There was a brief, astonished silence.
“It’s Arkady!” somebody exclaimed. There was a scuffling noise as the Pearls gathered around his prone body, looking down.
Strangely enough, none of them died. Evidently the mental commands implanted in them by the Caliph’s technicians were not going to kick in. They had enjoyed sex (or so they had thought) with the Duke of Muscovy, and that act had freed them of their psychic shackles. Leaving them free to do whatever they wanted with whomever they wished, as was the birthright of women everywhere.
“But why was he wearing a crown?”
“And carrying a scepter?”
“Look. Here in the pockets of his jacket: precious stones, jewelry, gold nuggets.”
“He has become a thief!” Aetheria cried.
“That is sort of romantic,” another Pearl said doubtfully.
“Not romantic enough.”
“Anything less than suicide is an insult, in my opinion.”
“At any rate, these treasures belong to the Russian people and the State of Muscovy, so he cannot keep them,” Aetheria said. “Look at this cunning jeweled egg! We can’t simply leave him here to walk away with them.”
“There’s a chest over there; place all these things in it. When the Neanderthals return, we can have some of them stand guard over it for the duke.”
Somebody coughed. “Um…we’re back,” said a male voice and, almost simultaneously, another said, “We won the fight.”
The Pearls shrieked.
“Cover your eyes, we’re all disheveled!”
“Don’t look.”
“Where are my clothes?”
Upon which, cursing his eyes for so steadfastly refusing to open, Arkady felt himself falling back into oblivion.
Unhurriedly, Anya Pepsicolova dressed. When she had finished tying her shoes, she straightened and looked down on Darger’s naked body for a long, still moment. Darger stared warily back at her, clearly alarmed by the expression on her blood-caked face, but equally clearly still thinking, still scheming. Perhaps she should shave off all his hair, from head to foot, as well? That would bring a neat symmetry to her long, difficult journey through the underworld. She considered the possibility seriously, but then decided against it. Because, really, she’d done enough.
Aloud, she said, “There. That’s taken care of.”
“The pleasure was all mine,” Darger said with unctuous insincerity. But then, under the circumstances—post-coital and still bound hand and foot to the gurney—he was not exactly under oath. “So. Where, if I may ask, have you been all this time?”
“Oh, out and about.” Pepsicolova tugged at her lapels