The Marutians and Perest-Avani seemed silently captivated, and the group of Talafan noblewomen giggled and gasped their way through the performances. Several times when I glanced over, one of the ladies looked back in apparent curiosity. More disconcertingly, I caught the escort staring at me, eyes gleaming with unexplained hostility.
The solo dances were last, performed with a ribbon in each hand, dancers attempting to keep themselves and the whipping, flying fabric in constant flowing motion across the stage. The best was a powerful woman with bloodred ribbons, and the story told in her dance was brutally resonant. The deep silence of the arena as she danced, and for several full breaths after it ended, was a testament to her performance.
The applause after the stunned silence was the loudest yet, including within the room; Ectar and Kokush both stood, clapping hard, and so did the women, and the roaring and pounding of hands and feet in the seating below and around our area made the whole place shake faintly. Amidst all that tumult, a harsh coughing sounded a few times before I noticed and turned to see who was struggling with such an unpleasant raspy hack.
It was the Talafan ladies’ chaperone, and one look was enough. He was not coughing. The sound had all but gone: he was red-faced and gasping for breath. “Help!” I shouted, and sprang to my feet. “That man is choking!”
I had cried out in Sjon; by the time I realized, I was already at the chaperone’s side. Someone screamed. His flushed skin was turning bluish pale around the lips. One hand clawed at his throat, pulling at the skin and the high neck of his nihep, leaving deep gouges; the other flailed uselessly. Guards at either corner of the room raced in as if propelled but then stumbled to an awkward, almost comical, halt, evidently unsure what to do. One of the ladies emitted little high-pitched scream-squeaks, like a terrified animal, and another was crying noisily in panicked gulps. Ectar and Kokush had both risen from their seats but were staring transfixed, unmoving.
“He is choking,” I shouted again, this time in the right language, and when no one responded with anything but open-mouthed stares, I threw up my hands, stepped behind the man, and hit him hard between the shoulder blades with a flat hand.
He spasmed, staggering forward, but nothing dislodged and he continued to grope and gasp. One of the guards had made as if to grab me when I’d struck the chaperone but now dropped back, looking anxiously at his colleague. Everyone was staring. “Lean forward,” I told the chaperone firmly. I hit him again, then a third time, and on the fourth slap a projectile finally broke free and bounced down between the benches.
The man’s legs sagged as if the nut obstructing his airway had also been holding him upright. Now, at last, the guards and servants rushed in to assist. Breathing heavily, I stepped out of their way. But the chaperone shoved them back furiously and staggered to a bench to sit alone.
“I am well, I am well,” he snapped as a servant tried to offer him water.
“He will be fine. He just needs some space to breathe,” I suggested to the servant, and she gave me an odd look, as if surprised to be addressed directly—or perhaps simply surprised to be addressed politely. I glanced around at the room full of shocked faces. The westerners were whispering to one another, and most of the Talafan women had sunk to their own benches, obviously distressed. Ectar and Kokush looked pale and embarrassed. I struggled to believe they had never seen a person choking before—even if they’d had no contact with children, adults eating at parties were equally talented at attracting this particular disaster.
The chaperone glared at me. “I am fine. It was this … this ridiculous food.” He kicked at the spilled nuts scattered around beneath his feet. Apparently, he had more than one thing in common with a toddler. A servant, kneeling, swept up the mess with her hands. I crouched to help her.
“My lady, please, no, no, I will do this!” She looked thoroughly alarmed, her hands shaking as she half-shooed me away, somehow combining insistence with deference. As I started to stand I noticed under the bench what looked like a discarded toy poppet, about as big as my forearm. Thinking it must be a toy dropped by some child, I was about to retrieve it when Ectar’s paralysis finally lifted, and he swooped in to help me to my feet with a trembling grip.
“Thank our holy God for the Credola Kalina,” he announced to the room, brandishing me like a trophy.
“She saved his life,” one of the ladies said in a carrying whisper. One of the Marutian Dukes raised his cup in my direction with a faint smile, and the High Priestess whispered in her attendant’s ear, but her veiled face was turned toward me. The pretty woman who had smiled at me earlier beamed again, and I felt my cheeks warm under all the sudden regard.
The man did not look thankful. Once he had recovered his breath and his composure, he stood, nodded stiffly in my general direction without making eye contact, and returned to his post with the women as if nothing had happened.
“Come, sit,” Ectar said, and, somewhat nonplussed, I returned to the bench. We had missed several routines and the incident had left me disconcerted, but everyone else seemed to find the man’s strange behavior unremarkable. I glanced at him a few times but he kept his back to us.
“Do not be troubled,” Ectar said in a lowered voice, speaking in Sjon. His accent had improved. “His manners are … wanting. I am sorry he does you dishonor. He was lucky you are here.”
I replied in an equally quiet voice, though taking care to keep my tone light. “And who is my brusque friend?”
Kokush’s mouth made a thin line and he surprised me by joining the conversation in Sjon. “Brother Lu is the Emperor’s own spiritual adviser, Credola, sent to accompany the Princesses and the ladies, to provide guidance and counsel.”
Ectar turned a look on Lu that was, for a Talafan, unsubtle in its dislike. “The Church was concerned about Princess Zhafi. She is unmarried, you know, and my grandfather is protective of her. Her ladies are very sheltered and their dignity and purity are very important to the Church. Brother Lu is charged with ensuring they are not, ah, tainted by the…” He trailed off, perhaps struggling to find the right words in our language, or perhaps simply unable to come up with a polite euphemism.
“The terrible temptations of our city?” I filled in, struggling between amusement and pity. I knew something of the powerful Talafan religion and its views on things Sjons would regard as basic freedoms of a civilized society. If mere exposure to Silasta was a danger to adult women, how could a single man’s presence—however disapproving—offset its apparent wickedness? But how sad for those poor women.
Ectar patted my arm again, still leaning across Kokush, apparently oblivious to the other man’s irritation. “Do not concern yourself, Credola. There are many rules for the ladies of the Young Empress’s court, it is very … uh … complicated. I apologize again for the rudeness, and pray you do not take it to heart.” An anxious note had crept into his voice and I smiled, reassuring him.
“I won’t,” I said, then switched back to Talafan, and a normal volume, forcing my attention and theirs back to the dancing. “Look, this is Siris. He won the crown at the Games last year.”
The remainder of the event passed without incident. “Quite remarkable,” Ectar said, shaking his head as the crowning ceremony concluded. “Extraordinary.”