Maev might have been in her early forties, still strikingly beautiful, with a long, pale, unlined face, pale blue eyes and yellow hair, hanging in long braids. For a blonde without the aid of cosmetics, she had remarkably red lips.
King Ailill was a less impressive figure than his consort, some inches shorter, fat and paunchy, with small close-set eyes constantly moving and a straggly pepper-and-salt beard. He seemed unable to keep his fingers still. An ulcertype, thought Shea; would be a chain smoker if tobacco existed in this part of the space-time continuum.
A young man in a blue kilt, wearing a silver-hilted shortsword over a tunic embroidered with gold thread, seemed to be acting as usher to make sure that nobody got to the royal couple out of turn. He spotted the newcomers at once, and worked his way toward them.
«Will you be seeking an audience, or have you come merely to look at the greatest King inIreland?» he asked. His eyes ran appreciatively over Belphebe’s contours.
Shea identified himself, adding, «We have come to pay our respects to the King and Queen. ah.»
«Mainemac Aililla. Mainemo Epert,» said the young man.
This would be one of the numerous sons of Ailill and Maev, who had all been given the same name. But he stood in their path without moving.
«Can we speak to them?» Shea said.
Mainemo Epert put back his head and looked down an aristocratic nose. «Since you are foreigners, youare evidently not knowing that it is the custom in Connacht to have a present for the man who brings you before a King. But I will be forgiving your ignorance.» He smiled a charming smile.
Shea glanced at Belphebe and she looked back in dismay. Their total possessions consisted of what they stood in. «But we have to see them,» he said. «It may be as important to them as to us.»