by Jane Baskin
“Of course, My Lord.” The bartender, seating himself stiffly. A bow from the neck to Zoren-te. The fine gold band circling her neck: telling him what he needed to know. “My Lady.” She, acknowledging his respect … somewhat imperiously. Nayan, an eyebrow.
Then the bartender, telling Nayan what he needed to know. That the young sub lord of Cha-ning spent nearly all his time in the company of the sub lord and lady of Selshay. That they were customers in this lounge most evenings. That on occasion, the two young gentlemen went out together, without the young lady. That they were amiable customers and generous with tips.
And, that they had recently left their lodgings and gone away.
Nayan, feeling his heart sink. “Do you have any idea where they went?”
“Of course not, My Lord, they wouldn’t tell someone like me. But I did see a messenger come to the young sub lord of Selshay one morning when I served in the breakfast lounge. Whatever the news, it must have been upsetting. The young lady came in directly after, and appeared to have been weeping. All three departed that very day. I believe their trunks were sent to the train station.”
“No idea at all where they went.”
“Well. I have heard – everyone’s heard. The uprising in the South recently intensified. The Lords were finally getting control of the situation. Then we heard that the rebels united in one final mass offensive. As I heard it, Selshay was directly in their path. No doubt, the sub lord was called home.”
“And Noa – the sub lord of Cha-ning went with them?”
“I can’t be certain, My Lord. But he left the same day. His trunk was with the others when the porters came to take them to the station.”
Nayan, dismissing the bartender with a very generous tip. Then: silence. Sipping his brandy with Zoren-te. Whom he could count on to let him be silent when he needed to be.
Zoren, do you think he went with them?
Her green eyes, darkening. I have no doubt whatsoever, that’s where he went.
Later, in the room. Nayan, pacing like a lion. Speaking aloud; thoughts, suddenly insufficient. “Why would he do such a thing? The sub lord was undoubtedly called back to fight. To meet the rebels’ last gasp offensive. What in all hells is Noar doing?”
Zoren-te, letting him be. Knowing these: questions without answers. Not unless the gift were fully “operational” – which it was not. Zoren’s former statement: a rush to judgment. Their talent: continuing to desert them. Enough to share thoughts; little else. So, none of Nayan’s knowing; none of his weird precognizance. No definitive answers. Not any Nayan wished to hear, in any case. Let him pace. Let him vent. Let the storm in his gut warp and weave until it ran its course.
When it finally did … Nayan, sitting down on the bed. Finally … meeting her eyes. Looking sad. Using words, instead of thoughts. “All right. Tell me what you know.”
“Selshay is one of the smaller provinces, but very rich. Practically the whole province is one giant iron mine. There are also factories that make steel for blades and guns, and a sulfur mine for gunpowder. They’re agricultural, like the bigger provinces, but just enough to feed themselves. Their main export is steel. The province is safe from attack by other provinces, since Lords of Selshay have threatened for centuries to blow their mines and factories if ever attacked. Which, of course, would cripple weapons production in other provinces. It’s protected on three sides by mountain ranges anyway. So, Selshay is very powerful in the South, despite its size. It’s closer to the pole than Vel or Darleigh, so the climate is colder. Nowhere near as cold as Cha-ning, but colder than Vel. Noar would be comfortable there.”
“But why? Why would he go?”
Deep breath. Okay. Just tell him. “Listen to me, Nayan. The southern aristocracy is a ruling class. It’s a warrior class. They fight to keep their rule over everyone else. But they also fight because it’s their way. They like it. My father and brothers loved to ride into battle. I know for a fact they raided in the North, frequently. And I – I loved the training my father gave me. I loved being a warrior.”
“Did you raid?”
“No. My father wouldn’t let me go with them. He drew the line at the possibility of my being killed.”
A sad smile from Nayan. “Just wondering. Some raiders were women. I faced one once. She knocked me out.”
An equally sad smile from Zoren-te. “It wasn’t me.”
Nayan, shaking his head, like he was clearing cobwebs out of it. “Go on. Tell me why you think Noar went with the sub lords of Selshay.”
“I know them both. They’re twins: Iskar and Iskaya, although Iskar is first born and considered the big brother. Their older brother, Innask; he’s the Lord now, I believe. I heard, just before I was taken by Noar, that their parents had been killed in some bizarre hunting accident that killed several people. Some trap explosion, or something like that. Just after Lord Selshay returned from a skirmish with rebels.
“In any case, I’ve met the twins on a number of occasions, official and social. They’re typical aristocrats. Haughty, priviledged, spoiled. Both beautiful – Iskaya’s reknowned as one of the great beauties of the South.”
“That would get Noar’s attention.”
“I can tell you right away, she wouldn’t give Noar so much as a glance if he weren’t a lord. So you can bet he’s been trading on his rank since coming here; at least since meeting them.”
“But he’s a northern lord. We’re sworn enemies.” A wry glance from Zoren-te. “Aren’t we?”
“In the big cities, things are different. Especially this city. Sauran City is the southernmost city in the North. It’s very cosmopolitan. And some people say, somewhat of a bridge between the two cultures.”
“Is that why people fawn over us just because we’re Lords? Southern culture in Sauran City?”
“Like I said, get used to it. Sauran City caters to as many southern aristocrats as northern People. Southerners consider it a favorite vacation spot. Aristocrats send many of their children here to be educated. As a matter of fact, unless I’m mistaken, Lord Iskar went to university here.”
“How old is he?”
“About the same age as Noar. Come to think of it, he even looks a bit like Noar. Big fellow, thick light hair.”
“What’s he like?”
“I told you, a typical sub lord of the South. Spoiled, entitled. Supposed to be skilled in battle. Rich. Probably feels displaced by the sudden ascension of his brother.”
Oh. A thump to the head, that.
Nayan, wondering … at last (if not understanding). Noar: no longer content to be the baby brother, the fool? Displaced, him? Nayan, reaching backward in his mind: Seren-ye. Maybe even before. His capture of Zoren-te: maybe made sense to Noar at the time, but greeted with such scorn …
My scorn. I knocked him flat when I first found out. Then our parents …
When had Noar ever felt like the best at something – at anything? Nayan, now understanding his brother’s rage over a girl as insignificant as the dim-witted Seren-ye. Gods alive, I may as well have kicked him in the teeth.
“Zoren, I think I’ve been unfair to Noar.”
“Don’t ask me to agree with you on that. I mean, it may be true, this thing between brothers. But I’ll never forgive him for capturing me. My sympathy is limited.”
Nayan, a small effort at appeasement. “But look what happened from it.” Touched her hand. Smiled.
Zoren-te, struggling not to return the smile. “Yes, I’m happy that we met. But … maybe not so happy over the manner in which we met.”
Nayan, aware of the cold breeze wafting through her heart. Slung an arm around her shoulders. A light kiss to her temple. “So what about this lord, Selshay?”
A sigh, a headshake from Zoren-te. “The bartender’s probably right. He was called home to meet the peasant advance with his brother. The twin went with him. So if Noar did too … he didn’t go to sit around Selshay Castle and romance Iskaya. He’s probably fighting for Selshay.”
Can a northern lord fight for a southern aristocrat? Against People? Nayan, struggling mightily to get his mind around the notion of his brother, his own brother, a sub lord of Cha-ning … doing any such thing.
Called and called … to his mind. That part that could just know things. But still: nothing. Had never needed his gift more. But … no. Why?
“Zoren. Do you suppose our – gift – isn’t working because there are so many people around us?”
A shrug. “It could be. Cities are clusters of people. There’s very little room for … the unique.”
“What does that mean?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I just know it’s true.”
So Nayan, having to fall back on nothing more than his logical mind. Wondering how his brother could fight for the South – if that were in fact what he was doing. Ironic, he thought. That he himself had spread the disinformation that northerners had hired out to fight in the South. Now: possibly true?
Can a man go against everything he was raised to believe?
Zoren-te: “A man can do anything. Any man can do anything. People can turn around, complete half circle, in their lives.” Look at me.
That afternoon, buying clothes more suitable to the city. Nayan: Blend in. Zoren-te: I haven’t worn anything pretty in a year.
And she: a vision in her calf-length silk dress, in the loose sheath style, jeweled embroidery over the bodice … her silk stockings and dainty shoes. Nayan, enchanted. And when they went out for dinner, something else: proud to be seen with her.
Proud to be seen with her.
This city is hypnotic. Noar … must have been utterly seduced.
The restaurant: a luxurious place, in keeping with this part of the city. Where they were fawned over by all the staff. Shown to the finest table. Addressed as “My Lord” and “My Lady.” Until Nayan felt mildly nauseated.
Zoren-te, taking it in stride. Used to it. A southern lady, for most of her young life. And … laughing at Nayan. “Come on now, love. Can’t you get used to things, even for a little while?”
A sigh. “I’m trying. Believe me, I’m trying.”
A laugh like a spring bird. “I think the warrior that can be unblinking facing a rifle, is having a harder time facing someone calling him ‘My Lord.’”
Nayan, a smile. “You may be right. Some things are harder than others.”
Might have turned into a pleasant dinner, but for the arrival of a small group of overdressed people. The ladies: old fashioned dress, floor length skirts. Jewels. The men: military style dress. Standing with chests out, shoulders back. Like they had steel rods in their rectums.
And these people: known to Zoren-te. Relatives, in fact.
Her second or third cousin, one or two times removed: Azia-te. Noticing Zoren-te from the vestibule, rushing over to the table in a flurry of swirling skirts and little shrieks. “Zoren! All gods, Zoren! My dear cousin!” Landing in the nearest chair, embracing Zoren-te before she had a chance to understand what was happening. Kissing her soundly on the cheek, taking her face in her hands. A solid grip.
“Oh all heavens, Zoren! It’s true, you’re alive! After what happened to our poor father, and our poor mother and sisters … all gods, dearest!”
Zoren-te, struggling to free her face. Azia-te, motioning for her companions to join her. “Look everyone! My dear cousin lives!”
The other lords, nodding. But … oddly reserved.
Zoren-te, finally getting free of her cousin’s grasp. Nayan, looking over at the woman. Noticing: a lady of indeterminate age. Lines at the corner of her slightly glazed eyes, little ravines over her upper lip. Her hair, dull brown; wrapped in a coif far too elaborate for its thin texture. Still gushing over Zoren-te.
Zoren-te, collecting herself. “Azia, this is my husband, Nayan Chani, Lord of Cha-ning Province.”
Oh.
Azia-te, suddenly composed. Chilled, even. Turning a sharp eye onto Nayan. Studying him – rudely, he thought – for a full minute. Then: “So it’s true, then. You did marry a northern lord. I didn’t believe it when I heard.”
“Why would that not be true?”
“Hmmn.”
“North and South often communicate through marriage, Azia.”
“Hmn. Yes, of course, my dear. But not usually matches between mortal enemies.”
“What enemies? My father was endeavoring to change that.”
“By arranging a match with his own killer? Your – husband’s – soldiers fired your house. Murdered your family. Don’t you recall? Or do you prefer to forget?”
A boulder in her stomach. But a try at defense: “That’s not true.”
“We heard a northern mercenary murdered your unarmed father with a knife. No doubt from Cha-ning Province; they’re the most military in the North.”
Oh. Zoren-te: like someone just shot her in the head.
What to say? To reveal the true identity of her father’s murderer – would give away the true story. Would undo their careful subterfuge. Their carefully woven web of lies. The lies crafted to divert southern vengeance away from the real story. To keep the South from turning its terrible armies north. But the lies … so close to the truth.
A self-limiting argument, this. To reveal the murderer’s identity … may as well invite the South into open warfare. But. Wanting – needing – to defend herself. To defend her husband.
A terrible choice before her. Words finally coming, like she was being strangled: “Those … were bandits, Azia. Idle northern soldiers hired by peasant armies. Acting – horribly – on their own. No northern lord sanctioned such action. No northern lord would. Especially my husband. Our fathers … were contemplating a real union, cessation of hostilities. No northern lord … sanctioned the death of my father.” Her breath, a little ragged. A sudden flush in her face.
Azia-te, studying her. “My dear, you look unwell. Perhaps … truth hurts.”
“It’s not true, Azia.”
Azia-te, studying Nayan again. The other lords and ladies, studying Zoren-te. Finally Azia-te: “He’s very handsome, my dear, in a unique sort of way. Is that it? Did you decide your marriage on the basis of the bedroom, rather than your station, and your duty?”
“Azia!”
Azia’s companions, sniffing. Actually sniffing. Profound disdain. One of the ladies, walking away. Then the others, following. Only one middle aged lord, left standing by Azia-te. He, reaching for her arm. “Come, let’s go, my dear. This one was always a disgrace to the South. A constant trial to her poor mother and father. Clearly, even a father’s murder cannot change a traitor.”
Nayan, on his feet like a panther. The lord, backing up. Nayan: “Apologize to my wife. At once.”
Azia-te, rising from her chair. A small scream escaping her.
The southern lord, backing up further. Turning away. Starting to walk fast. Over his shoulder: “I shall not apologize to a traitor. She dishonors the memory of her father.” Then ran – galloped – for the vestibule.
Azia-te, composing herself. Gathering her absurd skirts around herself. Eyeing Nayan from head to toe. Then lifting her face, like speaking through her nose: “Well, My Lord. You’ve done well for yourself. Kill the father and possess the daughter. My congratulations.” Spun away, left the scene in a great flurry of fabric.
While Zoren-te was left … to figure out what had just happened. To understand out that she was – still – a pariah in her family. In the South. In her homeland. To try to digest the word “traitor” flung in her face with such abandon.
To try to digest a lie more awful than any truth: that she had conspired in her father’s death. Had married his killer.
No appetite for dinner now.
Walking back to the hotel in silence. Through elegant streeets, populated by fine shops, beautiful merchandise in every window; finely dressed people filing the evening streets.
But there: look. Something … not so beautiful.
&n
bsp; A woman. Sitting on the cold cement of the walkway, an old cloak beneath her. A ripped woolen shawl around her, pulled tight. Her hair: greasy, awry. Looking like she was wearing the entire contents of her closet – all of it dirty, shabby. A beggar, not yet rousted from the fashionable street by the night watchmen.
And Zoren-te, staring at her. Just staring. Nayan, noticing. “Even a fancy city has its beggars, Zoren.”
A moment, to find her voice. “I know her, Nayan. Another relative.”
“All gods, Zoren. Hasn’t this evening been disturbing enough?”
Zoren-te, approaching the woman. Who, upon close inspection, was obviously blind. Her eye sockets: scarred, empty. Her face, badly disfigured. Clearly, not young. Yet … the woman raised her head, fixed her hideous eye sockets directly onto Zoren-te’s face. A smile, spreading through the scars.
“Hello Zoren, my dear.”
“Hello, Auntie.”
Nayan, frozen. The woman, sensing his presence at once. “Zoren, who is this young man?”
“You can see him, Auntie?”
“You know I can. He’s proud, and handsome. Is he yours?”
“Yes, Auntie. He’s my husband.”
A deep laugh from her aunt. “There now. That’ll make your nasty brothers eat crow. They said no one would ever want to marry you, but look here.”
“They’re dead, Auntie.”
“Yes, I know. I always know.” A sigh. “Your family has suffered … so much. So sad about your mother and sisters. And your father … how monstrous. I pray daily, that that miserable usurper Darleigh, is burning in the most noxious hell in the universe.”
Nayan, startling. Zoren-te, a hand on his arm. “This is – was – Lady Magana-ye. My father’s sister. She … sees things.”
Another laugh from Magana-ye. “Yes, young man. I see. Even without eyes, I see. My sight cost me my eyes, in fact. And my station. As you see … I am greatly reduced.”
Nayan, suddenly feeling like a little boy. Like a child wanting to weeap at the sight of something horrible.
Magana-ye: “Don’t cry for me, young man. If you must weep, cry for the the stupidity that disallows the sight. That will not tolerate the unique.”