He had other excellent reasons, as well, although to voice them openly, even from the state of virtual exile he endured, would have been an act of the sheerest madness. In many ways, he knew, theirs was the cruelest of history’s civilizations, particularly where the lives and dreams of women happened to be involved. All of the imperia-conglomerate, Sedgeley reflected, had—for as long as anybody could recall—regarded the traits of feminine innocence and beauty as no more than mere proprietary commodities, rather than a basis for a woman’s personal pride or self-proprietorship. Invariably were they proffered and purchased instead, by the powerful men—fathers, brothers, guardians, husbands, and yes, even uncles—who laid claim to them upon one pretext or another.
Any notion that this broader, more humane opinion happened to contradict his earlier embittered thoughts about his niece never occurred to Sedgeley Daimler-Wilkinson.
Few, men or women, gave much thought to any possible injustice that such a custom happened to engender or perpetuate. The arrangement was observed and approved by virtually everybody, everywhere, with what amounted to a rare universality. This was true, in particular, of women themselves, who always had one eye—if not for their own sake, then for that of their daughters—upon the ’Droom of Hanover and upon equivalent concentrations of political and monetary power elsewhere. It was they who ensured that the “wisdom” of the custom—or at least its inexorability—was passed from one generation to another.
Observing his friend lost deep in thought, and fearing for the niceties of the occasion, Demondion-Echeverria ordered all the servants from the room except for the armed guards who, should they overhear more of their betters’ personal and private lives than was desirable, would simply be disposed of. His own culture, that of the Jendyne Empery-Cirot, was not given to queasiness in such matters, and he would attend to it himself if need be. Having seen everyone—except the guards—comfortably seated once again, he provided each of them with a hot stimulant beverage and more ardent spirits.
And waited.
In this culture, he knew, exactly as in his own, the merest hint of her unchastity abrogated a woman’s primary value to others, as well as to herself. It was an admission to having become “damaged—and therefore unsalable—goods.” An open confession such as Sedgeley’s sister-in-law had just made to having borne an illegitimate son or daughter—even against her will, through rape—was the social equivalent of suicide, and often, perhaps even most often, led straightaway to the real thing. Which, he felt, was as it should be.
Owld Jenn, however, having long since journeyed far beyond such purely social considerations, now stirred herself once again under the impetus of the refreshments Demondion-Echeverria had provided her (and perhaps even the heavy and accusatory silence all round her) to inform Sedgeley that—certainly no less than the many friends and relatives she had left behind upon Hanover—she had regarded herself, almost from the beginning of her travail, as already deceased.
“It is true,” she seemed to speak the words into her lap, “as difficult to credit as you may feel it is, dear brother-in-law, that I no longer care for any reputation I may have once enjoyed in what amounts to another lifetime in another universe. Having suffered the same bitter fate experienced by many another captive female quickly relieves one of such petty and delusionary concerns.”
“My dear, you needn’t speak about it if you—”
“Ah, but in this you are singularly mistaken, Sedgeley, for I do wish to speak of it, and I believe I must. To an overly pampered subject of the Monopolity like yourself, it will be an education. Moreover, I will not be deprived of the satisfaction. I have dwelt upon this very moment, rehearsed it over and over in my mind, and looked forward to it for more years than it seems physically possible can have passed since that evil instant—only days ago, it often seems—when, forcibly separated from him immediately following a violent and terrifying capture, I was never to see my beloved husband Clive again.”
Sedgeley opened his mouth to speak, but now Jennivere would brook no interruption.
“I was used once or twice by the captain of the raiders, himself. Pray do not flinch, my dear Sedgeley, for that is the appropriate verb, ‘used,’ and believe me, it is only the very least of what I have to reveal to you tonight, so do stand fast, will you? When I proved too intractable for recreational purposes, I was sold as quickly afterward as he could contrive. And it was at that point that I somehow discovered within myself the courage required to deliberately disfigure my own face, in order to quench the ardor of my . . . er, suitors.”
She swept her long, gray, matted hair back to reveal what she obviously imagined were scars too terrible to look upon. And perhaps they had been at one time, Sedgeley thought, but they were invisible now. They had long since been lost among the runnels and furrows that time and fate had etched into her countenance.
“Is it not an act entirely appropriate to a Monopolitan aristocrat,” she asked him, letting her malodorous hair fall once again, “to make of one’s own face a hideous masque—perhaps a pattieschroeder or ajanetreno—to hide herself behind? In this way I had hoped to destroy any further utility I might possess as a sexual plaything. If only I had comprehended the economics of the situation with a trifle more clarity. But then what woman of Hanover is ever educated in economics? Unfortunately for me, my strategy of despair produced quite the opposite of the effect intended, with the most tragic of results.”
Sedgeley could not help himself. “How is this so?” he asked.
“You see, I might otherwise have found myself some single owner who would come to value me and care for me humanely, and perhaps, someday, even wed me. This sort of thing has been known to happen, even to the basest, most abject of slaves. I was not unattractive in my youth, to that much I am certain you will attest, will you not, dear Sedgeley? Instead, all that I accomplished was to lower my value—and the political and economic status of those who continued to find a use for me. Instead of being a plaything for officers and gentlemen, I became a plaything for the commonest hands belowdecks, not all of whom were male, by the way, nor even, as I soon found to my disgust, always human.”
Sedgeley was compelled to suppress a wave of nausea at this appalling—and, he believed, gratuitous—revelation. He could see from the man’s face that his friend Demondion-Echeverria suddenly felt ill, as well.
“Well, to make a long story shorter . . .”
Jennivere, now apparently in full possession of her faculties, picked up the tumbler of spirits Demondion-Echeverria had earlier placed before her, peered through its amber depths, took a deep, unfeminine draft of the liquid, and, bestowing upon both men a knowing grin at their obvious discomfiture, belched.
“. . . I found myself handed from one owner to the next too often to keep track of. Never a good slave, I was traded from one Deepsailing vessel whose name I never had occasion to learn to another. I was transported many times, planet to planet, system to system. Much of that time I passed in a delirium from repeated beatings and other maltreatment, so that I can no longer attest to which regions of the Deep, or even to what imperia-conglomerate, I traveled through.
“I shall never forget, however, the place we were first taken to, where they transform men into monsters, and the captain was paid for bringing them my husband. You see, can you not, Sedgeley, why I have no idea which of my countless tormentors may have been Woulf ‘s father? I scarcely remember being pregnant, let alone giving birth, or caring for him afterward. It only seems that, growing taller all the time, and handsomer, he has always been at my side.”
From the chair next to hers, young Woulf leaned forward to take both of his mother’s withered hands in his own. She looked down at them, enveloping hers, pressed a care-ravaged cheek against them, and sighed deeply. Sedgeley was torn between all of the emotions that any decent Hanoverian might feel in circumstances such as these, nausea, pity, and . . . and something else, perhaps embarrassment.
“You are at home now, my dear Jenni
vere,” he told her, reaching out to pat her gently upon one shoulder. It was all the physical demonstration the man was capable of, and almost immediately—when he was reminded of what the old woman smelled like—he regretted it. “You are with your family now and will be taken care of no matter what else happens. But you haven’t yet told us how you managed . . . how you came here. Pray ask me for whatever it is you desire.”
She looked up at him. “What I desire, brother-in-law, all I desire—is revenge!”
It would remain unclear to Sedgeley for some time precisely upon whom she wanted it, and what it might consist of.
CHAPTER V:
AN UNWANTED TIME OF TRIAL
Brother Leo did not know what to say.
Nor would it have made much difference if he had.
When his old friends Sedgeley and Frantisek burst in upon him—or as close to that as possible given the liquid nature of the environment in which they had chosen to spend their lives, each of them was brimming with that dire excitement that only politics seems capable of inspiring in human beings. It was some time before he could begin to sort out one word from another, or to be certain which of the pair was speaking, at any particular moment, or of what.
Brother Leo raised both of his broad, powerful hands, palms outward, in what proved a vain attempt to bring chaos to a halt. Surely they both remembered that this was the very sort of lunacy that had driven them all into the refuge and surcease of the Immortal School. Surely they both remembered that he could not reply because he had, more than a decade ago—or had it been a decade and a half, already?—taken a solemn and perpetual vow of silence.
The merest sight of the man should have dampened their enthusiasm, were they not long accustomed to it. Brother Leo “sat” in the very center of the room, a full measure from the floor below and the ceiling above, conspicuously naked, crosslegged in a posture that he referred to in his speechless manner as the “lotus” position, his muscular legs entwined in a form any starship’s crewbeing would have recognized at once as an overhand knot—a rare feat for one who had attained no less than twice the mass of the average individual. From the rear, he gave the appearance of an animal, so covered was he—back, shoulders, arms, legs, even the backs of his great hands—with black, curly hair.
The one female a day he allowed himself had already staggered, from him, if that, too, were possible here, shattered and exhausted as they always were when departing his presence. At this point in his routine, he would have shut his eyes and tried losing himself in the contemplation he had sought for so long.
“My dear Leo,” Sedgeley begged, “forgive an old man who’s just seen a ghost!”
Brother Leo raised his thick black eyebrows, articulate with curiosity, looking to Demondion-Echeverria for explanation. Having overly exerted himself in this medium, Sedgeley would lack the “breath” to converse for some time.
The former ambassador shrugged, the gesture momentarily lifting his feet from the floor. “It is precisely as he tells you, my dear fellow. Sedgeley’s sister-in-law, missing for some thirty years and presumed dead, has just turned up alive, if not exactly well. Here, of all places, at the Immortal School. It is a most harrowing tale with which she has regaled us, of ship-battles, pillage, rapine, and bitter captivity. Yet this is not what brings us to you now.”
“He’s right!” Still breathless, his lungs working with great difficulty against what served them at the present for an atmosphere, Sedgeley tried to nod and shake his head at the same time, gave it up, and then threw himself impatiently into a nearby chair. That gesture lost much of its theatrical effect when performed against liquid resistance. “Oh, do come down from there, will you, Leo? It’s perfectly distracting watching you levitate like that!”
Brother Leo grinned down at Sedgeley and unbent his legs, waving his arms until his broad feet lay flat upon the floor. He picked up a brilliant swath of yellow silken fabric lying upon a sofa, wrapped it about himself, and tied an interminable belt about his middle. Draping himself across the sofa in the place of the robe, he rang a tiny silver bell which he had taken from an end table.
A pretty maidservant stuck her freckled, upturned nose through a doorway across the room from where the two men had entered. Brother Leo indicated his guests.
Sedgeley glanced up. “Sullestule, I believe.” The astringent beverage was popularly believed to sharpen and accelerate the processes of mentation. Scarcely, Brother Leo thought to himself approvingly, the preferred drink of a sybarite.
“Vairy gewd, ahnd fair yew, sair?” Her colonist’s accent was heavy but lilting.
“For me, as well, I greatly fear me,” Demondion-Echeverria sighed at what he conceived to be a deprivation. “Some events demand to be confronted with a clear head.” Seated in another chair, he slumped. “This is certainly one of them.”
“Yeer usewel, Brether Layo, sair?” The girl’s violet eyes sparkled, even through the liquid. He kept her about because she was one of the few who did not fear him. Nodding absently, he turned all of his attention—he was good at that—to his two friends, who, for all their earlier agitation, appeared reluctant to begin. By strict interpretation, he was forbidden even to clear his throat to get them started. For once, the self-imposed restriction galled him.
“Even at this stage of my life,” Sedgeley spoke abruptly and, in Leo’s view, incongruously, “I believe that I am well remembered. Would you agree, Frantisek?”
“Yes, I would hazard a guess, my dear Sedgeley, that you are not entirely without partisans here in the capital city, or even elsewhere, throughout the Monopolity. Nor did the regrettable train of events which, er . . . indisposed you leave your detractors in the ’Droom completely unscathed.” He cast a wily eye toward Brother Leo. “I have even heard it rumored about in some quarters that the old Ceo was compelled to abdicate, as the cost of forcing you into exile.”
Sedgeley nodded in a particular way and Brother Leo knew from his long experience with the man that he had just accepted—as a metaphorical first brick—a presumption that he would add to, one brick at a time, until those who listened to his thoughts found themselves surrounded by a high and sturdy wall.
“Through whatever modest skills I may possess at the gambling tables and the investment console, would you likewise agree that I am a rather wealthy individual?”
Brother Leo wished to seize the lapels of his friend’s dressing gown and demand, “What in the Ceo’s blasted name is all this in aid of?” but he knew better; this process must be endured. Demondion-Echeverria observed Leo’s discomfiture and refused to show how much it amused him. He regarded Sedgeley from beneath half-closed eyelids and replied, “Except for your use of the word ‘modest.’ ”
Sedgeley steadfastly ignored the gibe. “Also, that I was legally named some fifteen years ago, following upon my niece’s unfortunate and regrettable defection, the sole executor and heir to a very ancient and considerable fortune?”
“Hanoverians,” drawled Demondion-Echeverria, “offering aid and comfort to an enemy are stripped of their wealth as a matter of course. Marrying one and bearing him a dozen children would seem to fit the category, would it not, Leo?”
“Half a dozen only!” Sedgeley protested vehemently before he caught the twinkle of mischief in his companion’s eye. A glance at Brother Leo revealed a mostly unsuccessful attempt to conceal his own amusement at his old friend’s expense.
Demondion-Echeverria continued, but in a more seriously expository tone. “Oftenest, their wealth is expropriated for the imperium-conglomerate, but exceptions are sometimes made upon behalf of next of kin with sufficient influence.”
Sedgeley glared, “Then it is granted that I am not without considerable resources.”
Their refreshments arrived at last, flexible tubes with valved orifices, served by the freckled peasant girl. All about the tubes, the fluorocarbon shimmered from the heat. Demondion-Echeverria eyed Leo, spread his hands, and let the gesture broaden into a shrug. “Have I suggested
differently, my dear fellow?”
“Then we must act for the sake of civilization itself.” Sedgeley reached the table where the little bell was kept. In the liquid, it was unnaturally loud.
“Sair?” The pretty colonial girl peeked into the room again.
“Pray look for the house lasercom, and bring it to me as quickly as you can.”
For the first time, she displayed a fearful countenance. “But sair, I regret t’tell ye we’ve nor boot ahn aid-fashioned comset t’ploog inta yon wall.”
“Then bring it as quickly as may be, my girl,” he replied as mildly as he could manage. He glanced significantly at his companions. “We’ll make do somehow.”
“This button, I believe!”
So obsolescent had the device proved (Initiates generally avoided contact with the outside world) that its base mechanism in the kitchen was connected by physical conductiles, rather than by beams and beamguides, to an exchange several klommes away that remained in operation merely to serve this single instrument.
“Are you absolutely certain, Sedgeley? That one seems far likelier, eh, Leo?”
For the most part, Sedgeley found the company of his old friend and former enemy welcome in this unwanted time of trial. This moment was an exception.
Brother Leo’s end table had been moved so that Sedgeley could place the communicator upon it. Not meant for immersion, it had been fastened down with wrapping tape to prevent it floating away. The liquid they breathed, being as near inert as technically feasible, did not otherwise affect its operation.
Their bemused host offered them a shrug.
Finding the device was used in a manner little different from those with which he was more familiar, Sedgeley achieved connection with the palatial Daimler-Wilkinson mansion, set, as had befitted the residence of the Ceo’s righthand man, in the heart of the capital city, along its most stylish boulevard. Following his disgrace and subsequent retreat from the world, it had been closed for many years. He had not set foot within its doors for a decade.
Coordinated Arm 02: Bretta Martyn Page 4