Half-promised to him as she was, Donol experienced even more difficulty than usual keeping his thoughts ordered in her presence. He had always found her breathtaking good looks —she had been described as "inhumanly beautiful"— intimidating. She approached him now, standing so near that he became aware of the scent of her hair, which was so fine that each strand, even this close, seemed invisible. It floated about her head in frothy curls, framing her features in a golden cloud. Donol was uncertain what "inhumanly beautiful" meant. Perhaps it meant her eyes, set against the surprising tawny color of her skin, large, luminous, of as pale
240 HENRY MARTYN
and perfect a blue as the pale, perfect gold of her hair. Perhaps it meant smooth shoulders, sculpted collarbones, a seamless blended curve into full, rounded breasts, or the taut young belly beneath her bodice as the garment flared about her slender hips. Perhaps it meant no more than a glimpse of a cunning foot at her skirt hem or the expressive grace of her hands. Alysabeth knew of her effect upon men and enjoyed it. Donol only knew he felt embarrassed to look her fully in the face, or be discovered gazing upon her body, as if he were again a stammering adolescent confronting his first sly and knowing servant girl.
"I was given to understand," she replied, "that today is an occasion for you. I thought it would be pleasant if we took luncheon together to mark it. You have become a powerful figure in my father's esteem—" He held up both hands, protesting. Yet what she claimed was true enough. For her part, she continued, unrelenting. "Second son of an attainted Drector, at ruination's door only months ago. Who might have guessed how soon you would be at liberty to seek your own happiness, awarded new responsibility, with the prospect—" Maidenly modest, she dropped her eyes to the carpet. Donol noticed the length of her lashes, and was astonished he had noticed such a thing."—of marriage into a rich connection, a Drectorhood in your own right, reestab-lishment of your dynasty? The tragic conflict of two great families is gratifyingly resolved to the satisfaction of all, and, heaping fortune upon fortune, to untold political advantage."
Donol stifled denials he had been about to deliver, smiling lopsidedly at the exquisite creature standing nearer than was comfortable. "I. . . would find that pleasant—I refer to luncheon. Er, where do you care to eat?"
Her mysterious smile communicated that she knew her father worked just the other side of the door, and that this made what she was about to say all the more enjoyable. If possible, she drew closer. "I suppose," she answered, arching her eyebrows, "we could have luncheon brought here." She inspected Donol's face, as if for a sign of relief or disappointment. "But that would be rather dreary, snapping up an office meal like some retainer."
She stood upon tiptoe, her breath upon his cheek, her
delicate features radiating warmth not a siemme from his own. Radiating a certain warmth of his own, Donol restrained a nervous finger from loosening his collar, somehow grown tight and irritating. Alysabeth placed a soft hand upon his arm. "Or we have the courtyard, although it now fronts upon a depressing view of the shabby town my father has put up. I suppose we could eat there."
Donol smiled back, weakly.
Placing her other hand upon the same ann, she wrapped her fingers about his bicep, as if she were unaware of what she did, pressing his arm against her breasts, the heated firmness of which he could feel through his tunic. Gathering his eye with hers, she glanced upward. "You are tense," she whispered, "in a way you would not be, were you availing yourself property of Father's generosity. Pets are a responsibility, Donol. They grow lazy and ill-mannered when their owners neglect discipline and training. Have you not put yours over the jumps this morning? Perhaps it would serve two purposes to have luncheon served in the tower."
A log within the grate crackled, releasing sparks up the chimney where the tusk-jowled thiss, framed by steyraugs against a field of everblues—arms now in disgrace—had been replaced with the pick-axe and miner's lamp. Missing was the original assault rifle. Since Morven had taken power, since Arran's pistol had deprived him of an expensive Oplyte, weapons of any sort were forbidden to unauthorized hands. Peasants had been arrested, tried, and fed to the warriors for possessing harvesters' knives a siemme overlength.
"Then again," Alysabeth suggested, "my suite overlooks the forest. With chaperonage to preserve our reputations, we might enjoy a repast there."
The rooms had been his mother's. "Really, Mistress—"
"Fiancee, Donol. The difference is significant, especially when I am speaking of my bedchamber and sitting room. But you know what I would prefer, do you not?" She released his arm, reached down, ran a manicured nail from his knee to his thigh. In due course, it arrived at another place where he radiated heat, which she massaged in tantalizing circles with her fingertip until it swelled beneath her touch. "I think I should like to eat there."
242 HENRY MARTYN
Before Donol could speak—or so much as take a breath— Morven's ofl5ce door flew open. The older man emerged, rolling in his chair toward the outer, double doors. As he spied Donol and Alysabeth, he slowed without stopping. She, meanwhile, had stepped away from her victim. "Pray do not let me interrupt you, children. Today is a signal day for our friend, my dear. See that you find some way to help him celebrate it, will you not?*'
"I shall endeavor," she informed her father, "to think of something."
He nodded, dismissed them from consciousness, and rolled from the room. In the grate, the log settled in its irons, scattering sparks and ashes.
Before another minute passed, the two were in Alysabeth's chambers, in former times belonging to Glynnaughfem Briartonson Islay, consort to a conqueror from the stars, highborn hostage in an unwritten Bargain. They had lain closed for a decade.
Luncheon was brought them where they were seated, thigh to thigh, upon a small divan. The chaperonage Alysabeth had alluded to, in the {>erson of a homely Shandeen girl, her body servant, appeared with the tray moments after it was ordered, setting it upon a low table before them with a careless splash, and abruptly disappeared. Alysabeth pulled at her skirts, inspected them for spots—stunning Donol with a flash of calf and thigh—and rearranged them to suit a modesty she did not possess. She took his arm, ducked under it, and placed it upon the narrow back of the divan where he had no choice but to rest it about her shoulders.
"Pray do not think me forward, Donol. These are times of crisis, for action. We do not enjoy sufficient leisure to observe the formalities."
Donol gulped. "Formalities?"
"You must know that my father is pleased with this amnesty you have earned, with how visibly you repent your days of rebellion. If it would not distress you to hear it, it pleases me, as well."
He took a deep breath, intending to say something intelligent. "Oh?"
"You failed to comment upon my observation that, because a title is attainted, this does not mean it always must be."
A thrill went through his body, for more reason than her tempting proximity. He warned himself that he must remain cautious. "I suppose," he answered, "in the abstract, this is true enough."
Alysabeth moved closer beneath the shelter of his arm. Lifting his free hand from the ann of the divan, she placed it upon her breast, half exposed by a low-cut bodice. With each breath she took, it swelled into the hollow of his palm. He could feel her heart beat, against the surging counterpoint of his own, beneath the full, firm flesh. She turned to look into his eyes.
"Remain in the abstract, if it makes you comfortable. You appreciate the, um, eflftciencies of leaving a Drectorhood within the same fanaily."
"I, er..." Ignoring his stammer, she pressed his hand against her, encouraging his fingertips, and gazed away, as if thinking. An awkward moment passed, during which Donol was afraid to move his hand. At last she made a gentle noise which, in one of her gender and breeding, denoted scorn.
"I should think it embarrassing when a Ceo grants a man title, praising his valor to the galaxy, then must revoke it upon charge of treason." At mention
of his father, Donol's temper surged. As ever, caution restrained him. He played a risky game and did not know what the rules required of him. Alysabeth placed both hands over his before he could speak. "Forgive me, dearest. I only meant that some embarrassment might be saved, some confidence in the Ceo's judgment retained—if only his own—should the honor be restorable in the succeeding generation."
Donol dared offer nothing in reply. Upon occasion, regardless of the baigain with his brothers, this had been his very thought.
"Especially—" She seized his hand as if to press it the more chastely to her bosom and at the last instant turned it, so that his fingers slipped beneath the fabric, clasping the warm roundedness they discovered. His palm brushed a hardening nipple. Donol swallowed and was aware again of an uncomfortable heat rising within him. Alysabeth sighed
244 HENRY MARTYN
and cx)ntinued as if there had been no intervening period oi silence—which there had been—as if their thoughts had not wandered—as they had done—but lingered upon the same subject. Which they did. "Especially when that confidence is reinforced by the opinion of the selfsame individual whom the Ceo was compelled to place in temporary charge of the Drectorhood."
Taking a rare risk, he firmed his hand upon her, looking into her eyes as he fumbled beneath her clothing. She shuddered, as if with passion. "Your father's good opinion?' As an afterthought: "I have not frightened you?"
Alysabeth smiled. Even Donol could not guess what feeling the expression was intended to convey. The comers of her eyes crinkled with delight, as if a dull-witted student had at last learned to recite his lessons. "It was your vehemence which moved me, darling. Yes, I mean my father's good opinion."
She pressed his hand the firmer to her body, released it, and let her own wander where it had earlier strayed in the office. "And what could constitute a more conspicuous testimonial—" her long-nailed fingers played over the fastening of his trousers, "—than that he offer the hand of his dau^ter to that individual possessed of sufficient virtue to step back into leadership?"
She plunged her hand into his clothing and it was his turn to shudder. As she leaned against his hand, he was compelled to bend his elbow, turning his forearm, which, intended or not, levered her gown from her shoulder. He caught a tantalizing glimpse of partial nakedness and knew a moment in which he burned to tear the rest of her clothing from her. She was almost lying in his lap. Her breath, hot and moist where he pulsed and hardened, was unbearably pleasurable. What it promised in the next few seconds—
A knock came at the door. Alysabeth was erect, clothing back in order, and standing beside the divan—while Donol fumbled with his trousers—when the door flew open. The servant girl had come to reclaim their untouched tray. Before she did, she turned and curtsied, casting her eyes to the floor as no Islay retainer had ever been required to do. "Begpardon, Mistress. Your father wishes t'see you quick as quick, in his offices."
"Oh dear, I must fly." Alysabeth dismissed the girl and turned to Donol, an expression of dismay wrinkling her otherwise flawless countenance. "It was a pleasant luncheon, Donol." Aching in every joint, he rose. She took his hand. "And we must do it again, soon."
Gritting his teeth, Donol bowed against the pressure of a dull throbbing he had begun to feel. "If you, er, wish it, dear lady..."
Alysabeth, out of sight of the departing bodyservant, winked at him. "Indeed, I do, I assure you most heartily. I shall be counting the hours."
"So shall I," his answer was grim. "Also." He followed as she left the room, both headed for the stairs. They turned from one another only at the last, she to descend to the office, he to ascend, the ache between his legs growing worse by the minute. Climbing stairs was difficult.
It was possible, he thought, that the price of all of these benefits Alysabeth and her father promised him might prove too dear. It would be worse when those formalities she had mentioned began to be observed. He was certain her father would insist. The Hanoverian custom—he had been so amused when Robret found it burdensome—held that what lovers had pursued with joy and vigor before their betrothal should, upon announcement of their engagement, be denied them until their wedding night. Thank the ironies of fate (he trembled with renewed anticipation) that he had a palliative close at hand, to which he had not earlier found recourse, but which he would now most likely seek—and use—with increasing frequency.
He hastened to claim his prisoner—his property—in the tower.
Chapter XXVIII: A Rendezvous in Newtown
"Newtown."
Lacking a better name or sufficient imagination, everyone called it that. "Thrown up" was an expression his informant had used, referring to its hasty construction, a phrase more descriptive than he had realized. How a place fresh-built could have such an aura of decay about it, Robret was uncertain. For all that it had been provided with the most efficient of waste disposal systems, it stank to the overclouded skies.
Clumping along a cheap meshwalk fronting flimsy buildings, he attempted to stamp away the mud his boots had acquired when he had crossed the unpaved street. All he achieved for his trouble were stares from passersby crowding him shoulder to shoulder. His impression was that they marked him for a dandy who would be easy prey once darkness fell. Well, he thought, comforted by the thrustible beneath the sleeve of his jacket, let them discover differently. Where, in the Ceo's dirty name, was the place he was supposed to find?
It was the noise, rather than the wordless placard over the door, which directed his steps. In garish daubs the latter depicted the drifting wreckage of a starvessel, putting a name to the establishment. The Wasted Corsair, while indicating the social stratum occupied by its habitues. The former was a nerve-despoiling mixture of coarse laughter, masculine and feminine, rattling serviceware, and unmelodic thill-blaring which, after his many days and nights in the deep silence of the forest, managed to sound obscene.
Taking a deep breath, and regretting it, he steeled himself to push the swinging doors aside. The scene within The Wasted Corsair was like a glimpse into some mythical reposi-
tory of evil souls—or a parody of Hanoverian society. In the first place, it was dark. He could not, at first, make out a single human face, although, as his eyes adjusted, he observed that more light was available than he thought. Or desired. What made it seem so dark was a layer of smoke hanging at eye level. Voyaging through the galaxy, humankind had thus far discovered a hundred thousand things to set alight and inhale. Robret was conscious, as never before, that he was breathing air which, only moments earlier, filled the lungs of the disgusting creatures all about him. Through the haze, backlighting it, fuzzy globes of lanterns hanging from the rafters shed what illumination had been provided. The place would have been better off—and brighter—had they never been strung. Wherever he turned, he stared into the corona of one or another of them, other details in the room washed out by what could only be called their dim glare.
The Wasted Corsair was as crowded as the meshwalk outside. If possible, it smelled worse. In addition to the now almost friendly stenches of stagnant mud, animal excreta, and decaying garbage he had endured, to his revolted nostrils came effluvia of two hundred unwashed bodies, their physiologies—and resultant byproducts—altered by many kinds of smoke and drink, other drugs, an exotic mixture of foods. These last, with the vapor of many an upended beverage, added weight to the already overburdened atmosphere.
As his eyes adjusted, he looked round for the man with whom he had this meeting, despairing of success in a jungle of human forms. Although tricked out as a sailor's bar, this far from the port the tavern's male clientele affected farmers' and herdsmen's attire, along with the uniforms of soldiers from the Holdings. (How he longed for the day, forever lost, when this had been no more than a sweet, rain-washed meadow!) The women he divided into two categories, those who worked here and those with the men, distinguishable by the amount of clothing they wore—those belonging to the place wore cheap imitations of Hanoverian masques. At las
t he spied the one he was looking for, hunched at a small table close to the thille-player, dressed in well-worn thiss huntsman's leathers with a billed cap pulled over his eyes.
248 HENRY MARTYN
Robret pushed his way through the crowd. "Well, by the
Ceo's septic sores, may they be fruitful and multiply, here I
- - ♦♦ am.
"What is the password?" Donol grinned up at him from beneath the capbill, lowered his eyes again, and spoke to the dirty, drink-ringed tabletop. Robret sat upon the other chair, which threatened to dump him onto the floor before he reached down, straightened, and reseated a loose leg.
"How about *I shall wring your pimply neck for you until you leave off playing children's games'?"
Across the table, Donol chuckled without looking up. He laid a hand upon his brother's forearm, felt the thrustible, and pulled his hand away. "I believe you mean it. You look the part of a woodsrunner, trim, hard as graniplastic. But a rude life has coarsened your sensibilities, old fellow."
This time Robret chuckled and began to relax. "It has coarsened a deal more, old fellow. Granting I ever had any. I have not slept in a bed in three months, nor had a hot bath in a week—though you could never tell it here—nor eaten since yesterday. I hate to be unsentimental about seeing my last remaining family member, but as soon as you have said what you have to say, I am for a bath, a meal, and a fortnight's sleep."
Donol shook his head. "The exigencies of history in the making. Let us have our council of war, after which you will be free to enjoy the fleshpots however you wish. I have grown rather to enjoy them, myself. It is not only your sensibilities which have been coarsened by current events. But would you care for something to drink? Whiskey? Klimstoag? Perhaps a beer?"
Coordinated Arm 01: Henry Martyn Page 27