“I am not spoiled!” Alvellaina said through clenched teeth.
“Aren’t you? Well, then, perhaps just in the habit of getting your own way. It is a very bad habit to fall into, for it offers one the illusion of control. Nasty stuff, control; quite as addictive as any drug and much more dangerous. It always deserts you at the critical moment. Still, it is good to know that you haven’t forgotten how to speak. You can stop searching the utensils for a weapon. A fruit knife makes a very poor killing device. You might apply to Medic Vraser for some poison. The Healers use some in their work, don’t they?”
She looked directly at him, her big green eyes narrowed a little from tension. “There isn’t a poison slow enough to punish you.”
“Isn’t there? What a shame. No doubt you have given the matter some thought. Then we must just hope I contract some slow, wasting disease beyond the Healers’ art, mustn’t we?”
“Yes.”
“But why are you angry with me? I did not cause your current situation, except by my intervention. Surely you are not still piqued by my five cruisers? Your father and your uncle brought you to this pass, m’alba, and the faster you accustom yourself to that reality, the quicker you can get about the business of your life. Believe me, you would not have liked Munsor very much. The exile world is filled with bitter people and . . . well, never mind.”
“You should be there, not my father.”
“I applaud your loyalty, however misplaced. I did not conspire against the Kardus Temporal Empire, my dear, and he did. That is the entire tale.”
“You called the Adjudicator.” She banged her hand flat on the table, making the giltware jump. The pard, still sitting before Gilhame, gave her a scornful look and slid into his lap.
“There, now, you’ve upset the ghat.”
“Ghat?”
“An archaic word for these graceful creatures,” he said as he chucked its chin and it buzzed passionately.
“The devil take the pard!”
“Don’t be hurt, my pretty. She didn’t mean it. I see your attitude now. I should have covered the whole mess up. Now, tell me this, why should I exhibit clemency to a man who has declared himself my foe? Why the devil should I wait for Krispin to try to stick another knife in my back? That really is asking a great deal too much.”
“You did it out of envy.”
“Envy?”
“Our family is very well-connected.”
Gilhame laughed his noisy laugh. “Silly girl. I would not care if you were the Emperor’s sister. No, I take that back. The Emperor’s sister is a great deal of trouble, always up to some mischief or intrigue. But no man tries to kill me and goes away unpunished . . . not the way he tried it.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“My men, m’alba, my men. The battle was intended to be a slaughter—a slaughter of the men in my care, in my charge. That is an inexcusable crime. If your father had tried to cut my throat in a blind alley or had me alone poisoned, fine. That is fair by my lights—one on one. But my fleet? No. That is unforgivable.”
“Your men? What do they matter? They are replaceable.”
“I see you are indeed your father’s child. And the Adjudicator said he had no sons. How little he knew. My men, forty thousand of them, are no small matter. They are not machines to be tossed away when broken. They are flesh and bone, as you or I. They have wives and children, even as your father. How can you think that anyone not nobly born is less than you are?”
“That is precisely the kind of egalitarian claptrap I would expect from an underbred peasant like you.”
“Poor, poor Alvellaina. Welcome to the greater cosmos that exists outside the high walls of your father’s estates. I think you will find that stiff-necked pride is very brittle stuff in the real world. No accident of birth makes one man better than another.”
“But, my father said . . .”
“A great deal of nonsense, clearly. Look at Buschard. You know, the officer who took Derissa. On his home world, he is a duke. His bloodlines are much better than yours, my dear. His great-grandmother was an empress. And yet, he chooses to serve with me, the underbred mongrel you despise. I did not coerce him into my service. He asked to be here. I could not find a more able or loyal second. And Frikard: Ven is entitled to estates as magnificent as your father’s, although he is a younger son. He does not count himself demeaned to serve me. Those two men are my right and left hands.”
“You have some hold over them.”
“That is true. I think they love me.”
“They only serve with you because of your success. Lose a battle, and they’ll desert you in a flash.”
“Perhaps. But I doubt it. They were both with me at the Siege of Calfara.”
“You are in league with demons.”
“A commonly held superstition. Any man who is successful is held to be blessed by the gods or to have sold his soul to the devil. As if natural ability had no meaning. Darkcut was right. We are not a civilized people.” “Who?”
“One of our psycho-historians, Lieutenant Kessie Darkcut.”
“She must be an idiot.”
“Do you know, Halba Krispin, that you are extremely tedious? You have all the social graces of a street urchin, and none of the charm. I find I prefer your sullen silence to your uncouth speech.”
“How dare you speak to me like that!”
“I would get up and give you the spanking you so richly deserve, but I don’t want to disturb the pard.”
“You wouldn’t dare. I am your responsibility, and if I get damaged, you’ll pay for it.”
“Child, I could beat you from here to the Havassit League and back again, and it would not be in violation of my contract with the courts. I see that you still do not comprehend the full extent of your position. You are mine, my personal female, my possession, to do with just as I please, for the rest of my life. Now, if something happens to me, you go to my sister-son, Hamecor, on Faldar. I don’t think you would like that. Faldar is not a comfortable world even
if you are born there. You are about the same age as my son, I imagine. Eighteen? No, you are a bit older. Whatever possessed your father to marry so late? Never mind. Sometimes my curiosity is almost as great as a pard’s. During court today, I found myself wondering about the giants who built the audience hall. Where was I? Ah, yes, your position. Legally, you are my chattel, a portion of my estate, a pieceof inheritableproperty. I may treat you however I choose. Do you understand?” He knew he was overstating the letter of the law considerably, but he could think of no other way to get her complete attention.
Her face was white. “That’s barbaric.”
“I just said we are not a civilized race.”
“But. . .”
“Did you sleep through your Imperial law specials? Or don’t they teach law to the daughters of the aristocracy?” “Derissa took the class for all of us.”
He chuckled and scratched the pard. “Your sister has the makings of a splendid diplomat. She and Buschard should deal very well together. What have you been doing all your life?”
“Nothing. Why should I?”
“No reason, I suppose, except that ignorance creates more destruction than knowledge. I suppose you were waiting for your father to arrange a suitable marriage for you?”
“No,” she said frowning down at her plate, as if seeing the fruit on it for the first time. “I never thought of marriage. My sisters are my world—and my father.” Her voice was very pensive. “How did you bribe the Adjudicator?” “I didn’t.”
“You must have.”
“I see your mind still refuses to accept the truth. I am sorry.”
“What if 1 say I knew of my father’s plan to destroy you?”
“Do you know, when you lie you get two red spots on your cheeks? Your skin is so white, they look like little suns.”
“But, if I claimed I had knowledge, the court would ha veto send me to my father.”
“I doubt they would b
elieve you, anymore than I do. Oh, it would cause a little trouble. You would have to be examined under truth. That is extremely unpleasant. You would find yourself entirely stripped of any defenses, facing your internal trueness. It is not a course of action which recommends itself, believe me. The little illusions we build around ourselves are necessary for our sanity. You never forget what you learn from truth. ”
“How do you know?” She was interested and curious now.
“It was necessary for it to be used on me after the Calanpor Mutiny.”
“Why?”
“My superior officer, Commander Whitby, made certain claims about my part in the mutiny which the military court could not ignore and which could not be settled by the simple use of the Witness Rod. Basically, Whitby tried to throw the blame on me. I demanded the use of the drug. I could have done the thing as well with a truth-speaker like Vraser, but I had a youth’s violent need for extreme measures. You might say it woke the Dragon in me. No, I would not recommend truth.”
“Oh? Did it hurt?”
“Only myself. It was after that that I began to use var with greater frequency. The hallucinations it produced were a more acceptable reality than the one inside my skull.”
“I am not like you.”
“No, you are not. I think you have a great many more illusions about yourself and life than I did. You have much more to lose.”
“What do you mean?”
“Are you willing to discover that your father was less than the great and good man you believe him to be?”
“I wouldn’t find that!” The two rosy spots came back to her cheeks.
“Are you quite certain? Here, tell me something. How came your father to be a widower? The Healers can cure almost any illness. They can even encourage wounds to heal, unless the energy of the sinew is disrupted. Then they must use mechanical methods which are less than satisfactory. That is why old Vraser stumps around on that steel hip of his.”
“His wife died.”
“How? Was she slain in a riot? Was she hit by a vehicle, trampled by a horse? What happened to her?”
“I was very young when she died. I don’t know what happened.”
“M’alba, you do know. Part of your mind which is fenced off knows. You do not wish to confront it—and I will not press you. But, if you take truth, you will know, and you will not be able to forget.”
Alvellaina looked at him for a long moment. “The servants whispered that she wasted away, trying to give my father a son.”
“I am sorry. And you have tried to be that son, have you not?”
“Do you know, Admiral, I never, never think of her? She deserted us. At least, that is how I feel. ” She picked up the wineglass and drained it. “You are the devil,” she said as she put it down, “dragging that out of me.”
He refilled her glass. “Self-knowledge is never immediately pleasant. Now, do you think you could clear up a little puzzle for me? What the devil were you doing on Vardura? I saw your father’s face when you entered. He could not have been more surprised—or horrified—if the Emperor himself had battered the door down. He obviously thought you were somewhere else. What brought you to Vardura?”
“Fragments.” She began to peel a piece of fruit.
“Fragments?”
“That is what I call them—the dreams I have. I knew my father was in danger. And I knew it was your fault. At every corridor of my mind, I saw your death’s-head smile and your bloody hands. We arrived at my. father’s house on Vardura the day before yesterday. I tried to get in touch with my aunt, Halba Mordell, but I couldn’t. The Governor’s Palace was not accepting any communications. It was very strange. I was going to go see my aunt that day . . . this day . . . when the clerk came and told us Father was in before the Adjudicator’s Tribunal.”
“I see. Have you always had these ‘fragments’?”
“As long as I can remember.”
“Have you ever been tested for fore-seeing?”
“No. My father would not permit it.”
“And your mother? Did she have this talent?”
“I think so.”
He had a quick flash of the limited telepathy which sometimes came to him without the use of var. It lasted only for a moment, but it left him chilled. “She was tall, fair-skinned, yellow-haired, and she had a little mole over this eyebrow, did she not? Very blue eyes—almost purple—with a tiny iris. She loved blue gowns edged in gold. Yes?”
“Yes. Did you know her?”
“No.”
“Then how . . .?”
“You might say ... we share a talent for fore-seeing, m’alba. Your mother has walked the corridors of my mind for almost twenty years. Do you know, you might be right? Perhaps my hands are too bloody for redemption. For, she saw me too, I think, in her mind. What did you call it—a death’s-head grin? Well, I never was fair to look upon. I suppose knowing that I was one’s own child’s fate might frighten one to death. How long have you seen me?” “Always.”
“A face to frighten children. When will 1 be released? What am I doing . . . well, no matter. Perhaps I will solve the puzzle ... in time.”
“Puzzle?”
“Of my existence. A very boring metaphysical problem. It is nothing.”
“I did not expect a philosopher, Admiral.”
“No. You never do.”
“Riddles are very amusing, but only if two are playing. What does that mean—‘I never do’?”
“Forgive me. I was talking to myself aloud. I have the curious illusion that we two have met before.”
“You are lying.” Her eyes were narrow with intensity. “As you wish.”
“It isn’t an illusion. You believe—no, not believe, you . . . know.”
They looked at each other for a second, and then he looked away, wishing that he had not raised the issue. He wondered what the extent of her talent for reading minds was. Probably, from what he had seen in court, it required physical contact and some familiarity. But he couldn’t be sure. And he wished, just this once, that he might be known. That other “she,” if she too was an immortal, might know and recognize him. It was so lonely always to recognize her and never be known.
“You are not what you seem, are you?”
“Is anyone?” he answered lightly.
“How old are you?”
“Thirty-three. A very symbolic age.”
She paused and drank some wine and ate a piece of fruit. “No, you are very much older than that. Tell me, Admiral, is it very cold there?”
“There?” The silence that followed his response seemed to stretch on forever. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘I have gotten my wish. She knows, something.’ How much he was not certain, but it did not matter. She “saw” something—his resting place between times, the Glass Castle. Now he must decide how to answer. “I would say it was rather chilly,” he said finally.
“Then you are a demon.”
He laughed softly at her statement. “I suppose you could call me that. I would not, but you might. What do you know of . . . Ker Vidor?”
“That it is the resting place of heroes. And heroes are men with blood-stained hands. So, you are free again. Yes, I do know you, and I wish that I did not. You are Chaos masquerading as Law. Yes, I remember. Yes, I know you. How will you use me this time?”
There was such bitterness in her question that he almost wept. So, this was the price of knowledge. She knew who she was, had acknowledged her own immortality in a single chilly sentence, without struggle or hesitation. ‘It was so like a woman,’ he thought, ‘to give in when you would fight, and fight when you would surrender.’
“I don’t know. I cannot foresee the events of my life from here. But the pattern is altered. Shattered, almost, for never before have . . . have I been recognized.”
“All my life you have been there—the fate I most sincerely wished to avoid. And I ran right towards it. So, I seem to be betrayed by my own foreknowledge.”
“That, at least, you c
annot lay at my feet in blame.” He gave her a half smile.
“Certainly I can. You need never have existed. Or you could have gone away long ago. But something prevents that. What?”
“I don’t know, m’alba.” He sipped his wine.
“I don’t either. And, do you know, I have the greatest reluctance to once again be the subject of any romantic lays. Even though until a few minutes ago I did not ‘know’ who I am . . . was . . . whatever, I find I am very tired of the role already.”
“That, I think, makes two of us. Perhaps this time we will make an end to heroes and wars—and romantic songs. Perhaps this time I’ll find out what not to do.”
“Will you? I wonder. I, too, am blind in the matter. Will you promise me something?”
“What?”
“Don’t ever touch me.”
Gilhame looked at her proud face. So, she had not completely accepted her role. He frowned a little. “As you will. Too much blood on me, I suppose, to be attractive.” “Much too much.”
He bowed slightly, forgetting the pard on his lap. The little animal promptly put a clawed paw into his stomach and pushed. He chuckled and straightened up. “It seems I will live under the sign of the ghat’s paw for a time.”
“Do you know, I hope this time you really die. I am going to bed. AH this has given me a headache.”
“Good night, m’alba.”
“Good night, demon.” She swept out of the room, and the portal whispered shut as it closed.
“A pretty pickle, isn’t it?” Gilhame said to the pard.
“Well, beginnings are never easy, are they? Still, this one was better, under the circumstances, than many. Do you remember that time—when was it—well, sometime, somewhere, she slashed me with a knife and I bore the scar for the rest of that life? Right here, on my cheek. I can still almost feel it. Or the time she got drunk on honey wine and came to me almost willingly? No, of course you don’t remember.” The pard woke up and gave him a sudden, wide-eyed stare. “Or do you?”
Adrienne Martine-Barnes Page 6