by Sharon Lee
“And for our assignation you must but needs arrive. We shall consider it Festival and thus we shall meet as if at a Festival pavilion; directions follow to a room which is reserved to me, that none other need know—or should know—who it is shared with. Do not be concerned of food or drink, for I shall provide a meal and delicacies for us. Arrive on time and I shall be but a few moments behind you.”
* * *
Be bold for joy, his mother had told him. Be bold indeed! Who expected mysterious travel instructions on one’s own ship, in halls he’d thought well known to him? Who expected that the woman he’d been faunching after for many days would offer to be I’gaina Prenada—his body mentor?
He passed other crew members, wondering if his face was yet as flushed as he’d felt it before leaving his room, for the excitement was in him now, anticipation. He recalled the blouse Gaenor was wearing the last time he’d seen her, and hurried up the ’tween deck-ladder rather than waiting for a lift.
He carried in one hand the flimsy swipe-key and his brief letter that had enclosed it—as found at the mail drop, the Master Trader having been more informed than prescient, was his guess. The letter had inspired his research, as well as his shower, his careful inspection to be sure that his mustache and beard were yet under control, Liadens being odd about face hair, he knew.
The directions, he realized, were part of the game of this, and they reflected Gaenor’s quiet idea of fun. She enjoyed puzzles and enlivened their walking language lessons with word games and trivia; at times she gave him jokes that were double or triple deep—well worth the time of a trader. But the fun she was promising this time . . . He hurried, knowing that no spot in the ship should be very far from any other, and that certainly ten minutes would be more than he’d need, but if the goal was to tease and excite, her instructions were managing that.
* * *
Jethri stood in the back corridor on Elthoria’s second level. In his mind he traced the ship’s plan as far as he knew it and saw that he was in the section occupied largely by pilots and technical crew—but in the long corridor with a short jogging turn giving good access to the onboard trade deck and conference rooms and perhaps, but yes, the guest suites; ahead was a corner, giving way to a short connecting corridor to an access walk to the outer rim. There was a suite entrance there, too, he knew, but the numbers escaped him momentarily.
Coincidentally the room was next to one of the combined lift and stair shafts, an excellent location for quick and quiet access.
And there, GS 3A it was—he recognized it now—for like the three other guest suites there was a multitoned occupancy marker as well as the key swipe at the door. It seemed a silly thing to do on a ship that otherwise read his hands or eyes for admittance anywhere, but he swiped the key and entered, curiosity not the only thing behind the advanced beating of his heart, for if Gaenor waited . . .
The suite opened almost silently, and he entered, to discover a room like none other he’d seen on Elthoria, hearing the door seal behind him. While the low lighting might be simple energy conservation the rest of the room was rich-looking; there was a small couch of fine leather, and a meal table of carved wood, and a bunk—well, no, a bed!
The bed was triple or more the size of a bunk, he thought, with pillows piled high and piled about, and both headboard and footboard of wood that matched the table and—well, the whole room. There were low-lit alcoves, and viewing screens on several sides of the bed, and a well-equipped work area with multiple chairs and a desk and work screens.
The walls were covered in a finely decorated cloth, and there were vents, and more vents, shades of a workroom, high and low—his time with stinks runs on the Market left him no doubt that he could dump a half tub of beer and not one bit of the odor would go beyond the room, unless he spilled it on himself.
The colors of the room were hard to define since the lighting varied from spot to spot, with some areas shading green and some blue, though it was clear that the bed itself was more lit than the couch or the table, though the pillowed top was near as dark as any portion of the room. He blinked: the light was slowly changing in the room, cycling in a way he couldn’t measure, the colors and intensities from each source altering moment to moment. Those changes changed the shadows—now the pillows at the top of the bed were in more light, and the center was mellowed . . .
Too, there was an undersound, not of a regular ventilation but something else he couldn’t quite place. It rose quietly, then swelled to a hiss that almost became a slap, and then receded; in its midst were other sounds he couldn’t place, not unpleasant, but not ship sounds, and not music of a kind that he knew. Certainly the rising and falling of the swelling sounds were orderly and cyclical while the others were not, but sounded purposeful nonetheless, and sounded familiar.
He wondered if the lights and the sound were coordinated, but his eyes were drawn to a portion of the room with steady illumination, and his name writ large.
Standing on the small bar were several fancy cases as well as a tea set, glasses of a number of sizes, and a box, all fancied up with glowing striped ribbons, and a sign on top that with hand-drawn letters that were hand tall spelling out jethri.
Drawn there, he saw the note under the sign, and opening the fragrant sheet tied to the package he discovered, handwritten in Terran—
To Be Opened on Sight by Jethri! Wear if you dare! Wear for joy!
The seal was the ribbon itself, a single ribbon which was a knotted puzzle, too, and he studied the knot before working it, wishing to keep the ribbon intact if he might. There was a way to do a quick pull, but he’d felt that would be cheating if he could . . . yes! His fingers fumbled now that this goal was in sight, and he wondered if he really was vibrating or not. There was a slip, there, a small spot where he’d relieve all the tension and still be able to free the box, and he did that, an inordinate sense of accomplishment making him smile.
“For Jethri for our own first Festival, a gift, for this trip or for lift. Wear and share with joy.”
Out of the mysterious box, then, from within a fine and worthy keepsake silky sack, came layers of a soft and wonderful cloth, all in shades of blue. He’d hardly touched such, for it was meant to be a personal kind of a thing, the like of which he’d seen before on specialty tables, and once, heart-stoppingly, on Khat as she’d left the Market for an assignation, her unsealed overcloak revealing the shimmer and cut of it, though thankfully not the full measure of the things.
It was what he could only think of as “an outfit” or a “getup”—both labels used among the traders he knew to mean clothes for quiet get-togethers or rowdy parties where the parties were meant to end up in bed or other handy place with the object being to be spend as much time twisted up in each other as they could, with the clothes being a transition phase not meant to last on a person much beyond getting to and from the athletics.
And there—he’d dressed himself up in what were quality onboard clothes, thinking of the admonition that this was a private party, and that none need know—and now she’d provided these clothes, recalling her promise to be with him shortly after he arrived.
He felt an adrenal, hormonal surge, wondering just what clothes Gaenor might bring . . .
“Wear if you dare”was certainly a challenge; he retired immediately to the sanitary facilities and dressing areas on the left—seeing one on the right as well—and closed himself quietly into the well-mirrored room.
* * *
The clothes were amazing: a brief lower undergarment of a fine foggy blue, silky smooth, shimmering and near transparent, and slightly stretchy. There was a shirt, of the same color and fineness, and there were trousers of a sort, with a drawstring, and then an overrobe of the same foggy blue . . .
He laid them out on the slick counter top, looking at himself in the mirror.
His thoughts were all a-tumble, visions of Gaenor running into odd thoughts of distant Khat and then the twins Miandra and Meicha and—
He wa
sn’t any of those other places, he was here, on this ship. He’d willfully left Gobelyn’s Market to come here; he willfully told his mother, Captain Iza, “I’ve found my ship!”
The choice now was straightforward, and he stripped, the straight-white light from the mirror making his skin even paler against the small tangles of dark underarm and pubic hair. He thought he heard a sound on the other side of the door, and moved quickly now, with ever more confidence, pulling on the wonderfully soft and caressing underdrawers, marveling at their touch and their fit, the way they showed his shape, both supporting and bringing him forward. He blushed briefly, seeing himself thus in the mirror, and said under his breath, “Be bold, Jeth!”
The rest of the clothes slid over his skin gently, like the touch of a loving lady, and when he peered into the mirror again, gently brushing his unruly head of hair into what perfection he might, he could see through the outer layers to the smoky shadowy transparency of the inner clothes, his pale skin giving an extra radiance to the blue.
The footlets he also pulled on: clearly they were part of the package and were effective against the cool floor—they stretched too, so like the other clothes needed only be approximately his size. The choker he wore fit very nicely and rode comfortably for all that he was unused to wearing much around his neck. It was almost as if the moon glowed blue in the bright light of the little room.
He turned one more time, to see from the side, and then to half see his back, and then retreated a half step.
Looking back at him was a man he’d hardly met. Time to find out then, what this man could do.
* * *
Gaenor alas, was not obviously present in the suite, though the catering cart she’d brought with her was parked near the wooden table, fine aromas spilling into the air . . . and yes, the rushing noise was louder now, and the airflow heavier—perhaps Gaenor had adjusted something.
The door to the other dressing room was closed and he imagined he could hear her movements; he tried to remember what the Code portions had said about meeting with a to-be lover. Was he to stand? Should he sit? What distance then—for they carried themselves as comrades properly when they walked the halls trading languages, much closer than the distance for trade but not yet the casual touching passes such as crew members on the Market shared in those slender passageways.
He wondered then, seeing several beverage containers, should he be pouring yet? If so, which first?
He studied the cart, went to it, dared to lift lids from covered foods to sniff and wonder at them. It was a plague, knowing more than he used to, for now that he wasn’t an entirely ignorant Terran, simple social missteps showed not carelessness, but impertinence, or—
Ah, what was this? In a flat container to be taken out there was a sealed storage bin with something that looked very much like a dark Terran double-fed cake, and beside it was what looked very like whizzywhite topping. Now that would be good—he wondered if Gaenor could have recalled him talking about it in one of their trades—tell me your favorite color, and he’d said blue and then she’d said tra’haina . . . but no, that was a food of hers, maybe a soup, yes, a soup local to Liad.
The color she’d called then was drai’vaina, and he got that it was a kind of bright red—she’d promised to show him one day the exact shade—and then they’d talked nuances and off-shades and tints, since he needed to know such things for the trading, and they’d got into favorite dessert and she’d talked of a frosty cold chernubia—he had it in notes, he’d have to look it up when he could.
He leaned on the cart with both hands and peeked closer at the cake and suddenly, with the rush of the background sounds falling and fading to a snap and then a swish, he knew he was not alone, and looked up.
He also knew then exactly what color drai’vaina was, and when he remembered to breathe, was never happier to see red.
* * *
Jethri had to twist his head slightly, to look up into Gaenor’s face as she moved toward him from somewhat behind and to the left, catching her wide smile getting wider as she looked at him standing there, and then their eyes met and the smile was there too, without reservation.
Her voice went all husky and musical on him: “Ah, Jethri, my friend, I am so pleased to find you here, and party-clad. I hope I find you with as much appetite as I have.”
She’d caught him leaning and was taking him in with evident delight, as he was her.
He stood up to execute a proper bow of welcome, but her bow came before his as she moved forward. Her red top blazed for a moment in the light, and for another moment nearly disappeared, her breasts tantalizing and then shimmering into an opulent translucence . . .
He managed to complete his bow then, and in rising from it saw his own leg and thigh as if nude and then only slightly more hidden as he finished—
Gaenor’s laugh was magical with delight, and she reached out to gently touch his wrist and then moved close to smile again, releasing his hand and raising hers to encompass himself as well as the room, the fabric of her top playing magical games with his eyes in the dimness.
“It is so good to see you this way, after all this time, my friend. Also, I should have warned you of the lighting. It is a wonderful effect, is it not?”
He was at once trying not to stare and to see her as he’d never seen her before. She wore some hair cosmetics which glittered gently in the overhead light, her lips glistened and she laughed again . . .
He wasn’t sure what to say but she raised her fingers to her lips in the sign for silence, and bowed, quite close to him, a bow requesting forgiveness of a comrade.
“Jethri,” she said very quietly, “this evening will be excellent. We shall enjoy ourselves immensely, and we shall both learn. I am informed that you have need of someone to be your I’gaina Prenada. This must be clear before we begin, and also that as Prenada, I will set limits and you will follow.”
Jethri began to bow, but Gaenor continued, raising her hands yet again, drawing his eyes, and he understood then this was one of the Liaden set pieces, the things that must be said . . .
“In this place then, we are, you and I, without immediate call by the ship if we wish; only an emergency will penetrate the comm system without our will. I have taken the liberty of making sure that is so; our calls and mail do not follow us here. Assure me that this pleases you.”
He nodded, and turned it into as elegant a bow as he could manage, with honor to the teacher flowing into an acceptance of joint necessity and that flowing into a declaration of absolute dedication to the project at hand. Indeed he could think of nothing that pleased him more, for his eyes were filled with Gaenor who was every bit as beautiful at this moment as any women he’d ever seen.
Her face showed smile lines at the corners of her mouth and the corners of her eyes; and her eyes were intent on his, while his searched her face and allowed his vision to see the unexpected glint of finely netted and sparkling jewelry which encircled her ears and depended from them, leaving the folds of the ears and the enticing lobes bare, available, and the sweep of the gossamer collar making him sigh.
“I am pleased to be without interruption from the ordinary, and honored to accept your guidance this night. In all things, it shall be as you say.”
Her eyes brightened as did her smile, and the graceful bow of acknowledgment she performed added interest to his view.
* * *
“Fa’vya?” Gaenor offered the glass to him, not to drink but to sniff in emulation of her motions. “This is true fa’vya, properly vinted and stored, I promise you, not the powder stirred into a random year in the hopes for a quick-wall rush-a-bed.”
Jethri accepted, and sniffed politely, his nose not yet fully trained to the mysteries of wine as much as tel’Ondor and ven’Deelin tried.
“. . . and are you familiar with fa’vya, after all?” she went on, holding her glass politely rather than rushing into a sip before he reacted or replied.
As for the sniff itself, it was a wonder: he c
ould identify several of the notes he knew he was to look for, and glanced toward the bottle—
“It is a landmark vintage,” Gaenor purred, sniffing at hers again.
He stared hard at the glass, the lights having shifted and turned the left side of Gaenor’s blouse transparent again. She noticed and smiled, pleased that his eyes drifted toward her.
“I know of it,” he bowed in her direction, and admired, “but I have never had vya in any form—candy, cracker, or drink.” Jethri named the ways he’d heard it offered—though often enough he gathered it was in fact dropped as a powder into glasses to power glasses of portside beer rather than made part of a fine wine like this . . . The vya responsible for him being here, now, that vya had been a powder concentrate he’d discovered in a poorly constructed warehouse catalog and pointed out to Paitor, who’d marketed the load of it at a Liaden port and seen enough profit to refit the Market, with all the crew changes that had entailed . . . including the attempt by his mother to trade him off to work a cramped, all-male ore boat.
Now . . .
“Then you are starting with the right way, my friend, for wine is a good way to become familiar with herb. We shall have this glass and begin dinner comfortably, with more available at our whim.”
The lights shifted again and with it the view, with Gaenor’s earrings giving off rainbows and her face a-glitter.
After their salute he sipped willfully, as did she, and then had another sip, permitting the notes and angles of the stuff to fill his mouth. He shifted himself slightly in the seat, the stretch of his fancy underwear suddenly noticeable to him as Gaenor’s closed eyes and her tongue tasting the flavors on her lips became his focus. Then her eyes were on him, quizzically.
“It is very good,” he allowed. “Thank you for sharing.”
Pointedly he had another sip, and then relaxed, for if this was a test, he knew it was one he would pass.