by Patty Jansen
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to assume—”
“Don’t worry about it. I’ll tell you.” He picked up his cup and sipped. “I’m the oldest of five children. I have three brothers and a sister. The man I considered my father when I was little isn’t, in fact, my father. My stepfather and my father almost killed each other once. That should be indicative of my stepfather’s feelings towards me, although he’d rather die than talk about feelings. He’s an awkward, dysfunctional man prone to violent mood swings, who is so absorbed in his project of creating an Aghyrian community that he’s forgotten how to be part of that community. When I was young, my mother was so ashamed of me that she used to dye my hair black, so that people wouldn’t ask questions.”
“What colour is it normally?”
“It’s golden brown, a bit darker than Nikala hair. My stepfather has black hair, and all my brothers and sisters do, too. They’re studious little kids who are completely under his influence. But I fought a lot with him, and he doesn’t handle fights very well. He’s got this . . . ability to store energy inside him, and has a lot of trouble controlling it when he’s angry. I made him angry a lot. I was a shitty precocious little kid.”
She laughed. She could relate to that.
Then he lifted the left leg of his trousers. A shallow scar ran across his shin. “This happened one day when his ability got out of control. I did something wrong, I can’t even remember what, and he flew into a rage. He was pacing around in the downstairs room that he used as library and trails of lightning were coming off him. It was fascinating. I wasn’t scared and didn’t realise I’d been burned until much later. He was so shaken that he avoided me after that. My mother tried to apologise for him at first, but she gave up.”
Vayra’s expression had changed to one of pain. “The Andrahar family was my home. I often watched my mother look out the window if the Andrahar kids were playing in the yard next door. I only realised later that my mother should never have married my stepfather. I didn’t fully understand that until Rehan Andrahar gave her the box that contained the wedding armbands that my real father had made for her. The armbands had both their names engraved. At the time, she didn’t know that my real father was still alive. When Rehan gave her that box, he had to physically stop her from snapping the armband shut around her wrist. She cried so much I thought she would die. My mother is a strong woman, but that broke her.” He sipped again. His eyes glittered. “And then she received a letter from him. She sat in front of the window for a whole afternoon staring at the marshland. You can see aircraft arriving from that direction. I don’t know what she was thinking. Maybe that he was coming for her? Later I overheard her talking to one of the domestic staff. ‘But I have to think of the children,’ she said. And the maid said, ‘Take them.’ But she didn’t think she could do that. And then the maid said, ‘I’ll look after them.’ That scared me so much, because I was only young at the time. My mother didn’t leave, out of duty to us and out of duty to her teaching work. That knowledge has always weighed heavy in my mind. So this house is for her so that she can finally leave my stepfather. My brothers and sisters are old enough to look after themselves. I want this to be a safe place for her. I want my real father to come here.”
“Have they seen each other since?”
He shook his head. “Not since before I was born. But they’ll be together again. I will go to my parents’ wedding. I know you have all kinds of theories about me, but this is why I’ve done all this. I want my parents to be married.”
That comment brought her back to Nemedor Satarin and his request for information, requests that would turn into threats if she couldn’t deliver. The more she spoke to Vayra, the more she didn’t want to deliver. His story was so sad and beautiful and so personal. She had no idea why the Endri families had thought his story so important that they given him the use of their money, but the things he did were to the benefit of the people of Miran.
She didn’t want to hear more details of his plans, because she couldn’t guarantee that no one would get those details out of her, given enough pressure. And the whole thought of protecting him against the council gave her the chills. In the past, people who had gone against the council had been driven out of Miran. She didn’t want to have to leave. This was her home. She only had one home.
“What did you want me to look at in your bathroom?”
He gave her a curious glance—did he sense why she changed the subject?—but got up from the table. Behind the table stood an old-fashioned cabinet made from beautiful mountain pinewood that came from gnarled trees that grew on the western slopes. Just below the tree line, the environment was still very harsh, and the wood was dark, knotted and twisted. Fashioning it into furniture was a delicate art that required soaking the wood to straighten it. There used to be a cabinet like this in her grandmother’s formal dining room, and it was odd to see it in this modern tent.
He opened one of the carved front doors and took something out, which he placed on the table: a flat metallic disk. He ran his hand over its surface. A three-dimensional projection sprang into the air.
It depicted a house, vaguely recognisable as the construction site at the moment.
“I’d take you inside the house, except they’re putting in the floor and we can’t walk on it.” He moved his hand over the screen, and the projection turned around so that she faced the main door. Then it enlarged, and enlarged.
“Whoa!” All around her walls had appeared, as if she were in the house. The walls were made of dark resin panels with flower patterns. The door had six little square windows of coloured glass. The floor mosaic was like the ones on the floor in the council building, depicting geometric patterns. There was even a coat stand with cloaks hanging on it, and a shoe rack with house shoes. To the left was the kitchen—with a wooden table and a stove. It looked so real that she expected the cook to come out any moment.
“This is the entrance hall.” He tracked his finger over the screen. Slowly, as if they were walking, the projection moved so that they went through a door into a corridor. It was fairly narrow, with no windows and a couple of doors on the right-hand side, but only one on the left.
“See, this is the original flooring that was put in soon after the house was built.” The projection focused on the black, grey and white mosaic of small hexagonal stones. “These stones are all handmade and hand-polished. The walls are the original river clay render. It’s off-white naturally, and it was not until much later that people started to add colouring in the cement.”
The rendering was green in her house.
They “walked” to the door in the left-hand wall of the corridor. It opened at their approach and they entered the bathroom. It was huge, rectangular, with a huge pool in the middle. The water was still and clear, with faint wisps of steam rising from the surface. There were benches against both of the walls, as well as a dressing table next to the door.
“Wow,” Ellisandra said. She looked around. It was as if they were both standing in the room.
He smiled. “The walls and floor are all covered in baked tiles. I’ve made them white, but I’m not really sure if that is the colour they would originally have been.”
“The tiles in our bathroom are creamy white.”
“Your house was built fifty years later. Except white, the other option is pale blue.” He touched something on the screen and the entire room around them changed. The tiles became blue, and now there were decorative tiles at certain intervals depicting flowers in dark blue and gold paint.
Ellisandra looked around. “This is just like the bathhouse.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted to know.”
“You wanted to know what the inside of the bathhouse looks like?”
“Exactly.”
“You could have gone to the bathhouse for that.”
“I can’t, because I’m not allowed in.”
“Why?”
“I’m a foreigner.”
Coming from his mout
h in unaccented Mirani, it sounded ridiculous. But he was right, there was that rule, especially when applied to the old bathhouse in town, the one he’d wanted to visit.
“You could have told them what it was for.”
“I could, but everyone is too edgy about my being here already.”
That was right, too.
He flicked off the projection, and the house disappeared around them. Once again she sat at the table in the tent. She blinked to adjust her eyes to the sudden increase in light level. The light above the worktable, however, was off, and the resin-maker’s seat was empty. Her heart jumped. When had he left? Had it been Vayra’s plan to get her alone?
She rose from her seat. “Thank you for the tea, but I’ve got to go—”
“Ellisandra, wait.”
Her heart jumped even more. He still sat at the table but she felt like he had physically grabbed her arm.
“You know that you’re in danger, right?”
Me?
“They’re targeting you to spy on me. If you don’t deliver what they want, they’ll start to put pressure on you.”
How did he know that?
“It’s already happening, isn’t it? This is how they work. I have seen long reports of why families left Miran.”
“Those reports are all part of the gamra propaganda against us, right?” She’d said it before she could stop herself. This was what the council always told the citizens of Miran. But lately she had started to wonder if it might be better to put all the claims and counterclaims on the table, have an inquiry and big discussion about it and be done with it.
“Nothing to do with propaganda. They are accounts recorded as the best approximation of the truth, witnessed and signed by independent Peacekeepers who have no interest in Miran or any connection with it. It’s true that the retelling may have introduced some bias, but they’re people’s personal stories as they remembered them.” Like a true Trader, he was measured and gracious in his reply.
Ellisandra dragged a hand over her face, stifling a groan. She and her big mouth.
“They’re the stories told by Amandra Bisumar, who was blackballed, ignored and ridiculed for wanting to clear up the council’s reputation in the missing persons case. They’re the stories of Iztho Andrahar, how he went from being the celebrated heir of Miran’s most powerful Trading family to outcast. You should read that.”
Vayra rose from his seat. From the old cabinet behind him, he took a bunch of paper, which he gave to her. “This is his story. I’d give it to you on file, but I wasn’t sure what devices you’d have to read it, so I’m playing it safe.”
“We’re not that backward.”
“You’d be surprised.”
She looked around the tent. Yes, probably she would be.
“Read it, and burn it. Don’t let anyone find it. You don’t want to fall out with the council and I’d hate something to happen to you.” His expression was so intense that it gave her the chills. He’d said that like he cared about her. But to him, she was just another dumb woman to be used for his aims. These men in power were all the same.
She swallowed. “I was going to warn you that you were in danger. There are rumours that some of the young men are planning to disrupt your work and harass you until you leave.” Enzo was likely to be one of those men.
“I have no illusions but that they will do that. In fact, I would have been disappointed had they not made those plans. I’m prepared. I’ve got guards and they have weapons. I pay them well, and they will be loyal to me if I ask them to defend this house. In fact, every one, to the last person I have working here, will defend this house, whether they’re a guard or not.”
Was that a threat, or some sort of warning?
She laughed, uneasily, clutching that bunch of paper that felt like a hot fire poker in her hands, a thing she wanted to throw away as soon as possible as far as she possibly could. “What is this? Some kind of declaration of war on the council? Who are you really? What are you doing? Why are you here?”
“I told you: to rebuild a house. Rebuild a country that I’ve grown to love, if I may help a little bit. If you understand what I’m talking about, come and see me again. If you don’t, I’ll just play the flute. But do know that I can get you a lot more musicians for your orchestra.”
19
ELLISANDRA WALKED back to her house, clutching the papers under her cloak.
That last statement of his, I can get you a lot more musicians for your orchestra, chilled her deep inside. He didn’t mean real musicians or real orchestra. He meant to say that he was building a rebel group of people loyal to him by paying them well and showing them the future they could have if they supported him.
His plan included having asked all the families who left Miran for the pass codes to their Mirani credit accounts so that he had a lot of money to do all this. It was not the action of one man, but the silent action of many. She’d been wrong in assuming that the families who had left didn’t care about Miran. They’d left Vayra their entire Mirani wealth to support his plan.
What had he said again? I wouldn’t execute the plan until I was certain that it was going to work.
Would she take a part in the plan and if so, what part would that be? She knew the power of theatre to motivate people and to provide social commentary with little risk. This was why the council watched the theatre so closely: because the political messages were strong.
She walked up the veranda and into the house. It was quite early. The smell of cooking drifted from the kitchen, but the only sign of dinner was a pot bubbling on the stove. Riana must have turned it to simmer and gone to her room. It was too early for Father’s dinner.
Ellisandra went up to her room where she stacked a couple of firebricks on top of waxed straw kindling in the hearth and used a coal from the fire box to light it. While the flames devoured the kindling, she unfolded the bunch of paper Vayra had given her. There were two columns: The right-hand one was in Mirani and the other in Coldi. She stared at the curly script. Coldi was written from left to right because most Coldi people were left-handed. Ellisandra couldn’t even begin to imagine what all those curls meant.
The Mirani text said,
Statement provided by the claimant to the Gamra Law Office, witnessed and sworn under oath.
The date on it was in gamra notation, in gamra years, which she hadn’t needed to convert into Mirani years since leaving school. She wasn’t sure if she got it right, that one Ceren year was 1.7 gamra years and that 8457 in gamra years was the same as 4439 in Mirani years, or was it 4425? Which was a rather large difference and didn’t help her much in determining how old this was.
She started reading the declaration.
In the schools in Miran only the Mirani version of events was given: that Iztho Andrahar had not held to an agreement he had with the council and had responded by taking all the family’s money out of Miran, much of which was, according to the council, Mirani because Andrahar was a Foundation family and could not sell their assets. The council had tried to recover the money by going to court, but because the family were Traders, they had to go through the Trader Court. It, of course, protected one of their own.
That was the Mirani version.
This version started out when Barresh was still a protectorate and Iztho Andrahar would go there for work. Iztho Andrahar’s statement said, about Nemedor Satarin,
I became friendly with him, because he is an intelligent man and we share a love for history. I had long been interested in the history of the group of people called the Aghyrians, who are said to be the forefathers of all human types. They are known to be long-lived, hyper-intelligent and some are said to possess an ability to absorb energy into their bodies and release it at their command.
That was what Vayra had said his stepfather could do.
Without my noticing at first, Nemedor Satarin became interested in this latter ability. He found out that there were several of these people on Hedron and set about recruiting them
. He wanted to breed a group of these people and use them in the production of a defence system. I wasn’t happy about this when I first heard of it, but he assured me that all people were in Miran by their own choice.
They were all male and when he heard of a single female Aghyrian, he asked me to bring her to Miran. It was supposed to be a simple job.
The lady was the most delightful person I have ever had the pleasure of meeting. She was strong-willed, nobody’s fool, but ignorant in the ways of our world. She also had no idea of Nemedor Satarin’s plans for her and wouldn’t have agreed with them if she had. It was my absolute moral duty to protect her. I refused to bring her to Miran.
For this, the Mirani council and, most notably, our competitors the Tussamar Traders invented a scheme that connected the Andrahar Traders with the illegal import into Barresh of several bags of menisha fungus. At the time menisha brew was a huge problem on the streets of Barresh, linked with gang warfare and criminal behaviour.
When I refused to appear in court, they chased me. When I escaped, they went to my family. But I prepared my family and gave them the tools to refute the accusations, which the Trader court has seen to be absolute nonsense.
There were paragraphs of detail on how the false accusations were made to seem genuine, all with a level of detail she had never heard before.
Maybe, just maybe, he was right. But even if he wasn’t, the people of Miran needed to know the truth, whatever the truth was.
Someone called in the hall.
Ellisandra gasped. She had forgotten about Father, and dinner. But it wasn’t dinnertime yet. She rose from her chair with the paper in her hand and flung the pages in the fire. The flames licked over the paper, curling the edges and turning it black.
In the hall, Riana stood at the bottom of the stairs. “Oh, I thought I was going to have to come up to get you, mistress.”
“What’s the matter?”
“There is someone here for you.”