The Sundering

by Walter Jon Williams

  “Stick with them a couple hours,” Sula said, “just for politeness. And then,” she took the disk of the Golden Orb between her fingers and drew him close to her, “I want a hundred percent of your attention for the rest of the evening.”

  “You’ll have it,” he said. “I’m feeling at my absolute best, I want to assure you.”

  “In two hours or so,” when I can’t stand the suspense anymore, “I’ll thank you politely for a good time, and then leave. I’ll expect you at my apartment within the hour.”

  His face took on a hopeful look. “Suppose I get there ahead of you…”

  “No.” Sternly. “For once follow the operational plan without improvising.”

  “But—” His sleeve comm chimed. “Damn it!” he said, and answered as Sula released his medal and stepped back out of range of the camera button.

  Roland’s voice came out of the display. “Where are you? I’ve got an important announcement to make.”

  Martinez sighed. “I’ll be right there.”

  Sula wanted to laugh at his chagrin. As soon as he switched off the comm she stepped to him and kissed him fiercely. When his arms came up to embrace her, she stepped back and began the adjustments to her appearance that would allow her to appear once more in public without embarrassment. Martinez cleaned her cosmetic from his face with a handkerchief.

  “I’m glad I was able to help with that nervousness problem,” he said. “I see you’ve got it under control again.”

  For the moment. “Thank you. That was very well…handled.”

  He gave her a look. She picked up her drink and Martinez took her arm and led her back to the party. No sooner had they stepped into the reception room than the crowd opened up and revealed the one person who could send Sula’s renewed confidence draining out of her like stuffing from a torn rag doll.

  Sula didn’t know the woman’s name, but she recognized the glossy chestnut hair and the spectacular hourglass figure. The newcomer had solved the problem of what to wear to a gathering of high-caste Peers by wearing practically nothing, just a shining, shimmery, form-fitting sheath that restrained her in certain dimensions while allowing her to blossom in others. She was taller than Sula, and her shoulders were tawny while her smile was brilliant and white.

  Sula had seen her once before, with Martinez at the Penumbra Theater, shortly after Sula and Martinez had their explosive parting. Sula remembered the wrenching jealousy she’d felt at that moment, and the envy she’d felt at the other woman’s abundant charms. Martinez was reputed very successful with women, and she couldn’t imagine him not being successful with this one.

  The duty cadets at the Commandery, with whom Sula had once served, had been dismissive of Martinez’s luck with women, claiming that he preyed exclusively on women from the lower orders. Whatever order this dark-haired goddess was from, it didn’t seem lower exactly, more like another plane altogether.

  Martinez was smilingly correct. “Warrant Officer Amanda Taen, may I present Lieutenant, the Lady Sula.”

  “Oh,” said Warrant Officer Taen, eyes widening, “you’re famous. I’ve seen you on video. I think you’re wonderful!” Sula felt her skin prickle, as if in answer to the pheromones that seemed to pour off Amanda Taen in waves, like warm surf rolling off some lush tropical shore.

  “And where are you stationed?” Sula managed.

  “Zanshaa ring,” said Amanda Taen. “I command a cutter that does satellite repair and maintenance.”

  “Command?” Martinez said. “You got your promotion?”

  “I’m Warrant Officer/First now.” Smiling brilliantly.

  “Congratulations.” The word forced itself from Sula’s tightening diaphragm.

  “But I should be congratulating you,” Amanda Taen cried. “The both of you. All I did was pass an exam, but you—you’re brilliant! You’ve done great things!”

  A gong sounded, and Sula gave silent thanks that she wouldn’t have to continue to manage conversation with this living, breathing incarnation of gonadal male fantasy. Everyone turned to where Roland stood with a mallet in his hand. He rang the broad antique gong again, enjoying the effect, and then hung the mallet from its thong and turned smiling to the crowd.

  “I realize that we’ve all assembled here in honor of my brother, Gareth”—with a glance at Martinez—“and of his brilliant exploits against the Naxid rebels. But I’d like to briefly take the spotlight from my brother in order to make another announcement of importance to the family.”

  He gestured toward Vipsania, who stood in her beaded gown next to a smiling man in the dark red coat of a convocate. “I’d like to announce the forthcoming marriage of my sister Lady Vipsania to Lord Convocate Oda Yoshitoshi.”

  Yoshitoshi was a broad-shouldered, glossy-haired man with temples going spectacularly, theatrically white. He smiled and took Vipsania’s hand as the audience broke into applause.

  Sula sensed Martinez’ surprise. “You didn’t know this was coming?” she murmured.

  “Not a clue,” Martinez said. “I don’t even know who he is, precisely.”

  Sula didn’t, either. There was a Senior Captain Lord Simon Yoshitoshi who had died at Magaria commanding The Revelation of the Praxis, one of the big Praxis-class battleships, but that was as far as her knowledge of Clan Yoshitoshi extended.

  Martinez might have been baffled by the nature and even the existence of his proposed brother-in-law, but when the applause died he nevertheless raised his glass and was the first to offer a toast to the couple. Sula sipped her mineral water. More toasts followed, and then a rush to congratulate the pair.

  When the mob around Vipsania and Yoshitoshi finally cleared, Sula found herself across the room from Martinez, and seemingly attached to Martinez was the abundant figure of Amanda Taen. The two were talking to one another and displaying every nuance of intimacy.

  Profoundly cast down, Sula found herself in a corner of the room talking to PJ Ngeni, who was leaning against a bronze statue of an armored warrior maiden, and who seemed depressed himself. “Where’s Sempronia?” she asked. “I haven’t seen her tonight.”

  PJ contemplated the floating ice in his highball glass. “She’s been ill for the last two nights, and has confined herself to her room. I haven’t even been allowed to pay her a get-well visit.”

  “It must be serious, then.”

  He gave her a doleful look. “Quite.” He returned his attention to his drink. His face was a mournful image of what Sula felt in her own despondent heart. “I must say that engagement to Sempronia hasn’t worked out quite the way I intended. I thought, well, a lively girl like that, she’d be fun to take around the city, we’d have weekends in the country, we’d be seen in all the clubs. And instead I see her only rarely, and when I do see her there are such crowds, it’s hard to get her alone.”

  Sula cast a glance at Martinez, still with Amanda Taen wrapped around his arm. “I know what you mean,” she said.

  I was the one who insisted on returning to the party. This is what I get for not seizing the moment.

  PJ surveyed her gloomily. “You’re looking very well, if you don’t mind my saying.”

  “Thank you.” She glanced toward the buffet and the open bar. “I’m considering drinking myself unconscious.”

  “That would be splendid,” PJ said. “I think you should. You have the right.”

  Sula realized that PJ was himself colossally drunk, and if the bronze maiden weren’t holding him up he would probably be sprawled across the marble tiles.

  “You’ve earned the right to do anything you want, my girl,” PJ said. “Anything at all. Not like me—I haven’t earned anything. I haven’t killed any Naxids, I haven’t managed to become a spy, I haven’t even had a jumble sale.”

  Sula suspected that she would have to be drunk herself to follow this train of thought. “It’s not too late,” she said hopefully.

  “I trust not,” PJ said fervently. “I trust not. I desire nothing so much as to be worthy.”
<
br />   He followed this with a rambling monologue on the subject of wanting to participate in the war, and of his general unworthiness until this occurred. He praised Sula extravagantly. He praised Sempronia. He praised Martinez. He spoke of his own misery.

  “All I do is give lunches!” he cried. “And what I really want is to be an informer!”

  Sula was unable to follow the lurches of PJ’s misery, so she confined herself to making the occasional remark and sharing the all-round despairing atmosphere. Somehow Sula got through the next two hours, trying not to watch Martinez as he got Amanda Taen a drink, as he introduced her to other guests, as he laughed at something she said in his ear. Eventually she gathered the shreds of her dignity and gave her thanks and goodnights to Roland and his sisters. Then, heart in her mouth, she approached Martinez to tell him she was leaving.

  “Wonderful meeting you!” said Amanda Taen, her eyes bright. “I hope I see you again!”

  He won’t come, Sula thought as she turned the corner that led to her apartment. Why would he? She was irascible and difficult and uncertain—she wasn’t even the person she pretended to be—and Warrant Officer Taen was…was so there. So available.

  Nevertheless when she reached her apartment she lit the scented candles she had ready and adjusted her hair and her cosmetic, actions performed with a growing sense of unreality, as if these rituals were unconnected with her or with anything else.

  How pathetic am I? she wondered as she walked through the silent, scented room with the light of the candles fluttering on the walls like nervous butterflies.

  He won’t come, she thought. Her nerves were so taut they seemed to sing.

  And then there was a chime on the comm from the Daimong doorman, informing her that a Captain Martinez had arrived to see her.

  A moment later he stood in her doorway. His tunic collar was unbuttoned and the ribbon of the Golden Orb hung from his breast pocket where the decoration had been casually stuffed.

  Sula wondered if she could possibly manage words. “That wasn’t very long,” she said, by way of experiment.

  “I waited three minutes. That was all the time I could stand.” Martinez stepped into the room and revealed what he’d concealed behind his back, a mate to the Guraware vase he’d given her the previous day, filled with a tangle of daffodils.

  “You said you wanted another one,” he said. “I had it sent from a shop in Tula. I pinched the flowers from the party.”

  Sula stepped forward, put her arms around him, and pressed her cheek into his shoulder. His warm scent surrounded her. The anxiety poured out of her in a long sigh.

  “Three minutes was too long,” she said. “I kept picturing you with Miss Taen.”

  He stroked her back with his free hand. “Amanda’s a jolly girl, but when I’m with her I see you. When I’m with any woman I see you.” He gave a rueful laugh. “I’m glad my mother isn’t on this planet.”

  She choked back laughter. He kissed her nape. His fingers brushed the delicate hairs over her spine, and she shivered.

  “May I come in?” he said. “The carpet in the hall is distracting.”

  “Wait till you see the bed,” she said, and drew him inside.

  In the darkness of the front room he placed the vase on the first horizontal surface he came to. Wanting his taste, she opened more of his tunic buttons and licked his neck. His large warm hands enveloped her scapulae. He bent to her lips, kissing her forcefully, and she remembered the last time she’d been with a man. It had not been rape exactly, but it had been violent. Sula remembered Lamey’s stunning slap against her cheek, the fist sunk into her solar plexus, the frantic business on the bed afterward. The money pressed into her hand.

  “What’s wrong?” Martinez asked suddenly. He had felt her tension. His eyes were wide in the flickering darkness.

  “Nothing,” she said quickly, and then, “Bad memories.”

  “We should go slow,” he said. His hand traced the outline of her shoulder. “I don’t want you to have those memories when you’re with me. I don’t want you to run away.”

  She took his hand in hers, raised it to her lips. “You’ve been patient enough. I’m the one who’s been unfair.”

  “I—” He began a protest, but she silenced him with fingers on his lips. She took his hand and pulled him into the bedroom. His eyes took in the Sevigny bed, the dark wood pillars carved with capering primitive figures, each dancing with perfectly rounded parted lips and spiky hair; the four arching figures, two with bulbous breasts and two with erect carved phalli, that held up the canopy of woven grass.

  “The apartment came furnished,” Sula said.

  “Good grief,” he said, “they’re going to be watching us all night?”

  “Keep your eyes shut and you won’t see them,” Sula said.

  “Ah,” he said, his eyes returning to her, “but then I won’t see you.”

  Her veins ran with flame at the intensity of his glance, but she forced a more practical mood. Methodically she disrobed him, revealing the long, powerful torso balanced atop the shortish legs, the features which, with his big hands and long arms, had caused the duty cadets in the Commandery to nickname him “Troglodyte.”

  The jealous bastards.

  With her tongue she tasted Martinez again. This was not Lamey’s taste. This was not Lamey’s scent. These were not Lamey’s hands caressing her, or Lamey’s lips on hers.

  She felt his hands unfastening the collar of her dress, and still in her practical mood she said, “You know, I’m not wearing much under this dress. Just stockings and—”

  “You can keep the stockings on,” he said a little forcefully, and she felt a spasm of wicked glee at having, so early, triggered one of his fetishes.

  Sheets crackled beneath them as they lay on the bed, Martinez unclad and she in her stockings. She pressed herself to him, kissing moistly, ardently. His hands floated over her flesh.

  This is not Lamey’s bed, she thought. These are not his lips. These are not his hands.

  It was becoming impossible to ignore the concrete evidence of Martinez’s arousal.

  And this is not Lamey’s either, she thought.

  “I should warn you.” There was evidence of strain in his voice. “You should know that there will be a point beyond which I can’t stop.”

  “Oh.” Sula looked into his eyes, a shimmering diamond brilliance in the candlelight. “I was hoping we’d passed that point ages ago.”

  Martinez groaned and threw himself on her. His lips devoured her throat, his tongue licked along the flesh of her shoulder. His hands kindled fire as they touched her. She gave a gasp and thought, against the throb of panic that beat in her chest, this is not Lamey.

  And he wasn’t. His hands brought her first pleasure, then joy, then wild acceptance. This was unlike anything she had experienced in her old life. Lamey had been a boy, a wild desperate savage boy, but this was a grown man, certain of his powers, with a sharp, calculating mind and with experience and a willingness and a desire to bring pleasure…

  And yet a boy after all, after the percipient mind sank beneath the tide of lust—and Sula felt the joy of command, that she had brought him helpless to this state. But then her own power vanished, poured away like dust streaming into the ocean of desire, and need claimed her and sent her crying aloud into the starry pavilion of night.

  SEVEN

  Martinez was amused that Sula kept getting up during the night to plunder the kitchen. “Didn’t you eat at the party?” he asked.

  “No. Want anything?” Smiling over her shoulder.

  “No thanks.”

  They weren’t actually dressed till noon, when they breakfasted on whatever food was left in the kitchen, plates and food strewn over a table ornamented by some distressed daffodils and supported by Sevigny caryatids with sagging breasts, knock knees, and goggle eyes. Sula commanded the windows to open, letting in the spring breezes.

  Martinez always delighted in the first breakfast with a lover. Fr
om a state of pleased satiation, he could contemplate his companion in light of the fact that his knowledge of her had increased by a factor of six or eight or even a hundred. He knew where she was bold, where reluctant, where shy, where exuberant. He would know at least some of the secret places where she liked to be touched. He would learn how she liked to spend the time in between the courses of a night-long banquet of love—and in Sula’s case, that seemed to be with her head in the refrigerator.

  And in the morning he would learn what a lover liked for breakfast. Alikhan knew to serve him strong coffee and smoked or jellied fish—he liked protein to start his day—but Sula preferred carbohydrates and sweets, flat wroncho bread with a chutney of plums and ginger, fried sweet goat cheese with a topping of strawberry jam, and coffee turned into a near-syrup with golden cane sugar.

  Martinez was buoyant. Energy cascaded through him. He wanted to address the Convocation, command a battleship, write a symphony. He felt capable of doing all three at once.

  Perhaps, he thought, he would sing an aria instead. Oh, the woman on the strand…

  Sula’s comm chimed just as Martinez was on the edge of bellowing the first note. Sula spoke to the doorman, then went to the door to sign for an envelope from a uniformed functionary. She returned to the dining room and broke the seal.

  Martinez’s nerves prickled at the possibility that a posting might take her away. “Orders?” he asked.

  “No. The Blitsharts trial.” She stepped toward the open window and tilted the document toward its light. “I’m giving my deposition in three days.”

  Martinez observed something glistening below Sula’s lower lip, a smear of the strawberry jam. He considered licking it off.

  She slowly lowered the thick legal document. Her bright eyes had grown sober. “There will be a posting after the deposition, though. My month’s leave is almost gone.”

  “Maybe it will be in the capital.” He grinned. “And if it isn’t, well, I have a month’s leave. I’ll just follow you.”

  As she looked at him he saw the hint of sadness in her eyes. “If the Naxids don’t come,” she said.