“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.
“Thank you.” She smiled and kissed his ear. He could feel the warmth of her cheek against his own.
Nor were his words anything less than the truth. Terza was lovely in her brocade, with her black hair worn loose past her bare shoulders. She had carried herself all day with perfect grace and composure. The wedding, which she had organized in all its complexity, had gone without a hitch and spoke well for her managerial skills.
Surrounded by the ritual and Terza’s perfect presence, Martinez found in himself the flicker of a growing hope. Much better than black self-disgust he had experienced last night, which he had spent with Amanda Taen.
That had been the end result, perhaps, of an excess of bonhomie occasioned by Lieutenant Vonderheydte’s wedding. The bride, Lady Daphne, had been a young, plump, good-natured redhead, completely unlike anyone Martinez had envisioned as the partner for Vonderheydte in the long-distance delectation that Dalkeith had described.
It was then that Martinez recalled that Vonderheydte’s video lover had been someone named Lady Mary.
Oh, he thought.
Martinez began to relax amid the company of his former shipmates. Vonderheydte had no relatives on Zanshaa and so had called in the Fleet for support: every officer and cadet of Vonderheydte’s acquaintance had been invited. All Corona’s officers were present, except for Shankaracharya, who Martinez assumed was still in hiding.
Martinez was no longer in command of them and he could be at his ease. The young officers were in high spirits, and their merriment rang through the ballroom. The hot punch tasted innocent enough but reeked of brandy fumes. At some point in the afternoon Martinez began to realize that, as an officer at least two grades senior to any other present, his presence was becoming an inhibition to the verve of his juniors. He was perfectly at home among them, but the feeling was not quite reciprocated. He began to fear that at any moment he’d overhear one of them refer to him as “the Old Man.” Saddened by this, he raised a glass of punch and offered the bride and groom a final toast, and then made his way out.
Alcohol swam through his head as he descended the broad hotel stair. The evening was young and there was nowhere for him to go—he could go to the Shelley Palace and watch his brother in triumph; he could visit Terza while she was organizing their nuptials and annoy her by getting in her way.
The ringing chant of the “Congratulations” round from “Lord Fizz Takes a Holiday” began to sound from the Empyrean Ballroom upstairs. A desperate sadness began to creep into Martinez’s thoughts. This kind of joy was beyond him now.
For all that he’d burned for promotion, he had enjoyed his career as a junior officer. The responsibility had been light, the companionship for the most part pleasant, and the nights had been his own.
Those carefree nights were gone, especially now that he was about to become annexed to the Chen family. One Chen would be his superior officer, another his wife, another his patron on the Control Board—and Roland, in charge of the Martinez family checkbook, would pay for it all. After tomorrow he could scarcely take a step without their combined approval.
That was when the disgust had begun to overwhelm him. It was his own ambition that had led him into this trap, a marriage to a woman he barely knew, and to whom he was likely to bring only pain. If he could bring himself to dislike Terza he might find relief—he could simply use her then, use her with a clear conscience, and know that she deserved to be used. But knew Terza well enough to know that she deserved well at the hands of any husband, and deserved as well a better husband than he.
Dancing through his thoughts was the tempting impulse to flee. Run as Sempronia had run, and take his chances.
But Sempronia’s example showed him what he could expect. His allowance cut off, his patronage in the Fleet turned to outright enmity…Instead of enjoying a private income like that of most officers, he’d have to live on his pay while administering whatever obscure rathole of a supply depot or training camp to which the enmity of the Chens condemned him.
Martinez took a detour into the hotel bar and dwelt on these matters for the space of two drinks. By the time he’d finished the second the vision of Amanda Taen had risen in his mind. A final night of bachelor revelry seemed the very least he could offer himself, a last blaze of freedom before the velvet night of captivity.
When he called Amanda he discovered to his surprise that she had no plans, and was amenable to dinner and a visit to a club afterward. She was as full of fun as he remembered—joyous, uncomplicated, uninhibited—and when he bedded her she was delight itself. It was only afterward that she mentioned his upcoming marriage, which she’d seen, of course, in the society reports.
“I don’t do married men,” she said. “So from this point on, you’re on your own.”
“I’ll miss you,” Martinez said, with perfect sincerity.
“I’m glad I’m not rich or a Peer,” she sighed. “I can marry whomever I want.”
A bubble of sadness burst in Martinez’s heart at the truth of these words, and he felt the tentacles of Clan Chen drawing him toward his destiny.
Now—the tentacles wrapping him head to foot—Martinez made his way with Terza through the throng of guests and to the car that waited outside. He shook Lord Chen’s hand, and the veteran politician gave what Martinez somehow knew was a perfect imitation of a heartfelt smile. Lady Chen allowed him to touch one frozen, clenched knuckle. Roland offered him as triumphant thump on the shoulder.
Followed by Alikhan, who wore an immaculate uniform and who carried the Orb in its case, Martinez and Terza descended into their open-topped car. Alikhan joined the driver in the front, and the car carried them away to the Hotel Boniface, where Martinez had rented a suite in which they could enjoy married life for as long as the Fleet permitted.
The car cruised down the Boulevard of the Praxis. The breeze threw back Terza’s hair, revealing the curve of her throat. It was still early evening, and people on the street were going to their entertainments. Martinez gave a start at the sight of white-gold hair gleaming beneath a streetlight—but as he stared he realized this wasn’t Sula, but a shop clerk trudging her way to the funicular and her home in the Lower Town.
Terza’s maidservant Fran was waiting for her in the suite. While Fran looked after Terza in the dressing room, Alikhan turned down the bed, laid out Martinez’s dressing gown and pajamas, then helped Martinez out of his jacket and boots.
“Thank you, Alikhan,” Martinez said. “You’ve been splendid tonight.”
Alikhan beamed from beneath his spreading mustachios. “I wish you every happiness, my lord.”
Alikhan withdrew: servants were stabled in another part of the hotel. Martinez stripped off the remainder of his uniform. He stared for a moment of incomprehension at the pajamas, then threw them in a drawer. He donned the dressing gown and stepped into the bathroom to brush his teeth and comb his hair. He returned to the bedroom and wondered whether he should get into the bed, or wait for Terza.
He turned down the lamp to a modest glow and smoothed the bedcovers. Hope and resentment warred in his thoughts. He mentally added the hours he’d actually spent in Terza’s company, and found them to be less than eight.
There were several women, he recalled, that he’d taken to bed on less than eight hours’ acquaintance. Why should this occasion be any different?
And yet it was. The other women he need not have seen ever again, but he would be with Terza for the rest of his life, or at least until her father ordered her to divorce. Tonight would have lasting consequences, and those other nights had not.
He turned at the sound of a door opening, and saw Terza enter. She wore a silk nightgown of deep blue, a bed jacket of a lighter blue with gold lacework and a collar of golden fur, and slippers with pompoms.
Her black hair was drawn back over her left ear, and there, shading the ear, she wore a large white orchid. A necklace of pale flowers draped her bosom.
Mar
tinez paused, frozen by the sheer beauty of it, feeling the unexpected impact of this vision on his nerves, on his tingling skin. Terza paused in the doorway and offered him a shy smile.
Martinez walked toward her, took her hand, and kissed it. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “I’ve never seen anything so lovely.”
A memory of Sula’s translucent skin came to his mind, the way the blood flushed to the surface at the touch of his fingers, and he suppressed it. Instead he put an arm around Terza’s waist and kissed her pliant lips.
“You’re not tired?” he asked.
“Of course I am.” She raised a hand to touch his cheek. “But some things are worth missing a little sleep.”
He kissed her again. Her lips parted warmly and a sudden desire fired his blood. Her arms went around him. Martinez kissed the bared neck, and the scent of her perfume touched his nerves. His blood ran cold, and he drew back.
“What is that scent you’re wearing?”
She gazed up at him in all innocence. “Sandama Twilight,” she said.
“I—I’m sorry,” he said. “But could you wash it off?” He managed a delicate cough. “I’m—sort of allergic. I’m sorry.”
Terza’s eyes widened in surprise. “Of course.” She gave him a swift kiss, and left his arms. “I’ll be right back.”
Martinez walked to the bed and sagged against the heavy wooden footboard. His heart lurched to an uncertain rhythm, and he felt a sudden prickle of sweat on his forehead.
He stepped to the window and opened it and inhaled the night air, scouring his throat of Sula’s perfume. His head cleared. Panic faded. When Terza returned, her poise unruffled and her person veiled in the scent of lavender soap, Martinez smiled and took her again in his arms.
He drew her to the bed and sat with her on the edge of the mattress. He untied the satin ribbon that closed her bed jacket, and he drew the jacket off. She looked at him, face calm, pupils broad and deep as oceans in the dim light.
“I had my implant removed this morning,” she said. “The doctor said there’s no need for Progestene—she said that the month after the implant is removed, chances of pregnancy are far above normal.” Her fingers touched his hair at the temple. “Chances are I’ll conceive soon, if that’s what we want.”
Martinez felt his skin flush as he was overwhelmed by a silent explosion of unexpected joy. “How wonderful,” he said, his tongue suddenly thick. As he kissed her he made a quiet resolution to himself. He would not treat this marriage lightly, or as an imposition. Terza was lowering herself in order to marry him, let alone to conceive his child, and he owed her the maintenance of her dignity. If he were to be a husband, he would be as sincere a husband as he could manage. His own self-respect demanded no less.
He drew the flowers from about her neck and kissed her throat and shoulders. Her skin was warm against his lips. He drew her down on the bed. Her face was pale amid the black flower of her hair. She watched him through half-veiled lids as he caressed her.
Sula was fire and passion, Amanda laughter and joy. Terza was something deeper, perhaps more profound. There was a center of serenity and poise that seemed to recede from him even as he reached for it. That was training, certainly, though perhaps it reflected as well her own essence, a kind of acceptance that was at the very heart of her.
Everything he did, he did to bring her pleasure. He strove with his hands and lips to unsettle that composed tranquillity that he had seen in her since that first day in the courtyard of the Chen Palace, and he found his reward as her breath quickened, as she gave an involuntary cry.
The sound inflamed him: so the core was not all composure after all. He increased his efforts; he matched his breath to hers. Her fingers dug into his arms, his shoulders, his back. She cried out again, the cry of the lost soul alarmed to find itself wandering in darkness, and he helped her find her way back to the light, where he waited for her, the partner of her bed and breath, her husband….
The singer’s whitened hands floated in the air like lovers whirling on the dance floor. Her voice clashed like swords, soared like eagles, or bled like a wound. The audience hung breathless on her every word, and thrilled at the controlled fury of her black-eyed stare.
Sula sat alone in the back of the club, a drink untouched on the table before her. She was seriously contemplating letting alcohol into her life.
She knew that Martinez’s wedding had gone off that afternoon; the society reports were full of it. Martinez and Lady Terza were abed by now, and Martinez was playing with his bride the same games he had played, only a few nights ago, with Sula.
Because the Chen family obviously handled the guest list without consulting the bridal couple, Sula had even been invited to the nuptials, though her work furnished her with an excuse not to attend. She had sent a nicely wrapped present, however, the pair of matched Guraware vases that Martinez had given her.
The Logistics Consolidation Executive, under the command of a Lai-own fleet commander called out of retirement for the duration of the war, was intended to resolve conflicts between various wartime demands on limited resources. Decisions had to be made concerning which arm of government was to have first call on assets, and those decisions were made by the executive.
The work was uninteresting and required long hours. Sula had no problem with that. The more hours she spent with work, and away from her thoughts, the better.
Sula picked up the little glass and felt the smooth chilled surface against her fingertips. Her nostrils flared with the sharp herbal scent. She had ordered iarogüt, a liquor made by fermenting a root vegetable of Lai-own origin, then flavoring it with a kind of lemony weed. The result was faintly purplish in color and about fifty-five percent alcohol.
Nasty stuff, iarogüt, but cheap and readily available. It was the liquor of choice for most of the serious alcoholics in the Fleet, all the crude old crouchbacks with the blackened eyes and the skinned knuckles and the broken veins in their noses that Sula, when she’d been assigned to her ship’s military constabulary, had rounded up from local jails and marched back to their ships for punishment.
If she were to drink, Sula thought, there was no point in starting on the high road, with the choice wines and the sweet liqueurs. The gutter was what she was after, and iarogüt was what could take her there.
The derivoo singer gave a cry, a keen of anguish that broke off into a sob. Her man, the father of her children, had gone. The singer raised a hand, fingers curled as if around the hilt of a dagger. She was considering cutting the throats of her children in order to make her husband suffer.
Sula returned the glass to her table. The liquor trembled, lapping at the rim of the glass as if it were eager to escape. The invisible dagger seemed to gleam in the air.
Martinez had been playing a double game, that much Sula saw with perfect clarity. He’d always had Terza in reserve; and when Sula had balked, he’d shifted to his backup plan without missing a step.
But what, she wondered as she tapped the marble table with a fingertip, had Martinez really been after? Perhaps his father would raise his allowance if he married. Maybe there was some choice appointment that depended on an officer having a wife.
Whatever the reason, it couldn’t have involved money or prestige or patronage in the Fleet, otherwise Martinez would have made Terza his first choice, not his second. There had to be some reason why he’d approached Sula first.
And then it occurred to her that there need be no reason other than a nasty little game that Martinez chose to play with the hearts of women. Months ago, the cadets in the duty room had told her of his success in love—was it possible to be a seducer without despising the object of seduction? Perhaps Martinez played Sula for his own amusement. It was Sula who resumed contact with Martinez after months of separation, and now she wondered if Martinez had viewed this as an opportunity for seducing one woman while quietly courting another.
The musicians struck a decisive chord: Sula’s eyes leaped to the stage. A moment of
decision had been reached. The singer lowered the dagger, her hand trembling. Tears glittered in her eyes. Her lips caressed the names of her children.
Then the singer called out the name of her man, and the dagger flashed high again as another chord rang out.
And perhaps, Sula thought, the game had been Terza’s as well. Terza had seen Sula socially—had said she admired Sula. During that time, had Terza been aware of negotiations for the Martinez marriage? Or perhaps even initiated the negotiations?
Sula’s hand on the table formed a fist, the knuckles white. The tension in her arm made the liquid in the chilled glass tremble. Suppose, she thought, it was all Terza’s fault.
In Sula’s mind there formed the vision of a sumptuous bed, satin sheets, limbs interwoven and glowing in candlelight. For a moment she entertained the fantasy of bursting in the door, of committing massacre…
Another chord rang from the stage, and the singer’s hand lowered again, trembled, and then drove the imaginary dagger into her own belly. The derivoo cried out, stumbled, and died in song, with the name of her man on her lips.
The singer took her bows as applause rang out. A cold smile played across Sula’s lips. There was a difference, she thought, between truth and melodrama, and the singer had crossed it.
So had Sula.
She raised the chilled glass to her lips, inhaled the harsh fumes for a moment, then slammed the glass to the tabletop. Liquid splashed her fingers.
Sula rose, put money on the table, and walked out into the night.
TEN
That the Convocation was to take Wormhole 2 to Zarafan was a coincidence: Zanshaa’s place in its orbit currently made Wormhole 2 the closest of Zanshaa’s eight wormholes, and thus the Convocation was much more likely to be out of the system by the time the Naxids arrived.
The Sundering Page 25