by Sharon Lee
“Not so,” the other woman said, gently. “That is in violation of our accord. Go you and say to your master that the Kapoori yet tend what is theirs.”
There was something . . . very compelling about those colorless eyes, that pale, emotionless face, and it was only with a major application of will that Seltin was able to look aside, her fingers rising of their own accord, to touch the marks of her slavery.
“Forgive me,” she whispered, for a third time. “My master’s instructions were extremely clear. If I say to him that the Kapoori warn him away from what is theirs, he will only . . . beat . . . me and have me back here tomorrow.”
Silence, long enough for Seltin to reflect upon her status as a bond-slave—and wilt where she knelt in the dirt.
Cool fingers fingers slipped beneath her chin turning her face gently, but with unexpected strength, until she looked up once more into those still, peculiar eyes. The fingers moved, brushing the threads woven into her throat. Seltin shivered, and bit her tongue, lest she cry out.
“Your master is harsh, if he will beat you for carrying a message,” the other commented. “What are you called, Child?”
“Seltin,” she whispered. “Seltin vos’Taber.”
A frown marred the smoothness of the other woman’s face. “That is no name from within the House,” she said. “What is your craft?”
“I am—I was a chemist, with a specialty in exotic foodstuffs and—and inebriants.”
The frown deepened. “One would believe that the House has an overabundance of chemists, and no need to add more.” She moved her shapely shoulders, as if to cast off curiosity. “What is your master called, then?”
“Zanith vel’Albren,” Seltin answered, hating even to speak the syllables.
“And that is name from within the House, in truth, though he who bears it is unknown to me.”
She stepped back, her hands falling to her side.
“This bears consideration,” she said solemnly, and moved a hand toward the house. “Go thou, and trouble our vines no more this day.”
That, at least, she was able to do. Seltin bowed until her forehead touched the ground and she breathed in the smell of humus and leaf.
“I will, Lady,” she stammered and dared to look up. “Lady, what is your—” she began, but the words died in her mouth.
She was alone with her samples and the breeze in the living vines. There was not so much as the impression of a dainty bare foot in the spongy soil to bear witness to the fact of her visitor.
* * *
“She is hight Seltin vos’Taber,” Pinori said from her seat on the old stone fence, keeping a respectful distance from Katauba and her work. “She is not of the House, though she serves one of the House. I found her both humble and mannerly.”
“This is happy news,” Katauba said, the vines she worked upon undulating in pleasure. “So, she will no longer interfere in our domain?”
Pinori bit her lip, looked down at her hands, and said nothing.
Katauba turned her head, amber eyes piercing. “Do you say that she defies your command? I would scarce hold that mannerly or humble.”
“Nay, nay!” Pinori looked up hastily. “She is not mistress of her own life! She does as she is commanded by her master—and will, I warrant, whether or no she would, until the doom is drawn from her skin.”
Her sister frowned, and straightened. The vines reached after her, twining about her hands, her wrists. “You say to me that this person is a mere kobold?”
“A natural human, as I judge her,” Pinori stood, her own hands raised before her, fingers spread wide. “Here, I tell my tale badly. It would seem that Seltin vos’Taber, natural human though she be, is bound in service to one of the House, and his will she dares not cross, for cause of the threads woven into her throat.” She paused, meeting her sister’s stare with a lift of the chin. “I would have had her deliver to her master a message, that the Kapoori yet tend their tithe.”
Katauba raised her brows. “That were bold, when we had agreed between us not to recall us to the House.”
Pinori shrugged. “Bold or not, she would not carry my word. Her master would beat her, she said, and make no alterations in his course.”
“Hah.” Katauba pressed her lips together, and pulled her hands gently from the grip of the vines. “What is the name of this master?”
“Zanith vel’Albren, so she had it,” Pinori said, and went forward a step as her sister thrust out a vine-sheathed hand.
“Do you know him?”
Silence, while Katauba stared, her pupils the merest black slits bisecting her wide golden eyes.
“Sister?” Pinori dared another step forward, though the vines coiled and reached, plucking at her.
“Of him,” Katauba murmured, in a strained voice unlike her usual rich tones. “I know of him.”
“And . . .” Pinori ventured when yet more silence had grown between them, “is it . . . an ill knowing, Sister?”
“Ill?” Katauba’s eyes suddenly sharpened, blazing bright. “It may be ill, certainly, from such a Houseling. Well it was, Sister, that your respectful, humble human refused your order.”
Pinori considered that. “Surely,” she said at last, brushing her hands down her garment, and shooing the vines away. “It is of no matter if she would take my word or refuse it. This Houseling—this Zanith—deliberately sets her ’mong our honor and forbids her to trim elsewhere. I would judge that to mean that the House has recalled us well, and, therefore, we may deliver our message personally.”
“Ah,” said Katauba, turning back to her vines. “Perhaps . . . perhaps that would be best. We shall speak of it at twilight, over the cup.”
That was clear dismissal, and in truth, she was wanted among her own vines, yet Pinori hesitated. “I might go myself,” she offered. “Now, and see the thing done. I—I fear what might transpire, should the Old One find Seltin in the vineyard.”
“The Old One agreed that you would speak to the human today,” Katauba said, her attention already focused on her work. “She will not act before the day has gone and the cup has passed between us.”
This was true enough, Pinori owned; the Old One was almost too odd for her to comprehend, root and kin though they were, but she kept most scrupulously to the very least syllable of her word. Seltin would be safe, should she venture back into the vineyard before the day was done.
Pinori bowed. “Until day’s end, Sister,” she said, and moved off through the wistful vines, to that portion of the vineyard which was particularly under her care.
* * *
Seltin saved her data and stretched, careful of her back. Her life before her arrest and conviction had been reasonably active, but the time she had spent in the tank, between sentencing and Zanith vel’Albren’s purchase of her bond, had robbed her muscles of tone. Happily, her master saw fit to put her to hard labor immediately upon her revival, she thought wryly, so that soon she would be as musclebound as any kobold.
She stretched again, high on her toes this time, finding an obscure comfort in the movement of the long muscles, aches or no.
All about her was darkness, her little island of industry the only light in the cavernous lab. By rights—by reason—she should be gone herself within the next few moments. All that remained was to seal the file, log off and go—upstairs, where her master awaited her.
Even as she reached for the chording wand, she saw again the woman who had spoken to her in the vineyard that afternoon. The Kapoori, and before she had time to think, her fingers had moved along the wand, and the House library interface was opening in a subscreen.
The subscreen—that was clever, she thought, detached, as if her fingers belonged to someone other than herself. If he checked the log—and he would—the master would only see that her workspace was active, and that she had accessed the library, which was consistent both with the lateness of the hour and the as-yet-unsealed file.
Her fingers moved again on the wand, and across the
subscreen there scrolled a list of open articles related to the House’s past in Designed Sentients. She had, of course, reviewed this material prior to beginning the task assigned to her. It had—amused—her master, that she had been so thorough, and he had made her a sarcastic little bow.
“I had forgot,” he’d said, his voice smooth and cultured, “when you were human, you had been an artist of excellence.” He’d straightened and smiled at her, that smile that made her stomach clench and her breath grow short in anticipation of agony.
“Pity,” he’d said, and left her to scan the data.
His pleasure that night had been cruel, by even his standards.
In the dark lab, protected by her small pool of light, Seltin sorted swiftly through the data. Of the Kapoori, there was no mention, though she found reference to a certain class of being which were dubbed “Mothers of the Vine.” How many of those custom designs had been made, what their duties and skills were—the library did not yield those secrets to a quick and furtive search.
What did come forth, however, was the nugget she had half-remembered from her former search.
House Albren had moved out of custom biologics and more firmly into wines and specialty blends not simply because wine brought the House more profit. Indeed, if she read the doc aright, it would seem that several of the House’s designs proved to be flawed, and fatally so. For the customers of the House.
As the two most catastrophic failures of design were demonstrated in those biologics the House had designed for its direct competitors in wine, it was at first speculated that the flaws had been deliberate. Indeed, those who had lost kin to Albren designs argued that point most vociferously before a guild judge.
In the end, however, nothing was proven. The accusing Houses each paid a fine to the court; House Albren paid a fine to the court and the case was dismissed. So was justice served in the Spiral Arm. By and by, House Albren quietly withdrew from the business of designing sentients, its standing among the Great Houses of the Vine having risen . . . considerably.
Which, Seltin thought, was interesting, but illuminated the Kapoori not at all. She glanced at the time in the corner of her screen and felt her throat tighten. Gods, the time! He would—
She picked up the wand, closed the subscreen, and sealed her notes, in a flurry of finger strokes.
“Quickly, quickly,” she whispered to herself. “You must go . . . ”
“Must you at once?” a sibilant voice asked from the darkness at her back. Gasping, Seltin dropped the wand, and spun, back pressed against her worktable, hands out before her.
“Who’s there?” she called, voice quavering and high. “Show yourself!”
“No need to shout,” the voice chided her. The darkness yielded a movement, and the movement became a woman—or a sort of woman. Her hair was long and vibrantly green, her skin brown. She was small and rounded, a brief skirt her only garment. Tattoos in the pattern of grape vines twined up and down her forearms and across her heavy breasts. Her eyes were amber, and they glowed in the dimness, like cat eyes.
Seltin remembered to breathe.
“Who are you?” she whispered, then, a not-question: “Another of the Kapoori.”
“My sister speaks too freely,” the woman murmured. “It is a failing of youth. Do you have the same failing?”
“I speak when I’m spoken to,” Seltin said, and tasted bitterness along her tongue. “If you’ve come to ask me to bear a message to Zanith vel’Albren, I—”
“Indeed, indeed.” The other raised her hands, smoothing the dim air with broad, calloused fingers. “Regain your peace, I beg you. I have come to be sure that you will not bear any message at all to Zanith vel’Albren, nor even whisper that you have seen us.”
Seltin looked down, awash with humiliation.
“Unfortunately, I cannot promise that, either.”
“Repine not. I can make that promise for you.” The other woman drifted forward, silent on brown, naked feet.
Seltin considered her curiously. She should, she thought distantly, be afraid. Instead, she felt only curiosity, and a sort of anticipatory relief. If this tattooed woman should end her life, would it not also end the suffering, the degradation, and—
Out of the darkness came the hiss of a door opening, and a man’s mild voice: “Seltin?”
She spun, knees wobbling, hands rising uselessly before her, breath rattling in a throat already tight.
“Seltin?” the voice came again, faintly chiding. “What keeps you here so late?”
“Your work, Master,” she gasped, hating the high breathiness of fear she heard in her own voice. “Only your work. I—I was just now finished, and—”
“Just now finished?” he asked, and she heard him moving toward her through the dark. Even in her terror, she spared a thought, flung a look over her shoulder—but there was only darkness, all around. The tattooed Kapoori had, wisely, made an escape.
“The usage stats show you logged off whole minutes ago, and still I find you dallying here. Is it possible that you thought to shirk your evening duties, Seltin?”
No, she thought hopelessly. She had long since given up any pretext of resistance. And yet—knowing her danger, she had tarried, as if—
“You do not answer,” her master said, softly, sadly—and the agony struck.
* * *
She roused to the sound of someone gasping painfully for breath, and scrabbled after unconsciousness, foreknowing the nightmare of waking.
Alas, the stupor continued to lighten, and she knew the gasping for her own, her abused throat working painfully; her muscles shivering with residual agony.
Gradually, she came to know that she was lying on her side on a cold, hard surface, which could be anywhere. Once, he had left her naked outside when he had done with his pleasure, and it was only her bad luck that she had woken before she froze.
This time . . .
Warm, rough fingers brushed sticky hair away from her cold forehead, then touched her cheek gently.
“Wake, Little Mother,” the voice of the second Kapoori whispered. “He is gone, and here is one with the means to aid you.”
Cautiously, she pried her eyes open, and stared into the strong, brown face.
“Will you kill me?” she whispered, the words fractured and desperate. She raised a trembling hand and gripped the Kapoori’s strong wrist. “Please.”
Hot amber eyes burned into hers. “If there is no other choice, I swear that I will grant you death. However, you must rely on my judgment when I say that today despair is not the victor. Today, I will give you ease and comfort, and some small tithe of strength. Trust me.”
She bent forward and placed her lips against Seltin’s in a firm kiss. Seltin lay, shivering, too tired to fight, too worn to care, even when the Kapoori’s tongue slid into her mouth, and the kiss grew deeper, waking a—glow, an effervescence, a feeling of health and of joy . . .
Languidly, the Kapoori ended the kiss, sitting back with a smile on her wide mouth.
“To your good health, Little Mother,” she murmured, and moved her hand, brushing the palm down across Seltin’s eyes. “Sleep now.”
* * *
“They should all be given to the vines,” the Old One said coldly, “so that we may continue our work in peace.”
“Nay!” Pinori cried, out of turn, and in apparent alarm. “Auntie, surely we should do no such thing!”
“Pah!” the Old One answered, a sentiment with which Katauba found herself in some accord. However—
“Our sister speaks truly,” she said, forcing herself to calmness, forcing herself to consider calmly that which she had seen and heard in the course of the young mother’s torture. “We must not act in haste.” She extended a hand and slipped the cup from the Old One’s hand. She took the ritual sip and closed her eyes, savoring the complex flavors, before opening her eyes once more.
“Nor,” she said, “must we forget our purpose—the purpose for which the House saw us created.”
“The vines!” the Old One cried, in a tone of curious triumph.
Katauba inclined her head. “Indeed. The House created us to tend the vines, and to coax from them the finest grapes that could be had, which the House then presses into wine, and sells abroad—”
“To the benefit of the House!” Pinori interrupted, passionately. “Thus, we are of value to the House, and to speak of, of—”
“Correct,” Katauba said crisply. “Those of the House are necessary to us, as we are to the House. There should be respect and accord between us, as we all work toward and for the same goals.”
“There ye have it aslant,” the Old One said, interrupting in her turn. Katauba frowned at her.
“I don’t understand.”
“We care for the vines, and the fruit that comes to them,” the Old One said. “Right enough ye are. The House, though, the House cares nothing for the vines, nor yet the grapes, excepting as those things are a means to amassing more for the House.”
Katauba blinked. This was a long and unusually complex speech for the Old One, and as such bore thinking upon.
“More?” Pinori asked, who was apparently thinking rapidly, or not at all. “More what, Auntie?”
“Power,” the Old One answered, and nodded wisely.
Katauba thought of the man standing in the pool of light, fingers stroking the gems set into his bracelet, smiling and aroused as the woman writhed and strangled at his feet. She shuddered, and took an unprecedented second sip from the cup.
“Sisters,” she said, and marked the unsteadiness of her own voice. “Perhaps the time has come for us to reassess our position. Thinking upon our sister’s words, it comes to me that we are at a disadvantage, for without the protection, the contacts and the supplies provided by the House, we are vulnerable in ways that the House is not, did we merely—” Her throat closed, but she forced the words out anyway, “did we merely stop tending the vines.”
There was silence, as the other two thought. Katauba put the cup down on the rock at her side, and in due time Pinori leaned over and picked it up.
“If we are in danger,” she said slowly, “perhaps we should leave.”