Another aperture expanded before him, leading him into a smaller chamber. He ducked through, stepping over the ridge while it was still opening, and sniffed hard. The pull of raw skin across his back and thighs was an unsubtle reminder toward caution. He paused a moment, giving his wardrobe enough time to collect its foglets so they wouldn’t wash away. There were no controls in the stall and no obvious showerhead.
“House,” he said, experimentally, as the aperture closed between him and Robert. “Cool water, please.”
It pattered on his head like rain.
Once Miss Ouagadougou had ascertained that Vincent was well, Kusanagi‑Jones breathed a sigh of relief and set about working out how to adapt his watch to the car’s hub. He’d have to piggyback on its signal, which meant all the more opportunities for the transmission to be intercepted, but it wasn’t as if there were a secure channel on the entire damned planet. You closed your eyes and put your trust in cryptography.
He sent the message with Miss Ouagadougou’s addendum, unlinked, and sat back against the upholstery. Cloth rather than leather. He permitted himself to sag into it. “What happened?”
In spare details, Cathay told him. “Miss Pretoria?” he interrupted, when she paused to draw a breath.
“Fine,” she said. “Uninjured. She has arranged to meet us at Pretoria house. You and Miss Katherinessen are asked to limit your movements until we sort out which faction is responsible for the kidnapping attempt.”
“Of course.” And of course, the attempt itself could be nothing more than a smokescreen to justify tightening the leash. But that was Vincent’s department, not his.
He was still going to shave thin strips off Vincent.
The car ride was brief. It still amused Kusanagi‑Jones that the automobile had to be putsomewhere when they arrived rather than vanishing in a blur of fogs. It was, in point of fact, too large to fit down the narrow alley that led to Pretoria house, and he and Miss Ouagadougou and Cathay disembarked at the bottom of the street so the driver could take it away. Cathay, he noticed, stuck as close to his side as he would have stuck to Vincent’s, shielding him with her body.
He’d expected Lesa Pretoria. The young woman who waited at the top of the stairs looked tolerably like her, but younger and softer around the eyes. “Katya Pretoria,” she said, beckoning. She didn’t step out into the sun, and Kusanagi‑Jones didn’t blame her. The brief walk from car to porch was enough to make his skin sting. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Kusanagi‑Jones. Your partner’s being seen to–”
“Vincent wasn’t injured?”
“He just got a little too much sun,” she assured, extending her hand. Kusanagi‑Jones brushed his wrist to dial his wardrobe down and accepted the handshake as he crested the stairs. She pulled him up the last step easily. He wasn’t tall, but he weighed more than he seemed to and probably had twenty kilograms on her. She braced to take the weight, but didn’t grunt. “You can speak with him as soon as he’s out of the shower.”
“Sorry to be so early to dinner.”
Her smile broadened, unmistakably flirtatious. Miss Ouagadougou cleared her throat from the bottom of the steps, but Katya ignored it. “It’s good to have fluid plans, don’t you think? Miss Ouagadougou, thank you for a safe delivery. We’ll have him home in time for the ceremony tomorrow, I promise.”
And before the historian could quite answer, Katya took Kusanagi‑Jones’s wrist and drew him into the house, security following. As soon as they were inside, though, Kusanagi‑Jones stepped away from her to get a sense of the space. The house was cool inside, shadowed by the broad verandas and rich with breezes. “How much seeing to did Vincent require?”
“Miss Katherinessen has made himself quite at home,” she said, and the grin turned into a wink. “One of the senior males is seeing to him. He’s in good hands.”
Kusanagi‑Jones snorted. He let a little jealousy show. It couldn’t hurt, and it was easy enough to feel jealous of Vincent. He had a way of getting what he wanted, after all. “The question is, is your male safe at Vincent’s hands?”
“Robert’s my sire,” she said. “He’s safe most places. He’s a three‑time Trial champion, all city, and before he retired he was third overall.”
A gleam of pride reflected through her voice. He wasn’t likely to forget the Trials quickly. And he remembered Robert from the docks, and Robert had had scars. And had been beautiful and dark.
Just to Vincent’s taste.
But interesting, that pride. My sire. A young woman proud of her father, even here. He supposed just because you kept someone as chattel, it didn’t mean you didn’t care for him. Especially if you thought it was for his own good. “Well, I hope he’s not driven to defend his honor at Vincent’s expense,” he joked, waiting for her response.
Which was a chuckle. “Don’t you envy him that? That sense of…entitlement?”
She’d picked that up on a moment’s acquaintance, had she? Kusanagi‑Jones snorted hard enough that it stung. “Envy Vincent? Not the entitlement. Sometimes maybe the privilege that produced it. Trying to drive a wedge between us, Miss Pretoria?”
“Of course not,” she said, maintaining a perfect deadpan. “That’s what they hired my mother for.”
11
AFTER THE SHOWER, VINCENT LET ROBERT SMEAR HIS BACK with a gelatinous yellow substance that stung and soothed, and smelled of cucumbers and mint. He could have pulled up a license, but there was no reason to give away more of the capabilities of his wardrobe than he needed to. Robert worked steadily and quickly, and when he was done and Vincent summoned a new outfit from his wardrobe, he made sure he programmed it not to absorb the gel. It slid and stuck, but it did help. He turned back and offered his hand to Robert for yet another of the endless New Amazonian handshakes. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Robert answered. His clasp was firm.
Vincent was unsurprised to feel the edged corners of a chip pressed into his palm as he dropped his hand, and he cupped his fingers slightly to hold it. The outfit he’d chosen had pockets suitable for the nonchalant shoving of hands, so he did.
“Your partner’s arrived,” Robert said. “Shall we meet him?”
Vincent’s wardrobe dried the water from his braids and tidied his hair. He took a breath and drew himself up, the carpetplant cool under the soles of his feet.
He’d erred, and taken chances. And he didn’t have anything to show for it, in terms of his public mission or either of his private ones. Angelo was going to kill him. Slowly. Probably by ripping strips off his slow‑roasted back.
He might as well get it over with. “Ready as I’ll ever be. Have you heard from Miss Pretoria and Miss Delhi?”
Robert nodded. Vincent had known the answer before he asked. While he was in the shower, Robert’s affect had changed, from controlled concern to concealed relief. There was something else under it, though–a sidelong glance, an even breath. Vincent honestly couldn’t say howhe knew–it was a complex of cues too subtle to verbalize–but there it was. Robert was withholding information.
And he was concerned for Vincent, too. Not in quite the same way as he was concerned for Miss Pretoria. Of course, he wouldn’t be, if Vincent understood the relationship. This would be the man Lesa intended to marry, when she established her own household and become an Elder in her own right. He had special status in Pretoria house, the way, historically, a…a house dog would have had more status than a hunting dog.
He wasn’t livestock. He was a pet.
And he was also the one passing Vincent data chips. Which meant that he could either be operating as an agent on behalf of someone in the household who wished her identity concealed…or be doing it on his own.
It would be awfully easy for somebody who shared Lesa’s bed to get a tracking device on her, and the assailants in the street had known where to find them. The chip in Vincent’s pocket swung against his thigh as he followed Robert across the cool floors. The pieces might be falling together afte
r all.
They passed through a heavy, old‑fashioned door that swung on apparent brass hinges. Given House’s ability to reinvent itself, Vincent assumed they were a cunning approximation. On the other side was a tiled, pleasant porch whose sides lay open on a balmy afternoon, a courtyard in which four or five children played with a pair of khir. The feathered quadrupeds were nimble and agile, coordinated in their movements as they raced after whooping and tumbling children.
Inside the balustrade, a group of adults sat at ease. Obviously dominating the group, Elena Pretoria wore cool cream and peach, her bare feet callused along the edges though the toenails were painted. Beside her, Lesa sat on a wicker stool, her feet hooked over the bottom rung, Katya sprawled on bolsters at her feet. Michelangelo had arranged himself cross‑legged on a cushion on the other side of a low glass table suitable for resting mugs and feet upon. It was the lowest vantage in the room, but it had the advantage of putting his back to an angle of wall so the only one behind him was his security officer, a wiry berry‑eyed young woman with a golden‑brown fox’s face.
Shafaqat leaned beside the door. She gave Vincent the right half of a smile as he came in, and didn’t acknowledge Robert at all. Robert patted Vincent’s elbow and kept walking down the stairs, out among the children and pets. “Please, Miss Katherinessen,” Elena said without rising. “Join us.”
Vincent took the gesture at face value and crossed the tile to a cushion beside Michelangelo’s, wincing as he lowered himself. Michelangelo raised an eyebrow. “A Colonial would forget that UV radiation is dangerous.”
“It doesn’t hurt until later,” Vincent answered.
“That’s why it’s dangerous.” Michelangelo might have said something more–he had that tension around his mouth–but apparently Vincent’s discomfort was showing in his face. Instead, Angelo reached out lightly, without seeming to shift, and brushed the back of his knuckles against Vincent’s knee. A slight curve lifted one corner of his mouth, and he spoke even more softly. “The big brute at least take good care of you?”
Vincent sighed. Forgiven. Or at least Angelo was willing to pretend he was. “Not his type,” he mouthed, and was rewarded by a slightly broader smile. “How was your day?”
“Edifying.” Michelangelo raised his voice, reincluding the rest. “The warden was telling us about your admirers.”
“They must have been tailing us for some time,” Vincent said. “Waiting a break in the crowds. And we gave them one.” He shrugged, then regretted it. “I’m relieved to see Lesa and Shafaqat made it out all right.”
There was an unspoken question in the words. Lesa fielded a glance from the security agent and took on the question. “They were carrying nonlethal weapons. And I don’t think they expected Vincent to shrug off two tanglers quite so nonchalantly. If he hadn’t, they would have concentrated harder on entangling Shafaqat and me, to slow us while they made their escape with Vincent.”
Shafaqat’s eyebrow asked a question. Vincent nodded, as a shadow entered the door and a cool drink appeared at his hand, already sweating beads of condensation onto the rippled glass tabletop. The servant placed a pitcher of amber fluid flecked with herby green on the table, removed an exhausted one, and withdrew. Vincent noticed that the others already had glasses, picked his up, and sipped.
“They weren’t prepared to deal with my wardrobe’s defense systems,” he said. “Next time, they’ll be forewarned.”
“First one’s free,” Michelangelo muttered.
Down in the courtyard, one of the children shrieked laughter as Robert caught him under the arms and hoisted him overhead, before settling the child on his shoulder. Khir leapt and reared around him, chittering and yipping.
“Walter, down,” Robert said firmly, as the larger khir put its paws on his chest and pushed. For its size, the animal must be light. The big feet flexed, but Robert didn’t. The animal dropped to all fours and leaned against the man, exhaling heavily enough that Vincent heard it from where he sat.
“Is that safe?” Michelangelo asked quietly.
“Robert’s good with children,” Elena said.
Katya, who had not spoken, blinked at her. “Yes,” she said. “You’d hardly know he was a stud male.”
Vincent winced, and Lesa shot her daughter a look, but for Elena the irony must have passed unnoticed. “Exactly.”
Michelangelo nudged Vincent lightly. Vincent wondered how long it would take them to process this particular cultural divide, in all its peculiarity. Michelangelo had been asking about the animals. Not Robert, who bore a striking resemblance to the boy on his shoulder, and whom the child obviously adored, as he clung to his father, pulling Robert’s ears.
And then Walter, spurned, trotted up on the steps and sniffed Vincent curiously. Vincent forced himself not to flinch from the brush of sensitive feathers, despite a close‑up look at flaring nostrils and odd, pink pits lining the scales along the animal’s upper lip. Then the creature walked around him, sniffed Michelangelo, too, and flopped down on the cushions beside him with the feathered back of its head pressed to Angelo’s thigh.
It sighed, braced its feet against the base of a nearby chair, and shoved, moving him into a more comfortable position–for it–and appropriating part of the cushion.
Michelangelo paused with both hands raised toward his face. He lowered them slowly, and glanced down at the khir. Walter turned slightly, stretching its neck out, and wheezed a small snore as Katya and Lesa shared a laugh.
“They like to sleep in confined spaces,” Katya said. “And back up against a pack mate, if they can.”
“I’m a pack mate?” Michelangelo kept his hands up, at chest level, as if afraid a sudden move would startle the animal.
“You can touch it. It likes to be scratched at the base of the skull,” Lesa said. “And you’re in its den, and the rest of the pack is feeding you and treating you as welcome, so you must belong here. They don’t differentiate between khir and humans, if they’re socialized. They just know friends and strangers.”
Gingerly, Angelo lowered his hand to the khir’s shoulder. It whuffled, but didn’t wake. His fingertips brushed scales and feathers, his face assuming a curious expression, slack and focused, and Vincent found himself watching, breath held.
Vincent reached out and picked up his drink, folding his palm around cool, wet glass. It smelled minty and astringent as he used the rim to hide his face. The beverage was cold, but helped the chills that crawled across his stinging shoulders.
Michelangelo looked up, his fingers moving in the sleeping animal’s ruff, and gave Vincent a quizzical smile. The relaxed vulnerability around his eyes was more than Vincent could bear. He had to work for that, and nobody else got to see it, ever.
It was a hint of what Angelo would look like at peace.
“Right.” Elder Pretoria leaned forward, sliding her own glass across the table with her fingertips. She lifted it and sat back. “Miss Katherinessen, have your adventures left you any appetite? Or should we see about getting you home?”
He glanced away from Angelo, who looked back down at the khir. “Oh,” he said, “I think I could eat.”
Dinner was served in an even more informal style than the supper and reception they’d endured on their first night on New Amazonia. Kusanagi‑Jones found himself separated from his partner–not forcefully, but with the ease by which an accomplished hostess maneuvers her guests–and seated at a long low table in a spacious room. The carpetplant on either side and at the head and foot was protected by thick rugs, the floor underneath banked into comfortable seats. Another table ran crosswise at the foot of the first, and Kusanagi‑Jones was surprised when he realized that it was populated by the household males, children, and servants. He’d expected that they would be required to eat separately, and perhaps after the adult women and “gentle” guests–but once the food was brought out, the cook and two male and two female servants settled themselves alongside the table and began passing plates and chattering along wi
th everyone else.
The total assembly was about twenty‑five. Five males other than the servants, counting Robert and an older man to whom he deferred, two boys, three girls, and the balance made up in teen and adult women, with the addition of Cathay, Shafaqat, Vincent, and Kusanagi‑Jones himself. Michelangelo noticed that the female and what he presumed were gentle male servants sat between the stud males–recognizable by their scars and the street licenses worn on leather cuffs at their wrists like barbaric jewelry–and the children, and the males largely conversed among themselves.
He also noticed that the same dark‑complected boy of about six or seven New Amazonian years–who had been riding Robert around the courtyard earlier–slithered out of his seat as soon as the cook’s back was turned, scrambled into the big man’s lap, and no one seemed to think much of it.
The table arrangements had left Kusanagi‑Jones seated next to Katya Pretoria on one side, and another woman–Agnes Pretoria, who he gathered was something like the household chatelaine or seneschal–on the other. “Is that your brother?”
Katya followed the line of his gaze. He looked down and continued ladling food onto his plate. Someone had apparently asked the cook to take pity on them, because the food on offer included legume curry, rice, bread with a nut butter, and a variety of other animal‑free choices. He’d have to find out to whom to send the thank‑you note.
“Julian.” Katya’s quick glance at Lesa gave away more than she probably knew. “Yes. He’s the last of Mother’s obligation. I don’t think she’ll marry until he starts the Trials, though, and finds a position. Unless…”
Kusanagi‑Jones caught her eye and then looked down, waiting her out while applying himself to the curry.
Her hesitation became a shrug. “Mother hopes he’s gentle,” she said. “He’s very smart.”
Kusanagi‑Jones washed his food down with a mouthful of wine. The consideration of a good meal itself was enough to lower his defenses. “Like his father?”
“You noticed. Yes. Robert’s special…” she paused, and picked up her fork. “Julian and I are full siblings. The third, Karyn–” The fork clicked on the plate. “She was older. Mother’s first. She died in a duel.”
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