He was not going to be the least bit sorry to have a bit of a holiday himself. Even if only a few hours’ worth.
Up the stairs, then, and to the wing of the house furthest away from the dining-room. The girl let him in to a large well — warmed room with an actual fire, a wood fire, burning in a grate against the wall; charming, if anachronistic. She wished him the best of his bath, and asked if anything seemed lacking, and made sure he knew how to summon her up should anything be found so; and then while Andrej stood on the threshold of the bathing-room, toying with the concept of asking for her help to scrub his back, trying to determine whether or not he had designs on her — she excused herself, and went away.
Probably just as well, Andrej admitted to himself. And no denying that he took particular pleasure in being left to himself for a little while. On board ship there was always the officer’s orderly, always, whoever’s turn it was to pull the duty. And whenever he was not on board ship he lived in the middle of a Security squad. A man could hardly so much as urinate in private.
Andrej had been raised in public, in a sense, because he had been raised by body-servants in his father’s household. Even as a child Andrej had realized that there was something wonderful about being alone, quite alone, hiding in the closet or riding perversely in an unexpected direction to disappear into the winter forest before anyone could stay him.
But never for long. And never long enough.
It was not decent to hide for long. A person’s servants got anxious, and it was not in the least bit thoughtful or respectful to play tricks on them.
Andrej took a good long hot soak in the old-fashioned water tub, concentrating on shutting everything out of his mind except the soothing comfort of the bath and the to-be-anticipated company of a lady. His reenlistment, his ruined hopes of freedom, his despair in facing the future — shutting it all out of his mind. Sylyphe Tavart, with breath so sweet a man all but had to taste that pretty little mouth, so young — and so willing to be charmed with him —
Shutting that out as well. She was a child. A man did not insult the innocence of children, no matter if they thought that they were ripe to be enjoyed. He knew; Sylyphe did not; it was not for him to be the one to teach her. That was all.
When he was washed and dried and belted into the wrap that lay warming on the rod for his use Andrej went out into the bedroom. Someone had come and gone, so quietly — in the manner of servants in such places — that Andrej hadn’t noticed; the fire was refreshed, the table laid with snacks and wodac. Also some rhyti. The bed was large, but the mattress was uneven; sitting down at the edge Andrej noticed that a book had been laid open on the bedside table, the bright colors of its illustrations catching his eye. He picked it up, curious.
A fishing-book.
A book of fish-stories.
A fishing-book in the old sense of the term, or in the Dolgorukij sense of the term, a book of natural history, of pictures designed to educate. That was the excuse, at least; to educate — and to beguile, interest, arouse . . .
He was leafing through the fishing-book when the knock came at the door, and the lady of the house came in. Distracted, Andrej did not stand when she crossed the threshold; and gestured toward the book that lay now open in his lap by way of an excuse, apologizing.
“Do you know, I had one of these, or one like it.” Well, not exactly like it, of course. One found in a corner of the library where historical curiosities were kept, an antique. Really. Antiquarian interest. Yes. “There is a gallery at Chelatring Side, where we went in the late part of the summers. My cousin Stanoczk to be bribed consented, to let me in, and Marana with me.”
There had been endless vigils to keep in penance afterward, when it had all come out. The vigils had done no good. They only gave him time, private time, quiet time, to meditate on the pictures he had seen in the Malcontent’s secret gallery at Chelatring Side, and Marana hand in hand with him, exploring. Experimenting.
The lady of the house had poured herself a dainty cup of rhyti, carrying it over to sit down beside him on the bed. She had changed her garments for bed-dress, and her robe was but loosely knotted around her waist.
Well.
He had not quite expected such an honor, and still it could be that he was mistaken to assume that she was to be his partner. She was the house-mistress, and engaged only for her own recreation, or to pay special honor to a patron. It was only that his fish was as beguiled by the pictures as by his passing memories of that afternoon with Marana in the Malcontent’s gallery, so long ago.
His fish would disgrace him, if he was not careful.
With luck she would not want to take the book.
“Let me see, young Anders,” the house-mistress suggested, reaching up her left hand to pull out a pin from the damp cloud of hair that lay loosely gathered against the nape of her neck. “Which is your favorite, here? I’ll show you mine. But you must show me yours, first.”
There was no mistaking the implication of that. She was mistress here; no need for delicate language, surely. “This is an outland fishing-book, not a Dolgorukij fishing-book. Else there would be much more of this sort of recreation to examine.”
He found the place where the couple who shared their transports for the pleasure of the beholders did so with the lady in her lover’s lap. It was not strictly true that there were more like that in a traditional Dolgorukij fishing-book. But absolutely true that a man who was Aznir did well to take a woman into his lap, if she was not herself also Dolgorukij.
“I’ve heard rumors of the sort.” Her exclamation was so calm as to almost be no exclamation at all. “About Dolgorukij men. My girls all wanted to know, but I’m their mother, I take precedence.”
Their figurative mother, needless to say. Or perhaps not. She was not a young woman; perhaps so old as he was, and that meant that it was not impossible that some of the girls — the younger ones especially — actually were children of her body.
Which in turn implied . . .
“I am honored.” Andrej acknowledged it with all humility. “And can only trust to live up to what rumors you may have heard. If it can be done.”
She supped her rhyti demurely. Her hair was falling out of its damp knot, slowly, slowly tumbling down her back. She was Nurail, to look at her; she might well have borne her children under wretchedly primitive conditions. If no lover’s tuck had been taken after the birth of anyone . . . there were those who found a woman more desirable, rather than less, for the evidence of motherhood, but the point was that it might yet be that he could pillow himself upon her bosom as though she had been Dolgorukij after all, without fear of causing her an injury in an excess of enthusiasm.
“Fishing, you say.” Setting her cup aside; leaning over the look, leaning close beside him. Letting him feel the soft round of her shoulders, beneath her robe. “How is this ‘fishing?’ Explain yourself to me.”
Yes, he had called it by a Dolgorukij name, used a Dolgorukij phrase. Andrej blushed without being able to quite decide why. “In the language of my childhood a fish is as to say that part of a man which shows he is not female, and yet is not his beard. If he has a beard. I mean to say a chin-beard.” Because he did have that other kind of beard, though many Dolgorukij did not grow facial hair. He was getting fuddled. Had there been something in the bath-water?
Or was it simply that she smelled of the ocean, subtly so, faintly so, but sweetly and irresistibly so, so that his fish half-raised itself to listen for the glad sound of the surf?
“A fish.” She stared at him very frankly, and made no secret of her amusement. “A codling, then. Or perhaps a brook-trout. Bring you to me a salmon-fish, young Andrej? No, a tunny, yes, perhaps.”
He didn’t know what she was talking about — except in the general sense, of course. Which it was better to ignore, or he would not complete his explanation.
He put the book aside.
“There is in the life of a man a fish, which is rude and inconstant, but which knows one
great piece of true wisdom.” Putting an arm around her Andrej helped her hair down, letting the tendrils curl around his fingers. Loving the smell of her. “And that is to seek the ocean, which is where all fish come from, to which therefore it is only natural for fish to wish to return.”
If he stroked the far side of her face very gently there was the chance that she could be persuaded to turn her face toward his, so that he could provide proper punctuation for his explanation as he spoke on. Explaining himself with kisses. She had a pleasant if somewhat cool taste to her mouth, flavored with rhyti. “It is the ocean we were all rocked in as infants yet unborn. Madame, my fish desires thy ocean.”
She wound her arms around his neck and considered his proposal for long moments as he kissed her mouth. It seemed to Andrej that there was the suspicion of a blush beginning to rise into her cheek, but it could just as well have been a shadow from the fireplace. There was no way to be sure.
Sighing — as if she were letting go of some anxiety — she let her hands fall away from his neck and shoulders.
Into his lap.
She slid one cool slim hand beneath the hem of his sleep-shirt and up his thigh with such an air of professional detachment that Andrej almost didn’t notice the gesture until she seized upon his fish, which had caused no trouble yet this evening for which it should be reproached in such a manner, and tugged at him indelicately.
“Is this then the terrible weapon from which all off-world women must flee in fear? Surely it cannot be so.”
That had been her point about codlings and tunny-fishes, then. In point of fact he was neither remarkable for size and girth or lack of either. At home it didn’t matter. A fish was a fish, and a burden no matter its particular rudeness or strength in leaping.
Only when he had left home for the surgical college on Mayon had Andrej discovered that there was an entire world of insult and one-upsmanship that could be draped around the fins of a man’s fish.
He had never had complaints from the ladies.
He would have nothing of the house-mistress’s impertinence now.
“Oh, let us by all means discuss this issue.” Her caress had not been sweet or tender, but it was still arousing in its utterly frank focus on what she could expect to concern her most immediately. Andrej didn’t really mind. “And when morning comes you will do me the kindness of declaring whether it is an honest fish or whether you have been disappointed in its vigor. Let us seal a bargain on it.”
“Well.” She had released her grip, but rested still with her hands laid flat atop his thighs beneath the sleep-shirt. “Far be it from me to deny your fish a chance to show himself a, well, a fish. And perhaps he only needs encouragement, shall I give him a kiss for an apology?”
Andrej’s fish stiffened and raised its head at the suggestion, greedy for affection as it always was. But Andrej would be stern. “We will have no apologies.” His fish was eager for a kiss, but more than one sort of a caress would soothe a fish. Fish had so little true discrimination. Such favors as she proposed were available to him at any time, whether or not he had ever indulged himself. “Favor me with your name, Madame. May I not call thee something other than the lady of the house?”
She had one great mystery to offer him that he could only share at intervals. She was the ocean to his fish. He would make his way to the sea, and lose himself in the salt depths of her, and drown there.
If he slipped one hand beneath the neckline of her robe he could put the robe down from her shoulders, on one side. She had very adequate shoulders, and Andrej sat and admired her nakedness shamelessly, stroking that smooth round curve with his left hand. Foreign women did not know what bared shoulders did to Dolgorukij. And the best of it was that their ignorance did not diminish the impact of their beauty.
“Fallon, then.” She’d put her head back, her eyes half-closed. Suffering herself to be caressed. But not pretending she did not enjoy it. “You may call me Fallon, since I’ve said Anders before this. Just for tonight. Give me your mouth when you do that, you make me as nervous as a cat.”
Yes, willingly.
The sound of the surf was in his ears. He could smell the ocean.
There was nothing in his mind but where he was and what he was to do, no reality beyond the simple truth of the joy of his body and the kindness of her hands.
For this eternity of an evening he could even forget he was Inquisitor.
Chapter Six
So this was what a Dohan Dolgorukij made of a Center House, Captain Lowden mused appreciatively, looking all around him. Normally standing in reception lines was not among his favorite occupations, but this time it was almost worth it — just to get an eyeful of the Danzilar prince’s decor.
“Who did you say?” Captain Lowden prompted, turning the gift-flask in his hands with the expected expression of impressed respect and gratitude. “Bermeled’s distillers? Of course. The pleasure is mine, I assure you.”
Clear-wall doors to the garden full two stories tall and more. Lighting fixtures made of spun glass and fractured crystal hanging in great glittering ice-blooms from long chains in the ceiling. Painted walls papered over with figured silk, and the pattern showing through from behind with jewel-like intensity and unnerving depth. Dance floors, three of them, laid on raised squares of resilient wood, and as many different octets of musicians playing the same tunes in variation in perfect synchronization so that the combined effect — coming at one from several different directions at once — was almost overwhelming.
That was it right there, in summary, Lowden decided.
Almost overwhelming. And just that necessary touch of restraint sufficient to keep it all coherent and splendid at once.
“You’re very kind. Permit me to introduce my First Officer, Mendez. Ralph, these are Sarif Pelar and her partner Chons, local representatives from Bermeled’s distillery.”
Center House was roaring with people, staff, servants, Security. Griers Verigson Lowden stood with the Danzilar prince at the front of the great foyer doing his duty, lending his presence and that of his officers to the reception line as Danzilar greeted his subject people and the hangers-on who hoped to make a profit under the new administration.
Lowden wished them luck of the attempt. Dolgorukij in trade were as ferociously efficient as his favorite little Aznir in torture, as if the thirst for mastery and the habit of dominion were a genetic determinant of the ethnicity. Maybe they were, Lowden mused, watching a senior businesswoman work her way up the long line to Danzilar’s position, a wide-eyed youngster in tow. Maybe if you reached the age of discretion without having demonstrated an instinctive grasp of the profit equation you were sold off as Sarvaw, or some similarly disgraceful fate.
“Dame Ranzil Tavart,” the majordomo whispered near Lowden’s ear, at his back. Just in case Lowden had missed the Danzilar prince’s cue. Lowden bowed, his mind half-distracted by the pleasingly substantial pile of booty that the majordomo was accumulating for him on a table against the wall. “Cordage and Textile” didn’t sound very promising from that angle, though; what little treats could a textile manufactory offer?
“Oh, and I understand you’ve had great success with recovering seed-stocks. Weren’t we told that those beautiful flowers in front of the House came from your greenhouses?” The polite phrases were automatic, and nobody really expected him to mean a bit of what he said. He didn’t have to think, just smile and speak a word, and smile again. Sickening.
“Ralph Mendez — my First Officer, here — is Santone, not much by way of flowers of any sort where he comes from, I’m afraid. What do you say, Ralph?”
Not as if Lowden cared one way or the other; no, of course not. But a man was expected to demonstrate his skill at managing the flow of traffic in a reception line. He certainly wasn’t going to be shown up by Danzilar, of all people.
Glancing around him at the crush, Lowden knew that he was genuinely impressed at what Danzilar had done with a few hours and a very great deal of money. There w
as no way in which Vogel would have overlooked the beautiful parquetry floor or the fine rich wood wainscoting in his final audit. Paval I’shenko had to have brought them. Bought them, brought them, laid the floor and hung the chandeliers, painted the walls and then papered over them, and all in the few hours between the final signatures on the formalization documents and the opening of the Center House for this reception.
“Well, no, I’m actually not. In fact I haven’t any relatives in that Sector. An orphan, sorry.” Two in a row with no presents. He could hear Chief Medical further down the line, talking with the textile people; and cocked an ear, curious.
“Very expertly done, Dame Tavart,” Koscuisko was saying. “If I may say so, the young lady has done us proud. Perhaps I may be permitted to impose further and dance with the daughter of the house, later on in the evening.”
In all, three of Lowden’s officers stood in the reception line, beside Lowden himself. Mendez, Two, and Andrej, who ranked lowest out of the Ship’s Primes on the scale of things. Lieutenant Wyrlann wasn’t required, since Lowden was here to represent Command Branch. The Engineer was back on Ragnarok with the Ship’s Second Lieutenant.
Lieutenant Wyrlann was in trouble, and Lowden meant to be sure that Wyrlann understood that.
This was going to be a spectacular party before it was finished; a real work-out. A reception, dinner, dancing, late supper, until finally the guests were dismissed to their homes over fast-meal. A man wanted for companionship to share such an event. Especially if a man was expected to uphold the Bench presence and be on his best behavior. Especially when a man was expected to make good the poor impression created by his miserable excuse for a First Lieutenant.
And it was going to cost Wyrlann at performance review time; but meanwhile — as a result of Wyrlann’s little lapse — relaxing, truly enjoying himself at the service center was all but out of the question. He’d have to mind his manners. There was little amusement to be found in that.
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