Shrieeeeeek! Krack. “The marmoline has been dispatched, dear,” Tomás called. Makana came out the door holding the remains of something the size of Martinus’s head. He had a firm grip on it just below the neck, and the thing’s head faced one-hundred-eighty degrees from the front. Makana's ears remained back and he’d bared his large front teeth. He ear-bowed and took the carcass out to dispose of it. Tomás appeared. “The body is too small to be worth skinning or eating.”
She kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you, dear.”
“Andat distracted it, I cornered it, and Makana managed to grab it by the neck, then twist the head and snap the neck.” He ran his hand over very short-clipped almost-black hair. “I believe your chair can be mended.”
Later that night, snuggled in her husband’s arms, Rigi mused sleepily that true love was killing marmolines without breaking anything irreplaceable or hard to repair. Or shooting a hole in the house.
The day after Tomás left, Makana decided that Andat could be trusted to go with Rigi on a sketching expedition. He had some experience driving a wombow cart, and he’d regained enough strength to get Slowth harnessed, even over the wombow’s thick cool-season coat. Rigi watched the process and wondered just how badly Slowth would shed once they returned to the southern landmass.
“Mrs. Prananda,” that unwelcome oily voice said.
“Major LeFeu.”
The look he gave her made her want to take a bath. He licked his lips. “I am given to understand that the captain is away on a long range mission. Should you feel threatened in any way, or desire a gentleman’s company, I assure you, your presence in my quarters will be most welcome.”
“Thank you for your most generous offer, Major. I will certainly keep it in mind.” She kept one hand on Martinus, in part to steady herself so she didn’t slap the major.
Andat lowered the step into the sturdy cart. “Mistress.” He’d fluffed up and his ears had tipped back half-way, not quite a threat display but very close. Apparently he did not care for the major either.
LeFeu looked as if he wanted to spit toward the Staré. Instead he took himself off after one more lascivious stare at Rigi. She climbed into the cart. “Thank you, Andat.”
After they returned from the sketching trip, she told Andat and Makana, “Until Capt. Prananda and Kor return, I need one of you to be with me whenever I leave this tent to go elsewhere, unless it is an emergency medical call.” Martinus might not be enough to dissuade the major.
Both males bared their front teeth. “All Staré know of Major LeFeu’s behavior,” Makana stated.
“He has twice destroyed the mates of females who refused him, and twice forced females who later refused to speak to the human Elders,” Andat snarled. "We Staré saw and heard, but could not stop."
Rape? Rigi felt sick at her stomach. Even if it was not rape in the sense of a physical attack, forcing a woman to bed him against her will by threatening her husband’s career was still rape. If he tried to force her, well, she knew what she’d do. It was the other threat that worried her, and the whispers that might poison Tomás’s career. “All the more reason for you to be with me whenever possible.”
Six evenings later, Rigi brushed any possible dust off her dancing slippers and presented herself to the sergeant in charge of checking invitations. It seemed a touch silly, since there were not exactly large numbers of people on the entire continent, much less uninvited people, but so manners required. He marked her name off on his data pad and bowed a little. The door opened and Rigi walked in.
Someone had done a lovely job decorating the large-gathering shelter-tent. Brilliantly colored crimson and orange leaves and clusters of gold berries gave the sense of being in a woods. She’d wondered why Mrs. Liecester had ordered her to bring back “the biggest, most colorful non-itchy leaves that you can find” when she’d gone out with Makana or Andat and the wombow cart. Now she knew. Someone had fastened a few thin, golden leaves as big as her two hands to the hanging lights, casting a soft yellow glow. Rigi noted where the buffet table was, and the ladies retiring room.
“Miss Bernardi,” a cool voice stated with a sniff. Rigi turned and stepped backwards, in part to clear the doorway for the next people to arrive. “Miss Bernardi, the invitation said evening dress.” The speaker wore lieutenant’s stars on his dress uniform. He should have been in formal uniform, but no one had brought those since this was a short deployment. He looked down his slightly-crooked nose at her. She wondered whom he was attempting to curry favor with. Only three people besides the protocol officer in NovMerv insisted on observing the army’s failure to acknowledge her marriage.
She cut him dead. “I do not believe that I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance, sir.” As he turned crimson red and spluttered, she turned, moving farther out of the way of the civilian couple who had just walked in, followed by their daughter. Since less than half of the military men had brought wives, couples and older single young ladies from the civilian settlement had been invited as well. A quick glance at the others reassured Rigi that her clothes were closer to “proper” evening attire than those of half the ladies who had arrived thus far, even if she did not bare her shoulders or wear brilliant colors. Bare shoulders required décolleté, and she had not brought the proper underthings and wrap for such a gown, even if she’d wanted to wear one. Certain dresses and manners she preferred to reserve for when her husband was present, and in Rigi’s opinion, her shoulders looked better when covered. The current mode favored the slender and willowy, and Rigi doubted even her Staré seamstress’s ability to make her appear willowy. She was as the Creator and Creatrix had made her, nothing more or less.
“That is an—interesting—interpretation of the current mode,” Mrs. Stellare-Lowen observed from beside Rigi.
“Quite interesting,” her husband agreed. “Eye catching, no doubt.”
“Indeed,” Rigi managed, torn between slack-jawed astonishment, laughter, and the desire to rush to the woman and wrap her in a blanket in order to save her from her ongoing fashion disaster. Jagged yellow lightning bolts ran from shoulder to skirt hem, interrupted by a wide belt with sparkling bead trim. What appeared to be verdant green puffs of yarn or soft fabric delineated a line of orange beneath the neckline and not coincidentally drew attention to the wearer’s most impressive décolleté. Rigi wondered if the puffs would snag on the men’s decorations and buttons, should the couple get that close during one of the slower dances. She gave herself a little mental pinch for such uncharitable thoughts.
Major and Mrs. Chang danced the first dance, followed by the most senior civilians and military. Rigi sat out, applauding politely when appropriate. The Changs danced very well, and Rigi allowed herself a moment of envy for Mrs. Chang’s tiny feet and beautiful way of moving. She possessed all the effortless grace that Rigi lacked.
Two songs later, Lt. Blaylock, one of the Scouts, bowed. “Mrs. Prananda, might I have the pleasure of your company for this dance?”
She smiled and offered him her hand. “Certainly, Lieutenant. Thank you for the kind invitation.” It was a medium-fast number, slightly complicated with two partner changes at the mid point, and one that precluded much talking or close contact. They took places toward the end of the row of dancers, giving Rigi a good view of the buffet table and a very large punchbowl. Oh good, she thought as she took Lt. Blaylock’s other hand, the punch is neither red nor bright pink. Then the music started and she focused on the steps and patterns of the song.
She danced another song with a different senior lieutenant before sitting out a slow waltz. Capt. Lowen bowed after that song and she accepted his invitation for a quick two-step. “My lady wife prefers slower songs. She had an unfortunate experience during a two-step before we married,” he explained.
“I quite understand, sir.” And she did. She’d dodged clumsy boots more than once.
Not long after that, Major LeFeu approached her. Rigi wanted to cut him, but she noticed Mrs. Bulogich watching them w
ith an avid expression, as if waiting for Rigi to do something wrong. “Good evening, Mrs. Prananda. Might I have the favor of your company for this dance?”
“Certainly, sir.” She was glad she’d worn gloves, so she did not have to touch his skin. Even so, and even though it was a fast dance, he held her too close, too tightly, his hand a little lower on her back than was truly proper. She sniffed. He smelled like something, some chemical, something she ought to remember. Perhaps it was simply the carrier scent in his cologne. His eyes glittered, or was it just the light? She didn’t dare complain or make a scene, and she reminded herself that it was only for one song. But he’d been watching her ever since Tomás left. No matter how early or late she and Makana or Andat were when they went to the wombow pens, LeFeu found her. His “subtle hints” had become more threatening and direct.
He returned her to her seat, but as the evening progressed, he began asking for her hand with every other song. Because of his rank, no one else dared to ask her, aside from Capt. Lowen and two of the civilian men. She declined his “kind offer” to get her something to drink. Surely he would not put anything in it to have the pretext of “helping her home,” would he? She remembered what Andat had said and didn’t give him the opportunity. Instead, while he danced with one of the civilian girls, she got herself a drink and a small bite to eat, even though she had no appetite.
She danced another quick-step with him, then intended to sit. Instead he took a firm grip on her hand. “No, Mrs. Prananda, please.” He turned her around before she caught on and they were in the middle of the floor, surrounded by other dancers in a very slow dance. “You certainly know how to dress to attract a man’s attention.”
“Sir?” What did he mean? She wasn’t showing anything improper.
“Please do not feign coyness, Mrs. Prananda,” he murmured. “That which is hinted at I find far more desirable than that which is flaunted.” He pointed with his head to Mrs. Bulgoitch, who was indeed giving everyone a spectacular view of her quite impressive superstructure. Rigi had wondered to herself how her seamstress had managed the trick of revealing while supporting. His hand shifted a few centimeters lower, now a hand-width below her waist.
“Major, please lift your hand. You are making me uncomfortable.” She kept her voice quiet. She so did not want a scene.
His smile made her feel slimy and unclean. The light in his eyes reminded her of fever-glaze, or something else, something even Tomás never spoke of except indirectly and in warning. “Uncomfortable? Or something more? The flush in your cheeks suggests something more.” His hand slid down onto her rump and he pulled her nearer, too close, bending as if he intended to kiss her. As they turned, his mouth came closer and he pinched her bottom. She brought her heel down hard on his instep. “Ow!” he yelped, letting go and jerking his head up and away from hers.
She jumped backwards, barely missing the couple behind her, hands on her cheeks, eyes wide. “Oh dear, sir, I am terribly sorry. I am so very clumsy. I never did learn to dance properly, especially slow dances. I’m very sorry, Major LeFeu.”
Mrs. Stellare-Lowen appeared at her elbow. “Is something wrong, Mrs. Bernardi-Prananda?”
LeFeu took a step toward her and staggered a little, then limped. “Problem, Jacob?” Major Chang inquired from down the floor.
“I apologize. I’m dreadfully clumsy and I mistimed the turn and I fear I may have stepped on Major LeFeu’s bad foot.”
“You most certainly did,” he snarled through gritted teeth. He also said something else under his breath, something quite unflattering if she read his lips properly. Rigi turned to speak with Mrs. Stellare-Lowen, to plead chagrin and a headache and the need for fresh air. LeFeu glared at her and limped off the floor. She’d not come down that hard, had she? And he was wearing boots, although they were not proper field boots.
Capt. Lowen escorted her to the door after Mrs. Stellare-Lowen agreed that she needed to go. They found Andat waiting, and Martinus. “Ah, good. I don’t trust the shields, not entirely,” the captain stated. “Be terrible to have to explain why Mrs. Prananda was eaten by a striped lion at a social function.”
Andat bowed. “Most terrible indeed, sir.”
“Thank you, Captain. Please give your lady wife my thanks as well for her understanding.” She hoped he’d catch her meaning.
“I will certainly do so. Good night, Mrs. Bernardi-Prananda.”
“Good night, sir.” Martinus went ahead of her, Andat followed behind as she walked as quickly as was proper and safe through the dark night. The cold air carried a touch of smoke in it, probably someone cooking a late supper. The night felt clean against her still-warm face, and she breathed deeply, imagining the air washing in and washing out, carrying away the filth of LeFeu’s touch. She held onto her composure until she returned home and dismissed Andat and Makana both. Once they’d gone, she put on her night dress, wrapped up in a blanket, and sat on the floor beside Martinus, holding onto him and weeping as quietly as she could.
She wanted to go home. She wanted Tomás at her side and to go home.
The next day Rigi spent in preparation for the Day of Rest, and then she fasted, prayed, and rested. The Lowens had once again extended their offer for her to spend the day with them, but she needed solitary contemplation and quiet for once. Had she led the major on? She went over every bit of memory about her behavior, everything she could recall saying or doing, every time they’d crossed paths, and could not think of a single thing. Her conscience was clean. That night, she heard Andat, Makana, and a female Staré talking quietly outside the shelter-tent, downwind so she couldn’t catch any scents. Maybe Andat had someone he was interested in, she mused. Or Makana. He was of age and had a steady and honorable position, would be a good catch for a Staré female. Rigi rolled over and went to sleep, one hand on Martinus’ back.
It was not until she went into the canteen to get something to eat on the third day after the dance that Rigi learned the news. “I’m surprised she has the nerve to show her face,” she heard someone hiss in that tone that meant everyone was supposed to hear the words. Rigi thought of it as her mother’s worship-shush hiss.
“Well, she’s not going to let herself starve to death, is she? And she probably thinks hiding for two days made everything go away.”
“Humpf. Leading that poor man on so, then cutting him! Shameless.”
Rigi looked down at the food on her tray. Tam soup, along with other things. She wanted to pour the soup over the head of whoever was talking. No, she reminded herself, someone has to act like an adult, and if no one else is, well, that leaves you. And you are assuming that they are speaking about you, which might not be the case. Rigi kept her head high, found a seat where she could watch the door as she usually did, and ate. The tam soup tasted as bad as it looked. Something the cooks had used brought the bitter under-taste to the fore, and it took all her training about not wasting edible food in order to choke down the concoction. From now on she was going to cook for herself if it meant hunting and then grilling thing-on-a-stick out in the forest. At least the meal’s meat was edible. Oh how she missed Nahla’s cooking!
By the time she finished, Makana had returned from his own meal and waited for her outside the canteen door. She wanted to see if she had any messages before she returned to her current art project, and they started walking toward the secondary communications tent. Makana stopped, alert, and without thinking Rigi reached into her skirt’s special pocket to release the safety strap on her hand-shooter. All joking aside, predators could get into anything, anytime.
A two-footed predator emerged from behind a tent-vestibule. Rigi waited, hand still in her pocket but not touching the shooter. He came closer. Rigi kept calm as time seemed to slow, just as it had during the carnifex-leaper’s attack those years before. “So you emerge.”
She remained silent, watching. He smelled bitter, a chemical bitterness that burned the back of her throat. She sensed Makana shifting into attack posture.
&n
bsp; “You failed to honor my proposal, Mrs. Prananda. You value your husband’s career so little?”
“I value his and my honor more.” The less she spoke, the better she could keep her voice from shaking.
“Honor? You lead me on, abuse my good name, and bleat about honor?” He glared at her, his hands clenching into fists at his sides. “He will have none when he returns, hussy, unless you apologize and make good on your duty to assist his career by granting my small request.”
Rigi locked eyes with him. They seemed very wide for bright noon, too dilated. Surely he wasn't intoxicated, was he? She kept her voice low, her tone polite. “No, Major LeFeu.”
“You will come to my quarters tonight, hussy. That is an order. Or I will take what I need of you and destroy your fool of a man in the process.”
“No, Major LeFeu. Now you will excuse me.” She shifted her weight, angling slightly so she could walk past him out of arms’ reach. She smelled Makana's //rage/fury// and didn’t dare look at him. She wanted to slap the lecherous look off the major’s square face herself, and whispered one of the emergency prayers for calm and discernment as she took a step forward.
He lunged for her, she dodged, and a familiar man’s voice called from behind LeFeu, “What’s this?”
“The major tripped,” Rigi called to Capt. Lowen. Makana growled in his throat at her lie.
“I will have you, bitch,” LeFeu declared, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Slatternly hussy, leading me on. I will get what you’ve promised. Think about that," he sneered her title, "Mrs. Prananda. I will see you tonight.”
Oh she was thinking about it, with a rock in her stomach. Because she could see from Capt. Lowen’s ruddy face and appalled expression that he’d heard it too. And if he’d heard it, that meant LeFeu had publically insulted her and threatened her. A splitting headache erupted, slicing across her head from temple to temple, and she staggered as she dodged LeFeu’s hand once more. “Makana, I feel ill.”
Woman's Work: Shikari Book Four Page 17