Quatrain

by Sharon Shinn

  Her head came up at that and her dark eyes gleamed. He imagined defiance was an old habit of hers. “I am from one of the Higher Hundred families, and only my female relatives may presume to comment on my behavior,” she said.

  “And sometimes you like shocking them,” he said.

  “That’s not why I’m here with you,” she said instantly. “We’re friends.”

  “We don’t know each other well enough to be friends,” he said.

  She put her head to one side. “Very well, then, you interest me,” she answered. “I would like to be your friend. But I’m not sure you ever let anyone get close enough for the word to apply.”

  That was so true that he immediately stiffened up. “There are many borders separating us, Jalciana Candachi,” he said. “We have crossed a few of them, but I imagine the rest are impassable.”

  “Then why are you out in public with me?” she demanded. “Since you don’t particularly want to shock anyone? In fact, the less attention you draw to yourself, the happier you are.”

  Which was also true, and made him turn even more remote. “Because you can be of use to me,” he said coolly. “For the same reason I would accept a dinner invitation from one of the blueskin men who does business with Brolt Barzhan.”

  That hurt her a little; her eyes darkened and her pretty face tightened. He was immediately sorry, but he didn’t have an apology in him. Nor did he have a good answer for the original question, and it made him uneasy that it had even been asked. Why was he out in this public place with a blueskin heiress whom he had no reason to want to know? What would Tess think if she saw them? What would Brolt say?

  “I will strive to be as useful as possible, then,” she said, her voice as chilly as his. “I would not want you to complain of your treatment at the hands of a blueshi.”

  He was shocked that she would use the word, which was as filthy an insult to the indigo as gilder was to the gulden. “You shouldn’t talk that way,” he said sternly. “If you dishonor yourself, others will dishonor you as well.”

  For some reason, that made her laugh; the hurt look went away. “Very well, then,” she said, “I will draw on my reserves of self-respect and try to overlook the fact that you are trying very hard not to be nice to me. Even though I think you want to be.”

  He didn’t have to try to find an answer to that because she was suddenly on her feet. He spun in his chair to watch her go over and speak to the interracial couple, who had gathered all their paraphernalia and were just about to leave the restaurant. He didn’t hear what she said, but she reached down to touch the baby on the cheek, and her words made the young parents beam with pride. They headed out the door; Jalci stepped up to the bar to place another order. When she returned to the table, she was carrying drinks for each of them.

  “Just taste it,” she said. “A few sips. I think you’ll like it.”

  He complied, but two swallows were enough to convince him that his head would be spinning if he had any more. “It’s very good. What is it?”

  “A kind of wine made from fruit that can only be found in northern Inrhio. Very expensive. My grandmother grows acres of the stuff.”

  He couldn’t resist one more swallow. The wine tasted like wild berries and black soil and fermented exaltation and money. “What did you say to those people before they left?” he asked.

  “I told them I thought their baby was adorable.” The surprise on his face must have been hilarious, or the wine had gone instantly to her head, because she threw her head back and laughed. “It was something to say,” she added. “It gave me a chance to approach them and let them know I approved of them. You can hardly walk up to complete strangers and say, ‘Good for you! You’ve risked banishment and brutality and ostracism just to be together, and I applaud your choice! You’re in the vanguard of social change, and even though it’s hard on you, the generations that come after you will have an easier time of it because you were brave enough to fall in love.’ So instead I told them I liked their baby. It means the same thing, but it’s more socially acceptable.”

  He took a much longer pull on the wine this time; he felt a flutter at his elbows and knees and knew that it wouldn’t take much more for him to get drunk. A certain recklessness overtook him, or maybe he was drunk already, inebriated on something other than a high-proof indigo vintage. He finished off the wine and set the glass down with a snap. “You intrigue me, Jalciana Candachi,” he said. “Even though I wish you didn’t.”

  She laughed at him again. “I know I do, Kerk Socast,” she replied, “and I’m going to make sure it stays that way for a long time.”

  Six

  Over the next three weeks, Kerk visited the Lost City seven times. Each time, he first stopped in Del’s office to inquire after news of his mother; each time, she told him she had no answers for him.

  On his fifth trip, he asked her if she was lying. Not as bluntly as that, of course. Speaking in goldtongue, he said, “I like to think the lady Del believes that my visits to the Lost City have been beneficial to its residents.”

  “Indeed, Kerk Socast, the time you have invested in the young men of this neighborhood has paid back more handsomely than I could have imagined. I freely admit I was not pleased with you the day you first arrived, but now I am glad every time I see your face at my door.”

  “It has become my plan,” he said, “to return to the Lost City at intervals for the foreseeable future. To continue teaching the baltreck teams until I have no more to teach them.”

  “That is welcome news,” Del said.

  This was the tricky part. He spoke slowly. “You need not fear that any news you have to give me about my mother would change my mind. Even if I learn my mother is dead, I will return to the Lost City as I have promised.”

  There was a good deal of comprehension on her face. But she, too, replied in the most roundabout fashion. “I like to think I would not stoop to abusing a man’s trust in such a way,” she said. “I like to think I would not withhold information simply because it was advantageous to me to know something that someone else did not.”

  He stood up. “Then I will come again in a few days, and perhaps you will have an answer for me, and perhaps you will not. And whatever you tell me, I will return again a few days after that.”

  “Then I will see you again at that time,” she said.

  Most days, when Kerk coached the boys, Jalci was in the gymnasium watching. In the middle of that third week, she had a surprise for him: dozens of shirts of all different sizes in four different colors.

  “Not quite team uniforms,” she said cheerfully. “But better than socks and headbands.”

  “Where did you get these?” he asked as the boys ripped open packaging and argued over who would wear what colors.

  She waved a hand. “One of my donors runs a clothing store. I talked about the value of sports in teaching teamwork and pride. Most of these were extras from bad dye runs. He was just as glad to get rid of them.”

  Kerk was watching the boys parade around the gym floor, seeming to stand taller and shoot more accurately once they were properly attired. “This was a great kindness, Jalciana Candachi.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” she said.

  He glanced down at her, smiling faintly. “I have come to feel a certain disquiet whenever you open a conversation with those words,” he said.

  She gave him a look of utter innocence. “I can’t imagine why you would say that.”

  “What have you been thinking about?”

  “Most of the schools within the city have baltreck teams,” she said. “Gulden and indigo schools. They play championship games in the spring. It might be possible to have your boys play one of the school teams. I could help arrange that.”

  He just looked at her, keeping his face blank. What had startled him most in that sentence was the phrase your boys. These lost children were not, by any measure, his. He was not responsible for them; he had no hand in their destiny; he did not even want to be co
nsidered their surrogate father, not in the smallest, remotest fashion.

  That was not the part of her comment he addressed.

  “There’s no team here,” he said. “Just people playing.”

  “Aren’t there eight men on a baltreck team?” she persisted. So she had been investing some time in getting to know the game. “Plus three alternates? You have at least five players who are actually gifted. With a few months of coaching—”

  “They would still not be good enough to make a decent showing of themselves against skilled players from an organized team,” Kerk said. “And they would not want to play if they would be humiliated.”

  She was listening carefully. “You mean, if they wouldn’t win.”

  He smiled. “No gulden man likes to lose at any contest, that’s true, but in this case I said what I meant. If they could play a game they had a chance at winning, I would be willing, but I don’t think such a chance exists.”

  “But if you continue coaching them—”

  “I do not believe my skills are good enough to put them on a level with other teams.”

  She frowned and then shrugged. “Well, think about it from time to time,” she said. “Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

  No gulden woman would have said such a thing to a gulden man; no gulden woman would have thought she could continue to wheedle and plead and come up with fresh arguments and wear down the patience of her husband or father or son. But then, as had been clear from the very first day, Jalciana Candachi had no intention of behaving like a gulden woman.

  “Maybe,” Kerk said, and slipped onto the polished floor to resume his coaching.

  Four days after that conversation with Jalci, Makk came home from school with complex forms for Brolt to fill out. The boy’s birthday was less than three months away; the school had to arrange for the transfer of responsibility from the father to the young man. Makk and Brolt disappeared together into Brolt’s hoechter, no doubt laying out the course of Makk’s future. Kerk spent the evening in the women’s quarters, playing games with Tess and the girls and trying not to let his mind fret too much over his own future. More than once, he caught Tess’s troubled gaze on his face, but he did not share his uneasiness with her and she was not bold enough to introduce the topic.

  The following night, Kerk made his own appearance at the hoechter door, knocking respectfully. Brolt was relaxing in a deep, comfortable chair, reading what looked like a historical novel, but he smiled as he looked up and saw Kerk.

  “Come in,” he invited. “I keep thinking this book will begin to catch my interest, but so far it has not, so I would much rather have a conversation than try to read.”

  Kerk stepped inside and spoke formally. “The conversation I would like to have is of a serious nature, and perhaps my father-who-is-not would prefer to concentrate only on lighter topics at the end of a busy day.”

  Brolt’s face sharpened but he did not look alarmed or dismayed. “Indeed, no, I am alert enough for important debate,” he said. “Close the door so that we are not disturbed.”

  A moment later, Kerk was sitting across from Brolt in one of those well-padded chairs, wondering where to start. Goldtongue had never seemed so abstract—but circumlocution had never seemed more necessary.

  “It is hard to believe,” he said at last, “that in eleven weeks, Makk will become a man. I remember when he was a baby, sleeping in his mother’s arms. I remember how small his fingers were when they caught at his father’s hands.”

  “It is strange indeed,” Brolt agreed. “I myself have aged only by a year or two. How can Makk have aged by twelve?”

  They both laughed at that, though Kerk’s laugh was a little sad. “When Makk becomes a man,” Kerk went on, “he will no doubt wish to participate in his father’s business. His father has built a successful, honorable company where any man would be proud to work.”

  “He does wish it,” Brolt said. “We have discussed the areas where he might profitably begin his training. He will be a man, it is true, but still a very young one. There is much he will need to learn, and it will take a great deal of time.”

  “Your nephews both continue to be employed in your firm as well,” Kerk said.

  Brolt nodded. “They are good workers and loyal to the business.”

  “Perhaps Brolt Brazhan is more blessed than a man could want,” Kerk said softly. “Perhaps he has an excess of young men for whom he feels he must find a place in his company. Perhaps he is hoping that one of the young men under his care might look for a situation elsewhere.”

  Kerk wanted to drop his eyes as he said the words, a sign of both humility and respect, but instead he kept them on Brolt’s face, to show fearlessness and strength. Brolt’s return gaze never wavered as he closely listened and carefully answered.

  “I have long been proud of my ability to provide for so many members of my family,” Brolt replied. “If I had ten sons, I could feed them all. If I had twenty nephews, all of them could find a place in my house and in my business. I am not overburdened with young men. I have places for them all and am happy to be able to provide for them.”

  Kerk felt a rush of relief so powerful it almost made him sway in his chair, but he still did not drop his eyes. “Brolt Barzhan is a generous man. No wonder his household is vigorous and full,” he said.

  “And Makk Barzhan will be a generous one as well,” Brolt said. “In the normal course of events, as you know, a man dies and his sons take over his properties. I am unfortunate in that I have only one son, but fortunate in that his notions align so closely with mine. He, too, values the contributions of his cousins and his stepbrother. He would be loath to see any of them leave the company once it comes under his control. He told me so just yesterday, without any prompting on my part. I do not think there will ever be a time, Kerk Socast, when you will find yourself thrown into the world without any semblance of family at your back.”

  Kerk took a sharp breath, for that was more direct speaking than goldtongue usually allowed. “I did not mean to cast doubts on how well the Barzhans guard their ties of family,” he said.

  Brolt smiled and leaned over to briefly rest his big hand on Kerk’s shoulder. “And you did not,” he said. “You spoke up just as you should, and that took courage. For my part, I needed no courage at all! I was merely required to be benign and munificent.”

  Kerk allowed himself a laugh, though it was a small one. “Perhaps for a man like yourself, such a conversation was easy,” he said. “I am not so certain that a mean-spirited individual would have answered as you did.”

  Still smiling, Brolt dropped his hand and leaned back in his chair. “But I confess, I thought you might be coming to my hoechter with a different sort of question,” the older man said.

  Kerk gave him an inquiring look. “What question might that be?”

  “It has not escaped my notice that you have spent a great deal of your time away from the business and away from the house,” Brolt said. “Clearly, there are other enterprises that have captured your attention. What does a man of your age find so fascinating? I ask myself. There seem to be two possible answers. One, it might be a woman.”

  “A woman!” Kerk exclaimed, so surprised that Brolt laughed out loud.

  “When I was your age, I might not have been eager to marry, but I was eager to know more about women,” Brolt said cheerfully. “It seems logical to suppose that some of your time has been spent with a member of the opposite sex.”

  “No,” Kerk said decisively—and then, as Jalci’s image rose unbidden in his mind, “Well, yes. But not the kind of woman you mean. That is—she’s not—I don’t think of her as—It’s hard to explain,” he ended lamely.

  Brolt was smiling even more broadly. “I see,” he said. “Then perhaps I needn’t even ask if the second situation might apply.”

  “What would that other situation be?” Kerk asked a little desperately. He was still thinking of Jalci. Well, of course, she was a woman. A fascinating, unpredictab
le, chaotic, restless thunderstorm of a woman, but not someone you thought of as a woman. Not the kind of person you imagined sharing your house with, sharing your bed with, sharing your life with. Not that kind of woman.

  “A man your age might be thinking of how to free himself from the influence of his father and his other male relatives,” Brolt said. “You came here tonight and offered to leave if I had no more use for you. Perhaps you were trying to tell me that there is other work you want to do at some other company.”

  “I would not say such a thing,” Kerk said. “That would be disloyal.”

  Brolt shrugged. “Now and then, a son must leave the family business, or no new businesses would be formed,” he said. “It is not disloyal for a son to move on, as long as the new place he finds is honorable and efficiently run. I would smooth your way if you wished to leave for another company. I would do more. I would back an enterprise you wished to found on your own, provided I was convinced it was a sound financial investment.”

  Now Kerk straightened in his chair, truly surprised. This was a mark of favor that he had never expected. “Brolt Barzhan is openhanded indeed,” he said. “I have no words to express my gratitude.”

  Brolt smiled. “But should I conclude that no such business idea has germinated in your head? Should I understand that all your abstraction has been caused by a woman—even if she is one you cannot explain? Or is there, indeed, a business proposition you would like to discuss with me—if not now, at some point in the future?”

  Kerk sank back against the chair, studying Brolt’s face. This man had taught Kerk everything he knew about honor, everything he understood about family; this man had shown Kerk how a good man was supposed to live. And yet this man had the unconscious sense of entitlement common to any privileged gulden man who had lived in a society constructed to adore him. Brolt did not know from experience what it meant to live as an outsider, a dependent, or a castoff. Honorable as he was, Brolt might not understand what Kerk had to say next.

  “I have spent my recent days in an activity that I am not sure you will approve of,” Kerk said finally, speaking slowly and as plainly as he could in goldtongue. “I wish you would hear my entire story before you judge.”