The Devil and Deep Space

by Susan R. Matthews

  The Security who stood to either side between her and her lover took a side step each, so that no one stood between them. Marana stared fearfully at Andrej for a moment, trying to see something in his face that would reveal the man that he had been and remind her that she had loved him once.

  It was his figure. His shoulders, although he was filled out and hardened in some way. His hands, his booted feet, the way he carried his head, the never–quite–tidy fringe of hair across his forehead, the always–almost–smiling look to the corners of his mouth.

  She could not see his heart. It was his face, but there was little she could really recognize. “You are welcome to your house, my lord.”

  The words were practiced; there was comfort in the ritual. She had never spoken them to him before, but she knew her lines. It was just not being able to believe that it was him that made it awkward. “Stop and take refreshment, for this house and all that are within are yours. Therefore be pleased to stay with us a while, and walk amidst these gardens green; my arms long to embrace you.”

  He was not looking at her. He was looking past her, to where the household stood assembled, the members of and the members in his Excellency’s household. He was an Excellency in Fleet as well; Ferinc had explained it to her.

  She thought that his considering gaze stopped when it fell where Anton would be standing, with his nurse. Andrej opened his mouth to answer her, but what he said was not the lines expected.

  “ ‘How shall I come into this house when she who holds the keys is sacred to me? Not as your master, lady, but your suitor true and dedicate, to seek your blessing as that of the Holy Mother of us all.’ ”

  She could not breathe.

  There was a clattering sound that rattled in her ears, what was that noise? It was the jug of milk upon the tray that the wife of the kitchen–master held. That was it. It rattled on its tray as Geslij trembled, struggling to keep her body still.

  The wrong words for a man to take possession of his house and everything that was in it, and her.

  Not Powiss and Empeminij, but Dasidar and Dyraine, the end of the tale, the triumphant conclusion of the saga when the hero to whom all Dolgorukij traced their ancestry besought the beautiful and beloved Dyraine of the weavers to be his sacred wife.

  The words that all Dolgorukij had used to marry ever since, but only once. No man would dream of marrying as Dasidar had been forced to promise himself to Hoyfragen, not after the offense that Hoyfragen had given Holy Mother and all Saints under Canopy, not after how nobly Dyraine had suffered to prove her merit matchless and unstained by any act in which virtue was not queen.

  She knew the words to say. She just could not quite bring herself to say them, and said to him instead “What are you thinking of? You’ve got it all wrong. How could you have forgotten such a thing?”

  The rattling of the milk jug on the tray that Geslij bore grew ever louder. In another moment, Geslij was going to drop the milk jug entirely; that would be a very bad omen.

  “I wish I could have warned you, Marana,” Andrej said. There was the ghost of the voice of the man that she had loved in his words; even though he still said “warned,” and not “obtained your permission.” “I couldn’t risk the chance of interference. Please. Be my bride, and make your child my son. This must be done. I promise you.”

  Her child was his son. That wasn’t what he meant. He meant son and heir. Legitimate; inheriting.

  He meant to spurn the Ichogatra princess for good and all, and make her — gentlewoman though she was — the mother of the son of the son of the Koscuisko prince.

  She was light-headed with shock and bemusement. She could get only very little meaning out of what he said, and what meaning she could grasp seemed too fantastic to be truly understood. Giddy with the unreality of it all, she folded her hands across her apron — to steady herself, as much as because that was what it was to be Dyraine — and raised her voice to say the words that she had never thought to hear coming out of her own mouth.

  “ ‘I will be mistress of your hearth and bed, my lord, gladly and with my great entire goodwill, and may the Holy Mother bless and preserve us both to serve all Saints beneath the canopy of Heaven.’ ”

  Reaching out to one side, not daring to look, Marana steadied the milk jug on the tray that Geslij bore. And just in time. Geslij’s trembling had so perturbed the jug’s contents that some of the milk had slopped over the rim, and made it slippery.

  “ ‘Will you not come and drink with me? Let us be glad and take shelter in one another, so that we may have joy and comfort all our lives.’ ”

  House–master Chuska stepped up to the other side of Geslij with the cup, antique and priceless, shining in the brilliant sunlight. Geslij poured the milk and Chuska passed the cup to Marana for her to offer to Andrej, who received it gravely in both hands, raising his voice to begin the end of the ritual, line by line in proper form.

  “ ‘Sacred are thy feet to me, lady, for the bearing of the weight of this my child. Sacred is your apron to me, lady, for the cradling of the frame of this my child. Sacred is your breast to me, for the nurture and the comforting of this my child. And sacred is thy mouth to me, lady, for the speaking of the name of this my child.’ ”

  Each sentence had to be interspersed with sips from the greeting cup. Andrej conducted himself with grace and precision; he knew as well as she did that the eyes of the entire population of the Matredonat were fixed on him, how carefully they all listened to be sure that it was done correctly. Once the final word was spoken, there was no going back; he had made witnesses of them all.

  When a man married his first and sacred wife before she bore his child, the words were formulae and could be gotten around; but there was no dispensation under the canopy of Heaven that could sunder her from Andrej now, nor Andrej from her, not with the fact of Anton in evidence.

  It was the stuff of opera and romance, melodrama, but also law and feud and bloody warfare. For as long as Dolgorukij had told each other stories of Dasidar and Dyraine, a man who cried the full four Sacred–art–thous had made his choice public and irreversible. Andrej emptied the cup and held it out to Chuska, looking at Marana.

  “And I hope to be forgiven, once I have but had a chance to speak to you.” Because he made her position at once unassailable and more difficult than ever, and he who had done this thing would not be staying to help her bear up beneath his family’s displeasure. There would be unpleasantness. She could not imagine that he had his father’s blessing to publicly insult the Ichogatra princess and unilaterally revoke all of the complex business relationships that had been years developing — all based on the clear understanding that the Ichogatra princess would be Andrej Koscuisko’s sacred wife, and that the benefit that Koscuisko’s family enjoyed from the match would accrue to an inheriting son with an Ichogatra mother.

  It was beyond possibility that the Ichogatra princess would accept anything less than the first place in Koscuisko’s household — for herself or for her children. That was to have been Marana’s place, the subordinate wife, the secular wife, the acknowledged but not–privileged children, the match a man made for pure affection and not by his father’s devising. The Ichogatra princess would never consent to take second place to a mere gentlewoman.

  “We will talk about it later.” If he thought for one instant that he was to escape explaining, he was mistaken. “We have already upset your son, Andrej, by this unexpected departure. Now come with me and greet your child. He will be worried. He will not understand what is going on.”

  Anton Andreievitch had just made an unimaginable leap in status over the heads of the sons and the daughters of Andrej’s brothers and married sisters. Over even Andrej’s brothers themselves, conceptually. The enormity of it all should stagger Anton, but he was only eight years old, and fortunately would only understand that something unusual had occurred.

  Andrej held out his hand; Marana took it. Turning around, she led her now–husband to where Anton Andr
eievitch stood bravely in his little blue–and–yellow coat, waiting to be introduced to the alien creature in black that was his father.

  ###

  It had been so long since he had seen her that Andrej couldn’t tell how angry Marana might be, or what might be going on in the privacy of her mind. Once they had been so close that they knew each other’s joys and disappointments as though they had shared one mind between them; now she was a stranger. Nor could he afford to open up his heart and mind to his Marana, ever again, for fear of what she might see there.

  Her legal position and that of their son was as firmly grounded now as he could make them. She would have power, but Andrej was afraid she would have very little support. The election was unblessed. Marana was to remain the anomaly, the gentlewoman, the woman who would continue to represent the loss of face and failure of contractual arrangements that this marriage entailed. He was leaving. He had the easy part.

  She led him by the hand in the correct manner to where a little boy was standing, waiting with his nurse. Little brown shoes of soft brown leather. A tiny jacket of blue, and yellow trimmings; an absurdly formal lace cravat, and a face that wrung Andrej’s heart because it was like Marana’s face and like his own, together, and yet a face distinct unto itself.

  He had seen pictures. Hologrammic records. Nothing had prepared him for this moment.

  “Here is your son, my lord,” Marana said. “And if he is not filial, may all Saints under the canopy of Heaven rise up to rebuke me. This is your child, whom I have named after his father to be Anton Andreievitch.”

  For a moment the absurdity of the situation, the tyranny of tradition, threatened to overwhelm Andrej. Filial. If he is not filial may all Saints rise up to rebuke me. Why should Andrej Ulexeievitch rejoice in a filial son, when he himself was not a filial son?

  Why should any son be filial, when it had been in the name of filial piety that Andrej himself had sacrificed his honor and his decency and his ability to sleep untroubled by his dreams, and become Inquisitor?

  “He has his father’s name, lady, and I am very pleased to know him for my son.”

  The ritual just completed would not have been reviewed beforehand with this little boy, but they were safely returned to anticipated ground now. This piece of the homecoming speech was the same for almost any circumstance. The little boy looked up into Andrej’s face with a look of relief and expectation.

  Andrej didn’t want to waste a moment longer with ritual and ceremony; this was his son. But his son was a child, and children could be frightened easily by the unexpected. Anton had lines that he would have been coached in and rehearsed to speak. There was no help for it but to go forward.

  Andrej finished the required text. “If he can also claim his mother’s courage and her strength, he will be blessed indeed. Anton Andreievitch. Do you know who I am?”

  Anton was concentrating so hard on what he was to say that it seemed to take a moment for him to realize that this was his cue. He gave himself a little shake, then, that reminded Andrej almost irresistibly of a puppy climbing out of an unwelcome bath. “You are my father, sir, Andrej son of Alexie who is son of Slijan before him. Give me your blessing, sir, I beseech you, so that I may grow in wisdom and in learning to become worthy that I bear your name.”

  It seemed a very long speech for a little boy to have to learn. Full of archaic constructions and little–used words. It was the end of the speech making, though; or almost the end.

  “With all my heart I bless you, my own son.” Now it was over. Now Andrej could sink down slowly to crouch on his heels at Anton–height and look at him, really look at him. His son. His. “Come to me, then, Anton, let me have a kiss. I am so glad to finally meet you.”

  Anton did not seem inclined to do any such thing. Why should he run into a stranger’s arms, and kiss him dutifully? Anton’s nurse gave Anton’s shoulder an encouraging pat that was at least one part gentle push. Anton stepped forward. Putting his little hands on Andrej’s shoulders he kissed Andrej shyly, one cheek, the other cheek, the first cheek again.

  Andrej held out his arms and Anton, if a little reluctantly, permitted himself to be picked up.

  Andrej stood with his son in his arms. He hadn’t thought Anton would be so light. “Your mother has told me so many good things about you.” And people would tell Anton things about Andrej sooner or later that were not wonderful at all. “I’d like to introduce you to my Security, because they have heard all about you. From me.”

  A lie. But perhaps one that could be forgiven him. Andrej didn’t like to talk about Anton; he was ashamed of never having met him, though his rationalizations for not having gone home were well rehearsed and firmly in his mind to be available whenever he might need them. And what business was it of anybody’s but his own? What difference did it make to anybody whether he had a child or not?

  He carried his child slowly back to where Security waited, noting with amusement that the look on Chief Stildyne’s unlovely face was almost one of horror. Security did not have much to do with children as a rule. Still, Anton was a brave young soul, and looked up into Stildyne’s ravaged face with grave courtesy that showed no tinge of fear or horror, putting his arms out unbidden to be held by a man of whom Andrej himself could be afraid — and yet was not, knowing in the marrow of his bones that Stildyne would never do him harm.

  Did Anton know that? Was there some special insight that a child’s heart enabled that gave Anton the power to look into Stildyne’s very ugly face — the flattened nose, the mismatched eyebrows, the cheekbone smashed up beneath the eye, the thin pale lips, the narrow squinting eyes — and see only a man who loved his father?

  “My Chief of Security,” Andrej explained, as Stildyne held the child in his arms and the others gathered around him. “Like unto the house–master, and these the people of his team. His crew. How do you say it in plain Standard, though? His what?”

  “His watch, sir?” Anton guessed. It was the first thing Anton had said to Andrej after the rehearsed speech of welcome, and it was very apropos. Lek Kerenko caught Andrej’s eye and grinned, openly and freely, with obvious approval

  “Quite so.” Andrej was a little surprised, even, because it was the best word for the problem. Also because Anton had clearly been not only listening, but thinking. “Here is my good Smish Smath. Do you see many women on guard–watch here, Anton Andreievitch?”

  He was going to have to cut this short in a moment. The household stood waiting; he had to let Anton lead him into the house. It would not be so very much longer, though, surely.

  “No, my lord father,” Anton said, with his eyes so wide that the whites showed all around. “Is she very fierce?”

  And Andrej wanted his Security to know his son, because Anton Andreievitch was the best part of himself that he had left to share with people who had earned his deep regard and gratitude.

  ###

  It got very late, and Marana was exhausted from the emotional strain of the day and its shocking surprises.

  Andrej and his people were still on a different time, perhaps; and Andrej seemed to be genuinely besotted with his son, which more than anything endeared the stranger with the face of the friend of her childhood to her once more.

  He might have become a stranger to her; he might not move or sound or even smell like Andrej as Marana had once known him. But at least he knew to cherish their son Anton. She could forgive him much for that, and save the aching outrage that she nursed with regard to his long absence for later contemplation.

  She had a much more immediate situation to address. The household had to be allowed to stand down, and to sleep. The master–bedroom suite had been opened for Andrej Ulexeievitch for the first time in more than nine years. There was to be no getting around it; custom and practice and common expectation required her to wait upon her husband in his bed.

  There was no escape that Marana could see. As soon as Andrej had sent word that he was coming home, she’d known that she was going to h
ave to sleep with him, at least in the most obvious sense of the term — in the same bed. This bed was an antique, an old–fashioned Dolgorukij autocrat’s bed with two tiers of steps up to the platform, its great carved headboard with the family seal of one of Koscuisko’s maternal antecedents, more than twice as wide as it was long, with room for a man and his wife and the nurse and the baby.

  When Ferinc came to speak privately with her he cradled her close in the dark in her own bed and slept with her in his arms, with his dark hair spread over the pillow.

  Being in this bed with Andrej was almost not even being in the same room. There were two sets of curtains that marked the bed space off from the rest of the room, marked off in turn from the rest of the house by its own interior walls, like a house inside a house.

  What was she to do? Engage with him? How could she?

  She thought about feigning sleep. That had the burden of tradition to recommend it, a signal Andrej would understand without any potentially dangerous words exchanged. To feign sleep would only put things off, however; she would still have to face him tomorrow. And tomorrow night. And the night after that. She was expected to sleep with him for five nights running, in token of her gladness at his return — tradition. It would be awkward to feign sleep for five nights running. It would not be fair to Andrej.

  Marana sat at the edge of the great bed in her dressing gown with her hands in her lap, trying to decide how she was to approach this. What she was to say. The problem wasn’t Ferinc, not really; Andrej would be hurt, perhaps angry, if he ever found out, but she was well within her rights to accept reconciliation from a Malcontent in the absence of her lord. In the long absence of her lord. In the long and frequently silent absence of her lord, who scarcely spoke to her from his heart, even when he did send her some word. No.