The Complete Ivory

by Doris Egan

  "I'll have to return the retainer." Ran winced.

  It was the proper thing to do. Still— "Hold back an amount equal to my old salary for the summer. As your 'assistant,' I shouldn't be paid on an assignment basis. Call it operating expenses."

  He smiled. "It would leave us with something," he agreed. "Let me think about it. The man obviously doesn't want to use the Net, so we'll have a while to make our reply."

  Eventually I became tired of lying in a few gallons of water, and got into my nightrobe and slippers. Slippers! How delightful. I padded around with a ridiculous smile on my face.

  Ran was in the bathroom with the door closed. I could hear water running in the sink. I walked down the hall to knock on the door and ask if he wanted me to order us some food.

  And stopped short. There in the shadows on the high shelf where we kept little-used items, at the end of the corridor—

  —was a frangi.

  Sure, give me a hard time if you want to, those among you who enjoy feeling superior. But every hero is entitled to a fatal flaw, even a two-bit hero. For the Greeks it was hubris; for Othello it was jealousy; for me it's an orange squashy thing with black dots. Ugh! I don't even like writing the name.

  Fortunately, Ran had seen me get hysterical over this before, and though he'd looked disbelieving, he knew it was a nondebatable, preordained matter. I would not have to give lengthy explanations or deal with sarcastic laughter while trying to keep from throwing up at the same time.

  Still, no need to scream at present, was there? Not yet, anyway. "Ran? Would you mind coming out as soon as you have the chance?"

  "What is it?"

  "I'll show you when you come out."

  There. I hadn't made a complete spectacle of myself. I could keep an eye on the abomination and yell if it moved. It was important to know where it was, because if it got away I'd be up all night worrying where the hell it was.

  A minute later Ran emerged, sliding a comb into his pocket. "What's up, tymon?"

  "Ran, am I hallucinating, or is that orange thing on the ledge—"

  "It is." He moved between me and it. "You should have told me it was an emergency," he said kindly. He looked around, spotted a broom and grabbed it. "Wait down the stairs."

  I moved with alacrity. Behind me I heard thuds and curses.

  A few minutes later Ran came down and said, "All taken care of."

  Ran wouldn't tell me it if it weren't true. I walked into his arms and tightened my own around his chest until I could feel his ribs pressed into mine. "I love you," I said.

  He moved his hands to my shoulders. "You never said that to me before," he said wonderingly.

  "I didn't?"

  "No, you didn't."

  I stayed held on and we didn't speak. Then I felt Ran start to chuckle.

  "What are you laughing at?"

  "You came through a military attack without any trouble, but a frangi—"

  "One has nothing to do with the other!"

  "Apparently not," he agreed.

  A long time ago, when Stereth told me the story about the day he'd cracked his head on the underside of a table and Cantry had fallen in love, I'd quoted an ancient writer: "Even one whom we at all times admire will suddenly seem ten times more lovely than ever before." And he'd pitied me for not knowing what it meant.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Reader, I married him.

  Sorry—you'll have to let me have that line, even though I know only the scholars will get it. You must allow me these occasional references; I can't be expected to throw off years of literary servitude overnight.

  It was quite a party, too. I'd hoped for a small gathering, maybe just a few of the Cormallons we couldn't do without, but we announced the successful passing of four-quarter night to Kylla one evening in the Shikrons' villa, and that was the end of that.

  She took me aside. "My dear! A patched-up, two-kembit affair? Not to be thought of! We need to show the world that the House of Cormallon values its new alliance."

  "Kylla, the Cormallons aren't allying with anybody but me. I have no last name."

  "All the more reason to make an official splash. And besides," she said, taking me by the arm, "your name is Cormallon."

  And the matter was taken firmly from my unskilled barbarian hands.

  Kylla sent out the official invitations, hired the music and the security, advised me with great seriousness on my three traditional outfits for the evening, chose a menu, and sent over extra cooks from Shikron. And this was the woman who used to try to get out of doing the household accounts. When her interest was caught, Kylla's organizational abilities were formidable; she was a juggernaut on the roll, and nobody who knows her stands in her way once she's decided on how things need to be. Technically, as a Shikron, she wasn't supposed to be involved in the hosting of a Cormallon event at all. Ran kept a low profile, saying that he had urgent business in the south, which I doubted.

  But it wasn't awful, really it wasn't. I didn't know the vast majority of people who came, but they all seemed to feel that if I was on their House territory it was good enough for them. There was no exchange of bluestone jewelry, as there generally is at a Cormallon wedding celebration; I refused to accept one, and told Ran to put that thought right out of his mind. His House uses bluestones, and other items, as keepsakes, since by the laws of magic whatever one carries habitually comes to retain the thoughts and memories of the person who carried it. The first thing this family does with its dead is to strip off the jewelry, particularly the bluestones, which are considered an excellent medium for preserving psychic traces.

  But I found the idea of having my habits of thought interred in the Cormallons' library-morgue a suffocating one. I'm not sure how some of the things that go on in my brain would appear to an Ivoran. Besides, it looks like I'll be leaving all these memoirs around; let posterity check into them, if it's so interested. Ran found my attitude surprising, but it's not as though the library was a chance at immortality, after all—the people who owned the items were dead, and these were just a lot of souvenirs. As an ancient philosopher once said, "I don't want to achieve immortality through my work. I want to achieve immortality through not dying."

  So we skipped that part of the tradition. Instead I smiled through introductions to flotillas of relatives, and sampled all kinds of unidentified dishes, and downed a bowl of vintage wine to satisfy the Ducort family guests, who'd grown the grapes and sent it over in massive kegs two weeks before the event. That seemed to be the sum of my responsibilities. As the First of Cormallon, Ran had to mingle, but I stuck close to Kylla and followed her lead.

  I woke up late the next day, disoriented, and with a sense of relief and disappointment; I don't know why I was disappointed, I hadn't been looking forward to the party, but it had loomed large on the horizon—rather like a giant thundercloud. Now the estate was quiet. The sun was high, Ran had flown in to the capital to arrange a final transfer of funds to our ex-client, and I was sitting on a bench in the kitchen eating a biscuit. The cook and the kitchen workers were off napping between brunch and dinner, re-

  covering from the excesses of the previous night. I sat there by a slant of light that ran over the big wooden table, turning a corner of Herd's copper pot to gold. I ate my biscuit and thought, "Well, Theodora, you've done it now."

  In some ways it was still unreal. When would it be real? When we had a matched set of little Cormallons running about the place? Or maybe not even then. Maybe we'd have to wait till I was one of these old Ivoran matriarchal grandmothers, ordering everybody around and scaring the pants off them. I had to laugh at that picture: The stooped-over, wrinkled barbarian midget, stamping the butt of her cane on the floor and telling the younger generation to straighten up.

  I'd met any number of gray-haired Cormallon aunts, by the way, many of them single or widowed, and all with a huge capacity for vintage wine and late-night dancing. I was done in long before they gave any indication of slowing down.

 
I hadn't heard much about Stereth's band during this time. I'd given a blind message-number to a few of the members while we were in processing in Shaskala, so they could let me know how they were doing. It didn't surprise me not to hear from Grateth; he was intensely shy about approaching people. During the long days in the Justice House I'd asked Des what he thought he would do now, and he told me he hadn't a clue, which I could well believe. I checked the message box (it was in our nonNet banker's custody) periodically, but there was never anything from him. And I found that, fond though I was of Des, and much as I missed him, the fact that he made no effort at all to keep in touch did not come as a shock. I knew that if I ever saw him on the street he would open his long arms and scoop me up in a joyful hug, and I'd be as welcome as ever I was. And if I asked him why he didn't contact me, he'd just look sheepish and hurt. I'd never ask him, though. I knew why he didn't contact me. It was because he was Des.

  Carabinstereth, on the other hand, did leave a message. I found it one day in mid-autumn, when the wind was swirling down the streets of the capital carrying leaves from the

  pathetic half-dozen deciduous trees the city boasts, and I'd nearly given up expecting to find any word from anyone.

  "Hello, sweetheart," said the message, prudently not using names. "I trust you and the boy are well. I've just gotten a commission to escort a nobleman's daughter to her marriage home, and then stay on with the house guard. A southern location—don't know what I'll think of the cold. Still, how much worse can it be than riding through a soaking rain on the Plateau? And if it doesn't work out, I've got an old friend running a florist's shop in the capital who says I can work there. So have no fears for me, darling, and know me always to be,

  Your friend from the old days,

  C."

  A florist's shop? One pitied the customers already.

  As for Stereth himself, there was no need of messages. He'd set up in a lavish villa in the capital, scandalizing the neighborhood by keeping his road-name.

  No doubt he was doing whatever a Minister for Provincial Affairs did.

  It was three months later that I finally heard the end of our Northwest Sector story.

  I found a Net message waiting for me at our house in the city saying that Octavia of Pyrene, my old childhood chum, was back in the capital after her circuit round the provinces. Would I care to get in touch?

  Would I! Particularly that day: Ran was off in Braece, making an appearance at a godsort's initiation, and Kylla's nurse was away visiting her family for two weeks, leaving Kylla completely at the mercy of her offspring. Over the course of the long summer Shez had reached the age of communication, and she was full of questions and constant activity. I was feeling just a trifle neglected. I do like having acres of time to myself, and waking up when I choose, and taking long baths and playing loud music when I like; but that kind of thing wears thin quickly, and you start to wonder where everybody is.

  Octavia: You should have seen her that night before graduation, when we stuffed the wet paper wads into the teaching machines. While we stuffed she sang a ditty of her own devising that parodied our creche anthem, and left me

  helplessly limp in my chair watching her sing, stuff, and raise her eyebrows at me as though to say, Theodora, what could possibly be the matter?

  Or during the weekend we spent in Comiss Major, where we stood on the crest of the hill and saw snow for the first time. Or the wicked improvisations she did of some of the more boring professors in second level—

  Octavia had always been more socially forward than I was. She was the one who'd taught me how to order in bars, and on nights when she'd had a few she struck up conversations with strangers that turned into lengthy song-fests and long philosophical talks that ended when the sun came up. Not that we could indulge in that way too often; just during our rare holidays. But I could ride along on her coattails, too shy in those days to strike out on my own.

  Anyway, I called Kylla when I got the message and told her all these things, and asked her advice on how to show Tavia the very best of the capital. "Things she might not see on her own," I said. You need say no more when you speak to Kylla—she's more than willing to plan a social event for thousands.

  "Lunch at the Lantern Gardens," she said. "—Stop that, Shez! Why don't you put all the pages back together, now? There's a good girl. —And it's such a lovely day, what about a walk in the Imperial Park afterward? They have such excellent security there, and I could bring Shez and get out of the house."

  "Oh," I said, not realizing that she'd meant to come along. Now that I thought of it, I had a vague memory of meaning to invite her the first time I'd tried to meet Tavia, but back then Tavia had also talked about bringing somebody else with her. I said, "Are you sure you won't be bored? We'll probably rave on and on about old times."

  "Darling, if you knew what it was like being trapped here for two weeks with Shez—no! Put that down!" Kylla disappeared from the Net picture. She returned a moment later wiping her forehead. "No, Theo, I think an afternoon out is a fine idea. Hire us all a carriage for the day, and pick me up here. I'll get some rope to tie Shez's hands."

  She was joking about that last thing. I think.

  So I hired us a carriage and had the driver stop at the

  Shikrons' first. Tavia had told me not to bother picking her up, she would meet us at the Lantern Gardens.

  Kylla was dressed to kill, of course, and her daughter wore a rich green silk robe in a flowery pattern, with silver bangles on her fat little wrists. She jingled as Kylla lifted her up and in to the floor of the carriage.

  "So, darling," said Kylla, when she'd gotten Shez installed on the seat facing the rear (her chosen place), "tell me more about your friend. You never talk about Pyrene, you know."

  I hesitated. "I suppose I don't, much. I was sort of a misfit there, to tell you the truth. I hated it, or most of it. It's just not that interesting to talk about."

  "Nothing at all good about your life until you moved to Athena?"

  "Well, there was Tavia, of course. It was her and me against the world. And you know—I haven't thought of this in years—it was on Pyrene that I started studying cross-cultural myths and legends. Only I didn't think of it as studying, I thought of it as playing. They really frown on that kind of thing there, you know—no career paths encouraged that aren't of obvious practical use."

  We hit a bump in the street and Shez gave a shriek. We both stared at her, concerned, but she looked delighted. "Again!" she cried. "Do again!"

  "We can't do it now, sweetheart," said Kylla. "We'll try to do it again on the way home. —Not very likely," she added, muttering to me. We would be coming home from an entirely different direction if we went to the Imperial Park, and one with better paved streets.

  We drew up in front of the Lantern Gardens, and as our carriage-driver wore the livery of the best agency in the city we were bowed in immediately. Tavia had a table in the corner; I saw her blonde head over the row of bronze vessels that lined the boundary rim between sections of the establishment. Before I could yield to my first impulse to grab her, hug her, and make some silly, excited sounds, the maitre d' stepped between us and offered us a better table near the stage. "Thanks, this is fine," I said. It was so odd and poignant and delightful to see Tavia's face on this older woman.

  "There will be a show in an hour's time," explained the maitre d'.

  "It's kind of you to offer, but—"

  Kylla said, "It might be a good idea. Shez will have more room to walk around over there. We'd be right against the wall here—"

  I grinned helplessly at Tavia and waved. She waved back. The conspiracy to interrupt our first meeting had its way and we were all ushered over to a table by the ring.

  We sat down and I took Tavia's hand. "It feels like decades!"

  "It practically is one decade," she said. She was wearing a very conservative Pyrenese suit of powder blue with a crisp white stripe down the middle. I thought, she ought to go a bit native whil
e she's here; the silks and things are so much fun, and they'll never let her wear anything like them at home. I'll mention it later.

  I introduced Kylla and Shez, and though I thought we'd dive immediately into the past we spoke in a more detached way of what Tavia had seen and done on Ivory. It felt as though there were a gap between my old friend and myself, though perhaps I was imagining it; but it made me more awkward and the chatter less easy to slip into. While we spoke, Shez wandered around the circumference of the ornamental fountain on the side of the stage. (This was not new to me. Kylla and I used hand-signals to make sure she was always in one of our lines-of-sight.) I noticed Tavia's eyes following Shez with a look of disapproval.

  "How is she?" asked Kylla, digging into a broiled samwhite.

  I reported, "She's on her belly on the rim, fishing for kembits."

  "Why people throw coins into fountains wherever they go is beyond me," said Kylla. "Any theories, Octavia?"

  "No, I'm afraid not." Tavia certainly wasn't working at this social interaction; what was wrong? But the courteously rigorous Kylla kept the conversation flowing, bless her.

  "Should she be here?" asked Tavia at one point, when the talk had returned to Shez. There was still some disapproval in her tone.

  Kylla started to laugh. "That's exactly what I used to think before I had Shez!" Kylla misunderstood, I thought.

  Octavia was speaking as a Pyrenese, used to the creche system, where children were never seen by adults in the ordinary course of affairs. "But her nurse is off in the provinces, I'm afraid, so we must bear the brunt."

  We spoke of any number of things; Tavia said that she was being transferred from Farm Machinery to Produce Control. And things continued to feel not right. She looked with displeasure at the tah pot that was brought to our table, and refused a cup in a way I could only call curt. There was almost a hostile tone in her voice when she spoke, but again, I thought it might be my imagination; and besides, I should leave her some slack—there were bound to be awkward moments after all these years. And she probably wasn't very comfortable on Ivory.