Destry took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead.
“Bloody flies,” Destry said.
Allenson knew his friend was playing for time so he could gather his thoughts.
“How many fleeks have we left?” Destry asked.
“Perhaps fifty, sar,” replied the fleekmaster.
Destry sighed. “Not nearly enough.”
“There is no use trying to borrow fleeks from other demesnes. They will all be at full stretch. We will have to hire in more servant labor. Round up all employees to oversee them. I won’t have any more useless drunks for gangmasters in my fields,” Destry said.
“Including the technicians, clerks and social managers, sar?” the fleekmaster asked.
“I said everybody,” Destry said, with a flash of temper. “I will be out in the fields myself. Anyone who thinks field work beneath them can come and discuss it with me.”
The fleekmaster rushed away. From the grin on his face he was looking forward to his task. No doubt he would take the opportunity to pay off a few old scores.
“I am sorry, Allenson, would you mind making your own way back to the house. You see how things are.”
“Not at all, Destry, I am at your disposal. I will help any way I can.”
* * *
Allenson liked the yellow room. Its walls were painted light yellow ochre and the roof, cream. The furniture was made from a Manzanita soft wood that came up bright lemon yellow when polished. The window caught the yellow-orange light from Wagner’s setting sun, flooding the room in pastel shades. Normally the ambiance raised his spirits but not today.
He stared moodily into the full length mirror, his shirt undone. He was supposed to be dressing for dinner but the man in the reflection was a stranger. Oh, the image superficially resembled Allenson but something had changed. His eyes, the windows on his soul, had hardened. They looked warily back as if challenging him.
“You can’t play the hero-worshipping little brother any longer.” Those words still stabbed at him.
There was a quiet knock on his door. It opened immediately and Sarai entered, closing the door quietly behind her. She was still dressed in casual daywear. She walked slowly across the room in small steps, putting one foot directly in front of the other so that her hips swung rhythmically. The hard-eyed man in the mirror watched her, and Allenson watched him.
Sarai stopped a meter away and tilted her head. “Fie Allen, I clearly have offended you. You lurk up here rather than entertaining me and now you won’t even face me. What coldness, has the Hinterland frozen your affections?”
He turned. “Sorry, I have been resting, Sarai, and I did not wish to compromise your honor by seeing you without your husband.”
She laughed and slid her right foot forward causing her dress to fall away from her leg. Allenson could not help but notice.
“But you are family, Allen. Are you not Royman’s brother-in-law? He doesn’t care. If you carry on like this I shall wonder about your motives.” she said, mimicking a look of exaggerated shock.
“Sarai . . .” he replied, but paused, unsure what to say.
She took a step forward, moving within his personal space, and placed her hand on his chest. It burnt his bare skin like frozen nitrogen.
“Sarai . . .” he said, trying again.
“Shush,” she replied, moving her finger to his lips.
She cupped his chin, stroked his neck, and ran her fingers lightly down his chest. He trembled.
“So, not so frigid after all,” she said, throatily.
He moved closer until they touched and put his hands around her slender waist. She tilted her head back and gazed up at him with electric blue eyes. How could he not kiss her? The kiss became passionate. Allenson ceased to care that his behavior was way beyond the socially acceptable.
Sarai still had her hand on his chest. She pushed him away. He grabbed her shoulders, pulling her back. Allenson was a strong man so easily overcame her token resistance. As he bent to kiss her again, he caught a flash of something in her eyes—triumph.
He had a flash of self awareness. This was exactly what she wanted, a way that gave her power without responsibility. He would be the aggressor who would bear the blame. She would have that hold over him forevermore, a chain around his neck to be yanked at will—her will. He stopped, passion chilled, and pushed her away.
“What in Hell do you want from me, Sarai?” he asked, trying to make her say it, to involve her in the guilt.
“How would I know?” she shouted. “You’re supposed to be the man.”
He flushed, and almost reached out for her in temper. Checking himself, he replied, wearily, “Get out, Sarai.”
She ran from the room, slamming the door so hard that the sound must have echoed through the mansion.
CHAPTER 9
Mowzelle
Allenson left early the next morning. Mowzelle, the Allenson compound, was ten minutes hard pedaling away but he was in the mood for exercise; anything to burn away his frustration. Such passion frightened him. He suspected that she was equally scared, hence the manipulative behavior.
He was a gentleman and Sarai was a lady. They both knew what society considered proper behavior. A carefully conducted affair between social equals was one thing, but the strength of feeling between the two of them threatened to overcome all discretion. An open love affair would force Destry to call him out or be publically humiliated as a cuckold. How could he do that to his friend? How could he do that to Sarai? It would be an utter social disaster.
Destry probably hoped that Allenson and his wife would have a quiet affair and get it out of their system. Fidelity was not particularly prized in the arranged marriages of Destry’s class but social propriety was quite another matter. Could he and Sarai have an affair by the rules? He shut the thought down. It was too dangerous, too tempting, and he knew it would not work. He knew that he would never get enough of Sarai. He was not the sort of man to have affairs. There could be no happy ending down that road, just misery and shame.
He locked on to the Allenson compound beacon and let the machine guide him in. He knew Wagner like he knew his own bedroom layout, but he felt like letting something else make some decisions.
The frame dropped with mechanical competence onto stabilized soil inside the high fence surrounding the compound. The fence was topped with razor-wire to discourage petty thieves and keep out Wagner’s wildlife, although there was precious little in the way of large indigenous animals left in the area. The main house stood in the center of a cluster of sheds and servant sleeping accommodation, like a flagship in the midst of its flotilla. Only one of the servant barracks was currently used so the rest doubled as storage rooms.
The Allenson family property was not quite grand enough to be classed as a demesne. The house was a comfortable two story brick-built cottage with six bedrooms upstairs and family and social rooms below. At some point an owner had added a small portico made of stabilized sand plastered to look like marble. It jarred horribly with the style of the rest of the cottage. His father had wanted to knock it down but Bella, his stepmother, considered the monstrosity classy.
He unpacked his frame and stacked it in the portico. Petersen, the steward, insisted on assisting him. This was not particularly helpful as the steward was stooped by advanced years. He had been in the employ of the Allensons for many years. Todd had paid for basic rejuvenation therapy for Petersen but only so much could be achieved.
“Good trip, sar?” Petersen asked.
“Productive, if exhausting, I trust all is well at Mowzelle?” Allenson asked.
“Yes, sar, I have been testing and charging up the automatons for the next ploughing,” Petersen replied.
“How are they holding up?” Allenson asked.
“Tolerably well, sar. One refused to take a charge so I have had it dumped. Another keeps losing direction but the reset button seems to cure the problem,” Petersen replied.
Allenson sighed. “We try to keep
it going. My stepmother will be reluctant to purchase a new one.”
He paused to look around the compound. Many of the sheds were in poor condition and showed signs of patching. He noticed that the barn roof had lost part of its waterproofing
Petersen noticed his interest. “We had a twister while you were away, sar. It was only a small one but the roof was already in a bad way.”
Allenson’s stepmother could never grasp that money saved on maintenance was no saving at all but simply a greater cost delayed.
“I have had the servants fix the sheds but my knee has been playing up and I did not trust myself on a ladder,” Petersen said, apologetically.
“What do you mean?” Allenson asked, astonished. “I do not expect you to be climbing ladders at your age. Send a servant.”
Petersen hung his head and did not reply. This was an old problem. In the absence of authority, indentured servants saw no reason to do anything but the minimum. The steward lacked the necessary respect and Bella would not back him up. Allenson spotted one of the servants, a young man, ambling across the compound as if he was on holiday.
“You!” Allenson yelled, gesturing at him.
The servant took his time. He appeared to be chewing something.
“What are you doing?” Allenson asked.
“I’m helping Sylvia feed the chickens,” he replied, not bothering to remove his hands from his pockets.
“Stand up straight when I address you,” Allenson said.
The servant stared at him blankly, mouth open in astonishment, before he hurried to comply.
“Sylvia will have to manage the chickens on her own. You will fix that barn under Master Petersen’s supervision and you will do it right. I will be out to inspect the results in one hour and I will sell your contract to a logging company if the job has not been done to Master Petersen’s satisfaction. Do you understand me?” Allenson asked.
The servant gawped.
“Well?” Allenson asked.
“Yes, sar.”
“Then you had better get on with it. The clock is ticking.”
The servant shot off in the direction of an equipment store.
Allenson feigned anger and raised his voice so that his words carried across the compound. “Things are way too lax, Master Petersen. Let me know if you see signs of slackness, any at all, and I will deal with the culprits personally.”
“Yes, sar,” Petersen replied.
Allenson winked at him.
* * *
“Where have you been?” asked Bella.
Welcome home, Allenson thought.
“Don’t bother to lie about it. I know where you have been. You have been gadding around with your snooty friends again instead of coming home without a thought for my feelings,” she said, in a whining voice that grated on his nerves.
What had his father ever seen in the wretched woman? That was a rhetorical question that was not worth wasting time over. It was not the first time it had occurred to him.
“I had business there,” he said, adopting a reasonable tone.
After all, the woman was his stepmother and her rank deserved respect, whatever he thought of her as an individual.
“You!” he said to a female servant hovering nearby. “Make us some tea and serve it in the drawing room, please.”
“You have no right to order my servants around,” Bella said. “I heard you yelling outside.”
The servant hesitated. Allenson gave her a look and she scuttled off. News travelled fast in the servant’s quarters. Allenson walked to the drawing room, forcing Bella to follow if she wished to continue the conversation. She talked at him, raising old grievances and slights. Allenson waited until she ran down, which took some time.
“Have you news of Todd?” she eventually asked.
“I saw him on Paragon. Todd is desperately ill and the prognosis is poor,” Allenson replied.
“You mean he’s going to die,” she said.
“Yes,” Allenson replied.
“Oh, my poor Todd,” she said, beating her forehead with her fist in the traditional display of grief. “He was the best of you, as true and decent a man that ever lived. He married well and made something of himself.”
“Unlike you”, Allenson thought, predicting her next accusation from experience.
“Unlike you, who just waste your time gallivanting around with your rich friends and that horrible Hawthorn fellow. He was always a bad ’un.”
The wailing abruptly halted. You could almost see a new idea entering her mind and being digested.
“You are Todd’s executor?” she asked.
He confirmed the truth of the matter with a nod.
“Has he left me a property or a pension in his will?” she asked.
“No,” Allenson replied. “It is left in trust for his children.”
“And where does that leave me,” she wailed. “Todd was the only one who cared for me. He let me keep Mowzelle and its income. Now I suppose you will want Mowzelle and I shall be thrown out into the street to starve.”
“Calm yourself, stepmother,” Allenson said, with an evenness that he did not feel. “I have no intention of seeing you impoverished.”
Right now Allenson wished he had the moral courage to do just that.
Bella gave him a craft look. “You say fair words now in the hope that I will sign over Mowzelle to you but once you have it you will get rid of me like a sick fleek.”
“That’s not true,” Allenson said.
“Well I won’t sign,” she said, defiantly. “I will appeal to the Governor if necessary. I will instruct a solicitor to drag the case out for years; you see if I don’t.”
Allenson found the whole conversation distasteful. He changed the subject.
“I will be leaving early in the morning for Manzanita. I have business there with the Governor’s Office.”
Bella’s face twisted in fury. “You see! You’ve just got back and you’re off again already. You’re a wastrel. You have no sense of filial duty. I’m entitled to your support.”
“You know what, Bella?” Allenson asked, patience finally cracking. “I think I’ll leave right now.”
He stormed to the door, where he collided with a servant coming in with a tray. Teapot, crockery and finger cakes were thrown across the floor.
“Your tea, sar?” asked the servant.
“Tea,” Allenson said, “is cancelled!”
* * *
Outside, Allenson stopped and took a few deep breaths to allow his temper to dissipate. Once calm, he considered his options. He was tempted to return to the Destry Demesne where he could get a hot meal and a comfortable room but that meant dealing with Sarai, and that he could not face. He would have to bed down in one of the unused bunkhouses.
He selected the only one with an intact roof and pushed open the door. The smell caused him to gag. There was an explosion of motion. Multi-legged skinks ran in all directions to escape the light, fleeing from the rotting corpse of a fleek. A cloud of flying bugs lifted off the rotting meat in a shrill whine of beating wing membranes. One of the skinks ran between his legs in blind panic, stubby legs churning as it fled around the corner of the barracks. Allenson backed out, pulling the door shut.
“Can I help you, sar?” Petersen asked.
“Good grief, man, don’t sneak up on me like that,” Allenson said, startled by the man’s sudden appearance. “I have had enough shocks for one afternoon.”
“Sorry, sar,” Petersen said.
“I thought that there were no fleeks at Mowzelle?” Allenson asked.
“That’s right, sar,” Petersen said.
“Then how . . .” Allenson began before biting his tongue. There were some mysteries best left unsolved. “I need to sleep in one of the equipment sheds tonight. Which one do you recommend?”
“None of them,” Petersen said, succinctly. “I heard that there had been some . . .” Petersen paused, choosing his next word carefully, “discussion in the House.”
Discussion was a suitably neutral word. Allenson had long since stopped marveling at how fast word sped from the House out to the servants’ quarters.
“You might say that,” Allenson replied, wondering where the conversation was heading.
“My wife and I would be pleased to offer you the spare room in our cabin tonight,” Petersen said.
* * *
The next day, Allenson checked his datapad. It pinpointed the last known location of Hawthorn’s frame at Farnen, Wagner’s commercial center. Cargo tramps landed there, shuttling goods in and out along the local trade routes. He attempted to ping Hawthorn without success. It was probably too early in the morning for his friend, despite Farnen being to the east of Mowzelle and hence down-sun. Allenson assembled his frame. If Mohammad would not go to the mountain then the mountain had to go to Farnen.
Allenson landed in the compound of the Wayfarer Inn, which was part of Farnen Town, a residential district that stood a little apart from the port. The town only boasted one paved road, unimaginatively named The Street. Along its length stood terraces of high syncrete buildings, with shops and commercial offices on the ground floor and living accommodation above. Alleys between the terraces gave access to villas that served as town houses for Wagner’s elite, and the mercantile and government agents. The Wayfarer compound occupied an entire block along The Street. It rented rooms to minor nobility, like Allenson, who could not afford the upkeep of a townhouse, and also served as a restaurant and lounge for respectable women who wished to avoid the more exciting entertainment to be found in the Port.
It was late afternoon in Farnen Town when Allenson arrived and checked in. Regular frame users learnt to be flexible about such things as meals and sleeping times. Even so, Allenson was starting to feel the effects of too many time zones in too short a time. He decided to take tea and relax. He had much to mull over and much to plan.
* * *
A group of ladies were entertained by a slim girl sang soft songs about love and dying of a broken heart and consumption. Few of her audience looked likely to be stricken by such a fate.
“Sar?” a waitress materialized at his elbow.
Into the Hinterlands-ARC Page 12