Master of None

by N Lee Wood

  Qim pushed his way through the tumultuous crowd, his face shining with sweat and joy. “Did you like it?” he demanded, shouting to be heard over the clamor.

  “Is it yours?” Nathan asked.

  “Yes! ‘Thunder in the Mountains’! Did you like it?”

  Nathan grinned and nodded. He liked it. He liked it a lot. And he knew why women like Eraelin Changriti would not, this music dangerously subversive.

  The girl appeared behind Qim, slipping her hand around his waist. He threw his arm around her shoulder with an affection that went beyond simple friendship. Whoever she was, Qim loved her. They disappeared back into the crowd as new musicians took their place. The revelry went on well into the night. Only when the sky began to lighten with the coming dawn did the music give way to a softer, sadder style, people drifting away until the final musician tucked his flute into his belt and made his way back to where the last few sati hung in the tree branches.

  Nathan followed Qim back to the men’s house. They slipped into their beds before the rest of the house had woken up for the day, catching an hour or so of sleep.

  There are many things about our men you know little of, he heard Yaenida saying, almost able to conjure her image behind drowsy eyelids. Open your mind as well as your eyes. Vanar men don’t think of themselves as oppressed; they consider themselves cherished and protected by the Eternal Mother.

  She had known about these performances, and he wondered if she had ever actually seen one. Somehow, he couldn’t quite picture Yaenida crawling through a damp cave tunnel and out between the Eternal Mother’s legs. Vanar men might well have considered themselves cherished and protected, but until they could sing “Thunder in the Mountains” proudly, in public, without fear, Nathan knew they would always be oppressed.

  Even asleep, Nathan could feel the beat of the drums, his entire body still vibrating, and smiled in his dreams, deeply satisfied.

  XXXI

  “NATHAN CREWE NGA’ESHA?”

  He’d been standing in the men’s section of the platform waiting for the next train and quietly minding his own business, skimming through the news headlines on his reader. A dozen or so others queued randomly around him, each of them either browsing their own readers or chatting idly with companions. They all looked up, startled by a woman’s voice.

  “Hae’m l’amae?” he said warily with a cursory bow. The rest of his fellow passengers drifted prudently away from them.

  Judging by the unexceptional style of her sati, she was Middle Family, respectable but far from wealthy. Slim and well-built, she was nearly tall enough to look him directly in the eyes, had he not kept his attention focused over her shoulder. Oddly enough, he noticed, she had trouble keeping her own gaze on him and fidgeted nervously.

  “May I speak with you for a moment, please?” Her voice shook, and her face was bloodless. She was more than anxious, he realized. She was terrified, which made him all the more guarded.

  “About what, if you will pardon my discourtesy for asking?” “Roses.”

  “Excuse me, l’amae?”

  “Roses.” It came out as barely a squeak. She ran the tip of her tongue over her lips, then blurted, “I have heard you appreciate gardens, and are quite knowledgeable about cultivation. I have a garden, a small one, but which is said to be one of the better private gardens on Vanar. I would like to invite you to my garden as my mehmaen koshah, treasured guest.” She gulped, then bowed to him in embarrassment, astonishing him. When she straightened, she looked as if she was about to weep.

  Instead of attempting to reassure her, he stepped back, wariness now turning to alarm. If she were interested in striking up a more intimate liaison, she would have come to the kaemahjah he had begun to frequent again after the dance in the forest whenever he wanted to escape the pressures of either of his two Houses. Whatever this was about, it smelled like trouble.

  “Deepest apologies, l’amae, but I was trained as a research botanist, not a horticulturist,” he said. Then added with carefully restrained anger, “And while under other circumstances I would be flattered by such an invitation to see one of the better gardens of Vanar, I doubt the Nga’esha pratha h’máy would approve of my consorting privately with an utter stranger.” There. If this was either a test or a trap, Nathan was determined to sidestep it.

  Quaking, her eyes damp, she turned as if to bolt, faltered, and turned to him again. “My name is Daegal dva Pakaran,” she said, her voice so hoarse he nearly couldn’t hear her. “My husband’s brother-inlaw is second cousin to Margasir dva Saenusi. He said I should make the invitation.”

  “Margasir, my práhsaedam? He suggested you speak to me?” “Hae’m jah’nar bhraetae.” She bowed again, this time so abjectly even the men standing at a remove whispered. “Our family is far from as illustrious as the Nga’esha, but Margasir Saenusi has said you are not at all arrogant.” Taken aback, Nathan blinked in surprise. “My family owns an agricultural business, we raise dhumah wheat for the local wholesale market. Margasir said I should tell you this as you are very educated in the science of plants. Although I apologize if I have presumed such a humble enterprise might be of interest to an eminent Nga’esha.”

  He remembered his long-ago thwarted expedition into the rolling agricultural fields beyond the city limits, and even after he had become Nga’esha, he had never dared to visit them again.

  “Actually,” he said slowly, “that interests me very much.”

  She stopped shaking as her jaw dropped. “It does?” Then she resumed trembling so hard her teeth chattered.

  He backpedaled quickly, still cautious. “Of course, I will first speak with Margasir, as well as confer with my household h’máy for her consent. But if it is possible, I would be honored to accept your invitation. When would you like me to come?”

  “Whenever you choose, jah’nar Nga’esha.”

  “Tomorrow afternoon?”

  She nodded mutely, staring pop-eyed at him.

  After a moment he prompted, “I’d need an address.”

  “Margasir knows where we live.”

  Of course.

  The train arrived, soundless but for the whisper of displaced air. He bowed to her quickly, and left her standing on the platform looking after him with a dumbfounded expression.

  Margasir stopped churning lengths in the Nga’esha men’s pool when Nathan threw one of the children’s polo balls at his head to gain his attention. The big sahakharae shook water and hair from his eyes, grinned, and swam toward the edge, powerful muscles making short work of the distance.

  “Is this all you ever do, Margasir? Exercise?”

  The sahakharae hauled his massive torso out of the water far enough to rest his chin against his folded arms on the pool’s edge. “I must work hard if I ever hope to attract a patron better looking than you, Nathan Nga’esha.”

  “Mm-hm. Do you know a woman named Daegal dva Pakaran?” Margasir’s eyes widened and he laughed, then launched himself backward, splashing Nathan as he sculled out into the water. “You may make me rich after all,” the sahakharae said. “That scrawny excuse of a kharvah of hers bet me she’d never manage to work up the nerve. So. When are we invited to see this magnificent garden of hers?”

  Amitu wasn’t nearly as scrawny as Margasir had made him out to be, but the couple was definitely, by Vanar standards, a very odd mix indeed. Daegal was unbelievably shy while the single kharvah she had married was as gregarious as his brother-in-law’s second cousin. The two men clearly had been friends for a long time, greeting each other at the entrance to the Pakaran home with hearty affection.

  It was the first time in all the years Nathan had been on Vanar that he’d seen anything other than the poverty of the charity shelter or the luxurious wealth of the High Families. The Pakaran lived in a modest bungalow adjacent to their agricultural fields, large sun-washed rooms tastefully decorated and comfortable and filled with several generations of the Pakaran extended family, both sexes mingling freely together. All of them
were awesruck by the blond Nga’esha bowing and smiling in their midst.

  Amitu conducted him into the family’s main room, keeping up a constant flow of chatter as he directed Nathan to sit on the best divan, by the room’s panoramic windows. Nathan had to admit the view of their agricultural fields stretching away toward the native forest on the far horizon was quite impressive. When Daegal sat on a matching divan across from Nathan, her kharvah knelt in effortless Vanar fashion at her feet, looking far more poised than his wife. Daegal’s grandfather arrived with a tray of coffees for everyone, tiny cups of the aromatic brew. Margasir, as Nathan’s práhsaedam, stood behind him and took a cup from the elderly man to serve Nathan himself.

  Inured to Vanar etiquette, Nathan waited politely for Daegal to speak first. After a long, uncomfortable silence, he realized she wasn’t likely to do so any time soon. He cleared his throat, gazed down into the coffee wondering how to bypass this obstacle, then looked up at Margasir questioningly. The sahakharae merely raised an eyebrow, as good as a shrug.

  “So. How much land does your family farm here?” Nathan asked innocently as if unaware of this breach of protocol.

  Daegal gulped, paled, and remained mute. Amitu glanced up at her, smiled benignly, and placed his hand in her lap. She clung to it like a lifeline, her knuckles white.

  “One thousand, three hundred and fifty-two hectares,” Amitu said, completely at ease. “Although not all of that is dedicated to raising dhumah wheat. That’s our main income crop, but we cultivate several hectares of vegetables. Some is for the family use, but we also produce enough to supply five local shopkeepers with fresh vegetables all year round.” He looked up affectionately at his wife, giving her just enough time to nod in frantic agreement before he continued. “We put in a fruit orchard seven years ago. Except for the year when rust disease nearly wiped out our crop, that’s provided us with enough fruit to sell at a decent profit to a xerx brandy distillery. My wife converted fifty hectares to growing several varieties of wine grapes three years ago, and we’ve just started bottling our own wine. We haven’t sold any commercially yet, but it isn’t too bad, if you’d like to try some?”

  “I’d like that very much,” Nathan said.

  Amitu beckoned to a pair of twin boys of about twelve standing timidly by the doorway. “Kael? Would you please go ask your aunt Sabir to give you the special bottle from the cellar for our esteemed guest?”

  “The one with the red label?” The boy’s voice was nearly inaudible. “That’s the one, love. Xaenus, you fetch the glasses, please.”

  “Yes, Papa.” The twin was nearly as reserved as his brother. Their parents watched attentively as the twins returned with exquisitely handblown glasses and a bottle of dark red wine. They had obviously been dressed in their best sati, and with choreographed precision, the boys knelt in front of Nathan. While one twin held the glass, his brother poured with meticulous care. The glass wobbled slightly, and Nathan noticed Amitu’s wince; not from chagrin but because his wife’s grip had suddenly clamped painfully onto his hand. The boys glanced at her anxiously. Her husband gently disengaged her grip, stroking her fingers to encourage her to relax.

  A small girl of around four wandered in from the wide porch outside, thumb in her mouth as she cuddled against her mother and stared at him with wide-eyed suspicion. After they had served Nathan and Margasir, the twins brought a glass each for their parents, rewarded with radiant smiles for their efforts.

  The Nga’esha stocked only the most outstanding wines Vanar had to offer as well as importing the finest from off-world. While it wasn’t the best wine Nathan had ever tasted, the Pakaran had produced a decently substantial, earthy vintage. He complimented it and wished Daegal success whenever they brought it to market. The woman merely stared at him, having not uttered a single word since he arrived. Her husband didn’t seem to notice, making up for his wife’s verbal shortcomings.

  After much polite small talk, Amitu said, “Which would you prefer to see first, our field operations, or my wife’s garden?”

  While dodging the pitfalls of Vanar customs had never been Nathan’s strong suit, it had at least taught him a certain amount of tactful diplomacy. “Naturally, your fields. I much prefer to save the best for last.”

  Not even this managed to elicit a sound from her, but Daegal blushed, pleased, while her husband grinned. Amitu stood when his wife did. “If you don’t mind, I would be honored to show you our modest establishment. Normally, of course, it would be my wife who would accompany you,” he said, “but she wishes to make a few last-minute preparations in her garden.”

  Yeah, sure, Nathan thought as he bowed to Daegal courteously, and smiled at the little girl clutching her mother’s sati to hide behind. She popped her thumb out of her mouth long enough to say, “Do you really eat little girls?”

  Her mother blanched. Nonplused, Nathan looked at the child, then squatted down to her eye level. “Who says I eat little girls?”

  “My auntie Sabir.”

  “Ah,” he said knowingly. “I only eat little girls if they’ve been very, very naughty. Have you been very, very naughty?”

  Gravely, she shook her head.

  “Then I’m not allowed to eat you.” He winked up at Daegal, who swayed as if she might faint, and smiled at the child before he stood up.

  The Pakaran had three stone barns, each kept in immaculate condition by an army of drones. Two were empty but for dormant agricultural machinery and a large coop containing chickens the Pakaran bred only for eggs, as they, like all Vanar, were vegetarian. The third barn was staffed by two stolid women in grimy work coveralls whom Amitu introduced as his wife’s younger cousin and a niece, whose names Nathan acknowledged and immediately forgot. The pair was even more timorous than Daegal, if such a thing were possible. Amitu treated the women with the utmost deference, which they ignored, standing as if turned to stone to stare at Nathan, tools and machinery clutched in paralyzed hands.

  The young kharvah expertly backed an open maintenance float out of the barn and helped Nathan up into the seat beside him. Battered and paint-flecked, the hoverfloat rode through the furrows of wheat smoothly, Amitu handling the machine with seasoned dexterity. The breeze rippled through green wheat, Amitu pointing out where one season’s crop finished and another would begin at the end of the next rainy season.

  Far out into the fields, the distant vineyards a blaze of red-gold and the house a smudge on the horizon behind them, Amitu stopped the float, the two of them suspended several inches above the wheat grain. Neither of them spoke for several minutes, the younger man leaning on the damper panel of the float to gaze off across his fields fondly. The heat of late-afternoon sun waned as insects buzzed and distant birds wheeled up on thermals to chase their supper.

  “I apologize for my daughter’s remark,” he said finally.

  Nathan chuckled. “My own daughter is nearly her age. Her mother probably uses me as an ogre to frighten her into good behavior, too.” He sighed. “I frighten a lot of people, for some reason.”

  The younger man cleared his throat uneasily. “It isn’t just that you are Hengeli, jah’nar bhraetae. Of course, we know the ways of outsiders are not always compatible with our own. Everyone has heard how you have often been in trouble for violent and disrespectful conduct, but Margasir speaks well of you. It is rather that my wife is afraid of offending you.”

  “Offending me? I’ve had a pleasant afternoon with a family who have made me welcome in their home. How should I be offended?”

  Amitu kept his attention on worrying a scrap of dry skin flaking from knuckles that had obviously seen many years of hard manual labor. “The Pakaran are a very minor Middle Family,” he said, addressing his calloused, tanned hands. “And I’m from Common Family, the youngest son of three, virtually worthless. My wife’s relatives are good people—they’ve all done the best they could to help us build up this business. But the Pakaran have little money. When Daegal bought the land, it was still native forest. We h
ad to clear it ourselves, recondition the soil, inoculate the ground with proper bacteria, introduce the best worms, buy the first year’s seed. It took all the capital she had. When we lost our crop five years ago, that pretty well wiped out our entire investment.”

  He raised his eyes to scan his fields. “I’ve tried to talk her into marrying another kharvah, someone from a better family that could provide us with some financial relief. She won’t do it. Despite appearances, my wife can be very stubborn when she makes up her mind. If it hadn’t been for Margasir, we would have lost everything.”

  “Margasir?”

  Amitu glanced at him sidewise. “All that he’d saved for his old age after so many years in the Nga’esha service, he lent to us. Secretly. My wife would be humiliated if it got out she’s taken money from a sahakharae. Margasir’s patron replaced him last year, preferring a younger man. We were pleased when you took him on as your práhsaedam, truly. He is not young anymore, and has to work hard now, training many new apprentices. But he cannot afford to retire until we have repaid him, which will take many more years yet.”

  Amitu went back to studying the fields as solar-driven drones trundled through the rows around them like comic metallic beetles, perpetually collecting insect pests to be destroyed. “My oldest daughter is in university. She would prefer to be a community doctor, but she will continue her mother’s business because it is her duty. Unless the little one decides to take over when she is of age.”

  “And your boys?”

  The younger man smiled wistfully. “Love this place the way I do.” He said nothing for a long moment. “I don’t want my sons to become sahakharae,” he said softly, “but unless we become successful enough to arrange good marriages for them, I don’t see much other alternative.”