by P. J. Fox
“Is there someone who can set her ankle?” he asked, but no one answered him.
His in-laws would find him especially revolting now, covered as he was in soot and cow hair.
He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes briefly, and when he opened them there was Udit.
She disengaged him gently from Justi, leading him away from the crowd. He let her. Justi didn’t mind; Justi wasn’t really interested in him, anyway. He supposed that, on the subject of crushed ankles, they were on their own. He had a transport to catch, and it left that night.
“I was coming to find you,” she said.
“Oh?” He arched an eyebrow.
She glanced up at him briefly, then away. Across the street, the already enormous crowd of onlookers was still swelling. Her hand still in his, she led him into the shade of an abandoned outdoor café and they sat down on a bench facing the street. He put his arm around her.
She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t respond, either.
“Yes,” she agreed, eventually. “And then I saw the fire, and heard that a strange man no one knew had broken Justi’s nose and was currently committing suicide. I knew it had to be you.”
“I didn’t break his nose,” said Ceres irritably.
“I know,” she replied.
Far away, someone shouted.
“It was a good thing, what you did.”
He turned. “I did it for you.”
“I know.”
She took his hand. “It will be difficult,” she said, “not knowing what happens—if they’ll be able to rebuild, or if they’ll even be alright. That café, and brothel, were their livelihood.”
He stilled. “Does that mean you’re coming with me?”
She nodded. “That’s what I was coming to tell you—that I’d decided. I thought about it all last night, and I realized that although I’m not sure this is the right thing to do, or that we’ll be successful, together, I am sure that if I don’t go with you, I’ll regret it the rest of my life.”
She sighed. “I’d always wonder, what if. So, I think I’d rather know.”
He sighed, leaning back against the bench. “I have to leave tonight, and I want to leave married.” There were reasons for that, practical reasons that had to do with space, and supplies, and expedited documents. “And second, before I live through another interview with your father, I need something to eat. I haven’t eaten a real meal in two days.”
She nodded. “Alright.”
She was an astonishingly accepting woman.
“Before you agree to marry me,” he said slowly, still not quite believing his good fortune, “don’t you want to know who I am? Where I’m from? What kind of life I can give you?”
She shrugged. “I know who you are, I don’t care where you’re from, and any life at all has to be better than this.”
She was a practical woman, his Udit.
“Still,” she continued, “I am curious.”
“Then I’ll tell you.”
And he told her.
Chapte Ten
On the way back to her house, they passed a woman kicking and screaming at a corpse. There was blood everywhere; the alley looked like an abattoir. Flecks of gore stuck to the rain barrel he’d been propped up against. But, although he’d obviously been dead for some time—and was very, very dead—it didn’t matter. The woman was having a field day.
Behind her and slightly to the right, an anxious gaggle of women stood waiting.
“Come on,” one of them whined, “you need to leave something for the rest of us!”
“Yeah,” cried a voice from the back, “don’t be so selfish!”
She gave the man a final kick in his nonexistent crotch, spit on him, and turned to leave.
One of the other women turned to her companion, a beautiful young woman who was missing an ear. “Whoever did this,” she announced, “is my hero.”
“It was a woman,” her companion confided.
Udit looked up at Ceres, expression searching.
Ceres shrugged.
After a minute, she took his hand and kept walking.
He smiled slightly, to himself. Her hand felt warm in his and she held it firmly, as if nothing had happened.
Behind them, the women were still shouting.
He thought that, perhaps, he was a very lucky man.
He remained vigilant, as they walked, studying his surroundings out of habit. He led an uncertain life; one never knew when trouble might start—or where. The slum was much the same as it had been when he’d arrived—after all, it’d only been a week or so—but it looked different. Especially in the last few days, it’d started to look very different indeed.
It was as revolting as ever, of course; Ceres wasn’t a sentimental man and he’d grown no fondness for the stagnant rivers of sewage, drifts of putrid-smelling trash, and ever-present rabid dogs. One was watching them from the shadows right now, growling low in its throat.
The now familiar stench of spun sugar, sweat, vomit, and rat entrails filled the air as more children ran by them, mostly naked, still beating each other with sticks.
Some people watched them, curious. Most didn’t. Most were too busy chatting or stringing up laundry or shouting at their children. A little girl practiced her cartwheels on top of the exposed pipe that ran down the left side of the street, grinning as her friends praised her efforts.
He hadn’t learned his own gymnastic skills in such a congenial environment; he’d started training very young and his teacher had been a hard, unpleasant man who pushed him mercilessly. And, as he’d discovered later on, during the coup that took his parents’ lives, an assassin.
By the time his brother regained the throne, he’d lost interest in life at court.
“I think,” said Udit carefully, “that this might be difficult.”
Difficult, he didn’t think, was precisely the right word for what it would be like to break this news.
“At least,” he replied, “we’ve had a decent lunch.”
She didn’t respond, but she smiled.
They’d talked about how to proceed, over lunch. He respected her opinion, as it was often correct, but he didn’t need a woman to fight his battles for him. He’d deal with her father, should it become necessary. Although for Udit’s sake he hoped it didn’t come to that, part of him—the largest part of him—wanted to teach the old man a lesson he’d never forget.
He glanced down at her, admiring her. Although their shopping choices had been a bit limited, their errands had taken them into the center of Dharavi and they’d found a reasonable store in which to purchase a dress for Udit. Neither of them were at their most glamorous, but compared to their neighbors they looked like they were auditioning for a role in a film.
She looked lovely, and she’d look even better once he got her home—and got her naked—and into some real clothes. Of course, she had the ascetic’s natural mistrust of luxury but he thought she’d get over it in time. Or at least relax a little. Growing up with her father, he wasn’t surprised that she’d felt intense guilt over the fact that she’d wanted a new dress.
And shoes. They weren’t butter yellow silk with embroidered red flowers, sadly, but they were red, as was her dress: a beautiful deep crimson that brought out the faintest blush in her cheeks. It draped alluringly on her, its modesty doing nothing to conceal her curves and everything for his already overheated imagination. She knew it, too; he could tell by the way she smiled at him, occasionally, as they walked.
She stopped, again, to admire her shoes. “They feel funny,” she announced.
No, he wasn’t any fonder of this place—and the idea of her father raising her here increasingly gave him an almost uncontrollable rage—but it had begun to develop that bizarre feeling of almost-home. It was the same feeling one developed about hotels, and cruise ships. One learned one’s way around, developed a certain familiarity with the staff. One’s room, one’s sole source of privacy, became a sort of launching p
ad.
The slum had started to become equally familiar and, of course, now he studied it with the knowledge that it was where Udit had grown up. This was the place that had shaped her into the person he’d fallen in love with.
The sun shone now at an angle as the shadows stretched out from the buildings, strong mid-afternoon sun weakening into late afternoon sun. Vendors were beginning to relax, sharing stories over cups of tea, as parents called their children in for dinner. Night would fall in a few hours and then, at midnight, they’d be on their way home to Brontes and a new life.
He’d get her out of here, and they’d be happy. He knew it, even if she didn’t. He wouldn’t trust his good fortune, though, not entirely, until he had her on that transport.
Her house came into view.
They exchanged a look. He arched his eyebrow. She laughed.
They walked forward, together. She pushed the battered door open, still holding his hand.
Her parents were inside, preparing dinner. The twins were there, too, he saw; that was good.
It took them a minute to absorb what they were seeing.
“Hi Mami,” said Udit shyly. “Hi Baba.”
“Hello, dear,” her mother said after a minute.
The twins smiled and waved, moving in unison. They waved at him, too, and he found himself waving back. It occurred to him, for the first time, that he’d probably have children of his own.
Udit took a deep breath. She’d wanted to tell them, herself, and he’d thought that was probably for the best. This was, after all, her family and she wouldn’t be able to see them again for quite awhile. She needed to feel as though she’d gotten closure, before she left.
He understood.
And, realistically, he had the rest of their lives to speak for them.
“We have something to tell you,” she said.
“Perhaps,” said her mother, “you should sit down.”
They sat, and Udit’s mother sat and, after a minute, her father did, too.
They regarded each other. The twins, blissfully ignorant, played in the corner. A year or two from now, they’d understand what was happening, but ten and twelve were ages apart. One was childhood; the other, the beginning of adulthood.
“I’ve made a decision.” She paused. “I’m leaving, with Ceres.”
Ceres noted that this announcement wasn’t quite such a shock to her mother as it was to her father.
“When?” Sanah asked matter of factly.
“Tonight,” Ceres replied. “I’m needed at home.”
“And where is home?”
“Brontes.”
“So you’re leaving,” repeated her father. “Just like that.”
Udit nodded.
“As what? As his mistress?”
“No,” Ceres said. “Of course not. As my consort.”
“We don’t use that term, here,” replied the cleric, glaring.
“Well I do,” said Ceres, an edge to his voice.
“I didn’t think,” the cleric said, still glaring, “that people like you got married.”
“Of course we do.”
He turned to Udit, ignoring Ceres entirely. Ceres had never been ignored so much in his entire life.
“Please,” he pleaded, sounding sincere for the first time since Ceres had met him. “Think about this.”
Udit bit her lip, but said nothing.
“It’s not too late, and you barely know this man. All you do know, for certain, is that he kills people for a living. He’s killed four people in the last three days.”
“Eight,” Ceres corrected him. He hadn’t had to kill the woman.
“Are you listening to this? Udit, you’re a good girl. A kind girl. We didn’t raise you to seek out this sort of man. It might seem glamorous and exciting now, but later on, when—”
“Stop,” she said, voice catching. “It’s too late. We’re already married.”
The cleric’s eyes met Ceres’. Ceres nodded.
“Do you know what marriage there is like?” he said, still addressing Udit in that same pleading tone. “You’ll be his virtual slave. Women on Brontes have no legal rights to speak of. Technically it’s the same here but the law isn’t enforced. But there….” He trailed off.
“Baba,” began Udit, “it’s alright, we—”
“Can it be revoked?” he asked suddenly.
Ceres shook his head. “It’s already been filed.”
The cleric blanched. Clearly, this was a blow.
“I intend to treat your daughter with respect,” Ceres told him.
“Respect?” The cleric’s eyes heated. “Respect? What do you know of respect? And who are you, anyway?” He turned to Udit. “Who is this virtual stranger you’ve just married?”
“Dodi,” his consort put a restraining hand on his arm. Her expression was one of supreme patience. “I think he seems like a nice young man.”
The cleric rounded on her, shocked at what he obviously perceived as a betrayal.
“Nice? You think he’s nice?”
“He saved our lives,” she reminded him.
He’d taken eight and saved six. All in all, not a bad calculus in the end. And he’d saved more, he knew, by putting down the dog who had been his friend. He’d have liked to see Udit’s father save one life—or even try.
The cleric turned back to Ceres. “Who are you? Who are you, really? Have you ever had a real job?”
Ceres arched his eyebrow. Have you?
“What kind of life can you provide for my daughter, or do you propose to shuttle her around the known universe while you kill people?”
He shifted his glare to Udit. “We don’t even know his full name,” he accused.
“My name,” said Ceres formally, “is Ceres Mara Sant, of House Mara Sant. And it just so happens, I do have a proper occupation, although you might not consider it so. I am the personal representative to my brother and, when not killing people, travel in his stead.”
They stared.
Suddenly, they both saw the resemblance to the man on the coins.
Ceres had seen it happen before. People looked at him, thought he looked vaguely familiar—maybe they’d gone to school with him, or seen him on vacation, or even, if he looked especially familiar, they might conclude that they’d seen him in a film—and then dismissed him. No, he hadn’t been in class with them after all; no, the actor in question had less hair.
But when they knew, they knew.
His face was extremely recognizable, once people allowed themselves to realize what they were looking at. His greatest advantage in life was that people saw what they wanted to see and hear what they wanted to hear; they didn’t expect to see the Emperor’s brother, and so they didn’t. Because really, after all, what on earth would such a man be doing here?
Sanah opened her mouth, then shut it again. And then her eyes rolled up into her head and she collapsed, falling backward off the bench. Jumping up, Udit rushed over to tend to her.
The cleric’s glare intensified.
Somehow, Ceres hadn’t expected him to be impressed.
Let me guess, you’ve been railing against my family in every Friday sermon for the last thirty years.
“I won’t grovel to you,” he growled.
“I wouldn’t expect you to,” Ceres replied evenly.
Denied his planned rejoinder, the cleric pursed his lips.
Sanah was coming around; Udit was helping her. She started to get up, no doubt to throw herself down on the ground, but Ceres stopped her.
“Please,” he said, making a pacifying gesture, “it is I who am the guest, here.”
The cleric turned back to Udit. If he kept whipping his head from side to side like this, it’d snap off.
And wouldn’t that be nice. Ceres savored the mental image.
“You knew this?”
Udit nodded.
“Is that why you married him? For money?”
Udit paled.
“Enough,” said Ceres, all
owing a note of command to creep into his tone. “This is your daughter. Act like it. Grief only excuses so much, for so long.”
Sanah turned to her husband. “He’s right,” she said quietly.
Udit smiled at her mother, who smiled back. There was real love there and, more, friendship.
“It’s one thing,” said the cleric, calmer now but no less upset, “when a man grows up poor, and ill-educated. He might turn to a life of crime, either because he has no other options or no awareness of them. But for someone like you, raised with every advantage, to turn to a life of crime?”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Ceres coldly.
“Your family,” accused the cleric, “is everything I’ve been preaching against for years, decadent and foolish! Your parents,” he shouted, building up to it, “were brother and sister!”
As though this were news.
Or did he think that perhaps Ceres himself was unaware of his family’s tendency to intermarry?
“Yes,” said Ceres, “my parents were siblings. Yes, I’m rich. What of it?”
“You’re already dressing her up in new clothes.”
“And what,” Ceres rounded on him, “you’d prefer her to wear rags?”
“I didn’t raise her to want the likes of you!” The cleric’s eyes were bright.
“Not everyone,” Ceres replied, “has the luxury of choosing poverty, as you did. If your daughter wants a better life—if, perhaps, her sisters do—would you deny it to them on, what? Principle?”
The cleric turned back to Udit. “Do you love him?”
Udit didn’t reply. Instead, she looked down at the hands folded in her lap.
“So if it’s not the money, and you don’t love him,” pressed the cleric, “what is it? Do you feel sorry for him?”
Udit started to speak, then stopped. She didn’t love him, he knew that; she’d only known him a few days and, for most people, that was too short of a time to form such an attachment. But she felt something for him, he knew that. And, in time, he thought he could make her love him. That she’d agreed to marry him, and come with him, was a promising start.
Her father glared at her, waiting.