A Dictionary of Fools (The HouseOf Light And Shadow Book 2)

by P. J. Fox

  “Alice is very young,” said Lei.

  “I could have been more enthusiastic.” Aria’s tone was morose.

  “Sometimes,” commented Sachi, “you’re better off letting them learn these things for themselves.”

  FORTY-SIX

  Aria sat next to Kisten and listened as Alice and her new husband were toasted by General Raza. He had, Aria understood, also performed the marriage itself. Typically, the groom’s nearest male relative acted as celebrant—or sometimes a cleric, if the family was highly religious—but in military settings it was most often the groom’s commanding officer. Isha Hanafi was Captain Gore’s commanding officer, but he was still recovering from his injuries so General Raza had stepped in. His toast was a lovely one, and well spoken.

  He finished, and resumed his seat. There was no garland; House Gore was fully committed to the True Faith, and eschewed all, as Pasha called them, heathen traditions. She, too, was a veritable pinnacle of orthodoxy and, embarrassingly, an ardent supporter of Karan’s.

  Alice looked lovely in her gown, its crimson color setting off her lustrous chestnut hair and porcelain skin. Both veil and sattika were trimmed with gold, and every square inch of fabric sparkled with glass beads. In the low light, she looked as ethereal as a fairy princess. Even the mural behind her, a subdued thing in shades of blue, was becoming. But Alice herself looked small and frightened and lost within her finery. Aria wondered if she’d looked like that, when she’d gotten married. Beside her, the groom looked both relaxed and happy. He gestured expansively, making some witty remark to General Raza. The older man laughed. As did Kisten, and every other man at the table.

  Aria had no idea what he’d even said; she wasn’t listening. She and Kisten shared the foot of the table, Alice and Captain Gore the head. There were only twelve people in the dining room; the rest of the guests were seated at various smaller tables that had been set up throughout the ground floor of the bungalow. Seating was arranged between six small couches, expensively upholstered things that Pasha had brought from home at some great expense to herself. They were comfortable, though. Kisten leaned back against the pillows, his arm around Aria. In his free hand he was holding a drink. He appeared to be enjoying himself.

  Only Kisten could make a heavily embroidered achkan look casual. All shades of cream and gold and burnt orange, it was picked out along the collar and cuffs and down the front in turquoise. Aria’s own gown was turquoise, and subdued. She had no wish to compete with the bride. But while she was vaguely uncomfortable in her finery, Kisten had just as obviously been bred to it. He thought no more of his most glamorous silks than he did of his pajamas, and treated them both with the same disregard.

  But instead of making him more approachable, his casual attitude had the opposite effect. The way he sat, like he was in his own bedroom rather than at a formal function in a strange house, conveyed no impression so strongly as ownership. Relaxed, his encircling arm negligently possessive as he ignored her in favor of making polite conversation with the other guests, Kisten was every inch the prince.

  Deliah planned to make a brief appearance, Aria knew, but hadn’t yet. Looking back on this moment later on, Aria would wonder if, had Deliah not been so distracted, things would have turned out differently—and whether that, in turn, would have been bad or good. But right then, her thoughts were mainly taken up with the food, the decorations, her husband, and the undeniably strange behavior being exhibited by Naomi. She’d arrived at the reception in another scandalous number, this one a riot of green that made her look like a peacock. The fabric was almost transparent, revealing minimal underwear underneath. Kisten, whom Naomi now ignored, had remarked under his breath that he’d seen feather dancers wear more to perform. And feather dancers were hardly famous for their family-friendly entertainment.

  Ever since her arrival, Naomi and Setji had been sniping at each other like lions competing for a kill.

  The first course was served: a revolting-looking mixture of rice, lentils, and some kind of cream sauce. Melted butter gathered in little tide pools on its surface. She poked at it with her fork. Across the table, Naomi was making a display of how thrilled she was with her new favorite dish. She’d become, or so she’d have the table believe, an expert on all things Bronte.

  Setji, seated on Aria’s left, arched an eyebrow. “A fan, are we?”

  “I think it’s wonderful,” gushed Naomi.

  “You’ve had the dish frequently, then.”

  “Of course,” she replied. “Deliah is from Alandi, and has taught me how to make all the best dishes.” Deliah had, Naomi assured them, grown up eating just this very dish, a great favorite in her home province—and by sheer dint of her presence in the home, apparently, Naomi had just soaked all that experience up until she could claim it as her own. Aria wondered what Naomi was up to. Kisten, his arm still around her, kept his face carefully impassive as he listened to Naomi’s recitation of her own ideas, opinions, and accomplishments.

  Setji relaxed, lighting a cigarette. “So you’re a fan of poached maggot, then.”

  Naomi spit out the spoonful of food she’d just eaten in a most un-ladylike fashion. Aria was fairly certain that some of the whitish mixture had been ejected from Naomi’s nose.

  The corner of Setji’s mouth quirked in a small smile. Bisi bele baath contained nothing more toxic than rice, lentils, and clarified butter. Languidly, he thanked Naomi for sharing her expertise. “But for future reference,” he added, “Deliah is from Alandi, which is in the north. This delightful dish is, like our vaunted cousins in the House of Singh, from Arcot—which is in the south.” He sipped his drink. “And anyone who’s tasted Deliah’s cooking would be hard pressed to fling about superlatives like best with a straight face.”

  Naomi’s blush turned markedly less pretty as she floundered for an answer.

  Aria changed the subject. For the remainder of that course and most of the next—a cheese croquette in a pool of tomato sauce—their end of the table chatted inanely about the décor, the reception, and weddings in general. At the head of the table, Alice looked like a deer caught in the headlights. Her new husband murmured something into her ear and she smiled timidly.

  “You were terrified of me,” Kisten said, his voice pitched for her alone, “and that worked out fine.”

  “I still am,” she said with a smile. “But our wedding was the happiest day of my life, second only to our reception.” Reception wasn’t the right word, but she had trouble wrapping her tongue around the other. The Alliance and the Union technically shared the same lingua franca, but millennia of separation had separated one language into two distinctly separate dialects and Alliance speech was peppered liberally with words from the so-called Old Tongue. A language that was still learned as a first language in many parts of the empire and that Kisten spoke fluently, but that Aria had yet to master. Even the writing was different.

  “Truly?” Kisten seemed both surprised and touched.

  “Truly,” she said.

  He kissed her on the forehead. “I’m an ecstatically lucky man,” he replied, before turning back to a debate about tariff rates and ignoring her. Aria, sipping some sort of liquid concoction made from cashews, poppy seeds, almonds, and saffron, was happy to be ignored.

  She thought back to what Alice had said: that when people loved each other, they naturally wanted the same thing. Aria knew from personal experience that love wasn’t enough. Love hadn’t been enough to bridge the gap between her and Aiden; they’d both been too young, and too unsure of what they’d wanted—from each other and from themselves. And as much as she loved Kisten, the success of their relationship was due in large part to the fact that she let him lead. She’d known full well when she married him that she was joining his life, making the decision to do so with eyes wide open and no illusions.

  But Alice, though…Alice would soon find out that her Captain Gore had ideas of his own about the kind of life he wanted to live. She knew perfectly well, too, that m
any men did keep mistresses. And, unlike in her case, many men preferred their mistresses to their consorts. They married, not with any expectation of love, but for political reasons—as the Emperor had done, and as his son had done. The Emperor had been in love with the same woman for his entire adult life but, for political reasons that Aria had to confess were confusing, believed himself unable to marry her. So he’d taken her as a concubine instead.

  Unlike the Empress, who’d understood the situation she was entering before she’d entered it, Karan’s consort had wanted a real marriage. Although a cheerful, loving girl once, Jasmine had by all accounts grown into an embittered shrew. Karan avoided her. His only legitimate son was dead, the victim of a freak accident that some still claimed was murder.

  Catching Alice’s eye, Aria smiled. Alice smiled back.

  Kisten thought everything would be fine, as he’d told her the night before; Ramesh Gore was a solid, dependable officer with an excellent service record and from a good family. Both of which mattered equally, in Kisten’s eyes. Kisten was acquainted with the captain’s father, thought well of the man, and saw no reason that his son should deviate very greatly from the family mold. Particularly in those key aspects, which made for a good husband: namely honesty, decency, and a willingness to, as Kisten put it, do his duty.

  He personally couldn’t care less who Alice married, accepting Aria’s concern with the species of fond indulgence that only a true male chauvinist pig could master. Matters of the heart were, to him, women’s problems and thus unimportant. That his own marriage was such a subject of concern to him, he’d conveniently forgotten. Nevertheless, Aria hoped that Kisten was right about everything being fine in the end.

  And, she supposed, she should be grateful that he listened to her at all. Even if he did so only to humor her. She sighed, ruefully aware that she was being an utter wet blanket; this was a wedding, she reminded herself, not a funeral, and Kisten was probably right that Alice’s glazed expression had no more complicated explanation than that she’d gone from never having kissed a man to contemplating sex for the first time, with an almost total stranger, in the span of a night. You wobbled around a bit the next morning, as I recall, he’d pointed out, making her blush. You’re being inappropriate, she’d chided him.

  You, on the other hand, he’d replied, were—and are—adorable. After that, she hadn’t been able to respond as he’d demanded her attention for himself by kissing her.

  Aria blushed again, and the next second her attention was stolen by the realization that Naomi and Setji were at it again.

  “As a fellow epicurean,” he said, “I’m curious as to your opinion on our wedding traditions—one in particular.”

  “And which one is that?” asked Naomi.

  “The tradition,” he replied, “that dishes served at the dawat-e-walimah be free of those ingredients considered to be aphrodisiacs.”

  “Well I….”

  “A bit strange, no? I’m fairly certain that the happy couple needs all the help they can get.” He gestured offhandedly. “Forbidding certain ingredients seems to make some sense. Garlic and onion have historically been revered as powerful aids to love—but for whom?”

  “If your time is spent dwelling on conundra like these,” Naomi said archly, “then no wonder the government’s finances are such a mess.”

  Setji looked her up and down, caressing her with his gaze in a most unpleasant fashion. Rather pointedly, he let his eyes linger on the assets that she’d so brazenly displayed. Impressive assets indeed. “Speaking of organization,” he said languidly, “you clearly mistook the memo about no aphrodisiacs. Or perhaps you intend on providing the entertainment later?” His question was all innocence, his expression smug as he saw the dart strike home.

  “I suppose you’d know, considering the amount of time you spend cavorting with prostitutes.”

  Setji lit another cigarette, completely unperturbed. “And they’re all more pleasant than you. I could arrange for one of the girls to give you pointers.”

  Naomi’s face flushed scarlet. “You,” she breathed. “You’re—”

  “Correct.” He smiled.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Kisten led Aria into the cool, dark interior of the stable. Outside, the air was busy with laughter and chattering voices and the sounds of work, too, from all over the compound, but this alien-seeming space was as solemn as a temple. The silence was both profound and restful, broken only by the occasional whickering of a horse. The air smelled of dried grass, wood and manure, and that unidentifiable smell that was just horse.

  Although Aria had to admit that the atmosphere wasn’t as intimidating as she’d first thought, she nevertheless wanted to leave. She had no desire to be here, and certainly no desire to so much as touch a horse. Let alone learn to ride one, as Kisten had insisted she do. Shortly after their arrival on Tarsonis, Kisten had ordered several of his horses sent out on the next transport. Which had finally arrived, conveniently, as the stables had been rebuilt and Kisten’s wound had begun to heal. Now that he was fit enough to ride, he had some ridiculous notion that she should be riding with him. But however often she expressed her misgivings, Kisten would not be balked.

  When he’d said several, she’d pictured one or two horses. Not fifty. There were dressage horses, and polo ponies—which were most emphatically not ponies, but gigantic and ill-tempered beasts—and who knew what else. Kisten was obsessed with horses, and Aria had been astonished to learn that he wasn’t the only person in Haldon who was. Among both colonials and natives, interest in equestrian sports of all kinds was high. To wit, Kisten felt justified in doing what he could to support both interest and participation. Men who engaged in sport together got to know each other, and therefore were far less likely to kill each other. Moreover, as he was fond of pointing out, nothing bred rebellion like boredom.

  He seemed to think that all problems could be solved by a good game of polo. He was insane. His plan, in addition to undertaking certain civic improvement projects like refurbishing the sadly abused polo field, was to breed his own stock. He’d talked about opening up his own stables, but the real reason was simply that he wanted to. He seemed to actually enjoy this activity, and—surprisingly—turned out to be highly knowledgeable about it. Of all the things that Aria ever thought she’d see her husband do, kneeling in the straw to soothe a groaning mare as she gave birth was not one of them.

  He might, she suspected, prefer horses to people. If I’m going to spend the rest of my life on this accursed rock, he’d told her, I’m going to see that I do so with at least the bare minimum of comfort. Aria had to agree with him: he shouldn’t have to give up his favorite and only real hobby just because he’d been exiled. And so the horses had come, and here she was.

  She felt ridiculous in her equally ridiculous outfit, which Garja had procured from somewhere: knee-high boots in shiny black leather that made her look like a dominatrix, tan breeches that were far too tight, and a silly white shirt and equally silly blue blazer, both of which looked like they’d been borrowed from a twelve year old boy. On Kisten, this kind of getup looked totally normal because he was confident in it. She had no such luck.

  She let a small giggle escape. Kisten turned. “What?” he asked.

  “I was just thinking,” she said, “that this isn’t a hobby for the overweight.” Not in those breeches. Kisten’s own attire did nothing to make him seem less domineering. Nor did it leave much to the imagination, although the view from behind was nice.

  “Ah,” he said, smiling slightly, “a hint!”

  “On you, infuriatingly, this is all quite becoming.”

  “Thank you for the compliment,” he said, bemused.

  He’d reassured her several times over the past few weeks that she’d have fun, that she’d actually learn to enjoy this ludicrous activity. She remained dubious. He stopped to discuss something with one of the grooms, and she found herself really focusing on her surroundings for the first time; she was not inte
rested in another tedious discussion of horse health. The stable was a long rectangle of a building bisected by a single broad aisle. The floor was roughened concrete, and there was a pitched cathedral ceiling. Morning light spilled through windows that had been set at regular intervals high above. Horses peered at her over the gates to their stalls, their liquid brown eyes curious and surprisingly intelligent.

  One horse in particular seemed interested in her, an enormous thing the color of a chocolate bar. Pricking its long, pointed ears, it tried to nuzzle the side of her head. She stepped back, nervous. Their eyes met, and the horse’s seemed…knowing. It whickered. She reached out and, tentatively, touched a muzzle that felt as soft as velvet. She refused to be cowed by—by a horse. It pushed its nose into her hand, looking for something to eat. She wondered if they really liked sugar cubes.

  “Thank you, sir,” said the groom, who turned and disappeared down the aisle.

  Kisten stepped up beside Aria. “This is Avinas,” he said, introducing the horse.

  “Like the card game?” she asked.

  Kisten gestured to the monster in the next stall. “His brother is Backstab Fish.”

  Aria laughed.

  “My mother doesn’t approve,” said Kisten.

  “Because gambling is a sin?”

  “Because it isn’t lucrative.”

  He opened the gate and stepped inside the stall, still stroking Avinas as he spoke to the horse in low tones. Avinas, sensing that something unpleasant was about to happen, whickered. “On a long enough timeline,” Kisten said, addressing both Aria and Avinas, his tone pitched low as he continued to soothe the high-strung animal, “all winnings eventually trend to zero. You can prove it with calculus.” He turned. “Carl has asked me to help him give Avinas a shot.” Avinas, apparently, had strong feelings about the people in his life and only allowed certain of them to approach him. He’d kicked Carl, and bitten one of the other grooms. But although he trembled at Kisten’s touch, he remained calm.