by P. J. Fox
“So wait—all your horses are girls?” Talin seemed discouraged.
Kisten nodded. “The best ponies usually are.” He checked Esmerelda’s girth and gave her a swift pat before straightening. “They’re the most vicious.” Aria made a face, and Kisten laughed. “They’re also the smartest,” he told his son seriously. “They have to show great cleverness in anticipating the run of the ball and in placing themselves at the best distance from it for the rider to make his stroke.”
“The good ones,” Setji interjected, “eventually learn to follow the ball for its own sake; they understand the rules of the game, and want to win as much—or more—as their riders.”
“Can people die?” Talin asked.
“Yes,” Kisten replied.
“Especially if the horse falls on them,” Setji added.
“Nobody’s going to die,” Aros said in the background.
“Good.” Talin smiled. “Then I want to play.”
“You need lessons,” Kisten said, “so you can kill me instead of yourself.”
“You think I could?” Talin sounded entirely too eager.
Kisten faced him. “If you succeed, then I deserve to die.”
“I’ll teach him,” Setji volunteered.
“How to kill me?” Kisten turned.
“He doesn’t need to learn anything you have to teach.” Aros sounded distinctly disapproving. He was, as he liked to remind Kisten, of good, solid peasant stock and thus above the kind of foibles in which his peers engaged—peers like Setji, whom he’d prefer to pretend didn’t exist. He only played polo because he liked horses, and because he’d learned to at school. But the other players, as he’d pointed out often enough, he could do without.
“You can learn,” Kisten told his son pointedly, “with whomever you’d like. But in the meantime, go entertain your stepmother. I’m sure she’d love to hear all about why the rose bushes are now blue.”
“That was an accident!”
Setji laughed and turned away, sauntering across the field tapping his riding crop against his leg. Talin crossed his arms over his chest and looked mulish. Kisten arched his eyebrow.
Talin’s eyes narrowed. After a minute, he deflated. “Oh, fine.”
Sighing dramatically, he stalked off toward their lawn chairs.
Giving her husband a little wave, Aria followed his retreating form into the crowd.
SIXTY-THREE
Talin sat next to her, sulking. “This is stupid,” he said. “I feel like a girl.”
“Being a girl isn’t so bad,” Aria replied. She found his childish behavior kind of refreshing, as well as the fact that her too-old stepson was still capable of acting like the child he was—or should still be, at least. Garja appeared with lemonade and sandwiches and, depositing them on the ground between the lawn chairs, disappeared to spend time with her beau.
Aria decided she liked this new program of sporting events; the atmosphere at all of them was delightfully egalitarian—something she’d missed, she knew now, more than she’d realized. As integrated as she’d become, she often found herself nostalgic for the simple pleasure of being a nobody.
Despite her father being a politician, back home she could go wherever she pleased and no one particularly commented. No one cared. Here, there were photographers and formal portraits and the stultifying, never-ending concern about whether everything was correct. Aria understood, better than he thought, why Kisten had enlisted in the navy. Anything to get away from the constant parade of valets and rules and visibility. As much as polo bored her and Talin hated her, at least here she was just Aria again—for a little while.
“Yes it is,” Talin insisted.
“How would you know?” Aria asked, amused. “You’ve never been one.”
Talin favored her with a bleak look. “I know.” He helped himself to a sandwich. “I’m never going to get married and want nothing to do with girls. Ever. Girls are gross and horrible—and men are worse. Why you ever married my father,” he added darkly, “I have no idea.”
Aria noticed that Kisten, while no more popular, had become my father instead of that person—or worse. She was curious about the change, but decided not to press her luck by asking. Quite possibly, Talin had gotten a rush of civility to the head and decided that sperm donor wasn’t an appropriate term to bandy about in public.
The game began. In polo, the opening toss was known as the throw in. The two teams lined up facing each other in the middle of the field and the umpire tossed the ball between them. The point, from that moment forward, was for each team to drive the ball toward the other team’s goal. One goal was one point, and the teams switched sides after each point. Originally, as Kisten had explained to Aria over dinner the previous evening, this was so neither team would gain an unfair advantage due to weather conditions. The only thing worse than a ball coming at your face over a hundred miles an hour as you rode at an equally breakneck pace to court this doom was doing so while the sun was in your eyes and the wind in your face. There were no goaltenders, either, unless you convinced your horse to flop down onto the ball.
Sometimes horses flopped down onto people and they broke bones—or died. She made a face. What a fun sport.
Kisten believed that one of the principal reasons for the high crime rate was the lack of any legitimate reason to spend time out of doors. Narrow, filth-congested streets were saturated with cars; endless fights over parking filled the air, along with the baying of dogs. His five year plan focused on improving public access buildings like libraries, as well as developing meeting areas like shaded water gardens and playgrounds.
He was ambitious, to be sure, and Setji—who, as financial commissioner, controlled the purse strings—had objected strenuously to several of the more aggressive measures. There was no way, he argued, that the government could afford to pay for the partially open air cafes and tree-lined courtyards that their principal landscape designer had recommended as a means of getting people involved in their community.
Predictably, Kisten’s response had included the point that the last three men to hold Setji’s position had based their budgets on bribes. Award contracts to local builders who were willing to compete honestly for the work, and there’d be no need to pay out the large bribes usually associated with construction.
Play began in earnest as the announcer pronounced both teams’ mounts to be “lovely ponies” and discussed individual handicaps. All players, whether amateur or professional, were ranked according to the same system: from minus two to ten, with ten being the absolute apex. Ninety percent of players were ranked at minus two. Kisten, as aggressive on the field as off, was a five. An unusually high handicap for an amateur, or so Aria had been told.
The players raced down the field, following the line of the ball. They held their mallets in the air, guiding their mounts primarily with knee pressure although most kept a hand on the reins.
Number one on the opposing team broke free, driving the ball in front of him as he brought his mount around and angled toward the goal. He almost flew down the field, eating the yards with ease. The others raced to catch up with him, his teammates to help him and the others to halt him, if they could. Aria didn’t hold out much hope.
Kisten came up hard on his left, matching his horse’s speed to his opponent’s as he leaned forward and swung his mallet. He glanced behind him once before hooking his opponent’s mallet and, in so doing, both forcing him to relinquish control of the ball and keep moving forward or be dragged off his horse. It was, Aria saw instantly, a sacrificial move on Kisten’s part: by taking on the other man in this manner, he’d left the ball dead on the field. He could have, if he’d forced his opponent away from the ball—what polo players referred to as riding off—gained possession of it and changed direction, possibly scoring a goal for himself. Instead, he’d left the field open for Setji to sweep in behind. And as Kisten continued to hold off number one, Aros put himself squarely in the path of number two. Spinning around in a tight
arc, Setji galloped back down the field.
As the first goal of the game was scored, announcer and crowd went wild. After a brief respite during which the clock was stopped, the teams changed positions and began again. Aria stared, absorbed, as the game unfolded. Polo was, without a doubt, a contact sport—and far more fascinating than she would have believed. Much of what Kisten had explained, on their rides, now made sense.
“What are they doing?” Talin asked, his mouth full of sandwich.
Aria explained the theory behind the ride off. “The three factors to remember are speed, angle, and position. Speed, meaning your speed in relation to your opponent’s as you approach to make contact. Adjust your position to his,” she said, gesturing, “then close. You don’t want to be the brick wall to someone’s speeding freight train; even a small difference in speed, or what seems like one, is too much for the average horse to handle.”
“And that’s when people die?”
Aria looked at him sharply. “Live today, fight tomorrow,” she said sagely.
Talin harrumphed.
The game progressed—taking, like most games, rather longer to complete than its allotted time—and, after awhile, Naomi and Alice joined them on the grass.
Aria was more than a little surprised, having not seen much of either woman for some time: Alice since her failure to endorse an ill-conceived escape plan and Naomi since shortly after her equally ill-conceived attempt to seduce Kisten. Aria bore no grudge, but suspected that both women bore their separate grudges against her. The truth of which belief was all too quickly proved by her so-called friends’ sly smiles and passive-aggressive commentary on subjects ranging from polo to Talin.
Aria responded brightly enough, all the while wondering why they’d bothered to come over. Was there truly so much pleasure in tormenting her?
Alice gazed at the field, watching her husband with all the conspicuous interest of a devoted wife. She made a big point of dramatically admiring the captain’s every twist and turn, as though she’d never seen a man on horseback before. Aria felt a small stab of annoyance; Gore was only an indifferent rider, at best. His inclusion had more to do with the fact that polo was still a relatively new sport to the colonies than with any great skill on his part. But what he lacked in skill, he made up in enthusiasm. An enthusiasm that, but for her eyes, Alice seemed to share. Her smile was warm, but her eyes were cold.
“How are things going with Ram?” Aria asked.
“Divinely, of course.”
“Oh, that’s good,” Aria said, relieved. “I’m glad they’re—”
Alice turned. “Glad they’re what?”
“Improving,” Aria finished lamely, a little taken aback by Alice’s suddenly frosty expression.
Beside her, Talin sipped his lemonade and said nothing. Behind them both, closer to the fence that lined the back of the spectator’s area, Garja laughed at something her beau had said. She and the gardener—Taj was his name—were becoming very serious.
“What do you mean?” Alice batted her eyelashes disingenuously.
“Well you said—”
“Oh, please.” Alice made a face. “You’re imagining things.” Imagining things, Aria thought darkly, and yet Alice remembered them, too.
“Just because some women are unhappy, doesn’t mean all are.”
Naomi glanced over sharply, but said nothing. She, too, had been watching the field but with what struck Aria as more genuine interest. The object, for once, didn’t appear to be Kisten—although it wasn’t Captain Gore, either. Aria wasn’t, to be honest, quite sure who Naomi was watching and under the burden of the present circumstances couldn’t be bothered to care.
“Some women,” Alice continued, “make their unhappiness the ultimate factor of their existence. They’re not happy—to the extent that they ever are—unless everyone’s equally a victim.” She turned to Naomi. “I think people get out of life what they put in, don’t you?”
Aria reflected that there was, at least, no longer any doubt about where she stood with Alice. Some things—in this case, advising Alice to ride out her difficulties rather than run from them—evidently couldn’t be forgiven. Which struck Aria as odd, since her former friend appeared to be getting along quite well with her husband now. Or gave that appearance.
Naomi made a face. “Excuse me while I go eat some feelings.”
Aria smiled at this almost defense from such an unexpected quarter.
Gore, in a fit of unexpected brilliance, completed a beautiful ride-off against Setji and stole the ball. A few minutes later, he scored. A cheer went up. Alice made all the right noises, but didn’t seem particularly happy. Gore had mastered the trick, evidently, of appearing to be a much lesser rider than he was but also of not extending himself too far off the horse.
“Polo is an apt metaphor for marriage, don’t you think?” As she shared her idea, Naomi’s expression was studiedly casual. She’d returned her attention to the field, and seemingly spoke without pretense. “The stamina of a polo pony is beyond compare and, like a consort, must carry two hundred pounds or so on a regular basis. Not to mention be pliable to the rider’s direction and have the endurance to keep up with his demands.” She laughed unkindly. “Likewise, it’s an asset if you can’t think for yourself.”
Aria didn’t respond. Blood rushed to her face, warming her skin, and she wished she were elsewhere. Like down the bottom of a well.
“I guess you’re speaking from experience.”
Naomi’s head whipped around. Talin smiled. “I’m not married,” she said stiffly.
“So what you mean is that no one finds you suitable to the game.”
Aria burst out laughing.
Trying and failing to maintain some shred of dignity as she scrambled upright, Naomi gave Aria one last glare before rearranging her too-formal silk and stalking off. After a minute, Alice followed her. When they were alone, Talin flashed Aria a small smile. She hadn’t failed to notice that his accent, when he’d spoken to Naomi, had gotten very different very quickly. He had a good ear and was attuned to detail and, when he’d made Naomi the butt of his joke, had sounded exactly like his father. As Naomi had undoubtedly noticed. Which thought produced an unladylike thrill.
Aria realized, too, just how much of Talin’s lingering coarse behavior was an act designed to upset his parent. Even in these few short weeks, he’d clearly mastered the art of courtly manners. Which, on that score, the good news and the bad news were the same news.
“The women really are more vicious,” Talin marveled.
Aria didn’t disagree. Instead, she watched in silence as the last chukker began. Polo had evolved, as a sport, from warfare; the earliest players were members of cavalry units who used it as a means of honing their skills. But women had their own methods of waging war, this was true. And in comparison, most men were amateurs.
A few minutes later, Bell joined them. Aria hadn’t seen the little poet in a week or so, and for once the distraction of her constant chatter was welcome. Seeing Talin, she blushed. “Hello,” she said quietly.
Talin introduced himself, genuinely oblivious to her admiration. Even at his young age—Talin wasn’t yet fourteen—his looks weren’t lost on the majority of the cantonment’s female population. Which Aria found revolting. What was wrong with these women? Of course Bell, at nineteen, wasn’t much older. But still, Talin was a child!
Aria had begun to think of him as her child.
“I love the Winter Chill books,” Bell enthused. “ ‘Love just doesn’t go away,’ “ she quoted. “The third book, Cold Soul, is my favorite. ‘He was as still as a corpse among the tall grasses,’ “ she quoted again, apparently prepared to serenade them with highlights from the entire six book series, “ ‘his shirt open to reveal his sculpted, marble-white chest and scintillating arms. And then she—’ ”
Talin was saved from further response by the appearance of Kisten’s aide, Minai Motiani. Seeing Bell, he brightened. Seeing him, Bell clammed up.
She had a right to be suspicious, Aria thought ruefully, given the quality of response she usually received. Even Aria, her usual champion, defended her somewhat tongue in cheek. For which she now felt irrationally guilty, seeing the would-be poet retreat into herself. But her equally silly companion didn’t seem to notice—or, if he did, was too socially inept to respond in a manner that indicated otherwise.
“My sister loves those books!” he announced, settling himself on the grass. “ ‘I hoped that this was it, my heart was breaking,’ “ he said, “ ‘but to my eternal sorrow I failed to die. The waves of pain that had only lapped at my lips before now pulled me under and I knew that I’d never resurface.’ ”
“But wait,” Aria interjected, “didn’t he just say that he’d failed to die?”
And realized that she’d lost her audience.
SIXTY-FOUR
“They’re still talking,” Talin hissed.
“Don’t distract them,” Aria replied. “Maybe they won’t notice that we’ve left.”
“Scintillating arms? How can arms be scintillating?”
Talin glanced behind him where Bell and the equally unfortunate lieutenant were still deeply engrossed in a debate about the relative merits of Cold Soul.
“I will never forgive my mother,” Talin growled, “for doing that to me.”
“But,” Aria pointed out, unable to keep the laughter out of her voice, “it is a great icebreaker—no pun intended.”
“Yeah, but it doesn’t attract the girls I actually want!”
“I thought you didn’t want any girls.”
Talin glared, and turned back to the grass in front of him. They were on their way to find Kisten and eat some bland canapés, the game having ended. And not a moment too soon, from Aria’s perspective.