The Vestal's Steward

by Ailx Nichols

  “Yes,” he muttered, slowing down.

  They ambled in silence for a while, going back and forth between the chapel and the main building.

  “I’ve made up my mind,” he said, stopping behind the chapel.

  “About what?”

  “Marrying you.”

  She stared at him as if he’d grown a second nose.

  “I’m willing to marry you, Haysi,” he said, and then added as an afterthought, “If you’d like.”

  She exhaled slowly. “Actually, I wouldn’t.”

  “We had sex on Norbal,” he said. “We must get married.”

  “Says who?”

  “You could be pregnant.”

  “I’m not,” she said. “I took blue cosh tea.”

  “Even so, it’s the right thing to do.”

  “Rubbish! You shouldn’t feel obligated, Iyatt,” she said. “I’ll be fine. With Unie’s contribution, I’ll pay off my debts much sooner than I thought. I have my parlor, my friends. I’m content with my life.”

  “But honor demands—”

  She squinted at him. “Do you have any other reason, besides honor and godliness, for wanting to marry me?”

  “Do you want an honest answer to that?”

  “That’s the only kind I want, Samurai.”

  She gave him an expectant look. Hopeful even, by the way her eyes searched his face. Except, that made little sense. Hadn’t she just rebuffed him?

  “I have two other reasons,” he said.

  “Shoot.”

  “First, if you marry me, you’ll move out of Lanterns. You’ll be financially provided for, and you won’t need to perform your indecent dance in the brothel.”

  A shadow passed over Haysi’s lovely face, before she forced a saccharine smile. “Would I be allowed to keep the tattoo shop, generous sir?”

  “Yes, on the condition we relocate it to a more respectable neighborhood.”

  She made a noncommittal sound. “And the second reason?”

  “Sex.”

  “Ah.”

  “I want more of it, Haysi, I want more of you,” he said. “What happened on Norbal… It was too good. Too addictive.”

  She cleared her throat demonstratively and pretended to unfurl a scroll. “Breaking news from Government House: We’re allowed do it again!”

  “I don’t want to do it out of wedlock.”

  She shrugged. “Well, too bad. Because out of wedlock is the only way you can continue having sex with me, Samurai Iyatt Martenn.”

  “If you don’t want to be my wife, what would you like to be to me, then?”

  “Your lover,” she said.

  At that, she turned on her heel and headed to the gate.

  Watching her slender figure grow smaller in the distance, Iyatt rolled the word on his tongue.

  Lover.

  It wasn’t a bad word. Much better than “kept woman” or “concubine” or “mistress.” It implied she’d be giving herself to him solely because she wanted to. Their relationship would be that of equals, unspoiled by her dependency on him, untainted by the trading of sexual favors for money.

  Was that so reprehensible?

  If Jancel was right, and the Goddess didn’t care about chastity and abstinence as deeply as he’d thought, then this was the best kind of outcome for him. He didn’t have to marry Haysi. He’d feel less guilty next time he talked with Unie through her. Haysi had exonerated him of any obligation. She’d said it loud and clear. She didn’t want to be his wife.

  A little voice in his head repeated Haysi’s word, Rubbish.

  Deep inside, he knew why she’d turned him down.

  He suspected that being his lover wouldn’t be enough for her in the end. She deserved better. If he could get over his prejudice, if he could heed Jancel’s advice and stop judging her, he could give her what she deserved. He could give her his heart.

  To his astonishment, Iyatt found himself relishing the prospect. With Haysi, he craved sex, but he also wanted more. He wanted her friendship, her loyalty, her laughter, her respect, and more still.

  He wanted everything.

  Nineteen

  Like every Sixth-day night, Achlins Ghaw had sent his staff home earlier than other evenings.

  Those who had families would be able to spend more time with their loved ones. Those who lived alone like him would be able to use the extra time for grocery shopping, errands, and maybe a celebratory drink with friends. The last day of the workweek was as good a cause for celebration as any.

  Achlins himself had no plans for tonight. But that was fine. When he got home, he’d run a hot bath, then pour himself a glass of wine and enjoy a quiet evening with a new book.

  As he rounded the corner, a boy of ten or eleven sprang up in front of him.

  He thrust a small envelope into Achlins’s hands. “I have a message for you.”

  “From whom?”

  “My mother, Dame Ultek.” The boy spoke in a rushed whisper, his voice shaking. “Don’t go home now. Go to the Inn Quarter, mingle with crowds. Make sure you aren’t being tailed.”

  “Um, all right.”

  The boy swallowed audibly before continuing, “When you’re sure no one’s following you, enter a tavern that has private booths and book one. Don’t open the envelope until you’re in such a booth.”

  Achlins nodded. “Understood.”

  “No one but you must see what’s inside the envelope.”

  “I believe you’ve made that part abundantly clear.”

  The boy didn’t seem to catch the gentle irony in Achlins’s tone. “It’s because Ma is convinced that your offices and your home are bugged.”

  “She’s right,” he said. “They are.”

  The boy swallowed again, spun on his heel, and ran away.

  Achlins did exactly as instructed.

  Once inside a booth, and fairly certain he hadn’t been shadowed, he tore the envelope open. Inside there was a handwritten note and a half dozen images, the kind produced by level-two devices called cameras. In theory those devices were banned in Eia. In practice many professionals used them, including Achlins and his reporters, but also Boggond’s main propaganda channel, the Orogate Daily.

  Achlins spread out the images and studied them.

  Within seconds, he found himself shoving them back into the envelope. With the exception of two or three that weren’t too shocking, the rest had proven too painful to look at. Achlins had reported from the frontline during the Teteum invasion, but even then, he hadn’t seen anything like this.

  Dame Ultek’s images—probably stolen from her husband’s desk—represented gut-wrenching, obscene, and unbearably cruel scenes of sexual abuse by Chief Ultek and two other men to naked, vacant-eyed women.

  Achlins opened the note.

  Sir Ghaw,

  You are the only one who dares to write about the girl snatcher. Now you know who he is. You probably knew that already, but now you have evidence.

  If you are brave enough, if you truly care about these women and their bereft families, then publish the final installment of your series next week. You can use the least offensive of those images and hide the rest somewhere where no one would look. Please destroy this note after you’ve read it.

  I want you to know I had no part in this. I am a hostage in my own house. My husband keeps one of our three children locked in the upstairs nursery at all times. They take turns going to school. At night, they are all locked in their rooms.

  Sir Ghaw, I am very scared. But I cannot live like this anymore. My gamble is that when your story comes out, my husband will not kill his own children. It matters not what he does to me.

  Help those poor women, please!

  Y. U.

  Achlins reread the note several times, memorizing every word. Then he held the thin vellum to the candle on the table and watched it hiss and burn in the flame.

  The next thing he did was turn his heavy armchair upside down and carefully open one of the side seams with hi
s pocket knife. When the slit was big enough, he pushed the envelope in.

  It was safer hiding it here in this random chair’s upholstery than taking it home for Aheya-day. On First-day, he’d stop by the tavern on his way to work and retrieve the images he’d use for his article.

  Putting the armchair back as it was, Achlins paid for his drink and headed home.

  When he turned the corner onto his street, someone much taller and stronger than him grabbed him from behind. Before Achlins could call for help, a needle pierced the side of his neck. His knees wobbled and his lids began to droop.

  His last thought before he blacked out was for the abducted girls.

  I failed them.

  The first few times Achlins had tried to open his eyes, his eyelids had resisted.

  But he refused to give up. Slowly, very slowly, he managed to lift one of his lids. At first, everything around him was just a blur of colors and shapes until things started to come into focus.

  Achlins pulled his head upward. He was in a small room lit by a single power candle above. There were no windows, and the walls were unplastered and unpainted, as you’d expect in a dungeon. What made little sense were the colorful framed paintings on the walls. The well-tended potted plants perched on a dresser were just as out of place.

  Things got stranger still when Achlins realized the door to his room was open. His hands and feet were untied. He lay on a daybed with a quilt thrown over him and an embroidered cushion tucked under his head.

  What is this place?

  He heard footsteps that grew steadily louder followed by two distinct male voices. Scrambling to his feet, he tried to run from the room but lost his balance and fell back on the daybed, still queasy from the drug he’d been sedated with.

  “Are you sure about it?” One of the men asked outside the room.

  “Quite sure,” the other man said. “I have it from a very reliable source.”

  “I still can’t believe it! Dreggo is alive and in Teteum…”

  Dreggo? As in, Professor Nollan Dreggo, Boggond’s unfortunate contender?

  Areg Sebi had backed Dreggo for his campaign. When Sebi was arrested and accused of treason, Dreggo disappeared. Everyone believed him dead, assassinated by Ultek’s men.

  Forgetting his own predicament, Achlins held his breath. His head buzzed with the implications.

  The men entered the room.

  One of them was very tall and brawny, possibly a cyborg. Was he the man who’d attacked Achlins earlier? The other man, a little shorter and of a rangier build, looked uncannily familiar… He wasn’t a member of Achlins’s small circle of friends and acquaintances. But he was someone eminent, someone Achlins had featured in his editorials, but also grumbled about, because the guy always refused to be interviewed...

  “Commander Heidd?!” Achlins jumped to his feet again, this time managing not to collapse.

  The man laughed. “Call me Jancel, please. It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Sir Ghaw.”

  “Call me Achlins.” Still incredulous, he surveyed the commander. “You aren’t dead… You’re here… What is this place?”

  “An atomic shelter in the Contaminated Zone,” Jancel said. “You’re safe here and among friends.”

  The brawny man brow-and-bowed. “Timmis Itkis at your service.”

  “You’re the elusive tech smuggler?” Achlins returned the greeting.

  Timmis grinned. “The very same. And, please, call me Timm. You’ve purchased a few professional gadgets from me through middlemen.”

  “Was it you who brought me here?” Achlins asked before adding, “Rather unceremoniously.”

  “So sorry about the rough treatment! But there was no time to try and persuade you to come with me willingly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “A dozen cops were waiting in an ambush in your townhouse,” Timm said. “They were going to pick you up the moment you stepped in.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “This morning, an inside source tipped us off that something was afoot,” Jancel said. “Timm was dispatched to Iltaqa to rescue you.”

  “I was going to talk to you on your way home, but I lost your trail in the Inn Quarter,” Timm said.

  Achlins narrowed his eyes at Jancel. “When you say ‘us,’ do you mean the Association? Are you the leader of the rebels? Is this your secret headquarters?”

  “Once a reporter, always a reporter!” Jancel laughed. “But I still won’t do an interview.”

  Achlins rolled his eyes. “I wasn’t going to write about it. Trust me, I want Boggond, Ultek and Voqras gone, and the rule of law reestablished in Eia. We’re on the same side.”

  “We know that,” Timm said.

  “But I do need to write an article—one with the potential of huge ramifications—and to print it in the First-day issue. So, I better go—”

  “You can’t publish your piece,” Jancel said.

  “You don’t understand!” Achlins swept his hands over his face. “The information I have is critical. It’s my moral duty to make it public, no matter the personal cost.”

  “You can’t publish your piece,” Jancel repeated, “because you don’t have a newspaper anymore. The special unit raided the Gazette after you left. All equipment was destroyed, all notes and materials confiscated.”

  Achlins felt as if the sky had fallen on him. He couldn’t breathe. His newspaper, his baby… The promise he’d made to Yvory… The poor girls whose last hope had just vanished…

  He sat down on the daybed and took his head in his hands. “I was going to expose Ultek as the girl snatcher.”

  “We’ll find a way to do that,” Timm said. “We have a printing press here.”

  Achlins looked up at him. “I suspected that much—your newsletter is not bad, for amateurs.”

  “The truth needs to come out,” Jancel said. “But we should make sure the girls are freed before you expose Ultek.”

  “Do you think he’d try to get rid of them, as incriminating evidence?” Achlins asked.

  The thought had crossed his mind already. But he’d told himself there was no other way.

  “Do you have a small army?” he asked.

  “I wish.” Jancel’s lips quirked. “But we’re not without resources. Give us time to work something out.”

  Achlins released a sigh. “I hope it doesn’t take too long.”

  “We’ll put it to the Fulcrum meeting—that’s our leadership group—next week,” Jancel said.

  “Are you hungry?” Timm asked. “I’m starving. Flying with an unconscious man, shoving him into a space suit and carrying him was more work than I’d bargained for.”

  Achlins’s stomach was empty, but professional curiosity turned out stronger than hunger. “I heard you two talking about someone called Dreggo before you entered the room.”

  Jancel and Timm exchanged a look.

  “Is that who I think it is?” Achlins asked.

  Timm nodded. “You’re one of us now, so I can fill you in. I was doing some business in Teteum and heard from a client who works as a prison guard. He said that our very own Nollan Dreggo is jailed there.”

  “Ultek always maintained Dreggo had defected to Teteum,” Achlins said. “So, it’s true.”

  Jancel leaned against the doorframe. “For once, he might be telling the truth.”

  Achlins began to pace the room. “Except, if Dreggo is a traitor, why would they lock him up? Shouldn’t he be enjoying a much more comfortable lifestyle with the drinars King Aviesto would’ve paid him for his turning?”

  “I don’t have an answer to that.” Jancel rubbed his chin. “But if Dreggo is not a traitor, why did he go to Teteum?”

  “He didn’t know about the Refuge,” Timm said.

  “True,” Jancel conceded. “Nyssa, who’s been around Dreggo a lot, through Areg, says he’s no coward. Facing the music is more in character for him.”

  Achlins stopped pacing. “It wouldn’t be the first time someone
acted out of character when their life was in peril.”

  “It’s called survival instinct, my friend,” Timm said. “Looks like Nollan Dreggo’s was stronger than yours.”

  Twenty

  Haysi bowed to the applauding public at the end of her show and smiled. But instead of the usual pride and anticipation of a fun dinner with Maggi and Lippin, her hands were clammy. They’d been like this throughout the dance show since she’d spotted Chief Ultek at a front row table.

  Mother Vada must’ve been informed of his presence, because she’d come running into the show hall. Right now, she was falling over herself to greet Ultek as befitted a man of his importance.

  “What a great honor, sir!” She smiled brightly but apprehension was palpable in her voice.

  “I take it you’re Mother Vada?” he asked.

  “Indeed, sir! Your humble servant, sir.” She turned her head and glared at the nearest waiter. “Chief Ultek’s glass is empty! Our best ale, boy, for the chief and for myself. And move it!”

  The young server—Delaya’s son—darted to the bar.

  Mother Vada pulled a chair and sat down. “What brings you here, Your Grace?”

  Ultek’s status didn’t warrant the reverential address, but Haysi knew Mother Vada would crawl on her stomach and lick his boots if that would buy his leniency.

  Ignoring Vada’s question, he trained his bloodshot eyes on Haysi. Then, to her horror, he hooked his index finger and beckoned.

  It’s a good thing, Haysi told herself. It’s my chance.

  Hadn’t she been trying in vain to get an audience with him ever since the Pox Bill was enacted? She’d even asked Iyatt to introduce them. But the samurai had refused bluntly.

  Because he doesn’t trust me not to sleep with Ultek.

  To her dismay, Iyatt had labeled her from day one. Even when he proposed to her at the orphanage, it wasn’t because he’d changed his opinion of her morals. Nor was it because he’d realized he had feelings for her, and they mattered more than his opinion or her morals.