by Emerson, Ru
He suddenly felt sick. All that futzing around, and what’d I do? Only walked her right back into Daddy’s loving arms. Great job, Cray. How’s it feel, being about that far from dead? He shoved that aside, as best he could. “Hey, lady,” he said softly. “Thanks for getting between me and the nasty little knife. You shouldn’t have, though.”
She nodded. “I know. Now he will think to use me against you, you against me—”
“Not how I meant it; he could’ve cut you instead.”
“No.” She shook her head, hair which had long since come loose from Dija’s fancy plaiting tickled his nose. “He resembles more a cat that way; it would give him no true pleasure to simply do murder, he plays with us first. He is mad.”
“I agree with you, guy’s nuts.” Taking her maid as a mistress and giving the girl Ari’s clothes—that was cold. “Wonder how his card-club friends feel about his new girlfriend.”
“Lucette did not go to him of her choice, not even for the clothes and jewels.”
“You think not?”
“I know it.”
“Well, I guess. After all, somebody hits on a servant around here, she’d be a total fool to say no, wouldn’t she?”
“A fool, and then dead. Even so, she is not as much his as he appears to think of her.” Ariadne turned to face him; her hands clung to the chair behind her for support. “The chain at her neck—that is also mine. My mother’s before that. There are forty of them in Philippe-sur-Mer, and each of the women—”
“Your society, right?” Ariadne nodded. “She knows what it is?”
“I took her there, a year ago—she has taken the oath also, it was the only way I could be certain of her when my father first brought her as servant to me. She wore the gem tonight so I might see it, the way she moved her fingers upon the stone—by that, she told me she will get word to Aleyza, who is chief among us. If there is to be outside help for us—” Her face fell. “Merde. Of what use?” She shrugged broadly; her hands fell to her sides, slapping dust from the wrinkled skirts.
She’s even more depressed than I am—that’s not useful. “If we can get out of this house somehow, we’ll be okay,” Chris said. “You know the streets, and I know people on the docks. And what he said about the foreigners? That’s crap. He can’t order them not to give us passage, if they want.”
“You think?”
“Sure. The English and the Mer Khani might make nice with guys like Dupret, he’s a Duke’s son and has rich friends, but he doesn’t run the world, remember? Just a very small corner of it, and some of them might not mind an incident that would let them come take over this island. I know a lot of people, too. Besides, if Eddie gets to Mondego—”
“If. A big if. My father is the certainty.” She sighed, very faintly. “I knew he would take us; all along, I knew it.” Chris opened his mouth, shut it again without saying anything. “If we stayed north, came on ship, that train—any.” Silence. She looked up at him. “I say this not to tell you to give up, know that. I say it so you know I do not blame you.”
“Oh. Well—thanks. We’ve done all right so far, the two of us. We’ll manage. Main thing is, we could’ve been dead by now, half a dozen times over. Albione could’ve dumped us overboard instead of dragging us with him; your old man could’ve shot us dead the minute we got in the house.” He turned away, studied the room. Fly casual, Cray. “And you know, maybe it’s better this way, ‘cause if he had grabbed us in Rhadaz, way things are right now, who’d have made noises to the outside world about us? We’ve got Eddie, and you said Lucette’s on our side, you’ve got those women here—” She shook her head. “Okay, it isn’t much. But every minute we’re still alive, I say it shifts the odds in our favor, just a little.”
“If—if you say. But what he said to you—”
“Ah, hey. Got an idea, let’s not talk about what he’s gonna do when I don’t tell him where Eddie is, okay?” He stepped around her, drew the cloth off the tray. “All right, there’s bread, water, fruit—orange juice? Really cute, Dupret. Like I’d even think about drinking any of your orange juice.”
“The thing I put in your hand, in the carriage,” Ariadne said. “You have it still?” He fiddled with his cuff, worked it free and held it out. “A small thing my mother’s cousin creates; you cannot buy one on the market.” She held it low over the glass mug, shook her head as the fluffy little feathers trembled. “Leave the juice, there is something—not Zero, I think.”
“You’re kidding. That thing detects poison?” She nodded, passed it over the rest of the tray. The feathers quivered once more only. “C’mon!”
“It finds things which are not right—and it does another useful thing or two as well. If Lucette had been against us, she would have warned him of that—and the knife. The juice and the butter; leave them.”
“Like my bread plain anyway. What about the water?” For answer, Ariadne poured herself a cup and drank it down. Chris followed suit, and bit into a chunk of bread. “Hope you don’t mind if I eat standing up; think I’d die if I had to sit down right now.”
“You see I do not sit.” Ariadne’s reply was muffled by bread. She poured more water for them both and began peeling an orange. She swallowed bread, washed it down with a sip of water. “These were my rooms. My father did not lie about the drop. You would break both legs, or your head; it is all stone out there.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“If the door were not locked—”
“Guarded, too, I’ll bet.”
She nodded, set her bread down. “The washing chambre is there. If there is water to wash—your pardon.” She crossed the room and closed the narrow door firmly behind her. Chris picked up the second orange and walked over to the nearest window.
The room wasn’t well lit; even so, he couldn’t see anything outside but a faint light down below and off to his right. Kitchen or servants’ quarters, maybe. It was a long way down to where that light was, though—and as he looked, he could see a dark, bulky figure pacing toward this end of the house. He pulled back from the window, let the curtain drop into place.
Now that he had a little food and liquid in his stomach, he was uncomfortably aware of other things: a shirt that was stiff with sweat; boots too tight over swollen feet. His hands and wrists ached and his face and neck felt burned. He popped another chunk of orange into his mouth, took a steadying breath, and pulled one shirt cuff back: His wrists were rubbed but not nearly as badly as when the Cholani took him four years ago. Hey, that’s something. Yeah, he thought gloomily. And won’t that be a comfort when Dupret starts pulling your fingernails?
A faint whisper of skirts; he turned as Ariadne came up behind him, a dripping cloth in one hand. “Here,” she said. “For your face. It is very soft.”
“I look that bad?” He buried his face in cool, damp fabric and sighed.
“You are too red,” Ariadne said. “There is more water in the washing, Marie left the basin full and a pitcher besides.”
Chris sighed again. “Bless you, my good woman, that is purely wonderful.” He blotted his face and throat, draped the cloth around his neck. “What’s that?” Ariadne held up a bit of yellowish paper, folded several times.
“Here—away from the window, those curtains are not entirely a block to the outside. It was between the washing cloths.” She began unfolding it, turned it over, back to front, then top to bottom. “Lucette’s hand.” Chris peered over her shoulder; the lettering was shaky, in tiny print, and in French. “Ahhhh. I understand a little. My grand-père is very ill, my father had word from Uncle Philippe, who is in charge of all the estates and moves to take the old man’s place at court. Father is furious because my uncle says he knows of the drugs.” She scanned down the page, shook her head. “Her spelling does not improve with use. My uncle says my father is no longer family, that he may keep the estates here and all the profits, and in turn to expect nothing from France.” She was quiet for some moments, her eyes fixed on the sheet.
“That’s it?”
“Nothing else, except Lucette says we will talk if there is any chance—and he is certain I wrote to France, against him.”
Great. Just terrific. Does it get any better than this? He drew a steadying breath; took hold of her shoulders. “What’ll he—?” He stopped; there wasn’t much point in asking what he’d do to her. Ariadne concentrated on refolding the small note. “I will put this down the drain, he would murder that poor girl on the moment if he even suspected—”
“Ariadne—I wish I could say something besides I’m sorry. Like that’s any help.”
She reached up to cover his right hand with hers. “I am sorry, too; you did not ask for this, or for me.”
“Sure, I did. I could’ve grabbed Eddie and taken the next ship out when your old man asked me to play cards that afternoon. You know?” She glanced up at him, away at once. “I’d’ve been dead a couple times, if you hadn’t been there. But—” He swallowed; his mouth was suddenly very dry. “I think I’d have been a lot poorer, in a lot of ways, without you.”
“Poorer?” She turned to look at him.
“I mean—I’m glad we met, got together, however it happened. I’d hate it if I never got a chance to say that—I mean—”
“Oh.” She wrapped her arms around his waist and buried her face in his shirt. Chris gathered her close and brushed her hair with his lips.
6
Robyn straightened up with a faint groan and rubbed the back of her neck. It ached. So did her lower back. She gazed down at the still form under her and mumbled, “You better come out of this soon, babe, I’ll have to trade you in on a model that works. Hell; me, too.” That brought a faint grin to her face; it turned to a grimace as she dug her fists into the small of her back and twisted back and forth to get the kinks out.
Aletto lay flat on his stomach, arms at his sides, naked except for a cloth over his backside. She gazed at him thoughtfully, measuringly. Even after so long down, he still looked good. Just enough visible muscle—not bulky, which she didn’t care for. His skin was pale cream, even paler than hers. Gotta get this boy out in the sun a little more, she decided. Just a little; she didn’t like the beach-boy look but he’d been such a gorgeous shade of gold that first year. If there’s ever sun again. When was the last time we saw sun here? This time of year in Zelharri, it was cloudy or foggy—or raining. She surely envied Chris and his new wife about now, down in the Carib, all that sun and warm air. Lovely, clear blue water for swimming, too. Can’t remember the last time I swam. Used to like it, too, even if I wasn’t much good at it. Mere thought of splashing in a cold creek these days—brrr.
Chris married; she still couldn’t believe it. Ariadne was wonderfully, exotically beautiful, too: all that black mass of hair, those cheekbones, that black coffee with a little cream complexion. She’d thawed nicely, after the first day or so, too—shy, Robyn thought. Maybe worried how Chris’s mother would take having a bride sprung on her, or maybe because of her skin. There wasn’t much of that kind of prejudice in this world—still more than she’d like to see. Ariadne’d be sensitive about that, if there was prejudice where she came from. “Like I’d care, so long as my kid’s happy. Wonder how I’ll like being Grandma Birdy. Lordy, what a thought. Bet they’ll be pretty kids, though.” Chris a daddy; there was a thought for sure.
She glanced over her shoulder, toward the brightly burning fire. Iana and her brother were almost in their nurse’s lap, listening raptly as Frisa told them a story, her face animated, her hands constantly moving, bringing it all to life. Robyn couldn’t hear anything but an occasional word, the woman was keeping her voice purposely low, the story a secret delight for the three of them. “Thank all the local gods at once I found a way to get that young woman back here,” Robyn murmured. She gave her back one last hard dig with her knuckles, rubbed more cream into her hands, and went back to working her way down Aletto’s spine. So simple, really, once she’d had a little time to think about it—all she’d had to do was send word for Frisa to bring her mother, let the old woman have one of the small rooms near the kitchens for herself and her few things, and everyone was happy—including, Robyn thought, Frisa’s mother, who was much too old and frail to run a small goat holding by herself.
The benefit already showed on the kids: Iana had relaxed noticeably the past day or so, and Amarni—he was still too quiet, even for a normally reserved child, but he wasn’t clinging so much. Robyn had even managed an hour to herself, out in the courtyard, the afternoon before, and Amarni hadn’t been panicked when she returned. Small-step progress, but any counted.
She wrinkled her nose. The steam pot on the little table by Aletto’s head was really putting out at the moment. Whatever the healer had in there—she recognized the pungency of pennyroyal, actually liked it (if in smaller doses than this), but there was something else that made her eyes water. “If it works, though.”
The healer had been emphatic it would—this particular potion, she’d said flatly, was over a third spell, strong in that and the herbal blend: it would awaken anyone not already dead. Robyn liked Jennifer’s healer; she was years younger than Catra, easier to talk to or ask questions without feeling foolish and untutored, the way Catra’d made her feel. Iana liked the woman; that counted for a lot, too.
And Aletto had been nearer awake, late the last night, after the steamer began seriously bubbling; when Robyn had spoken against his ear, he’d grunted something in response, she hadn’t been certain what, and she hadn’t gotten anything else out of him. Yet. She shook her head firmly. Yet. The stuff would work, was working already, he was going to be fine. “Has to be,” she whispered. She moved her thumbs slowly up both sides of his backbone, then leaned forward to use her palms against his shoulder blades. “Won’t have anything else, you hear me, babe?”
“Sure.” Whispery, harsh, nothing like Aletto’s regular voice. It caught her by surprise, set her back on her heels; for one heart-stopping moment, she thought she’d imagined it. She slung her leg off his back and leaned down so her face was close to his, pressed hair away from his face with the back of her heavily lotioned hand. Aletto blinked rapidly, licked his lips.
“Aletto? Babe?” Her voice sounded no better than his.
He coughed, tried to clear his throat. “Birdy. Oh, Robyn, gods, I feel awful, how long did I sleep?”
“Shhh. Don’t try to talk, sounds like it hurts you. I’ll get you some water, hang on.”
“Mmmm.” She helped him roll over, pulled the bedclothes up, and tucked them under his arms, high on his chest; caught her breath as his eyelids closed. But a moment later, they fluttered open again. “Wobbly,” he managed. “Feel—like a leftover drunk. Except—except I don’t…” He frowned, shook his head faintly.
She managed something like a smile. “Shhh. We’ll talk later. Kids are concerned about you.” She went over to the fire and knelt.
“Hey, you two, your dad just woke up. Wanna come say hi?” Iana scrambled to her feet, her eyes enormous; Amarni let Robyn help him up, then clutched his sister’s hand. “It’s okay, honest. He’s still kind of sick, but I bet anything he’d like to see you.” She got back up; her knees creaked. “Frisa, would you mind getting me the jug of drinking water, over by the door? And then see if you can’t get someone to go find Zepiko.”
“Of course, madam.” The nurse smoothed Amarni’s hair. “It’s all right, young master, your father’s awake, just like your mother promised.” Amarni caught at her skirts. She smiled, knelt, and eased his hand free. “Your mother’s here, Amarni, you’re all right. I won’t go very far, if you don’t want me to, and we’ll finish the story in a little while.”
Aletto’s eyes were open again. He smiled and held out a hand as Robyn brought two very hesitant children across the room; the hand trembled. Iana clutched his fingers with both hands. “Hello, principessa,” he whispered. “And there’s my boy. Come here, Amarni.” Robyn scooped him up and deposited him on the edge of the bed. Iana rolled hers
elf into Aletto’s arm; Amarni buried his face in his father’s shoulder, hard. Aletto patted the boy’s back; he looked confused. Doesn’t remember yet, Robyn decided. But his basic reactions were still good. Upset kids: soothe the kids. “It’s all right, son,” he whispered. “Everything’s all right, don’t cry, it’s all right.”
Robyn poured him water, then set the cup down so she could help him sit up; Amarni came with him, his face still hard against Aletto’s shoulder. “Here,” she said, “you hang on to the brats, babe, I’ll get the water down you.” Aletto drained the cup she held to his mouth, then sighed faintly.
“Hurts—to swallow.”
“It should,” Robyn said. “You haven’t done much of it for the past few days.”
“Days?” He shook his head. “Was I sick? I—there’s a hole, I can’t remember—” He looked up at her blankly. “I’m sorry, Birdy, I just—can’t—I don’t know.”
It caught up with her, all at once; without the bed to lean against, she would have fallen, and for one terrifying moment, she thought she might be physically ill. She patted Aletto’s hand. “Everything’s fine, honestly, babe. Don’t worry about it, we’ll talk about things later. Tonight, after they’re asleep, maybe.” She swallowed, tasted bile. “Hey—ah. Hug with your kids for a little bit, I’ll be right back.” She crossed the room on trembling legs, closed the door of her dressing room behind her and leaned against it. Tears spilled over and rolled down her face. “Oh, God.” She hadn’t really believed he’d ever come out of it; she hadn’t dared cry with Amarni and Iana so panicked, white-faced and terrified servants depending on her, Lizelle in a state of hysteria, with the Fort to run—all of it.
She didn’t dare be sick; didn’t dare cry now, either; her eyes got puffy and red, they’d see. She didn’t want Aletto to know how close he’d come, not yet. Maybe not ever, she still couldn’t decide about that. She groped across the little room, found the basin and clay jug of wash water, splashed some on her cheeks, and held the cool cloth against her eyes for a moment, then swallowed hard, and went back into the main room.
