A Roll of the Dice

by Catherine Asaro

  Of course he tried to leave. He heaved open his private door and found guards Outside, all armed. When the captain asked if they could do anything for him, he shook his head and closed the door. Then he returned to the window seat and watched the sky.

  In the evening, he roused himself enough to bathe in his swimming pool with its fountains. He shaved using a pearl-handled razor he discovered laid out with a towel on a polished stone bench by the pool. Back in his bedroom, he changed into clothes he found in the wardrobe, garb similar to what he had worn yesterday. Then he sat by the window again.

  Kev came to ask if he wanted to join the other Calani for dinner in the common room, or would he like his meal here. Jeremiah shook his head to both suggestions.

  Finally night settled over the cliffs. He was still sitting by the window when the guards came for him.

  * * * *

  Blue and green mosaics tiled the halls, with gold accents that gleamed in the torchlight. After following a maze of corridors, the guards took him up a tower, climbing a spiral staircase of black marble. No one explained why or spoke to him.

  At the top, they came to a horseshoe arch. The suite beyond was even more refined than his own. Soft light diffused from panels in the ceiling. Parchments on the walls glimmered with paintings of birds and branches. Dark urns as tall as Jeremiah stood in the corners, enameled with clusters of gold marble-flowers.

  His escort showed him into a room with blue-shaded walls and a pale blue rug. It had no furnishings, only a voluptuous pile of green, blue, and gold pillows heaped in one corner. The captain bowed to him and then the guards withdrew. A moment later Jeremiah heard the door close, followed by the click of the lock mechanism.

  He rubbed his chin, baffled. What did they expect him to do here? For a while he paced the rooms. When he grew tired of looking for a way out, he lay among the pillows, letting their softness envelop him. With no other outlet, he sought the freedom of sleep.

  Sleep, however, evaded him. Instead, tears slid down his face. Damn. He hated to cry. The tears came anyway, for the loss of his freedom and the people he loved. After a while he did manage to drowse, but he never fully slept.

  “Jeremiah?"

  He opened his eyes. Khal Viasa was standing above him, dressed in a clinging robe of red velvet. She had unbraided her hair, and it fell in glorious auburn waves to her waist. He stared at her, bewildered, aware of her long, lean curves under the robe.

  She knelt next to him among the pillows. “Your guards told me you haven't eaten all day."

  “I wasn't hungry.” He rubbed his palm across his cheek, trying to erase the signs of his tears.

  “Ai, Jeremiah,” she murmured. “I am so sorry you are unhappy."

  Her compassion caught him off guard. He had expected her to be as cold as everyone else he had met from Viasa. Maybe under that infamous reserve, they were human after all. “I don't understand what you want from me."

  “To eat. You will become sick if you refuse food."

  He wanted to say no. His diet was tricky, though. He had none of the immunities that protected Cobans against the poisons and bacteria here. It limited the foods he could eat, and his water had to be treated. One reason he had lost weight so fast when he first came to Coba was because he had been sick so much, until he and his doctor worked out a diet he could tolerate. If he became careless now, he risked upsetting the chemical balance his body needed to maintain.

  After a pause, he said, “All right."

  Khal rose to her feet and went to an audiocom in the wall. When she touched its fingertip panel, a woman's voice floated into the air. “Seva here."

  “Seva, this is Manager Viasa. Have the instructions for what Jeremiah can eat and drink been given to the kitchens?"

  “Yes, ma'am. Last night, right after you landed."

  “Good. Have dinner brought up for him and me. We missed the evening meal."

  “Right away, ma'am."

  Jeremiah wondered why she hadn't eaten. She looked exhausted. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  She came back and settled next to him in the pillows. “I am fine. But it is kind of you to ask."

  “Is it the Viasa-Tehnsa dam?"

  Khal sighed. “It took all day to repair the electrical plant. The beacon still doesn't work. Then I had to explain to Manager Tehnsa why it all failed.” She gave him a look of apology. “But I shouldn't bore you with mundane Estate details."

  “It's all right.” He preferred mundane details to thinking about his situation.

  The audiocom buzzed. Then a girl said, “Your meal is here, Manager Viasa."

  “Ah. Good.” Khal rose gracefully to her feet and left the room. She returned with two junior aides. The boy carried a gold platter with an ornate cover, and the girl had a blue lacquered stand trimmed with gold and pearl inlays. They bowed to Jeremiah, set up the stand with the platter, and then withdrew from the room. A moment later the door closed and locked.

  Jeremiah blinked. “That was fast."

  Khal smiled. When she lifted the cover off the platter, an aroma of spices filled the room. It made his mouth water. Maybe he was hungry after all.

  Dinner was set out on the platter. Khal filled two gold-rimmed crystal goblets with red wine and gave him one. Then she took a plate of spiced meatballs and settled next to him among the pillows. Using a small gold fork, she speared a spice ball and offered it to him.

  Jeremiah flushed. He would never have expected an Estate Manager to feed him. Self-conscious, he ate the spice ball. It tasted even better than it smelled, and he suddenly realized he was famished.

  She gave him another, then speared one for herself. They alternated eating spice balls with drinking wine, Khal feeding them both until they finished the plate.

  He took a last swallow of wine. “That was good."

  “I am glad you liked it.” She finished her drink, then took his empty goblet and set it with hers on the rug.

  Jeremiah lay back in the pillows, relaxed now. Tipsy, in fact. Khal leaned on her elbow next to him, an intimacy that made him even more aware of her presence. The collar of her robe slipped down her shoulder, revealing smooth skin. He didn't think she noticed, but that only made the effect more erotic. She nudged him onto his back and began to unlace the thongs that held his shirt closed.

  Jeremiah caught her hand, still sober enough to read the implications under her seduction. “What are you doing?"

  Her eyes were glossy from wine. She disengaged her hand from his and tweaked open his shirt. Then she slid her palm across his chest. “You are very beautiful, Jeremiah."

  Beautiful? Right. What was going on, with a private den, an intimate feeding, and now this? On Earth, women had never noticed him. It hadn't surprised him, given how he saw himself: a fat, short, boring nerd. His parents claimed his negative self-image was undeserved, that it came from taunts he had taken as a boy, when in truth he was “a charming, intelligent young man.” Well, of course they said that. They were his parents. They would think he was charming if he fell on his face in the mud.

  It was true, though, that in Dahl his shyness had become an asset. Coban women valued the trait in men. But he had never risked having a girlfriend there. The Twelve Estates operated on a double standard that could have come from the Dark Ages, except here it applied to men. A woman could do as she pleased, but a man was expected to behave with decorum. Had he taken a lover, Manager Dahl would probably have asked him to leave. In a place as conservative as Viasa, he could have been deported.

  In some ways, it had been fun. Women in Dahl considered him a challenge, an exotic treat they were convinced wanted his honor compromised. After all, he came from offworld. Surely if a single young man traveled so freely, without a chaperone, he must be free in other ways too. But even the most aggressive had never pushed this hard. The implied insult in Khal's behavior stunned him. It also hurt, given his attraction to her, but he didn't want her to know.

  She touched his cheek. “Your emotions flash
across your face like a beacon. Why are you upset?"

  He spoke coolly. “It's obvious why you had me brought here."

  “I should hope so.” She smiled. “This is the Akasi suite."

  Akasi? Oh, Lord. Oh, Lord.

  She was watching his face. “You didn't realize?"

  “No.” He flushed. “I hardly know you."

  Khal looked at a loss for words. “Chankah Dahl led me to believe that you knew of my proposal."

  He thought back. Yes, the Dahl Manager had said something about an Akasi during his solitary confinement. He had been so angry at the time, he had refused to listen. “I ... missed it."

  “It is a big thing to miss."

  No kidding. Akasi Calani. How could he be married to this stranger? “When did we, uh, have the ceremony?"

  “We were wed as soon as you signed the Calanya contract."

  “I didn't sign anything. Manager Dahl wrote my name."

  “Well, yes, it did work out that way,” Khal admitted. She brushed her knuckles over his cheek. “I won't hurt you, sweet Jeremiah.” Then she went back to unlacing his shirt.

  Flustered, he caught her hand. “Now wait a minute, Manager Viasa."

  “Khal,” she murmured.

  He reddened. “Um, okay. Khal."

  “It is all right,” she soothed. “Try to relax.” She slipped her hand free, then finished undoing the buttons that closed the outer seams of his sleeves. As she tugged his shirt away from his body, her robe slipped more, revealing tantalizing hints of skin.

  This all felt surreal, like a dream. Real or not, though, it was a marked improvement over the last few days. With a sigh, he let go of his resistance and put his arms around her waist. Drawing her close, he inhaled her scent, a fragrant blend of spices and incense.

  Khal reached down to the outer seams of his trousers, which were held closed by flaps. As she undid the flaps, she traced her fingertips over his skin. He finally understood why men's trousers here had such an odd design. A woman who knew what she was doing could make taking them off intensely erotic.

  Pushing up on her elbow, Khal gazed at him. “You've such big eyes.” She rolled a lock of his hair between her fingers. “Our poets write soliloquies about the wind god Khozaar. They say his face has a beauty no mortal man can match. But they never saw yours, Jeremiah. You shame even the wind."

  Good Lord. She was sweet-talking him. Before he could think of an appropriate response, if one even existed to such outrageous statements, she added, “I can't believe the women on your Earth let you come here alone."

  “Oh, well. You know. I had them all dazzled.” He had to laugh. “They never even knew I existed."

  “You are modest. I like that.” She brushed her lips across his cheek.

  He pulled her closer, pressing his cheek against hers in a gesture his one and only girlfriend on Earth had called “too tender,” as if that somehow made it wrong. Khal seemed to like it, though, which pleased him.

  Had her clothes been made with the same complicated flaps and fastenings as his, he doubted he could have figured them out in his inebriated state. But it was simple to pull the braided cord of her robe and slip the velvet off her body. She wore a silk shift underneath that rippled over her toned curves. He watched with appreciation when she sat up and pulled the shift over her head, her breasts lifting as she raised her arms. The silk trailed over her nipples. He wondered if all Coban women were so well-formed, or if she took unusually good care of herself.

  She settled alongside him and touched her lips to his, but she resisted when he tried to pull her into a kiss. He hesitated, unsure if Cobans had the custom. He had never seen two Cobans kiss, and his questions had always been met with embarrassed silence or smirks. If they did kiss here, they considered it far more private than in the Wyoming culture on Earth that had produced him.

  Uncertain what Khal wanted, he stopped trying to push. It seemed the right response; she relaxed and brushed her mouth over his again, feather light. She slid down and touched her lips to his chest, her caress maddening in its “almost there” quality, as if she would stop teasing any moment and truly kiss him. He tried to reach for her, but she nudged him back in the pillows. Then she tickled his belly button with her tongue. Jeremiah laughed and stroked her hair, staring at the gold ceiling.

  When she went lower still, he couldn't take any more. Grasping her arms, he tugged her back up and rolled her over until he lay on top of her. She made a deep-throated sound, a blend of surprise, protest, and pleasure. Caressing her breasts, he tried to kiss her again. This time she turned her head.

  “Come on, Khal,” he said against her ear.

  She pressed her hands against his shoulders, pushing him over onto his back again. Disconcerted, he realized that with her muscled body and greater height, she was stronger than him. She didn't want to fight, though. When he relaxed, she touched him all over with both her mouth and hands, taking her time, until he groaned. When he tried to return her caresses, she always nudged him back into the pillows.

  Finally he grasped her shoulders and dragged her up on top of him. “Quit teasing me,” he said in a husky voice. “You're making me crazy."

  Her eyes had glazed with desire. “I always wondered, when I saw you in Dahl, what passions lay under that ice prince exterior of yours. Rumor said no woman could melt the ice, but I knew they were wrong."

  The women in Dahl had talked about him? Then again, what did it matter now? He tried to kiss her again—and this time she responded, deep and full. As he stroked her, she moved her hands on him. Then she lifted her hips and slid down, filling herself with him. They made love buried in the pillows, slow and steady. When he finally climaxed, she let herself go as well.

  Afterward they lay quiet, side by side, their breath slowing to normal. Eventually Khal pushed up on her elbow. When he smiled, she traced her finger over his lips. Then she reached for her robe.

  He caught her around the waist. “Where are you going?"

  “I ... have, ah, Estate business."

  His drowsy contentment began to fade. The histories he had read of the Twelve Estates treated love like a fine wine to savor. The idea of a Manager leaving her Akasi on their wedding night would have appalled the poets. Of course, those were all romanticized folktales, but even so, he found it hard to believe Khal's behavior was normal.

  He drew her down next to him. “Surely it can't be so important that you have to go now."

  At first she lay stiff in his arms. After several moments, though, she relaxed. “Perhaps not."

  “Khal, what's wrong?"

  It was a moment before she answered. Finally she said, “You are a wonderful lover. But...” She touched the gold guard on his wrist. “It is unusual for an Akasi on his wedding night to show your, ah—expertise."

  Oh, Lord. She was upset because he wasn't a virgin. He shouldn't have been surprised. Even so, it threw him. “You knew I wasn't Coban."

  Disappointment washed over her face. “I had hoped you would tell me that I erred. Your behavior in Dahl was said to be above reproach."

  After everything else that had happened in the past few days, he didn't think he could face a rejection now. He was tempted to tell her what she wanted to hear. But to hide the truth would be a tacit agreement that he had done something wrong. He had never dated much, but the one woman who had loved him had meant a great deal to him, despite everything, and he didn't intend to diminish that by lying.

  “I was a guest at Dahl,” he said. “I respected the customs of my hosts. But my life was formed by a different culture. I'm not ashamed of that."

  “In this culture of yours—were you—” She spoke with difficulty. “Free with yourself?"

  He thought of all the times he had sat around with his friend Wayland, a grad student in computer science, the two of them grumbling about their lack of a love life. Dryly he said, “No. Not at all."

  “You bring such skill to your lovemaking.” A hint of mischief touched her smile. “It
must be natural talent."

  Or loneliness, he thought. He understood the question behind her compliment, though. “I was engaged years ago."

  “Engaged?"

  “It's an English word. It means spoken for. I suppose you could say betrothed, though that's more formal."

  She tensed. “A woman waits for you on Earth?"

  “No.” Even after so long it hurt to remember. Miranda had ended the engagement months before he left for Coba. She had no interest in following him to exotic places, and he had never fit in with the influential circles she traveled. What had hurt most was knowing she believed he wasn't good enough for her crowd. He wondered what she would think when she learned that instead of her, he had married one of the most powerful women on an entire world. Let her chew on that.

  Khal was watching him again. “This woman who stole your virtue—she also broke your heart."

  He wished his face didn't show his emotions so clearly. “Something like that."

  Gently she said, “Then let us make an agreement."

  “An agreement?"

  “I will try to accept your past."

  “And in return?"

  “You will try to accept being my Calani."

  He exhaled. “I can't."

  “Try, Jeremiah. I don't want you to be unhappy."

  After a moment he said, “I'll see.” He could never stop trying to return home. But while he was here, he could try to make the best of this. It was better than staring out the window all day without eating.

  That night he slept among silk pillows in the arms of his wife—a world leader, kidnapper, and enigma.

  * * * *

  The main common room in the Calanya was large and airy, with many arched windows that let in streaming sunlight. The furniture and floor were polished snowfir wood. The walls started as a rich gold near the bottom, blended into lighter hues higher up, and turned white at the top, with a ceiling as blue as Coba's sky, a deeper shade than on Earth.

  Several men sat at a table playing Quis. Kev avoided them and led Jeremiah to an alcove. It had no benches, but the plush rug provided plenty of comfort. When Jeremiah sat among a scatter of cushions, his toes sunk in the pile.