by Alma Boykin
“Why?” The hurt in his voice made her feel worse.
“He said that it would be unfair to me for you to have pleasure when I can’t,” she said, stinging again from her mentor’s brutally blunt truth. “He also . . .” She shook her head, unable to say it aloud. He said I’d probably outlive you, and that he would need me after you die. She didn’t want to think about that prospect, or the reverse.
Her love came up behind her and put his arms around her. “Hairball, I said it doesn’t matter, and it still doesn’t.” She turned slightly so she could see him, and he put his hand on her belly. Rachel cringed, then laid her cool hands over his. Rather than speaking, he lowered his shields so she could feel his emotions. She turned in his arms and gave him a wondering look, then reached up, stroking his cheek.
“You are so much kinder and stronger than I am,” Rachel whispered, looking into the liquid gold of his eyes. “How did you ever come to . . .”
He shook his head, quieting her. “Hush. We’ve both been blessed far more than we could ever deserve. Just be thankful that I’m old enough to know what’s important. And that Rahoul was able to give you time off.” At her wry look, he added, “And that no one is shooting at us, and that Logres is quiet, and that no terrorists have been reported in the area, and . . .”
“I yield, I yield!” She laughed, her silver eye dancing. “You win, again. As always, my lord.”
He lightly tapped her nose. “And don’t forget it, Commander Na Gael. I still outrank you, and Vienna still owes me favors. Now,” he stepped away from her and returned to his seat. “As your penalty, go open the box and tell me what you think.” He sipped his coffee and waited as sounds of rustling paper came from her bedroom.
“Ooooh,” a hushed voice said. “Oh, my.” The graying man smiled as he lit his pipe and imagined her expression. Then the door closed. He poured himself more coffee and pulled the curtain shut against the damp cold outside. Before Joschka could grow impatient, the door opened again and Rachel emerged wearing her Christmas gift.
It was a dark loden-green suit of traditional Austrian cut. The jacket was of very soft, thick, boiled wool, with a heavy silk-twill skirt in the same color. Over the jacket, Rachel had draped the brown shawl Joshka had given her as an engagement gift. He could see the stones of her betrothal necklace peeping out of the jacket’s collar and smiled at the sight. Joschka stood as she walked into the room, and at his gesture she turned around so he could see the fit. “It will do,” he decided, then almost staggered as she threw herself into his arms.
“Oh, Joschka!” She hugged him fiercely. “Thank you, thank you! It’s beautiful!” He let his hand slide down her back, below her waist, and smiled as he felt the nub that remained of her tail wagging briskly beneath the cool silk. “Now, my turn.” She twirled out of his arms and vanished again, returning with two boxes.
He considered for a moment, then took the larger, wooden one. It had been inlaid with at least four different shades of wood into an image of hills and a river. Joschka puzzled out how to open it and lifted the top off to reveal a statuette of a True-dragon carved from smoky blue quartz. The reptile stood on her hind legs, forefeet up, like a cat dancing, while she glanced over her shoulder. The figure gave the illusion of movement, and Joschka swore he caught a glimmer of mischief in the inset lapis eyes. “I take it this means she approves?”
“Oh yes. Very much. Although, fair warning, the term she used was ‘trade alliance merger.’” They both smiled at the figure, which he carefully set beside him on the end table.
He unwrapped the second box, opened it, and his jaw dropped in surprise. “You’ll want this,” Rachel offered, pulling her loupe out of its pouch. Joschka took the jeweler’s magnifying glass and looked at the details in the miniature painting of Rachel from the waist up, posed in semi-profile to minimize her scars. She wore the grey necklace and a simple Elizabethan gown of dark grey-blue with silver trim. The sides of her hair had been braided up into a coronet, but more hung loose down her back. With the glass he could see details of the embroidery along the ribbon neckline and small silver clips and pins in her hair, as well as the faint clouds in the pale summer sky behind her.
“Rachel, this is exquisite! Where did you get this?” He looked from her to the palm-sized painting in his hand and back.
“England in 1590. I’ve never found anyone as skilled as the Elizabethan miniaturists. Early Happy Christmas, beloved.”
Now it was his turn to pull her into his arms—after putting the portrait out of harm’s way. Joschka kissed her forehead, then tucked her head under his chin. Rachel began purring, and he held her closer. “Do you ever purr for anyone else?”
“I did for my mother,” she hummed quietly. “Munks, my half-brother, and I weren’t that close and Anna didn’t understand, so I never had a reason to purr for anyone after Mrrti was killed.” Joschka shook his head for her loneliness and long sorrows. “But I do now,” she added.
“Thank you, my little Rakoji,” he whispered. “For everything.”
“Love, I do need to breathe,” she cautioned after a moment, and he took the hint, releasing her. Then he looked at his watch.
Forty-five minutes later, the couple arrived at the restaurant. Joschka had changed into a dark blue, English-tailored suit, and Rachel thought he looked amazingly handsome, the color complimenting the customary bright blue of his eyes and the streaks of silver-grey in his chestnut hair. They were once again in their public personae of noble and assistant, and she’d put her green-brown contact lenses back in, hiding her odd eye color and blindness. However, as Joschka had reminded her, no one was trying to kill them at the moment, and for that she was grateful. She trailed a little behind him, ostensibly because of her lower rank, and kept watch for muggers, or anyone else foolish enough to try and attack them.
The Graf von Hohen-Drachenburg had selected an old restaurant specializing in wild game, something both he and Commander Na Gael enjoyed. She chose the venison saddle, while he had elk, both with traditional sides of potatoes, sour cabbage, and various tart relishes to balance the fat and the game flavor of the meats. Joschka sampled a local Christmas beer and decided that his cousin-in-law had been correct to declare mass brand beers anathema.
After the early supper, Joschka and Rachel walked through the snowy evening to the Church of St. John Nepomuk. The students and faculty of the Music Conservatory were performing J.S. Bach’s “Christmas Oratorio” in the lavish High Baroque church. The crowd gave Rachel an excuse to sit very close to “her employer,” and he could hear her humming along once or twice. They both lost themselves in the soaring glory of the music, and Rachel thought back to a comment one of the British troopers had made. They’d been discussing religions and then-Regimental Sergeant Major Richard Chan had opined that any faith capable of inspiring works such as the “St. Matthew’s Passion,” Rachmaninov’s “Vespers,” and Lauridsen’s “Magnum Mysterium,” had to have something to it. As the fugues and counterpoints chased each other under the painted ceiling and among the glittering chapels along the sides of the church, Rachel found herself agreeing with him once again.
The concert ended around 2100, and once again Joschka took the lead, his brunette shadow falling in at his shoulder as he had shadowed and guarded her five centuries before. On the way back to their hotel, they stopped at an elegant conditori for a “little something.” The woman was practically licking her whiskers by the time she finished her chocolate and nut torte. Joschka savored his Apfelküchen and coffee, smiling behind his beard as the other late-evening patrons studied his companion and speculated as to who she might be. He regarded her possessively, watching her graceful movements as they rose to go. He knew that she considered herself unattractive, but Joschka disagreed. Her beauty lay underneath her skin, literally in this case, and had grown all the greater over the years.
“Good thing my ticket is for the late morning train, my lord,” Rachel observed, as they walked through increasingly wet snow. Josc
hka didn’t say anything, instead reaching back and taking her hand, pulling her up even with him. “What will the neighbors say?” she exclaimed, mimicking a stereotypical old German housewife.
“Wise neighbors expect eccentricities from the nobility, especially those of a certain rank and station,” he informed her in heavy, Prussian-accented High German. Her snicker ruined the effect, and he gave her the look he’d perfected in the late 1890s when he’d been stationed in the Hapsburg Imperial Embassy in Berlin. She cowered a little, playing meek and obedient for the rest of the walk back to their rooms in the former town palace.
When he emerged from the restroom, Rachel had washed off her cosmetics and changed back into the brown skirt and blouse that he liked, keeping the Spanish shawl. The chambermaid had laid a small fire in the hearth in the common room, and Rachel was dusting her hands off after lighting it. She seemed a little pensive, and Joschka wondered what was bothering her, or if she was just tired. He didn’t say anything until after he’d packed and lit his favorite pipe.
She stared into the flames, expression shadowed.
Joschka sent a plume of smoke toward the fire, then rested a hand on her back. “Problem, Hairball?”
“I guess I feel a little guilty about all the wonderful things you’ve given me and done for me, love,” she confessed.
“Don’t, Rachel. My family is well provided for, the House is secure, and if I wish to spend my income on you, then I will.” He blew another stream of smoke. “Let me spoil you, Hairball, because the tables may turn soon.”
“What? Oh wait, don’t tell me. Leopold.” She shook her head a little, then rested it against his shoulder.
“I’m afraid so. He’s grown harder and colder since the separation. He’s still a good man, and he’ll do well for the House. But he does not care for you or for the idea of us marrying.” Joschka puffed some smoke rings and felt Rada extending love and comfort.
“Is he afraid that I’m after a title or your money?” That would have been the logical issue. Joschka had politely and firmly turned down a few importuning widows since Adele’s death, Rachel knew.
Joschka frowned and took another pull on his pipe. “No. And it’s not because of a problem with the House. My making a House alliance has been accepted easily. No, I think it’s personal. He’s too rigid in his thinking to accept that his grandfather can be in love again, and especially with an alien. He’s never liked you, for some reason.”
Rachel made a soft but rude noise. “He should grow up. I didn’t care for Brigadier Arundel or King-Emperor Schree, but I managed to work with them. Granted, marriage was never involved,” she allowed.
Rachel considered the matter for another moment as he blew a smoke ring, then briskly nodded her head. “Well that makes the wedding question easier.” At his puzzled look, she expanded, sounding just like some of the petulant, self-centered young heiresses he’d encountered over the years. “Here I’d been wondering what the society pages would say if the only people on the bride’s side of the aisle were Rahoul, Panpit, and Zabet, while the groom’s side filled to overflowing. Since Zabet would insist on being matron of honor, that skews the numbers even more. Not to mention trying to figure out how to have two of my Azdhagi pages carry my train without tearing it. I was thinking of Spidroid lace with silver-thread trim. Cathedral length, of course.”
Despite the unpleasant situation, Joschka found himself laughing at the mental picture as he imagined Leopold’s expression—and those of some others, too—if Rada came down the aisle followed by two waist-high, quadrupedal, tuxedo-clad lizards. She joined in his mirth, a wicked gleam in her eye. “Oh Hairball,” he chuckled, once he managed to recover and catch his breath. “You are an evil woman, and I love you dearly for it. Registrar’s ceremony it is. Or a private mass.”
“I’m sorry I’m causing you such a headache,” she said quietly. “I never wanted to come between you and your family.”
Joschka set his pipe on top of the mantle and pulled her head against his chest, stroking her hair. “You aren’t and you won’t. Our job is to consider threats and possible actions and responses, remember? I’ve done just that, and I decided that, since I’ve been serving others for over three centuries, now it’s their turn. Truth, Rakoji—the old wandering urge has returned. If Leopold is absolutely impossible, I may just pack my bags and hitch a lift with you somewhere. I’m sure Zabet would be happy to suggest a destination, considering how often she’s told you where to go!” As he’d hoped, the woman in his arms giggled.
She snuggled deeper against his chest, purring again as he caressed her throat and rubbed under her chin. “Thank you, love,” she hummed. “You were right. I’d almost forgotten how to laugh.”
Tomorrow they would return to their respective duties in the Drachental and Great Britain. Tomorrow they would act as if nothing existed between them but professional respect. Tonight none of that mattered. Tonight the snow danced outside the window, a fire crackled in the hearth, and love banished Rada’s shadows.
This was not how 2015 was supposed to begin. “Boer One to Command Two, over.” First Sergeant Anthony Lee really did not want to call in the exercise supervisor, but neither did he want to be blamed for everything falling apart—at least, not without having warned someone in charge.
A woman’s voice responded crisply, “Command Two. Go ahead Boer one.”
“Ah, Command Two, be advised that security is denying Manx One access to the scene.”
During the long pause Sgt. Lee imagined Col. Desta Selassie grinding her teeth. “Under whose orders, Boer One?”
Lee gave the intransigent Army lieutenant a sideways look. “Colonel Sandborn. Over.”
Commander Na Gael didn’t blink when her radio buzzed. “Command Two to Manx One.”
“Manx One. Go ahead,” she replied, keeping an eye on the rifles pointed in her direction.
“Manx One, can you work from outside the scene?”
Rachel thought about it. “Affirmative, for now. Eventually I’ll need some surface samples, but I can do my initial work via remote. Over.”
“Understood. Fall back and don’t provoke a conflict unless absolutely necessary, Manx One. Over.”
“Understood. Manx One clear.”
“Command Two clear.”
Rachel took a slow step backward, allowing her guard to ease out of the way while not spooking the Army soldiers. “You followed that, Boer One?”
“Affirmative, ma’am,” Lee confirmed, then caught the box she tossed him.
“If you could have someone clip that to their harness, I’d appreciate it, Boer One. If it flashes red or I tell you to run, clear the scene immediately. Understand?”
“At your orders or if the box flashes red, we evacuate. Understood, ma’am,” the tall NCO confirmed, turning his head so the other soldiers couldn’t see him rolling his eyes.
Commander Na Gael and Corporal Wei “No Relation” Lee went back to the Athelstan troop carrier. Rachel opened one of the side doors and made herself as comfortable as possible on the sill and running board. “Might as well get in out of the wind, Corporal,” she sighed. “I suspect it will be a while before we go anywhere.”
She typed a command into her portable supercomputer and watched as the sensor suite began transmitting back to her. It was one of those things she was not supposed to have, not here and in this time, but she’d shrugged the danger off. The Traders wanted her dead anyway, so what was one more “black mark in her copy book,” as General Khan had put it? No fur off my tail if they get mad, she’d decided, since I no longer have a tail. The sensors didn’t show anything untoward, aside from slightly higher-than-usual humidity and sulfur readings, and those could be due to the thermal springs in the area. As she followed the soldiers’ progress, Rachel turned up the collar on her coat. A finger of damp wind touched the back of her neck, and she glanced briefly at the sky and sniffed. This part of the Dartmoor massif collected more rain and snow than the rest of the moor did, and th
e breeze was rich with water-scent. The Wanderer pulled her collar tighter and made herself focus on the map-overlay.
As the unit’s xenologist monitored the scouts’ approach to the possibly extraterrestrial item, Col. Selassie was on the telephone to General Khan. “No sir, I can’t countermand Col. Sandborn. He outranks me, or his men think he does, and things are very tense, sir.”
“How tense, Colonel?”
“They threatened to shoot Manx One when she tried to go with the scouts. Boer One and his squad are continuing without her rather than risk losing her.”
Forty kilometers away, Rahoul Khan shook his head to himself. That sounded like Terry Sandborn all right. Rahoul decided to be diplomatic for the moment. If necessary, he would just override the colonel and then apologize later—or not.
This was not how things were supposed to be going, he thought, as he looked at the latest information. He’d been in command of the 58th Regiment for just over half a year, and this was the first joint exercise the regiment had run with the regular Army while under his command. In theory, there was nothing out on Dartmoor for them to be interested in, aside from being able to use the military training area. But as the arrangements for the exercise had been hammered out, something had begun nagging the general. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but his xenology specialist had agreed with his hunch, thus her presence in the field. “Nothing precise, but I concur, sir.”
And thus the headache named Terrance Andrew William Sandborn, Colonel, 8th Foot. They’d been at Sandhurst together, and apparently the ensuing years had neither broadened Terry’s mind nor mitigated his sense of self-importance. What should have been a fairly smooth, easily-coordinated operation was turning into a bit of a prickle.
