CHATEAU RETOUR PLANTATION,TOURAINE PROVINCEAUGUST 3, 19471100 HOURS
"Andrew! Yo' made it!" Tanya's eyes widened as the long car with the Security skull-blazon crunched to a stop by the steps. He was in crisp garrison blacks, with nothing non-regulation but a tasteful ruby eardrop. The warmth of her smile and embrace was still on her face as she turned to formally clasp forearms with the Security officer who followed. "And Strategos Vashon," she continued. "Yo' welcome to my House, sir. Make yo'self free of it." A rueful shrug. "Bit crowded, I'm afraid."
To her brother: "Edward's up by the winery, lookin' over our new Cub with Johanna and her Tom." She turned to the waiting housegirl and took two greeting-cups, handing them to the guests while harried-looking servants swarmed down to take their luggage and direct the Orpo trooper-driver to the vehicle park west of the Great House.
They poured ceremonial drops and sipped at the wine, eyes widening slightly in appreciation at the taste.
"Spicy," Vashon said. "Hmmm, hint of… flint, maybe? Local?"
"From a friend's place, east of here: Pouilly-Fume. Fo'give me if I don't join yo', gentlemen, but I've got to get through the day standin'."
Andrew held out a hand to stop one of the serfs going by with the luggage. "Not those two, boy, they're the gifts."
The serf, a middle-aged fieldhand hurriedly kitted out in house livery for the day, bobbed his head and looked at Tanya questioningly. "The table with the gifts. Marcel," she translated into French.
"Oui, maîtresse," he said, and trotted up through the main doors.
"Yo' lookin' good," Andrew said to his sister as she turned back to them. "And considerable less pregnant than last time." Fresh and summery in a crisp white linen suit, with no hint of color but the ebony butt of the little Togren 9mm tucked into its holster inside her belt.
"Never again," she shuddered, linking an arm through his and courteously motioning the Security officer before her. They turned to the high arched gateway that passed like a tunnel through the bulk of the chateau's oldest section. Light showed at the other end, and the soft lilt of a string quartet. "Through here; the main court is out back…"
It was a bright noon, almost cloudless; hot and dry, with a fitful breeze from the north. The courtyard along the north side of Chateau Retour was a blaze of color; from banks of flowers, from the silks and jewels, from the dragon's hoard that sprawled along the long cloth-draped trestles where the naming-gifts were exhibited, from the tile and stone of the courtyard pavement itself. A wooden bandstand draped in tapestries from Lyon held musicians in pre-War formal dress, contributed from neighboring estates for the occasion. In the cool shadow of the arcade along the court's eastern flank more trestle-tables held food; piles of scarlet lobsters, roasts, salads, fruit, with white-hatted carvers and servers standing ready. Housegirls in brief gauzy costumes circulated with platters of delicacies, dabs of crevet cheese on wafers, brandied truffles, savory morsels of fish or spiced sausage, wine coolers, juices, cigarillos and hashish.
Kustaa leaned against a pillar beside the buffet table and watched the crowd, taking occasional nibbles from a plate held in one hand. A crowd of Draka; he had never seen so many Citizens in one place on a social occasion. Forty adults, he estimated, and nearly as many children, from infants being carried by their nurses to the teams playing water-polo down at the lake; their shouts and splashing echoed back, and he could see their sleek bodies slipping naked through the clear water and flung spray. The guests seemed to fill the great yard without effort, though they were far too few to crowd it, and less noisy than this number of Americans would be.
I wonder what it is, he thought. They were in every combination of attire formal and informal, from one severely elegant woman in her sixties dressed in a Grecian-style gown of pure white, through uniforms of every rank in the Domination, to a few who had just come up from the lake in nothing but the glistening water on their skins. Sitting on the benches, strolling, talking, one even in a wheelchair… There was a sickness to them, he could feel it; a rot somewhere within, but it had not seemed to weaken them. Instead they fed on it and it made them strong… You could see it in their eyes and movements, a consciousness of power. Power of life and death over other human beings, power held since birth by hereditary right.
They believe, he decided. That was what gave them that air of absolute confidence and cold will. They believe their own myth of what they are and, believing, confirm it to themselves every day of their lives. Then: Don't get spooked, they put their pants on one leg at a time like everybody else.
When they wore pants, that was. He tried to imagine a similar gathering in the U.S., Social Register types and haciendados, with one in every ten of them down to the buff. A grin forced its way to his mouth; they probably wouldn't strip half as well. Which reminded him to be careful himself; he was circumcised, and he was getting graphic evidence that Draka men were not. Beside him Ernst waited, in a creditable imitation of a personal servant's combination of attentive waiting and don't-notice-me deference. Hell with it, Kustaa thought. Can't be helped, so why should I feel guilty about it?
Then the man stiffened, looking over Kustaa's shoulder. His fingers moved:
send me away, quickly!
why? He was officially nearly dumb without him, and it was a nuisance. Particularly since there were some here who might have valuable information, and they seemed reluctant to offend or directly deny him. He wished everyone in the States were as pleasant to disabled veterans, and that tall fiftyish man was a member of the Domination's Senate, just retired from the Supreme General Staff. A quantum opportunity… because there's a Security general coming through the gate who's seen me before and probably read my file a hundred times, even without the beard and in livery he may recognize me.
Kustaa's fingers flew, and he made an imperious wave for authence effect, if somebody should be looking, get your ass out of here, the shelter, if you can. back after dark and be careful.
"Yes, master." A low bow and the Austrian hurried away, weaving through the partygoers. Carefully, with left-and-right bobs of the head: Citizens expected to be avoided.
Kustaa turned, feeling his heart surge and slow with the brief rush of adrenaline, then subside into alert wariness. He was too conspicuous to run. A Citizen was noticed when he moved, not part of the continuous background flicker of life like a serf. He would have to take his chances; his tongue probed at the capped tooth at the rear of his molars, imagining the swift crunch, a brief bitterness and oblivion. That was a choice he had made his mind up to long ago. Not simply that he accepted that there was too much knowledge in his skull, but they had sent Rutherford back. Alive, in a dirigible shipping container to London, with glossy prints of his progress from capture to the thing that had made one of the bomb squad team that had opened the lid faint. With "Thanks for the lovely chat" carved in his forehead, above the lidless eyes.
The container had been correctly addressed to OSS clandestine headquarters in Britain.
For a moment, he thought of Sister Marya. Who would never use the tooth, never even consider it, even knowing what would follow… and there are advantages to being a lapsed Lutheran, he told himself. Somehow he was smiling as he completed the turn and saw Tanya von Shrakenberg walking through the archway. She waved and guided the two men with her toward him.
One in black, tall, with what Kustaa was coming to think of as the von Shrakenberg face, bony eagle-handsome features and pale eyes. Another, short, black-haired and green-eyed, in a Security Directorate uniform that matched the shade almost exactly, Jesus, a Strategos. About general—the precise level would depend on his posting; Domination rank was more flexible than Alliance and the police were not run on quite the same lines as the military anyway…
"Mr. Kenston, pleased to see yo' lookin' so well," she was saying; seeming to mean it, too. An odd pang of guilt, quickly suppressed: This isn't the middle ages, Marine. You don't owe them anything because you've eaten beneath their roof. It isn't theirs,
anyway.
"I'd like yo' to meet my brother Andrew," she continued. "An' Felix Vashon, here. Mr. Kenston," she continued to the two, "is the Wayferer-guest. Art-supply buyer, and a Class III veteran. Throat an' head injuries, unfortunately, but he's got a boy to talk fo' him… Where is he, Mr. Kenston?"
"Hel-o," Kustaa grated, exchanging forearm grips with the two men. Christ, I'm glad I don't have to arm-wrestle for a living here, he thought. "Se-nt…" he waved vaguely. "Er-rand."
"Andrew von Shrakenberg, Merarch, XIX—-formerly XIX Janissary. Now on detached duty." Hard arm, direct stare, polite expression, expressionless eyes. No. Flat, slightly dead; thousand-yard stare, familiar as the cracked scraps of shaving mirrors on troopship bulkheads during the War. Combat man, and not from a bunker, either.
"Felix Vashon, Strategos, West-Central European district," the secret policeman said. Pleasant smile, well modulated voice. The sort who made you understand why the standard nickname for Draka was "snake"—or that might just be knowledge of what he did for a living. Maybe this is the one that cut off Rutherford's eyelids and left him staring into a strobelight for a week, the American thought.
Tanya was about to continue, halted, beckoned imperiously. Marya came up to the small group of Draka, bowed politely and stood with a clipboard in her hands, eyes meekly downcast.
"Report," her owner said.
"Mistress, all the scheduled guests have arrived. These masters are also to be staying?" She brought up the paper and produced a pen. "Masters, there is camp-style accommodation in the pavilions in the cherry orchard west of the maze, or rooms at the plantations surrounding. Here? Very good, Masters; the last pavilion on the right; your luggage will be laid out." To Tanya:
"The final check on provisions indicates more than ample, Mistress. Cook says the suckling-pigs are turning out very well. The extra servants and the personal retinues of the guests have all been settled in and familiarized with the floor plan and the events. The transport for the boar-hunt tomorrow is on schedule. Refueling arrangements for the aircraft at the landing field are complete, and the tanker-steamer is standing by. Repairs on the dock at Port-Boulet are complete and the yacht is at anchor. Yasmin and Solange are completing their rehearsals and Solange says she is satisfied with the musicians"—she inclined her head toward the dais by the old chapel building—"for a provincial group. No serious problems, Mistress."
Tanya patted her on the cheek and spoke to her brother. "Remember pickin' her up fo' me, back this spring? Yo' were kind enough to offer me the run of yo' pens back there in Lyon, Strategos."
"It's a festive occasion. Felix, please. The wench is satisfactory? I had my doubts, frankly."
"Mo" than satisfactory. Occasionally troublesome, but worth it; real mind fo' organization. New plantation, routines not set, Edward an' I have to concentrate on plannin' and getting the labor force goin', she's invaluable."
"Hmmm, thought she might," Andrew said. "Yo' get a feelin'. Type yo' have to watch, though."
"Yes… although she turns out to have unexpected talents as well. Mr. Kenston here"—she gave him a smile and a friendly squeeze on the forearm; her fingers were like slender metal rods, precisely controlled force— "took a sudden hunger fo' her yesterday. To tell the absolute truth," she continued frankly, "if there'd been a way of refusin' him compatible with manners, I would have." A favorite horse or a regular concubine was something only a friend could ask the loan of, as a favor; ordinary household goods like Marya were a guest's to use, of course. "I've gotten to know the wench somewhat, an' I'd've sworn on the soul of the Race and the first von Shrakenberg's grave all her erotic juices were channeled into her superstitions, need a prybar and help to get her knees open. Pro'bly girl-only if she were beddable, at that. Instead—"
She put a finger under Marya's chin and lifted her face to the light. "Look at that. Yo' wouldn't notice, but the skin around her eyes is mo' relaxed. Set of the shoulders, too." A rueful shake of the head. "Happy! An' I was afraid she'd be sulkin and poutin' off her work fo' weeks, at least. Turned out all she needed was a night-rider and she's purrin'. Shows, never be too certain about anybody."
To her guest: "Satisfactory fo' yo'?"
Kustaa smiled, looking at the three; their sleek strong bodies so expensively trained, the beautifully tailored clothes and uniforms, the cold predator eyes that never lost that speck of icy watchfulness. At the woman waiting patiently, dowdy in her long sleeves and the heavy wool that brought a glow of sweat to her face. Waiting with serene patience. Filth, he thought at the Draka, behind the mask of his smile. You're all filth, none of you worth a thousandth the Sister.
"Go-od," he said, nodding and smiling, knowing his face was flushing—but that was all right, they weren't going to guess it was with the intensity of his need to kill them all. Out, he thought. If the world were ruled by sanity and justice as she believes, I could get her out. Introduce her to Maila. God, I'd send my kid to any school she taught in.
The Draka's finger freed the nun's chin; her eyes met his for a moment before dropping into the proper downcast position. Level and very calm. Do nothing foolish, Frederick. No, he wasn't going to do anything foolish, no, there was an entire lifetime of work ahead of him. Until the last Draka was dead. them damage Do not letyour soul with hatred. You owe your wife and child more than that, and yourself.
That brought him up cold. "Th-an-k y-o," he said. The Draka woman nodded, taking the gratitude that was not meant for her, as he had intended. And the Sister would say this place was her cross, which she would take up to follow Him.
"Hold yo'self at this mastah's disposal, when yo' not workin'," Tanya said. "If yo'll forgive me, Mr. Kenston?" He nodded, and the group moved on.
"Uncle Karl," he heard the voice say. "Cousin Eric; yo' two aren't fightin' again? Sofie, yo'd better learn how to keep this pair of bull rhinos—"
"It's the Boche," Jean said, when Henri finally called from the other room. He inserted his head through the hood of the vision block beside the door, pressing his face to the padded visor. There was enough light in the short section of tunnel beyond the armor plate for him to see a distorted image of the man's face. Peering behind him, so there was only a stretch of neck swollen by the mirrors and thick glass that bent its image through ninety degrees to bring to him. Turning around, mouth working, he must be talking.
Whunk-wunk-whunk, a stone on the thick steel. So far away. Like father's face, when the switch was under my hand and the pain—No thought, no thoughtno-thoughtnothought. White sound inside his head, soothing. Forget the shaking, the sweat, they could not trouble him while he whitesoundnothought could not remember the room and the chair and the whitesoundnothought—
"Well, let him in, you young cretin!" Henri's voice, Henri's hands shoving him aside, spinning the wheel. He turned, helped, the heavy door swung open. The Boche stepped through, shaking his head, speaking in heavy guttural French even as they strained together to swing it shut again, quietly, quietly. Shhhh-chung, and the bolts were sliding home again.
"What took you so long? I might have been seen. Ach, there's no possible excuse for my being here."
"Quite correct," Henri replied. "We are supposed to be hiding here." Suddenly he turned and gripped Jean by the collar. "Merde, what were you waiting for! You know we can't hear anything in the inner—" He turned suddenly, looked at the periscope. Jean felt a sudden stab of fear; it was up again.
Did I do that? Yes, he had; an impulse, in the hope that the Masters would see.
Henri's hand came around and hit him, across the face and back again. "Are you drunk, you little shit?" he said. Something seemed to snap behind Jean's forehead, and now he was seeing very clearly.
"Are you drunk? Have you been sucking that piss-smoke kif the snakes give us to rot our brains again? Or are you simply fucking insane? That thing's naked to the sky except for some wire mesh, anyone could have seen it move up there!"
Seeing very clearly, the strong jowly face of Henri Maloreaux, who ha
d been like his uncle. His father's (screamingtwistedswitchchair whitenoisenothoughtno thought) best friend, old friend from faded pictures on the mantel before the War, old army friend. God, how I hate you, he thought, very clearly, as he smiled with the right degree of shakiness.
"Thank you, Henri," he said. "I've… well, I keep remembering little Marie-Claire, and—thank you." The man's eyes softened, not the hard clench of his muscles. Jean knew what he was remembering, he was seeing Marie-Claire in her white First Communion dress. (The photo, only it was his sister across the padded block and the dog was—whitenoisenothoughtnothought) The Draka had let him talk to her just last week, her and maman, hello Jean I love you no we are well the work is hard but nobody hurts us we love you when can you come to us—
"I understand," Henri was saying.
Hate you.
"It must be absolute hell, not knowing where they are." The Maloreaux family was in the same compound, three concrete bunks across the room. "I understand."
The Boche was looking sympathetic too. "Ach," he said. "It is always the families that make it worst." Hate you. Ybarra was in the room now too, looking at him. Cold eyes, considering. Filthy Red whore, she was the one they had picked to kill the foreman, the one who listened at the doors and asked questions. Got him into her bunk, they could all hear the wet slapping sounds behind the curtain, then the thin whining cry as she put the steel needle in under the hair at the back of his neck; everyone thought it was a heart attack. Hate you, bitch.
I will go to America, he thought with the same gleeful clarity. I and Marie-Claire will go to America, I don't know how I will get word to the Masters, but I will. Not the chair, not with her or maman, not their faces bulging around the gag and my hand pressing the switch and pressing and pressing and stopping the pain the pain pressing whitenoisenothoughtnothought. The Masters will come for me, and we will go to America and Marie-Claire will wear a white dress, and we will sail under the big bridge like the newsreel and never again the compound, she will laugh and clap her hands and not bend over the block with the dog whitenoisenothoughtnothought.
Under the Yoke Page 40
