Woman's Work: Shikari Book Four

by Alma T. C. Boykin

  “Ah. That explains why the former governor’s lady never served red-bud tea and heart-fruit, even though they are so popular,” Lady Morgansi stated. “I had wondered at the time, but of course one never inquires. All is explained.”

  Rigi nibbled the sandwich and decided that whatever the grey filling was, she’d prefer not to have a larger helping if possible. It did not taste quite as unpleasant as tam, but it most certainly could not rival Shona’s leaper paté. The coffee eased the taste, and the small pastry tasted wonderful.

  “Mrs. Bernardi-Prananda, I am given to understand that you sketch?”

  “Yes, Lady Morgansi. My husband has been most generous in allowing me to continue some of my earlier hobbies, and I find sketching to be soothing.” On a whim she added, “I prefer landscapes to portraiture.”

  The older woman who had corrected the lady butler raised on eyebrow and gave her a slight disbelieving look, as if she were familiar with Rigi’s profession. The other women made polite noises and began chatting about hobbies, spouses, and similarly lady-like topics. Rigi made interested sounds when someone directed a look or comment to her specifically, but otherwise stayed quiet. It seemed to be the safest approach, lest she inadvertently commit some form of social error. The manners books and files assured their reader that the most junior wife was not expect to participate in conversations unless directly addressed, and thus far the books seemed to be correct. Rigi felt a little as if she were a child again, listening to adults talking over her head as she passed plates and poured tea.

  “…She said that she’d have no part in such things, and stalked out of the room, calling for a servant to bring her coat and summon her hover-car, except as you know there are no hover-cars on Shikhari. Then the young woman slapped the maid with her fan, if you can believe such a thing, because the maid did not understand the request. What do you expect of a sixth-Stamm?” The speaker tutted. “Really. I’m sorry to say, but after two years, she should know better.”

  “Oh yes, she truly should. Everyone knows how easy it is to confuse servants of the fifth and sixth-Stamme. I’m surprised to hear that His Excellency has such low Stamm staff.” Mrs. Goodpasture sighed a little. “Or is it part of the Crown’s anti-discrimination rules?”

  “I suspect the latter, and,” the first speaker’s volume decreased a little, “it is said, the lower pay grade, but that is pure rumor, and no doubt incorrect.”

  “No doubt,” Mrs. Goodpasture replied with equally hushed tones. Rigi winced inside. There could only be one woman who fit the description of the individual involved, and Rigi thanked the Creator and Creatrix yet again that Tomás had not married Miss Leopoldi. Alas, she seemed to be the reason for the proverbs about a lovely exterior concealing an unwashed heart.

  The very old-style clock on the mantle chimed four and Lady Morgansi stood. Rigi had guessed correctly, and admired Lady Morgansi's excellent posture and most flattering skirted suit. Rigi and the others stood as well and took their leave. She had not been introduced to anyone, so Rigi eased out of the group, curtsied, and when Lt. Col. Morgansi’s lady nodded her dismissal, left. The lady butler gave her another cold look, studying her with great thoroughness and care. Rigi wondered if she ought to turn her pockets inside out to show that she had not lifted any of the silver and gilt spoons. A different maid handed Rigi her rain hood. Rigi murmured her thanks. She went out onto the porch, inhaled the cool, moist air, and decided that she was not a social creature.

  She looked around for Makana and the wombow cart but saw no sign of them. With a little shrug she walked down the steps, through the garden, and followed the walking path through the officers’ housing to where Makana had left Tomás. She moved briskly, head up, shoulders back, acting as if she had every right to be on the base. A few human soldiers looked at her a bit oddly as they guided freight-floats down the road, but no one challenged her. The houses grew smaller and the gardens shrank, shifting from flowers and ornamental features to kitchen-gardens with vegetables and herbs. Rigi did not see anyone working in the gardens, but the rain discouraged most people, and weed season would not begin for a few more weeks. As well, those with sufficient funds and rank—or ambitions—had likely relocated to Keralita, joining the Royal Governor, the general in charge of planetary defense, and all others who could move to the hills during the cool and wet.

  Makana and Tomás found her before she reached the restricted section of the base. “Mistress Rigi, what are you doing, ma’am?” Makana protested, issuing //distress/concern/embarrassment// in equal measure as he lowered the cart’s step before steadying Slowth so Rigi could climb in without difficulty.

  “The fault is mine, Makana, Captain Prananda,” Rigi assured the two males. “I failed to recall that the lowest ranked ladies are dismissed first, and that the times on the invitation were for the senior wives.” Tomás shifted over, making room for her and keeping the cart balanced as Makana raised the black metal step, then climbed into the Staré seat at the front of the cart. She heard a low-voiced grunting rumble from the front of the cart, but could not tell if it was Slowth complaining about the world at large, or Makana voicing his opinion of Rigi walking in the rain. Or worse still, Rigi being seen walking in the rain when she had a perfectly good cart and driver.

  Tomás remained silent until they passed out of the gate and Makana let Slowth trot on the wombow path into NovMerv proper. At last he inquired, “Did the visit go as hoped?”

  She’d been wondering just that thing. After some silent thought, she ventured, “I am not certain, but I believe so. No one appeared upset with me, aside from the lady butler. She seems to be, ah, especially determined to ensure that proper protocols are followed.”

  “Did you notice her insignia by any chance?”

  “Insignia?” Rigi tried to recall. “No, although she did have black-on-black embroidery on her collar, and possibly on the lapels of her jacket. Her clothing was very Home-style. I fear I do not meet her standards.”

  He smiled and patted her hand, as much familiarity as his uniform allowed them in public. “No one meets her standards, nor can they. She is a protocol officer assigned to the commanding officer of the regiment. Because Col. DeLeon and Mrs. DeLeon are currently off-world, Lt. Col. Morgansi and Mrs. Morgansi are acting as the senior couple, both in the command structure and socially. I’m not familiar with her rank, but she is probably at least a major herself.”

  Rigi blinked and covered her confusion by looking at the plants beside the path. A dark blue false-glider jumped from a tree limb and kited his way down to a sturdy bush, landing in the pale-green foliage. She still did not know why the reptiles were called false-gliders, because they did in fact glide from tree to tree, but the name remained. “I was not aware that any female military personnel were stationed on colony worlds, since they are all non-combatants.”

  “A very few are, mostly recruiters, communications specialists, and protocol assistants. Oh, and legal staff. Otherwise you are correct, and there are no women in uniform on LimWorld, for reasons you know.”

  “Indeed.” She pursed her lips with disapproval at the memory of her encounters with two individuals from LimWorld, one a gentleman and the other man most certainly not a gentleman. Makana made a snarling sound. He too recalled the not-a-gentleman, or so it seemed. He also deftly guided Slowth to the right side of the path, allowing a four-wombow single-row hitch to trot past. Tomás shook his head and Rigi smiled a little. Someone had lined the wombows up by color, palest in the lead and darkest just in front of the driver. The rain-cover over the fancy two-passenger carriage’s driver’s seat also shaded pale to dark, in this case orange, and the carriage sported bright yellow wheels. Makana snorted in a human sort of way at the display.

  On a whim, Rigi smiled and suggested, “Capt. Prananda, what would Kor do if we purchased an eight wombow wagon, with inverse color lines in the hitch, for his use?”

  His eyes went wide and he gaped at her a bit like a fish, then started laughing, head t
ipped back so far his hat almost fell off. “Mrs. Bernardi-Prananda, it would render him speechless. Not scentless, but certainly speechless.” He lowered his voice to a near whisper and murmured, “And then he would trade six of the beasts for the palest healthy wombows he could find and drive it past Tortuh’s residence at least once a day.”

  Rigi covered her mouth with her hand to hide her giggles, because she could see Kor doing exactly that, just to irritate his twin. Kor should have been part of the Elders’ Council of the Staré. He should have served in one of the leadership positions within the Staré’s government, positions that all first Stamm took by right of birth. That he did none of those things unless compelled by dire necessity, and then resigned his position and duties at the first possible moment if not sooner, drove his identical twin frantic to the point of “bleaching his fur and taking up leaper-herding,” as the Staré phrased it. She had a sudden thought. “What do their parents say?”

  Tomás gave a quick shake of his head, expression grave. That meant that whatever it was, he couldn’t speak of it and she shouldn’t press. Rigi accepted the warning and turned her attention back to more pertinent matters, such as if she ought to accept yet another wombow portrait commission. This was for one in tempera-style, and she had not used that medium in so long that she was not certain she could do the colors properly any more.

  “My leave ends in three days,” Tomás stated, bringing her back from trying to recall how she’d done brindled and stippled coats in tempera.

  “Ah, it does?”

  “Yes. I learned this morning that I will not be permitted to live off-base.”

  And she could not yet live on-base, assuming that she wanted to and that suitable housing could be found. “Oh.”

  “Oh indeed.”

  That reminded her. “Captain, do any of the other officers have Staré in their households?”

  “If you mean those who live on-base, no, aside from military aides if they are assigned to Staré units.” He frowned. “My understanding is that native servants are disapproved of on Home. That disapproval has been voiced by the same groups of people who insist that humans have imposed Stamm on the Staré and that we ought not have shot-down the war-craft that attacked Shikhari without offering peace-terms first.”

  The rank stench of //disapproval/disgust/anger/disbelief/frustration// that blew into the cart from the driver’s seat left no doubt as to Makana’s thoughts on that sort of person. Rigi managed not to choke or wave away the cloud of pheromones, or pinch her nose, but it took most of her self-control. Even so her eyes watered and she almost coughed. Tomás seemed to have similar difficulty.

  Rigi desperately tried to change the topic. “Since you will be returning to the military housing, is there something you would prefer for dinner and supper tomorrow and the next day. And Kor as well,” she added quickly.

  He gave her a rapid and exceedingly lascivious look, implying exactly what he wanted, then cleared his expression. “I believe Kor has already asked for batter-dipped tam patties in leaper-ragout, but I will have to consider. I do not want to overwhelm Nahla.”

  He had an excellent point, because Nahla took even the lightest request with absolute seriousness. Rigi had found the young female at the point of breakdown one afternoon because something was out-of-season and Nahla had failed to understand that Rigi’s older brother Cyril had been joking when he’d asked for it.

  Makana flicked the go-fast stick as Slowth slowed, his attention diverted by something dark green and thick-leaved. Tomás frowned. “Is there anything Slowth will not try to eat?”

  Makana replied, “The special feed that comes in the yellow sack, Master Tomás. It was supposed to improve his coat and ease the shed. It failed to do so, because he refused to eat more than the first mouthful.” He smelled exceedingly unhappy. “Wombows can spit if they so desire, sir. Most forcefully.”

  “I—” Tomás struggled for words. “I do not believe I would care to observe that in person.”

  Rigi shook her head so emphatically it shook some of her curls loose from their pins. “No, you do not, because the resulting mess is quite difficult to clean up. I will not say more.” If Rigi never, ever had to deal with anything like that again, she would die content.

  “I do not think I offended anyone, and I did not turn over the teapot or drop one of the trays,” Rigi told her mother the next day. Tomás had taken the wombow cart, Kor had also departed, and Rigi took advantage of their absence to comm her mother.

  “Then I would consider the afternoon to be a successful debut. No, Paul, that is not food,” Mrs. DeStella-Bernardi rescued something from Rigi’s much-younger brother. “I do hope he outgrows the tasting phase soon. He attempted to sample a wombow’s leg two days ago.”

  “Oh dear! I trust no one was injured?” For all that they looked like balls with legs, wombow kicks and bites hurt a number of people every month.

  “No, Creatrix be praised. It was a foreleg, and the wombow opted to return the favor and licked Paul until he dripped.” Her mother sighed and rubbed her forehead. “You and Lyria were never so adventurous, thanks be. And while I am thinking of it, Lyria and Uri have been blessed with a third child. Another boy. Your sister was hoping for a girl, but is most grateful for a healthy child no matter the sex. He will be Bronson Crux.”

  So he had not been born as of when her older sister wrote her letter. Rigi made a mental note to send her best wishes in her own next missive, and scratched Crux off her list of baby names. It was poor form to repeat names laterally. Would Tomás allow her to name their children per the Tradition? She had not discussed the matter with him. Rigi made another mental note. “I will make a thanks offering for the good news,” Rigi assured her mother.

  “Thank you. I’m certain Lyria and Uri will be grateful when they learn of your generosity.” Rigi heard a barely muffled boy’s voice, and her younger brother began bouncing up and down, trying to get into the comm image. “Paul, do not interrupt me when I am speaking.”

  “I want to comm!”

  “No.”

  “I wanna comm, I wanna comm!” A sticky-looking hand reached for something on the table.

  Quick as thought her mother scooped Paul up, laid him across her lap, and swatted his well-padded rump three times. “No.” She did not raise her voice or act otherwise disturbed.

  Rigi tapped the mute function as Paul started to howl. Her mother frowned, swatted Paul’s behind once more, and stood, carrying him somewhere. Rigi un-muted as her mother returned, sans offspring. “Your brother has decided that naps are not necessary. He is being disabused of that error.”

  “There seems to be a great deal of disabusing of errors going on at present.” Rigi sighed. “Dr. De Groet has decided to wait to file a counter suit against the claims that he, Aunt Kay, and I made the portrait tile of the Staré female in Strahla City. It appears that the Petrason family has yet to realize that Shikhari is not a suitable stage for their ambitions.”

  Her mother’s mouth compressed into a thin line. “That is unfortunate.” She left unsaid a great deal. Rigi nodded. The less spoken about the Petrason family, the less chance either woman would say something uncharitable. Temptations avoided were the easiest to resist, as the Great Book said. “Your father wishes to know if you and Tomás will be coming for dinner after the next Day of Rest.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am, but no. He returns to duty in two days, and will be in the field soon after, or so it appears.”

  “Ah. I will remind your father that the military and the Company operate on different schedules.”

  They chatted a little more, then her mother signed off. Rigi replied to a few messages, including agreeing to the wombow in tempera portrait, and stood. The world swam and she grabbed the edge of the heavy steel and iron-wood table, not moving until the room stopped waving back and forth. Nahla’s head appeared in the doorway, her eyes went wide, and she crossed the distance in two hops, steadying Rigi. “Mistress, are you ill?”

&nbs
p; “I— I believe that I am not. Thank you, Nahla, I feel a touch dizzy is all.”

  Nahla backed up and did not quite wag one finger and claw at Rigi. “Dinner is waiting, Mistress.”

  Rigi looked at the timepiece beside the work station and gasped. “Oh, Nahla, I am dreadfully sorry! I should have kept better track of time. I apologize.” She followed Nahla to the dining room and found the table set, as it likely had been for the last hour and a half or more. “I’m sorry,” she repeated. “That will not happen again.” She sat and ate the thick soup and bread, followed by root vegetables in a sauce. She could tell that Nahla had tried to keep things from separating or overcooking, and she felt worse. “Please, do not hesitate to remind me of the time,” Rigi said after she finished.

  Pure //disbelief// wafted from the doorway. “But Mistress, the Wise are never to be disturbed unless it is life or death.”

  “And a meal is exactly that, unless someone specifically orders that they not be disturbed,” a deep male voice said from behind Rigi. She turned and hand-bowed in her seat to Kor. “Mistress Rigi is not as the other Wise,” he continued. “She thinks about the efforts of those who look to her.” He sounded sour, and Rigi wondered what had upset him. Had one of the First Stamm been abusing their rights again?

  Nahla bowed. “Yes, first-Stamm sir,” and fled into the kitchen, probably hiding behind the large cutting block and table.

  Kor walked into the room and crouch-sat beside the Staré table. Rigi drank the last of her tea and wondered if she should ask what bothered him. Kor kept himself to himself much of the time. “I fear my honored sibling and his associates intend to impose their desires on those of lower Stamm,” the black-furred hunter snarled. “And they wonder why I prefer to associate with carnifex leapers, wombeasts, and humans.”

  “Dare I ask, sir, or is it better for humans to remain unknowing?”