by Sharon Shinn
The man on the ground was still sniveling in pain, but the other two shifted position, uncertain and still angry. “Gilder trash,” one of them snarled.
“Blueshi bastard,” Jalci shot back. “The man is here at my invitation. Doing work on my behalf. How dare you interfere with a woman’s business?”
“He’s too familiar,” the snarling man said.
“At least he’s not stupid,” was her contemptuous reply. “At least he behaves with the dignity of a man.”
“I can’t stand up,” whined the assailant on the ground. “Help me. I think he broke my leg.”
Jalci looked down at him and toed him none too gently. “You deserve to have your leg broken. You deserve to have every bone in your body broken.” She returned her angry gaze to his companions, who were backing away a little, starting to look sheepish. “Take your friend and go. Be glad I don’t ask who your families are so I can report your behavior to your mothers.”
“Hela, we will leave when this gilder man is safely gone,” said the one who hadn’t spoken till now.
“You will leave now,” Jalci replied fiercely. “Or—no—stay where you are and I will leave, so that I no longer incite you to reckless and misguided behavior.”
Without even looking behind her, Jalci reached back and grabbed Kerk’s wrist. She kept her hard gaze on the blueskin men, who still looked mutinous but a little more subdued. “Stay where you are,” she repeated, and drew Kerk along the sidewalk in the general direction of the Centrifuge. She didn’t glance back once as she hurried him away from the restaurant, around the corner, and out of sight of the indigo vigilantes.
They continued at a pretty rapid pace for another few blocks. Kerk listened closely to make sure they were not being followed, but within a couple of turns he was certain that the blueskin men had obeyed Jalci’s orders. Nonetheless, he kept his dagger in his hand. No telling how many blueskins had witnessed the altercation and might agree with the general sentiment. No telling when he might find himself in a real fight that even Jalci’s indigo arrogance couldn’t defuse.
It was full dark now, and cold, and the streets were relatively empty, though they passed dozens of shops and restaurants filled with people of all races. They were only a block or two from the Centrifuge gate when Jalci abruptly stopped and drew Kerk into the flimsy shelter of a shallow doorway that seemed to lead to some kind of commercial establishment. Not a restaurant, at any rate; its high plate-glass windows revealed only an empty darkness inside.
“I’m sorry,” she said. She had not yet dropped her hold on his arm.
“For which part of the encounter?” he asked.
She peered up at him, but he doubted she could see much of his expression. Her face, so much darker than his own, was almost completely lost in the shadows. “I am sorry that they were stupid and officious enough to care that I was having dinner with a gulden man,” she said, rattling the words off as if to get out as many as possible before he interrupted. “I am sorry that they attacked you and insulted you. But most of all, I am sorry that it had to appear as if I was protecting you. I’m sorry I couldn’t let you defend yourself. I know you are proud, and that you must be mortified to be shielded by a woman. But, Kerk, I could not let you fight them. City justice still favors the indigo, and if you had actually hurt those wretched boys, you’d have been in jail before the night was out. I couldn’t let that happen. Kerk, if you had cut one of them—if you had killed one of them—”
“I am impressed that you think I could have done that much damage when there were three of them and one of me,” he said in a clipped voice.
She shook him by the arm she still clung to. “I know you could have! The only reason all three of those men aren’t dead right now is because you aren’t the kind of man who kills at random!”
“And because I learned long before this that I cannot give myself the luxury of succumbing to rage,” he said.
She dropped her hand then, but did not step back. Did not indicate in any way that she was afraid of standing so close to a man she believed could commit three murders with a few swipes of his hands. “You’re furious,” she said in a low voice. “I don’t blame you. I’m so sorry. But please, please, don’t be angry at me. I wasn’t defending you against indigo men. I was protecting you from the indigo system—and no gulden knife has ever won a fight in that battle.”
“I am angry,” he acknowledged. “But not at you, Jalciana Candachi. I knew what you did as you did it. It is why I allowed you to speak in my defense. I put my trust in you instead of in my own instincts. But it goes very much against my nature to allow someone else to fight a battle on my behalf. Had one of those men spoken the slightest insult to you, I don’t believe I could have kept myself from ripping out his throat.”
She took a deep breath, shuddering a little. “I thought you were going to do it anyway,” she said. “I could feel you coiled behind me. I was so afraid.”
She had been touching him all night, but now, for the first time, he deliberately put a hand out and laid it against the side of her head. His fingers felt her hair, silky black against his skin; his palm rested against the smooth heat of her cheek. “You showed no fear, Jalci Candachi,” he said. “You showed courage, and quick wits, and wise judgment. I am proud to be defended by such a noble companion.”
They stood that way for a long time, his hand against her skin, her body only inches from his, the chill air seeming to snap with a sizzling current. She didn’t move and yet he could sense her battling an intense inward pressure that bent her in his direction, as if she would collapse against him and mold herself to his chest. As for himself, he held his body utterly rigid, utterly still, neither leaning forward nor pulling away, unwilling to back off from the emotion swirling through him, unwilling to give in.
Jalci spoke after what seemed a flayed hour of nerves and resistance. “If you’re not going to kiss me,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper, “I suppose we’d better go home.”
“Then we’d better go home,” he said. But he still did not drop his hand.
She reached up then, tentatively, touching those ink-dark fingertips to his cheek, his chin. “I can’t get over your face,” she said in a marveling voice. “Your color. I always thought gulden men were pasty and sort of—unfinished looking. But I love the textures of your skin. I love the way it seems as if it’s lit from underneath. I keep thinking that if I touch you, it will be like I’m holding a candle under my hand—my bones and veins will light up and grow transparent.”
“The color of your skin seems to register on me with an actual heat,” he replied. “So perhaps you are the candle, after all, and I am the thing that is going to burn up.”
She laid her palm gently across his mouth, brushing it infinitesimally back and forth as if to test the grain of a particularly delicate satin. “You are too cool to burn,” she murmured. “From the very beginning, you have been indifferent to my particular brand of fire.”
“I am gratified that that has appeared to be the case,” he said.
Footsteps on the nearby sidewalk sounded shockingly loud; a woman’s laugh floated toward them in the still air. Kerk and Jalci leapt apart as if an axe had sliced down between them, but they were still staring at each other as a cluster of blueskin women clattered by, hurrying toward the Centrifuge.
“More reminders that we are not alone in the world,” Jalci said. She sounded as if she was smiling, but she also sounded as if it took some effort.
“And that we both have other places to be,” Kerk said. “Time, indeed, to go home.”
For the first time since he had known her, they departed in separate ringcars, Jalci cheerily waving good-bye as she sent her vehicle lunging into the thin late-evening traffic. Kerk drove more slowly, keeping to the bottom lane, terrified of miscalculating speed or distance or reaction time and causing a pileup in the tunnels. He had already made a seriously dangerous mistake in judgment; it seemed only too possible that he would err again.
Eight
When Kerk returned to the Lost City three days later, he was completely in command of himself again and not even worried about the little thrill he might feel the first time he laid eyes on Jalci. He knew, if she did not, that their relationship—however exciting it might be—could never progress beyond its current stage. He would not be tempted into more light flirtations; he would not let her take his hand or joke about marriage or continue to toy with the heart of a gulden man. He would be rational; he would be cool; he would treat her with the same courteous remoteness he offered to the lady Del.
He would do none of those things, for she was not there.
She was visiting with her mother, who had come to the city unexpectedly, Del told him. She might not be back at the charity bank for four or five days. Kerk nodded, as if the information was of limited interest to him, and then he inquired after his mother. When Del reported that she had no news, he nodded again. It was hard to know which of Del’s announcements had disappointed him more.
At the gym, he put the boys through a particularly grueling training session. At home that evening, he invited Makk to a game of choisin, and they played till late that night, ending in a draw. At work over the next few days, Kerk attacked his assignments with such absorption that Brolt twice had to remind him to go home when it was almost the dinner hour. But in this way, the time passed; the days seemed full instead of empty.
When Kerk made his way back to Del’s office three days later, he had convinced himself that Jalci would not be there. No doubt her mother was still in town, requiring Jalci’s attendance, reminding Jalci of all the reasons she should not make alliances with gulden men.
So it was something of a shock to see Jalci’s face the minute he stepped inside Del’s office. He thought he was successful at hiding his leap of happiness, which was powerful enough to skew his balance for a moment. He was pretty sure he kept his voice cool as he said, “Del told me your mother was in town. Has she found a husband for you yet?”
She laughed, but he thought the sound was forced. “No, but not for lack of trying. She went home this morning, discouraged by her lack of success.”
“No doubt she’ll be back soon with the same agenda.”
“No doubt.”
After this exchange of pleasantries, Kerk turned and gave Del a brief nod. “Good afternoon, lady Del. Do you have news of my mother for me?”
“I do,” she said.
The unadorned, unexpected reply froze him where he stood, but he managed to keep the neutral expression on his face. “I am glad to hear it,” he replied. “Can you give me details? Is she alive? Will she see me?”
“She will see you, and she is here,” Del replied. “She is waiting for you in the park out back.”
The “park” was a square of badly tended grass and a few haphazard trees interspersed with crumbling stone benches. Though recent nights had been freezing, the autumn afternoon was invitingly warm, perfect for sitting outside for an hour.
“I will go to her, then,” he said.
“Kerk,” Jalci said, her voice laced with concern. “Wait.”
He glanced at her, still letting nothing show in his expression. Not hope, not joy, not wild excitement. Not fear. “I have already waited,” he said.
“Can I come with you?”
She was trying to warn him without speaking a word. He kept his eyes on hers but shook his head. “I am prepared,” he said to reassure her. “I do not need assistance to take this meeting.”
Del pointed vaguely behind her. “Out back,” she repeated.
He nodded and left the room, almost blindly blundering down hallways to the creaking door that led to the park. The stunted trees were almost completely bare, the grass was ragged and brown, and three of the four benches were empty.
On the fourth one sat a gulden woman, facing the door, watching for him. She didn’t move when he stepped through the door, didn’t leap to her feet, didn’t cover her mouth with her hands to press back almost uncontainable joy. He stood still for a moment, allowing her to study him, studying her in turn. The shape of her face was as he remembered, though softened by time; the thick brown hair was shorter. She was dressed in plain, unremarkable clothes instead of the deep blues and rich reds she had worn on Gold Mountain, and her hands were folded tightly in her lap.
He would have picked her out from a hundred gulden women, from a thousand. If he closed his eyes when she began to speak, he would sway toward her voice like a child toward safety.
But he would not close his eyes.
Slowly he crossed the final twenty yards to her side, reminding himself to breathe. He came to a halt in front of her and inclined his head in the most respectful of bows.
“I believe you are the lady Bree,” he said, and he was proud to hear that his voice did not tremble. “I am your son.”
“Kerk,” she said. “Take a seat beside me and we will talk.”
He perched next to her on the bench, and for a moment they merely stared at each other. On her face he read rough work and harsh disappointments, minor triumphs, fierce dignity, and a hard-won peace. He had no idea what she read on his.
“The lady Del tells me you have been looking for me over the past several weeks,” she said.
“In my heart I have been looking for you for seventeen years,” he replied.
“I have not been eager to be found,” she said.
“Perhaps the lady Del has assured you that I am a good man who will offer you no harm.”
“Perhaps she has said that, but it is not an assurance that can be offered about any gulden man.”
“I believe it can,” he said quietly, “though perhaps not about any of the men you have known.”
“Does your father know you have been looking for me?”
“My father is dead,” he said. He was certain Del had shared this information, along with the news that Kerk could be trusted, or Bree would not be sitting here right now. Still, the words needed to be said; no doubt she could not hear them often enough to be satisfied.
“I am glad to hear it,” she replied.
There was a moment of silence. “So tell me what you will of your life in the city,” he said. “It could not have been easy for you to come here with no family to help you—”
“With every hand turned against me, and a baby at my breast,” she interrupted. “No, it was not easy. There were days neither of us had food, nights we slept on benches like this one because there was no other bed. There were weeks I had nothing but rage in my stomach and despair in my heart. But I never once wished myself back on Gold Mountain, living the life I had left behind.”
He gestured. “You look as if you have found your place here. You look fed and cared for and out of danger.”
“I found work and a place to live and a gradual measure of safety,” she said. “I cling to these things like a miser clings to his money.”
“No one is asking you to give them up.”
“Your very presence here asks something of me.”
“I already have what I have wanted for so long. My mother beside me, her face before me, her voice in my ear.”
The expression on her face, which had been briefly roused to belligerence, smoothed again to blankness. “What of your own life, once I was gone?” she asked.
“My father married a woman named Tess Dushay,” he said.
His mother frowned. “I think I knew her,” she said. “A pleasant woman, younger than me. Did she treat you with kindness?”
“Unfailingly.”
“And when your father died?”
“Tess went to Brolt Barzhan as his bride and I was raised in their household alongside their children. I am not his son, but Brolt Barzhan has told me I will always be treated as if I am his by blood.”
“So you have found your place as well,” she said.
He nodded. “And now that place appears to be in the city. My stepfather has moved his family from Geldricht, and I believe this is where
he intends us all to stay.”
The look she gave him bolted him to the bench. Her dark-green eyes had always been brimming with emotions she was afraid to express, but now she looked ready to speak. “Do not think,” she said, “that you and I will meet fondly and often now that we have both found homes in the city.”
She was using the most precise language the circuitous goldtongue would allow; it was clear she did not want him to misunderstand her. “I have formed no expectations at all,” he said quietly. “But I did hope, having found you once, that I would not lose you again.”
“I was married to your father for ten years,” she said, as if he had asked her a question and this was the answer. “Out of those ten years, there might have been a dozen weeks when he did not bother to strike my face or beat my back or abuse my body in whatever fashion pleased him. My mother did not understand why I complained to her—this was how she had been treated for the entire time of her marriage. When I begged my father for assistance, he carried me back to my husband’s house and took his turn beside your father, raining blows upon my head. I had no happiness at all in those ten years except what I took from being with my children. When my son was first laid in my arms, I thought I understood why I had been forced to suffer so much. I thought that every joy must have a price, and my price was so steep because my joy was without bounds.”
He was too moved to know how to answer, but she gave him no time to construct a reply. “When my daughter was laid in my arms,” she continued, “I thought my heart would shatter into pieces. So much love I had for her! And at the same time, so much fear. She was so tiny and so delicate. How could I raise her to be strong enough to endure what I had endured? How could I be cruel enough to prepare her for a world that offered her no hope of anything except violence and pain? How could I love her, and feed her, and comb her yellow hair, and someday turn her over to a gulden man?”
