“Okay, now I’m officially baffled,” Fingolfinrhod said.
Lord Sans Merci’s colorless eyes moved away from Caitlin and toward her half brother. “That is my bequest to you. Not the title and estate of Lord Sans Merci, which have been awaiting you all your life and which will give you no more pleasure than they did me. I arranged this present for you: That though you could not do so yourself, you could watch your sister fly free.”
“Well, that tops—” Fingolfinrhod began.
His father held up a hand for silence. “I have said all that was left unsaid. Now my time has come upon me.” Lord Sans Merci’s image wavered, as if in a great wind. The light within grew stronger, enveloped his body, dissolved him in its luminescence. Now it looked as though the chair were occupied by an enormous egg made of incandescent light. Almost as an afterthought, he said, “It were best if you left now. You would not want to be here when it happens.”
* * *
As they walked back down the winding cobblestone road their father had nicknamed the rue des Villes Perdues, Fingolfinrhod said, “It was all about him, did you notice?”
“Please, Rod. Don’t. Not now.”
“All my life I have endured Father’s presence, his obvious disappointment in me, his constant disapproval. At last, his reign comes to an end—and I am to become him. Every year I will grow harsher and more cold. I will distract myself by buying a military commission, acquiring mistresses, developing a taste for torture. But in the end—”
“Roddie, shut up!”
Fingolfinrhod stared at Caitlin, astonished.
“No, it wasn’t all about Father. It was all about you—you, you, you! Everything is about you and it always was. I was even born for you!” Caitlin’s fists were clenched. It was all she could do to keep from hitting him.
Fingolfinrhod enveloped Caitlin in a hug, and she could feel her anger draining away. She had never been able to resist him when he did that. A long minute later, he released her and said, “You always were the strong one. I envied you that.”
The day’s astonishments seemed to have no end. “You always bullied me when we were young, Rod. So what the fuck?”
“Only because I was bigger. If we’d been physical equals, it would have been a different story entirely. I—”
The banshees began to scream. Their frenzied laments tumbled one over the other in an unending river of sound. So loud were they that covering her ears did nothing to stop the torment; it could only be endured. Bells clangored from deep within the earth, and the ground shook underfoot. Clouds of bats appeared from nowhere, filling the upper half of the hall with their frantic flight. The façades of the houses shivered and quaked. Shadows gathered in their windows, parted the curtains, peered out at Caitlin and Fingolfinrhod in wonder and fear. The windows rattled, as if about to explode outward, and the doors shook in their frames.
Caitlin uncrouched and then stood. “Well,” she said bleakly. “I guess that means that you’re now Lord Sans Merci of House Sans Merci and mighty among the Powers of the world.”
Fingolfinrhod looked stricken.
Then he bolted.
One instant he was at Caitlin’s side and the next he had run up to the nearest door and flung it open. In the darkness beyond, Caitlin could dimly see mannish figures moving about, the embers of a log fire, tankards of ale being hoisted in the air.
From the shadows on the far side of the door, Fingolfinrhod gestured: Come.
Caitlin wanted to say that she had her sworn duty to fulfill. She wanted to say that much as she wished she could go with Fingolfinrhod, she was just beginning to build a life for herself. She wanted to say so many things. But, knowing that words would do no good, she merely shook her head.
Fingolfinrhod stuck his head out the door and, in order to be heard above the banshees, shouted, “Come with me. It’s your only chance.”
“I can’t. I’m an officer in Her Absent Majesty’s—”
“There’s not much time. That’s not a routine investigation you’re facing. You’re being framed. I didn’t say anything because—well, what could I do? But if you move quickly, you can escape all that.”
“No.”
“Seriously. This is your only chance.”
“No.”
Fingolfinrhod glanced over his shoulder, evidently hearing words she could not. Then, with a sad smile, he blew her a kiss, threw something small which she reflexively caught, and slammed the door shut.
The banshees ceased screaming.
In the ringing silence, Caitlin found that the door was again unopenable. Up and down the street, nothing moved in any of the windows.
Caitlin looked down at her hand. She was clutching a flat round stone with a hole in its center, the charm against glamour that Fingolfinrhod had stolen from their father’s desk.
Trust everyone, but stack the deck.
—Helen V., notebooks
There was a private ceremony to mark Lord Sans Merci’s passing, with prayers, flagellation, the sacrifice of a bull which was torn apart and eaten raw, the pouring of libations, the raising of a cairn in his memory, and at sunset a bonfire atop the cairn to mark the onset of forgetting. At midnight, the White Ladies came out of the woods to pass mournfully over the ancestral lands, blessing them with their tears and killing a kitchen imp foolish enough to get caught spying on them. Then, in the morning, Caitlin returned to base, where she was immediately arrested and confined to quarters.
Three times a day Caitlin was escorted to the dining hall in the officers’ club by someone equal to her in rank. That much respect, at least, she was afforded. For a typical meal, white-gloved sylvans bearing silver salvers brought bowls of vichyssoise. When the first course had been consumed and the dishes removed, they returned with dough-wrapped fillets of hippocamp or monocorn, to choice, along with deviled chestnuts, Brocéliandean tian of southern vegetables, and endive with parsley butter. All the while, a string quartet played unobtrusively in the background.
If an army marched on its stomach, to its officers their meals were token and proof of their status as gentlefolk. Every one of them vividly remembered the sense of awe and accomplishment felt upon first entering the dining hall. The delicate scents of food and flowers and genteel laughter of crystal and silver attested to the valuation the Governance of Babylonia placed on their service every time they entered the room.
Save, of course, now, for Caitlin.
Caitlin ate her meals alone at a table in a corner while her former peers pretended she didn’t exist. Then she was put back in her box of a room to wait while evidence was gathered against her and the case for the prosecution prepared. She filled the empty hours by studying, so that when she was exonerated she would emerge a better-rounded officer.
One evening, a low voice murmured in her ear, “Don’t turn around. Don’t look. I won’t be there.”
“Rabbit?” she asked, equally quietly.
“Yeah. I wanted to speak to you earlier but it was made clear to me that if I tried, I’d be punished for it.”
“At least you’re still talking to me. The others—”
“I know. Listen, I don’t have much time. I wanted to warn you that the girls are talking about throwing a moot, so you might want to be prepared. Also, word is that 7708 has sworn out a writ of anathema against you.”
“Cripes,” Caitlin said, more than a little annoyed. “How in the name of Lady Hel is it that everybody knows more about my private business than I do?”
“Because you haven’t been paying attention. Wake up, beautiful. Nasty things happen to girls who insist on sleeping away their lives.” Then, hurriedly, “Gotta go. Talk to you again when I can. Good luck on the psych-and-physical!”
And Caitlin was alone again.
* * *
The infirmary was a crone-haunted warren of walnut-paneled rooms and hallways that smelled of disinfectant, myrrh, and magic.
“You know how this works. Take off your clothes, put on the paper gown, and get
in the stirrups. I’ll return momentarily.” The crone faded into the shadows.
Caitlin complied. Lying on her back, with her feet elevated and legs spread and a cold draft touching her most private recesses, she waited. A less disciplined woman would have rebelled. But she endured. At last, after an unconscionably long time, her examiner returned with a thick questionnaire clamped to a clipboard, sat down, flipped over the cover sheet, and began to read: “Have you ever kissed a boy?”
“Do I really have to be in such an awkward position for this? Why can’t I sit up until it’s time for the physical examination?”
“Answer the question, please. Have you ever kissed a boy?”
“Yes.”
The crone made a check mark. “More than once in one session?”
“Yes.”
Another check mark. “Did either of you employ your tongues?”
“Yes. Both of us.”
“Did you ever kiss a girl?”
“No. Well, not in that way.”
“Were tongues involved?”
“No.”
“Did you ever let a boy touch your clothed breast?”
“It just sort of happened.”
“Did you ever let a boy place his hand beneath your blouse and above your brassiere?”
“I … yes.”
“Did one ever touch your breast directly, either when it was exposed or by placing his hand beneath your brassiere?”
“Only once.”
“Did he squeeze?”
“I told him to stop and he did.”
The crone looked up quizzically. “He did? Really?”
“Yes,” Caitlin said firmly. “He really did.”
“How peculiar.” The crone made a check mark and flipped over the sheet. “Have you ever let a boy touch you below the waist?”
“No. Listen, I’ve been through this test often enough before that I know it all by heart. If you let me just fill out the form for you, I can have it done in five minutes.”
The crone put down her clipboard. “You do realize that whenever an allegation of corruption is made, every other pilot, male or female, is given this exact same test, as being the most likely sources of said uncleanliness?” Caitlin closed her eyes. “So there’s nothing special about you, is there? Now, let’s just be sure of our facts. How often do you masturbate?”
Caitlin sighed. “Frequently.”
* * *
The judge advocate assigned to serve as Caitlin’s defense counsel had long blond hair and the black-furred face of a panther. Her uniform was black as well and she wore no jewelry other than a single diamond nose stud. A feline musk, so heavy that Caitlin could smell nothing else, filled her office.
Lieutenant Anthea looked up from a red leather portfolio—a legal grimoire, presumably—and folded it shut. At her nod, Caitlin took a seat across the desk from her. The lawyer licked her lips with a long pink tongue and said, “Have you ever wondered why all dragon pilots are virgins?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Answer the question.”
Those unblinking predator eyes made Caitlin feel like a schoolgirl being drilled by a hostile teacher, birch in hand. She did her best not to let it show. “Dragons are pure spirits and thus can only be controlled by the pure of heart. They—”
“Oh, don’t quote the manual at me, it’s all lies. Here’s what really happened: Dragons are fire spirits whose natural habitat is the Empyrean. Land is not natural to them, nor is the air. When the Lords of the Forge sought to convince them to allow themselves to be embodied in cold iron at the dawn of the Industrial Revelation, the negotiations were long and hard. Out of mere self-preservation, the high-elven insisted that the dragons place themselves entirely under our control. Dragons, being avatars of anarchy, crave freedom. Yet even more do they yearn for destruction, which only entry into the material realm can give them. So, finally, a deal was struck: Meririm Phosphoros, first of the fire-worms, sold ten thousand of his descendants into slavery with the proviso that their pilots must be young, inexperienced, weak, and guileless. In short, virgins. Your control of—” Lieutenant Anthea opened her portfolio, glanced down, shut it again. “—7708 is close to absolute. But you lack the cunning to turn its power to your own benefit. Nor would your superiors dream of entrusting such immense power to a mulatto subordinate. So the interests of all are preserved.”
“This isn’t what I was told in the Academy,” Caitlin said wonderingly.
“Welcome to the adult world. You’ve been played. All your little friends have been played. Every dragon pilot that ever came before you has been played. The system you swore an oath to uphold and defend returns your loyalty with nothing but disdain. If you can’t accept that, nothing I have to say will make any sense to you.”
“I … see.”
“Terrific. My job here is twofold: to get you to embrace your guilt and subsequently to negotiate for you the least onerous punishment that can be arranged. The longer you drag your feet, the lousier the deal you’ll get.”
“Tell me,” Caitlin said. “Exactly what am I charged with?”
“Corruption.”
“Then we fight it! They can’t prove a thing. Because—”
The lawyer held up a paw to silence her. “Corruption is a serious charge. It comprises moral turpitude, oath-breaking, disloyalty to the Corps, treason, the theft of government property (that’s your service), and sabotage of war equipage (again, you). Punishment typically involves being stripped of rank, dishonorable discharge, imprisonment at hard labor, loss of status and family name, and a clitorectomy performed without benefit of anesthesia.
“Do you understand?”
Caitlin nodded.
“Good.” Lieutenant Anthea opened a drawer and took out a cardboard box. “Here’s a commercial virginity test. It’s as accurate as the lab tests that will be entered into your trial and a whole lot faster. Go to the loo, pee in the cup, and then follow the instructions. See how the results come out before you decide how you want to plead.”
“I already know how I’m going to plead. I’m innocent.”
“Humor me.”
So Caitlin did.
In the washroom, Caitlin placed the kit on the counter by the sink. As the instructions directed, she filled the cup with urine, drew a drop into the plastic squeeze pipette, and then touched its tip to the target on the test strip. Finally, she whispered an invocation to the Goddess and counted to fifteen.
The strip turned pink.
Which was not possible. Not by any stretch of the imagination. Pink meant sexually experienced. Pink meant corrupt. Pink meant she wasn’t a virgin. There had to be a mistake. Caitlin went over the instructions a second time and a third, just to be certain she hadn’t misread them. Then she pulled out another test strip, added a second drop of urine, prayed, waited.
Pink.
This was ridiculous. Caitlin drew out a third test strip. This time, she spat on it. Without bothering to offer up a prayer—which all by itself should have rendered the test inert—she waited.
Pink.
She tried the experiment again with a drop of liquid soap.
Pink.
There was a bottle of Nuit de Cristal lying on its side on the counter, almost empty. Probably it belonged to Lieutenant Anthea. Caitlin didn’t care. She touched its stopper to the test target.
Pink.
A drop of water from the faucet.
Pink.
A quick wave in the air.
Pink.
Caitlin clutched the counter with both hands and slowly lowered her brow to the granite. It felt cool against her forehead. Either all the world was corrupt, right down to the tap water and the air, or else the test was rigged. Which was, obviously, why her lawyer had sent her in here in the first place: to let her know, without actually saying it in so many words, that no matter what the truth or what she said, she was going to be found guilty.
Raising her head again, she saw how haggard, how haunted—how
guilty—her expression looked in the mirror. Shaken, Caitlin composed her face into the mask of a warrior. She did not feel like one. But she knew how to fake it.
When Caitlin emerged from the ladies’ room, Lieutenant Anthea had arranged several forms on her desk. “Before we can try for a plea bargain, you must fill out all of these and swear to them before a notarized shaman. The first is your declaration of corruption. You are not required to give the name of whoever defiled you unless he or she is also a pilot, in which case it’s mandatory. Next—”
“Forget it,” Caitlin said. “We’re fighting this to the bitter end.”
Lieutenant Anthea’s ears lay flat against her head, and her teeth revealed themselves in an involuntary snarl. “Did you even take the virginity test? That by itself would be enough to convict you, never mind the testimony of your dragon. The more you drag this out, the uglier it’s going to be. Your fellow pilots will be called upon to slander your character, as will family members, your instructors, the ground crew…” Anthea snagged a flea between two claws, popped it in her mouth, and swallowed. “I’ve seen this happen any number of times and it never goes well for the accused. Never.”
Caitlin and Lieutenant Anthea stared hard at each other. Then the lawyer said, “Go back to your quarters, think things over, give in to despair. Then get back in touch with me and we’ll plead guilty.”
“No, we will not,” Caitlin said. Her lawyer said nothing. “My family has money and I am certain my mother has no desire that any of us be involved in a scandal. Plus I’m innocent. So fuck you, I have nothing to fear.”
Lieutenant Anthea took a cell phone from her purse. “I’ll call for your escort. Incidentally, how are you getting along with your fellow pilots? The female ones, I mean.”
“We’re getting along just fine.”
“Really? Well, there’s a first time for everything, I suppose.”
* * *
There was no formal hierarchy within the dormitory. But Saoirse was the first woman to be accepted into the Corps, and consequently all deferred to her. So it was to her that Caitlin went for advice.
The Iron Dragon’s Mother Page 5
