by P. J. Fox
And then, after he’d won, then what? She swallowed. When she’d run last night, he’d let her. And he’d come here, looking for her…on both counts, surprising her a great deal. “Well,” she said, “you did brave a pig. And look! It has the cutest little baby fuzz and the tiniest little hooves.”
The pig grinned appreciatively, enjoying her attentions.
Kisten had surprised her, too, in not shouting at her or exposing her to his withering scorn. Of which he had a great deal, for everything. As far as princes went, Kisten Mara Sant was not what she’d been led to expect. He had come to the rescue of the damsel in distress, but that was where his resemblance to Prince Charming ended. Fairy tales, Aria decided, were evil propaganda.
She studied the spoiled, difficult man sitting next to her. He looked like a man, not a scion of the evil empire. A man like any other, and not so terrifying surrounded by farm animals. “Alright,” she said, unable to repress a small smile. “But you’ll regret it.”
“Will I?” he asked, that strange note in his voice.
“No one’s ever asked for my opinions, before,” she replied. “I imagine it would be a somewhat unpleasant experience, a bit like offering one’s foot to a rabid dog. But that, Your Worship, is your concern. In the meantime,” she added sweetly, “I have no compunctions about taking advantage of your foolishness and, it would seem, my golden opportunity.”
TWENTY-TWO
Aria studied herself in the mirror and tried to decide how she felt about what she saw there.
She had no idea where all these clothes had been found for her and preferred not to speculate. They were probably the castoffs of some mistress. Still, as she’d left all her worldly possessions in a hole in the ground in some jungle, her only alternative was to wear one of Kisten’s uniforms. At two inches over six feet he was hardly a giant, but one of his shirts would be a dress on her—and less bizarre, she was sure, than the dress she was wearing.
If Bronte customs made no sense, then their idea of fashion made even less sense. On Solaris, the term evening gown evoked images of bespangled toilet paper tubes—and those were the modest ones. The others resembled strapless shrink wrap. Modest meant that one could wear underwear with it. Her sister Zelda, another person she tried very hard not to think about, had been fond of one particular dress made from flesh-colored mesh. Barely long enough to even qualify as a dress, it—mostly—hid the important bits under artful sprays of rhinestones. But Aria didn’t think that, somehow, anyone here had heard of club wear.
She ran her hands over the pale blush-colored silk enrobing her: a single piece of draping with dramatic batwing sleeves. Just visible through the silk was the tight, fitted under-dress. Which was good, as it meant she could raise her arm without baring her entire side. Sleeves, skirt and neckline were heavily embroidered in silk thread of a slightly lighter color. She’d had no idea how to put the blasted thing on and Garja had had to help her, after which she’d begged to fix Aria’s hair. Garja loved hair and hadn’t realized that it came in such an exotic color. Now Aria’s face was framed by a soft, loose bun.
Garja gazed on admiringly. “You look like a princess,” she sighed.
Aria wondered how something that covered nearly every square inch could still be so…revealing. The silk hinted rather than exposed, hugging her scant curves and giving her an exotic appearance that she had not hitherto possessed. She suddenly wasn’t sure that she wanted Kisten to see her like this. If he’d been Aiden, or another man….
She’d just decided that she was going to feign illness and avoid the problem altogether when the door opened and it was too late.
She turned, and her breath caught. Kisten wore his dress uniform, an elaborately frogged and braided affair in the same gold and almost midnight blue. His long jacket hit just below the knee, and he held his hat under his arm. On another man the effect might have been ridiculous, but on him it was intimidating—and flattering. He was, she had to admit, an attractive man.
“Hello,” she managed.
“You’re good to do this,” he replied.
What choice did she have? She could have refused the man, she supposed, but what would have been the point? Besides, she had to admit to a certain level of curiosity about who these guests of his were and what they’d discuss. No one from the Union had seen so much of the Alliance since the Great War, and she couldn’t help but be proud of herself for that.
He walked over to her and stood, looking down at her. She blushed, unused to the attention—to anyone’s attention.
“You look beautiful,” he said.
She felt that same current pass between them, inexplicable and frightening. “You look quite nice, too,” she heard herself saying. He smiled slightly, that strange quirk of the lip that seemed more rueful than amused. Whatever else he was, her prince wasn’t a happy man. He was cheerful enough, she supposed, and polite when the occasion called for it, but there was always a distance. People admired him, even she could see that, but they only got so close.
For a split second she thought he was going to kiss her again, but then he stepped back. She followed him out into the hall, her flimsy slippers soundless on the floor. He donned his hat with a graceful economy of motion born of long practice and offered her his arm. “Shall we?”
“Why are you wearing a hat, indoors, in space?” It was a rude question, but Aria was too flustered for proper small talk. Solarian soldiers didn’t wear hats, and even their dress uniforms weren’t so dressy. They’d always reminded her of children’s pajamas.
“First,” Kisten explained patiently, “it’s not a hat; it’s called a cover. Second, I’m wearing it because, for military purposes, we’re outdoors—and yes, there’s an ‘outdoors,’ even in space. Halls, training areas and all other public spaces are outdoors; offices, mess halls, kitchens, private living quarters and so forth are indoors.” Which all seemed rather silly to Aria, but she withheld comment. Instead, she slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow.
“There are certain exceptions, of course,” he remarked, as he led her slowly down the hall. “Wearing your cover into the engine room and having it fall into the beryllium chamber when you bend over to have a little look-see is one way to guarantee that you’ll never be promoted again.”
She laughed, in spite of herself. “Who did that?”
“Someone I served with, once. He was famously late to everything, including our regimental dinners. So our commander made him drink grog out of a toilet bowl.”
“He what?”
“After adding in a few raw oysters for effect.” Kisten winked.
Men were the same on every planet. Unfortunately, Aria couldn’t decide whether this was a comforting revelation or an extremely distressing one.
Kisten pressed the button for the lift. Some officer, rank unknown—Aria still found their uniforms confusing—passed by them and saluted. Things seemed to be a great deal more formal when one was wearing a hat, and she made this observation to Kisten. He nodded. “We engage in a similar farce with our Emperor, may he live forever. When he appears in public, proper protocol is to prostrate oneself face down and nose to the floor. But, in practice, this proves terribly inconvenient as it prevents him from doing such things as conversing with his advisors or attending the opera. So when he goes out, for the most part, he does so under the hood. A single piece of fabric hardly disguises his true identity, but it saves the rest of us from having to grovel around on the floor. In his private residence, too, he gets the dubious pleasure of being treated the same as the rest of us.”
“The rest of us?” she inquired.
“A Prince of the Blood.”
“How pedestrian.”
The lift arrived.
His expression turned speculative. “What does impress you?”
“Character,” she said bluntly. “Who am I about to meet?”
“Three men. Aros, my second in command, you’ve met.”
Aria had indeed met Lieutenant Commander Aska
ra-Brahma and found him to be surprisingly pleasant. There was a twinkle in his eye that she found appealing. He gave her hope that perhaps these Bronte had a sense of humor, after all. A thin-featured man with alarming gold eyes, he had the same toast-colored skin as most Bronte. Since her arrival on Atropos, Aria had seen people of almost every description but none who looked even a little bit like her. Her blonde hair and blue eyes, so common on Solaris, had occasioned great comment—as had her skin, which Garja had likened to white lotus petals.
“The second is Admiral Zamindari, and the third is a representative from the civil service, one Jamsetji Tata.” Kisten’s mouth firmed in a brief moue of distaste. “Master Tata is a sterling example of all that I’ve come to expect from our civil service. I’m sure you’ll be charmed.”
And on that inscrutable note, Kisten led her into the club. It didn’t seem possible that she’d only been here last night; she felt like a hundred years had passed since then. Removing his hat, Kisten handed it to an attendant without looking at him. A sort of long, low living room adjoined the main dining room. Broken up into several small seating areas, the arrangement gave an illusion of intimacy to each cluster of people as they sat about chatting in low tones.
Kisten pointed out their dinner companions, who were lolling about in club chairs that faced each other across a low table. The admiral’s uniform strained against an impressive paunch sprinkled liberally with cigar ash. The second man, Tata, sat with his ankle crossed over his knee. He, too, was drinking and smoking. Aria’s first thought was that, unsettlingly, he looked a great deal like Kisten; they both had that same fine-boned, overbred mien.
Aros appeared at Kisten’s elbow. “Commander,” he said in a low tone.
“Mister Askara-Brahma,” Kisten replied. They exchanged a look.
Seeing Aria, Aros brightened. “Aria, you look well.”
She blushed. “Thank you, commander.”
He made a dismissive gesture. “Aros, please.”
“Aros.” She smiled.
Spotting them, the admiral heaved himself upright. Aria thought that it was a bit early for him to be so unsteady on his pins, and wondered how long of a cocktail hour he’d had.
“I see we have ladies present,” he observed jovially.
Tata rose smoothly to his feet. He inclined his head in greeting, lips quirking into a small smile. His eyes slid over her. They were a darker shade of purple than Kisten’s, and cold. “Ladies, indeed,” he purred.
Aros stiffened. Kisten said nothing. There was a subtext here that made her very uncomfortable, especially because she didn’t understand it. Tata seemed rather familiar for an almost total stranger and his admiration had a vulturine quality to it that made her vaguely ill.
“Aria,” Kisten began, acting as if he hadn’t noticed, “I’d like you to meet Admiral Zamindari of the Imperial Naval Service, and Jamsetji Tata, soon to be our new Financial Commissioner for Halstead Province. He’s come to us from Goliath III and is thrilled, no doubt, as we all are.” His tone was dry. “Gentlemen, you’ve both met my second, Mister Askara-Brahma. He, too, is joining the civil service and has graciously agreed to serve as my Lieutenant Governor.”
“Capital!” The Admiral’s jowls quivered with the force of his exclamation. “We need more fine young men on the frontier. Tribes, slavers and all, what?”
Fingers brushed the back of her hand, and Aria jumped. Even in such a short span of time, she’d grown accustomed to Bronte etiquette and it shocked her—far more than she would have thought—to be touched. Or maybe it was only that she found this man’s touch so revolting.
Tata’s eyes were dark. “And to what do we owe the pleasure of your company, my dear?”
Kisten cut in, voice tight. “Admiral Zamindari, Commissioner Tata, please allow me to introduce Aria, my dulhan. She is, of course, accompanying me to the planet’s surface.”
Tata snatched his hand back. Aros’ eyes widened fractionally. Aria didn’t know what Kisten had just said, but clearly the word he’d used meant something significant. And while she suspected that she’d disagree with his characterization, whatever it was, she was nonetheless grateful for the intervention. She greeted the two men as politely as she could, wondering as she did so if her companion had switched into a foreign language purposefully to disguise his meaning.
“Quite right.” The Admiral beamed. “Call me Awadh.”
Aria had always been a quick study, for which she’d found cause to be grateful. The Bronte were a formal people, and the complexities of Bronte manners had been no easy thing to master. She’d put herself to the task with a vengeance, practicing her skills on Garja until she’d mastered even the smallest details. There was nothing else to do all day.
The Admiral disappeared to find the maitre d’, and Aria exchanged a long, cold look with Commissioner Tata. She needn’t have been born on Brontes to understand that she’d just been insulted. First his disrespect and now his embarrassment were plain in his eyes. Curiously, too, he and Kisten seemed to know each other—making his actions all the more strange. Kisten offered her his arm and she let herself be led across the floor to their table, a large affair near the window. She walked sedately, ignoring the crawling feeling of Tata’s eyes on the back of her neck.
Kisten pulled out her chair for her, helped her sit, and then chose the chair to her left. The Admiral sat down on her right and Aros on his right, which left her to face Tata across the table. Kisten ordered her a cocktail, and one for himself. For once, Aria couldn’t have cared less that he was such a chauvinist; she didn’t recognize a single thing on the menu and right now she couldn’t have cared less. Tata, Kisten’s mysterious use of the term dulhan and the general level of tension at the table were combining to make her exceedingly unhappy.
Unlike last night—had it only been last night?—she couldn’t demand that Kisten explain himself. She couldn’t ask him about the menu, either, or tease him about the fact that all the options sounded terrible. Kisten’s idea of good food was not hers, although they did agree that the fare aboard Atropos left something to be desired. The club’s offerings were, as she’d discovered last night, slightly more palatable than usual but still spicier than anything she’d ever eaten before. She’d been horrified to learn that Kisten thought them fairly bland.
“Well I say,” complained the admiral, “these new Nerada-class shuttles are a bit cramped.” He shifted in his seat. Privately, Aria thought that the admiral’s size was the challenge. She had a hard time believing that this pompous, red-faced fool occupied the same world as Kisten.
The observation making Aria conscious of her own differences, she was relieved that so far no one had questioned her origins.
Their waiter returned to take their order.
Tata lit a cigarette and studied her through the smoke. “I suppose,” he drawled in his aristocratic tone, “that you, too, are a reformer.”
“I suppose,” she agreed lightly, “that I am.”
He sniffed.
Aros said nothing, but he watched them all intently.
Kisten put down his drink. “Come now, Setji, even you have to admit that there’s been a bit too much shaking of the pagoda tree.”
Aria was surprised by Kisten’s use of the familiar name. Seeing this, Tata smiled. “Oh, didn’t he tell you?” He tapped the end of his cigarette against the rim of the sugar bowl. “Kit and I are old chums. Isn’t that right, Kit.” He turned back to Aria. “The civil service is something of an old boy’s club, you know. Ninety-five percent of us went to one of the same ten schools.” He gestured offhandedly. “And then there’s the other five percent, like the Lieutenant Commander, here, who actually advanced on merit.”
Aros seemed aggrieved to be included.
“Not all of us bought our commissions,” Kisten said acidly.
The admiral chuckled. These people, Aria realized, all hated each other.
“Regarding your crack about the pagoda tree,” replied Setji, “I think that
if these men survive service abroad then they deserve to make fortunes. Two monsoons are the life of a man, after all.” The oft-quoted proverb, which Aria had already heard, referred to life in the Halstead Province. The most populous province on the planet’s only inhabited continent—inhabited, that was, by other than miners and scattered tribesmen. Few Alliance-born recruits survived the conditions on Tarsonis for more than two years. Or, two monsoons. Those who didn’t die from disease, flash floods or mudslides were killed outright.
“Perhaps,” countered Kisten, “but we have no right to exploit these people.”
“So we should all go native, is that it?” Setji made no attempt to hide his scorn.
“Now, now,” wheezed the admiral, “ladies present. You know—”
But both men ignored him.
TWENTY-THREE
The first course arrived, and Aria ate in silence as Kisten and Setji continued to dance on the edge of civility. She actually knew a great deal about the issues in question, as she couldn’t spend all her time learning to live among the Bronte and had spent the rest of it reading. And after discovering the ship’s library, she’d made it her mission to learn as much as she could about the culture she’d joined—its people, its history, its politics, everything. Knowledge was power, and she was sick of feeling powerless. The sooner she figured out what was going on—or, at least, what the Bronte thought was going on—the sooner she’d stop feeling like an actor who’d wandered onstage without knowing her lines.
And into the wrong play, and into the middle of it besides.
