by P. J. Fox
He flashed a questioning glance at Aria, reading her answer as clearly as though she’d spoken aloud: Naomi must have snuck in and changed the place cards. With all of the confusion over setting up for the party, she would’ve had almost free reign. Seeing his surprise—and misinterpreting it—she favored him with the sort of gloating smile that a cat might have after eating a particularly satisfying mouse.
Naomi was supposed to be sitting at the adjoining table, currently occupied by an embarrassed Alice and several admiring officers. Seated with her, Kisten noted, was Pasha. The daughter of the House of Singh might have been attractive, if her face hadn’t long ago settled into deep grooves of discontent. Pasha’s husband was there, too, looking put-upon. He was a good man and a good officer, and if Pasha wasn’t careful she’d lose him to a woman capable of appreciating those qualities. He might not divorce her, out of pity if nothing else, but that wouldn’t prevent him from falling in love. The look he’d given Alice, for one, had been very revealing.
Kisten turned his attention to his own table. “Grandfather.” He bowed formally.
After welcoming the assembly, Ceres gave a toast. Everyone was still standing; thirty seconds in, Kisten imagined that most wished they weren’t. Ceres raised his glass. “I remember the first time I had sex,” he said fondly. “I kept the receipt. Now, years later, I continue to regard it as the most wholesome, delightful thing that money can buy.” He smiled. Zerus blanched. Aria stifled a giggle. Setji appeared to be wondering what was so funny.
“Inexplicably,” the old man continued, obviously enraptured with the sound of his carrying baritone, “we as a culture find sex to be so terrifyingly hard—no pun intended—that we throw parties to celebrate its occurrence. Dreadfully expensive parties, I might add,” he said with an owlish wink. “You are all probably wondering why, my grandson having gotten married over a month ago, you’re all sitting here now. Perhaps you’re speculating about the source of the delay. I’ll leave you to your own devices in that particular regard and instead remind you that even when the reception does follow immediately the act itself hardly lasts from sunset to sunrise—much as men might wish it differently!”
Kisten wondered if humiliation could be terminal.
“Besides, for many species, long delays are perfectly natural! The Alamu golden frog climbs onto his mate’s back and doesn’t remove until she lays her eggs. A process that, you will be pleased to know, takes several months to complete! It being somewhat of a challenge to capture and eat live insects while in that position, he usually starves to death.
“And then we have our old friend, the Bronte antechinus—cuddly little things that look like mice. All the females come into heat at the same time, throwing their would-be paramours into a frenzy of lovemaking. They spend up to twelve hours at a time mating, launching themselves at every female in sight. Unfortunately for them, by the end of the two week breeding season the males are so exhausted that they all drop dead.
“Meanwhile, arctic fire bears only mate once a year. So as you see, dear friends, there are stranger things on heaven and earth than a man who marries a woman as lovely as Aria and then forgets to celebrate having done so. However, as we’re all here now I’d like to inform the group that I’ve never seen my grandson so happy.” Ceres smiled—a genuine smile, this time, and full of warmth. Which mitigated Kisten’s anger at him only slightly. “I know, from personal experience, that we do not find love; love finds us, and often unexpectedly. The most we can hope for is that we’re open to the experience and I can only hope, Kit, as someone who’s watched you grow into one of the rare men I don’t loathe, that Aria makes you as happy as Udit has made me.”
Aria, who was of course charmed by this salutation, smiled.
After everyone finished drinking and offering their congratulations, Ceres waved a hand at one of the slaves. She came forward, smiling shyly and bearing a flower-filled platter. Whoever made them had managed to do a creditable impression of the traditional Bronte marriage garland; frilled white flowers had been strung together to form a thick rope, every six inches or so punctuated by a burst of red. The exchange of garlands was no part of the True Faith and some of the more orthodox households had abandoned it as a heathen practice, but it had nonetheless been part of Bronte culture for five thousand years.
Aria accepted the first garland, her small fingers lost in the profusion of blooms. Carefully, deliberately, she reached up and put the garland around his neck. He bent his head to make it easier for her, and she smiled. She had such a beautiful smile, pure and uncomplicated.
She was aware of the symbolism of the ritual and thought it beautiful. The actual wedding being private, this was the only time that the bride and groom publicly declared their acceptance of each other—and declared, too, their steadfast devotion and desire for mutual understanding. “There,” she said, her words barely audible, “now you’re mine.”
“Yes,” he agreed. He placed the second garland around her neck and then he was kissing her. He hadn’t intended to, as such displays were undignified. She kissed him back, and then she laughed. The room erupted in applause, and Kisten felt exceedingly strange. This couldn’t be his life.
SIXTY-NINE
The house, he had to admit, looked beautiful. Yards and yards of gauzy white silk draped the ceiling, miniature seed bulbs glowing in the haze like a thousand tiny stars in a cloudy sky. Flowers adorned the backs of the chairs, red for good fortune and white for reverence. Every table, too, was profusely decorated: more of the same thousand-petaled flowers had been tortured into perfect round balls and piled on top of each other in gold bowls. White again, and yellow for joy. Most of the guests appeared to be enjoying themselves, too—or at least the wine.
Kisten was at the head of the table, Ceres at the foot. Aria sat on Kisten’s right, the police chief on his left. To the left of the police chief sat his consort and, next to her, the mission director. Naomi, having ensconced herself between that unfortunate man and Zerus, continued to smile. Perhaps the little bitch would develop a fondness for Zerus, Kisten thought nastily; he was a widower, and she was all that he deserved and more. Ceres, steadfastly ignoring his unwanted tablemate, was deep in conversation with Chief Commissioner Orethu. Orethu made some unfortunate comment, and Ceres laughed. General Bihar, his consort, and Setji made up the rest of the table.
The first course having been served, laughter and chatter competed with the clink of silver on china.
Kisten only toyed with his saffron risotto cake, his attention focused instead on his guests. Most of the men in this room, he did not trust. Several, like Orethu’s second, were tellingly not present. Aros, having unintentionally changed places with Naomi, was manfully sustaining conversation with Pasha. Glancing at the empty chair that had been reserved for Deputy Commissioner Saghred, Kisten made a mental note to drop in on the man. He’d heard too many disquieting rumors, and it was high time he saw the situation for himself. He’d let a few less critical matters slide, because he’d been busy…there was just so much to do.
Men like Nan Jhansi and—Kisten suspected—Ram Saghred were frankly venal characters who’d rape the planet for its resources without a second thought and natives be damned. They didn’t believe these men to be their equals, and gave a collective shudder at the thought. But for every Nan Jhansi, there were a hundred mere incompetents. Men who weren’t bad by themselves, but who needed the kind of leadership that neither a lush like Saghred nor the hidebound old things who crowded the civil service could provide. Kisten didn’t know which was worse: the fact that men like Jhansi and Saghred existed, or the fact that it would take hundreds of good men to undo the harm that they’d created.
He resented bitterly that he’d been forced into this ridiculous party and wished he were elsewhere, even as he savored the chance to see Aria. She looked luminous; the gold was a becoming color on her but, more, she was smiling. He watched her chat with Setji while he himself made polite but meaningless conversation with the
police chief. Setji said something in a low, sardonic tone and Aria laughed.
Fighting down the almost overwhelming urge to kill any man who talked to her, Kisten smiled charmingly at the police chief’s consort—Edith—and answered a question she’d asked. He was still making polite conversation when he heard the trumpets.
His eyes shot to his grandfather’s. “You didn’t,” he breathed, mortified.
Ceres smiled benevolently.
Aria glanced up at him. “What?” she asked, completely innocent of the disaster about to befall her.
“Camel,” Ceres said.
“Camel?” Aria echoed. “But—I didn’t think there were camels on Tarsonis?”
“There aren’t.” This from the police chief.
“Where did you get it?” Setji inquired.
“What—is it, exactly?” Aria was beginning to look concerned.
“Don’t encourage him,” Kisten hissed, but it was too late.
“Whole stuffed camel,” Ceres announced, loudly enough for the whole table although he was primarily addressing Aria, “is the traditional dish of kings.”
“Traditional five thousand years ago,” Kisten shot back.
Ceres ignored him. “The recipe requires, first, one whole camel of medium size and then, second, one whole lamb of large size.”
Aria glanced at the door. The trumpets were getting louder. “How can you figure out what medium size is?”
“Then,” Ceres continued, “twenty whole chickens, medium size, sixty eggs, fifty pounds of rice, five pounds of pine nuts, five pounds of almonds, one pound of pistachio nuts, two pounds of whole black pepper—”
The camel arrived.
“And an indeterminate amount of salt,” Ceres finished, his recitation of the recipe drowned out by the brass band accompanying the dancers. Kisten glared at the old man, refusing to ever forgive him. Ceres, meanwhile, appeared to be having the time of his life. The dancers—all men, thank God—were naked from the waist up. They wore billowing silk trousers, nipped in at the ankle and festooned with sashes of every color. Behind them came the sword swallowers, each man brandishing a scimitar. The wicked-looking blades glittered in the low light as the guests stared, transfixed.
All of this was, of course, in reverence to the main arrival: a gigantic litter, easily the size of Kisten’s bed, held the sad carcass of what appeared to be a whole roast camel. It looked more like a blackened porpoise. With its elaborate carvings and garishly bright color scheme, the litter reminded Kisten uncomfortably of the funeral litters one saw at a cremation ground.
Aria must have been thinking the same thing, because she burst out laughing.
Zerus’ eyes were rolling in his head. “Bestower forgive us,” he murmured, pious as ever.
Ceres clapped his hands delightedly.
Another group of men processed into the hall, this time with flaming brands.
“Grandfather,” Kisten said, “you’re senile.”
“Fire swallowers,” Ceres replied happily.
After being displayed for the benefit of the party, the camel was quickly removed for carving. Kisten hated to think what that process entailed, or where the lamb was. He called for another drink.
“Isn’t this delightful?” Ceres was offensively pleased with himself.
“Incidentally,” Kisten said frostily, “that toast was the worst I’ve ever heard.”
Ceres laughed. “You may be the governor, Kit, and take yourself very seriously for all that, but I’m still your grandfather and I’d advise you not to forget it.” There was a hard edge to the older man’s voice, although he still appeared to be having the night of his life.
A fire swallower stopped at the table to perform tricks.
There was, Kisten knew, no possibility of his forgetting. A slave presented him with two fingers of Circassian malt in a cut crystal glass. He sipped the green liquid thoughtfully. His father and grandfather lived to take the younger generation down a peg, and Kisten had been subjected to these sorts of humiliating adventures since he was a child. He’d never wondered whether he’d put his own children through the same torment because, until a couple of months ago, he’d never imagined himself playing the role of father.
“I thought your toast was charming,” Aria said indulgently.
The conversation turned to other channels, most of which related to the horrors of colonial life.
“Some creature that looks like a small hippopotamus,” Setji confided, “won’t stop urinating on my bushes. It’s giving my gardener a devil of a time, and frightened the cook half to death.” He sipped his wine, as cool and collected as ever as he lounged casually in his chair. His eyes, the same violet as Kisten’s own, were bright and glassy with drink. “I can’t wait to go home,” he said airily.
“Yes,” Naomi agreed, “not all men are courageous enough for the colonies.”
“And not all women,” he countered blandly, “are bold enough to work so hard at seeking their fortunes.”
Naomi hissed like a scalded cat. She and Setji had been sniping at each other all night, and it was difficult at this point to decide who was ahead. Naomi had accurately revealed Setji as a dissipate roué with an utter indifference to work or, indeed, anything outside the narrow realm of parties and card games and who was descended from whom. And he, in turn, had equally accurately pointed out—in his erudite, backhanded fashion—that she’d be little better than a whore but for the fact that she was too frigid. Kisten had rarely seen two people take such an instant and total dislike to each other and found the phenomenon fascinating.
Cutting in, Ceres pronounced the camel excellent. “You know,” he said, “the last time I ate camel was at my own dear son’s dawat-e-walimah.”
“Please,” Zerus said, “have the decency not to mention that.”
Ceres regarded him sharply. “No one forced you to come, or to sit here.”
At Aria’s prompting, Ceres told them about the party and about Kisten’s parents’ arrival on Brontes. He did not mention, as Kisten knew, that his mother in fact celebrated her birthday on her half birthday. His parents had decided, jointly, that it would be best if she were six months older given the timing of her pregnancy. Instead, Ceres regaled them all with amusing stories about camels and first houses and Kisten’s own arrival into the world. This was, after all, Kisten’s birthday. “Your father was so terrified that something would go wrong, he had a fit in the middle of the hospital and very nearly killed an orderly.”
Kisten could believe it; his mother was the only person his father cared about, or was capable of caring about. That he tolerated his children could be traced, in large part, to their having something of her genetics. Kisten favored Udit, but he had his mother’s violet eyes.
Zerus grumbled something and Ceres laughed. It was an unkind sound. “It’s not my fault that you refused to be present for your own daughter’s wedding. Tell me, o paragon of virtue, how many years has it been since you’ve seen your only child?”
“Well,” said Zerus acidly, “since she refused to come home without that—”
“Your actions are, indeed, the living embodiment of the values you so treasure. What is it your vaunted True Faith teaches again? Something about unconditional love? You’re an inspiration to all who know you, Zerus.”
“My True Faith?” Zerus sounded appalled.
Aria put her hand on Kisten’s arm. “Does it ever stop?” she asked.
He smiled slightly. “Eventually, they’ll have to eat dessert.”
SEVENTY
The men were all in the other room, talking politics and drinking. Aria had taken over the library, turning it into a temporary women’s refuge. Everyone was perching on whatever surface they could cadge, and the servants were serving coffee and extra slices of cake. Dinner had lasted hours and, after a brief siesta during which she’d had barely enough time to use the bathroom and go for a short walk in the gardens, dessert had been served. It, too, had lasted forever and Aria was relieved
when at last she was released from the table.
Joining her in retreat were all the women from her table, as well as a handful of others: Alice, Pasha, and several others she didn’t know. Pasha was holding court about something—probably licentious natives, that seemed to be a favorite topic of hers—and Aria was grateful that almost everyone appeared to be listening as that left her free to talk with Alice.
The younger girl was sitting beside her on the couch, a dainty cup clutched in her hands. Outside, the porcelain was a beautiful deep rose with a velvet finish and inside it was a soft cream. Aria loved the distinctive style of Bronte china, and had asked Kisten if she could purchase a set. He, pleased, had acquiesced. When she’d expressed concern about the expense, he’d refused to let her see a price list. She remembered her frustration with a small smile.
Having asked to speak with her, Alice was now silent. At last she spoke. “I met a man,” she said. For such a momentous announcement, she didn’t sound very happy.
“You did?” Aria willingly supplied the enthusiasm. “Who? What’s he like?”
“His name is Gore. Captain Ramesh Gore. He’s a Blue.”
The Blues were the most dashing, storied regiment in the army; women swooned over them. To the so-called fishing fleet, they were the next best thing to Heaven. “Is he Bronte?” Aria asked, noting the name and wondering if this Captain Gore had been one of the men chatting with Alice at dinner. In a province where men outnumbered women ten to one, any new arrival was noteworthy and Alice was a very pretty girl.
“Yes,” Alice said. “He was on my right,” she supplied, “and Bell was on my left, next to Aros.”
Where Naomi was supposed to have sat. Aria frowned slightly. She’d seen this Captain Gore, a trim man of average height with toast-colored skin and gray eyes. He’d seemed pleasant enough, but of course she hadn’t talked to him. When it came to Alice, his gaze had been openly admiring. Given Alice’s enthusiasm for husband hunting, Aria would have expected her to be ecstatic; at parties like this, her every word attended by men fit from constant exercise and wearing well-cut dress uniforms, it was impossible not to fall in love. The very aura of Tarsonis—exotic, dangerous—was in and of itself an aid to romance.
