“You’re the ruler of the Isles!” she said. “You can do what you want.”
He drew in a shaky breath. “I wish it were true.” He looked up at her, and then suddenly they were kissing again, lost in the sensation of mingling breath and boundaries broken. Then he pushed her away. “Get out of here. I can’t think with you nearby.”
“Promise you’ll come to me when you get back,” she said.
“I will,” he said.
She waited for him on the settee in her room, but the sky was growing light and he still had not returned by the time she fell asleep. When she woke, the sun was streaming in the window, and the door between their rooms was locked again.
*
Two days later, the attorney came to see her.
He arrived in the morning, a time of day when Corbin was invariably gone; but the staff had apparently been expecting him, because an adjutant accompanied him and his clerk, showing them into her room and withdrawing only when the lawyer gestured him peremptorily to leave. He then turned to beam benignly at her; but she barely saw him. Her eyes were on the tall scarecrow clerk in his broad-brimmed hat and shabby black coat. The instant the door was closed, she crossed the room like a gust of wind and threw her arms around him. He held her desperately tight against him. They exchanged a long, passionate kiss. She had forgotten how ardent he was. Just like his brother.
“Oh, Nat,” she breathed. “Come to bed with me, now.”
The lawyer gave a little, self-conscious cough. Nathaway glanced at him and said, “Later, Spaeth. We have business right now.”
His face had changed. He was very thin, and there were creases under his eyes that gave him a strained, sad look. There was an air of uncured pain in him that teased her senses. “You’ve been hurt,” she said, refusing to let him go. “I can’t let you be ill. You need to be happy. Let me help.”
“Later, I promise. The instant we can get you free.”
“I don’t have to be free. I’ll do it now.”
“Excuse me,” the lawyer said, “This is very touching, but we really are under some time pressure.”
Nathaway’s eyes searched the room and stopped on the door into the adjoining bedchamber. Seeing where he was looking, Spaeth said, “He isn’t here this time of day.”
A chill seemed to pass through Nathaway’s body; it was like he was freezing in her arms. He looked at her and said, “What has he done to you?”
“Nothing. Don’t worry.” She stroked his arm to thaw him.
It wasn’t, of course, true; Corbin had nearly driven her mad, withholding himself. Nathaway seemed to sense she was lying, but not what she was lying about. He looked up to the lawyer and said, “Let’s get it done. Now.”
“Well then, hand me the document case.”
Nathaway picked up the long, tubular tin box that he had carried in, and handed it to the lawyer, who opened it and extracted several elaborately written pieces of paper. He spread the first one on a table and took an inkpot and quill from his pocket, then beckoned them over. “Wabin Bartelso at your service, madam,” he said, gallantly pressing Spaeth’s hand between his and bowing. “Nat has told me a great deal about you, and I must admit, reality exceeds expectation.”
“Who are you?” she said. She had never seen an Inning so odd-looking. His hair looked like a bird’s nest.
“A very pertinent question. This first document defines who I am. If you sign it, I will be your advocate and attorney.”
“What’s that?” she said.
Nathaway was standing close behind her. He put his hands on her shoulders and said, “Sign the paper, Spaeth. He’s on our side.”
Spaeth had often seen people using pens, but had never actually held one herself. Nathaway had to show her how to place it between her thumb and forefinger, resting against her middle finger. It felt awkward, and she didn’t know what to do next, so Nathaway held her hand in his, dipping the pen in the ink and then guiding it to make some signs on the paper. “Is that my name?” she asked when they were done.
“Yes,” Nathaway told her. “At least, close enough.”
The lawyer took away the first sheet. There was another underneath, even more elaborate with scrolls and calligraphy. “Now, this is the marriage license, but it can’t be signed till we have finalized the contract. Nat, my boy, perhaps you’d better ask her. Be quick about it.”
Nathaway took both of her hands in his and faced her earnestly. “Spaeth, will you marry me?” he said.
“What for?” she said.
He looked a little taken aback by the question. “Well, it will give you some legal protection, and certain rights. You will become one of my family, and your children will be my heirs.”
“Do you want children, Nat?” Spaeth said. It was a novel thought, but it rather pleased her.
“Maybe. Someday,” he said.
“Glad to see you young people have thought this through,” Bartelso muttered.
“Besides,” Nathaway went on, “when you get out of here, we’ll be able to cohabit without getting arrested for lewd behaviour.”
“Oh, this is the license to have sex!” she said, understanding at last.
“Yes. Please say yes, Spaeth. It’s important to me.”
“But we’ve been having sex for months.”
With an embarrassed glance at the lawyer, Nathaway said, “It hasn’t been legally binding. The marriage is like a public declaration—”
“You want to publicly declare we’re having sex?”
“No,” he said desperately, “that we have a commitment to one another.”
“Nat,” the lawyer interrupted, “might I have a word with you?” He put a fatherly arm around Nathaway’s shoulder and drew him off to one side. Spaeth sat down at the table, listening to them talk.
“My dear boy,” Bartelso said in a low voice, “your parents would never forgive me if I didn’t ask whether this is truly the wisest course for you to take. I know, I know, your intentions are honourable. But think about your future, and all the possibilities you might foreclose. There are other ways to provide for her and fulfill any obligations your conscience may require.”
“I’m not doing this out of guilt, Wabin,” Nathaway said. “I’m doing it for love.”
“I don’t doubt that, son. But the young lady doesn’t even understand the concept of marriage. No one would expect you to formalize a liaison like this, or think worse of you for not doing it.”
“It’s not a liaison,” he said stiffly. “She’s the person I want to spend my life with.”
The gravity of their tone made Spaeth realize that this was more important than the licenses to fish or trade that the Innings were so fond of. The two men seemed to regard it as one of their great law-spells. It was something perilous and life-changing for them.
When they returned, she said seriously, “Nat, if it’s important, I’ll do whatever you want.”
“It is,” he said.
“Then yes, I’ll marry you.”
Bartelso sighed, outnumbered. “Well then, sit down, both of you,” he instructed. They sat at the table, side by side, and he sat facing them. He had a sheaf of pre-printed papers and began reading hastily through them. “Sorry, I don’t do this often. This part is all standard boilerplate—joining in a state of legal matrimony, etcetera, etcetera . . . ah, here’s the first important bit. Spaeth Dobrin, do you have any property to reserve to yourself or to bring to this union in common?”
“Property?” Spaeth said, looking at Nathaway.
“Did Goth leave you anything?” he asked. “The house in Yorabay?”
“They burned it,” she said.
Nathaway said to the lawyer, “She still might have a land claim.”
“Is there a deed?”
“No.”
“She needs t
o tell me herself.”
“Tell him no, Spaeth.”
“No,” she said.
Bartelso looked at them dubiously, but finally turned to Nathaway. “What about you, Nat?”
“I think there is a trust fund, in bonds. Plus whatever share I have in my parents’ estate. If they don’t disown me for this.”
“Not to mention disbarring me,” the lawyer muttered, then said, “Do you want it to go to her children?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Next question. Do you, Spaeth, swear to hold yourself inviolate for Nathaway, forswearing all other unions?”
“No,” she said.
“Say yes, Spaeth,” Nathaway coached her.
“How can I?” she protested. “I have bandhotai. What about Harg? What about—”
Nathaway’s cheeks and ears had turned red. “Please, we’ll talk about it later. For now, just pretend, and say yes.”
Against her better instincts, she said, “Yes.”
Bartelso shook his head and made a mark on the paper. “Do you attest that this is your first union?”
“No,” she said. “There was Goth, and Harg, and now Corbin.”
“Bandhotai don’t count,” Nathaway said. “You weren’t legally married to them.”
“Oh,” she said, “then yes.”
“Do you have any children?”
“No.”
Bartelso turned the paper around and held out the pen. “Sign at the bottom, please.”
Again Nathaway guided her hand in a signature, then took the contract and signed his own name. Then they held hands and said some ritual words, and both signed the license paper. Bartelso signed as witness.
“Congratulations,” he said. “You are now husband and wife.” He took out his watch. “And just in time. We have to leave, Nat.”
“No!” Spaeth said, holding onto Nathaway’s hand. They had wasted all their time together.
Nathaway was looking nervously at the door to Corbin’s room. “I’m sorry, Spaeth, we were only given a short time window. But this will make it easier to get you free.”
“I can’t leave here,” she said. There was Goth, and Corbin, and somewhere in the building, Harg. Her ties to them outbalanced any to Nathaway.
“You two are going to have to work this out some other time,” Bartelso said. “I will take care of getting this marriage registered and published. You’d better be prepared for a reaction. People are going to notice it.” He finished putting the papers back into the case and took Nathaway firmly by the arm. “Come along, Nat. Look clerkish.”
Reluctantly, he rose. Spaeth followed them to the door, and she and Nathaway exchanged one last, long kiss before Bartelso pushed Nathaway out ahead of him.
“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Mrs. Talley,” the attorney said, and closed the door behind him.
*
In alternate moments Harg wished it would all end, and daydreamed that it never would. He had lost the battle to keep his brain quiet, and found himself weaving elaborate scenarios. Every sound brought him tensely to his feet, and yet he was nearly mad with boredom.
The prison cell they had put him in was in a block of five, arranged in a row along a corridor with only bars on one side, like zoo cages. The others were empty. His cell was a primitive affair with just a cot and ceramic commode. By the height of the tiny window and the damp smell, he judged it to be below ground. It rained the second night, and he found that it flooded an inch deep. He lay on his cot in the blackness listening to something moving in the water, his mind on rats. The next day he asked for a light, but the guard ignored him.
The guards obviously had orders not to speak to him. Every attempt to draw them out brought silence. He began devising ways to keep his mind away from the future, or worse, the past: reciting old songs, trying to remember the names of all the cities on the Rothur coast, just pacing to quiet his thoughts.
Back in Lashnish, when he had been Ison Harg in everyone’s eyes but his own, nobility had come easily; but as isolation slowly stripped the Ison part away, leaving just himself, he realized he didn’t want to pay the price. There were still a thousand things he wanted to know and do and see. He had never seen the Outer Chain or learned to play a fiddle or seen a woman smile at him across the breakfast table. He had never taught a son to handle a boat. He wanted all those things now; he wanted another chance to be a different person. All his life he had wasted time on inessential things, and never done the things that might, just might, have made him content to leave the world.
Death shouldn’t come like this, he thought, to someone who hadn’t finished with life. It should come after he had grown weary, when the ripples of his death would not spread far. When he had seen all he wanted of the world, all the sights and mysteries he would never know now.
He was dozing when they came to get him. The soldiers led him down a smoke-stained tunnel to a room that held only a large plank table with a lamp hanging over it, and left him there alone. He waited, noticing all the details—the worn spots on the table legs where it looked like straps had been attached, the stains on its well-scrubbed surface, the iron hooks high on the walls. There was a murmur of voices in the adjoining room, barely audible, then the clink of metal. Soon he heard the voices raised in argument, and crept over to listen at the door; but the low murmur had resumed. After half an hour there was silence; then the guard came and led him back to his cell.
The second time they came for him, it was the dead of night. A tense young Torna colonel gave him a heavy cloak to put on, then tied a blindfold over his eyes and pulled the hood over his head. They led him down steps, across what seemed like an open courtyard, past a place that smelled of garbage, then into another building. They left him in a wood-panelled room with a carpet, a table, and a couch. He waited, expecting someone else to appear, but no one did. At last he lay down on the couch, not particularly caring whose it was. When he woke up with sunlight filtering through the louvres in the shutters, it occurred to him that perhaps it was his.
Twice in one day, he heard loud arguments in the hall outside, and the guards apparently refusing someone entrance to his room. That evening, after bringing in his food, the guard suddenly came back in and snatched the tray away again before Harg could touch it.
Was someone trying to poison him? With nothing else to think of, the idea became an obsession; yet it made no sense. Why should the Innings want to kill him in such a private way, when every other method was at their disposal? The chilling notion struck him, that perhaps it was his friends trying to kill him kindly, in order to spare him a worse death. Had he already been condemned without trial? Would the guards show up some morning to take him to execution without warning?
It was evening when the guards showed up. He had scarcely slept the night before, full of premonitions. This time they led him openly into another wing of the palace, into yet another room, this one a stone-walled bedroom with a jute rug on the floor, a table, and a cold fireplace. When he stood by the door he could hear the distant sound of music.
A few minutes later the guard unbolted the door and a man bustled in, carrying a lamp and a sheaf of papers. He said, “We haven’t got much time. Take a seat, my boy, and we’ll get to business.”
Wild theories flashed through Harg’s brain. The visitor was a round man with a blank, domed skull protruding from a fringe of curly hair. “Are you an Inning?” Harg asked suspiciously.
“Inning and in practice, as the saying goes.” He held out a hand. “Wabin Bartelso, Advocate. I’m your legal advisor.”
Harg crossed his arms and stepped back. The man was obviously a clown sent to suit the letter of the Inning law, so it would appear as if they had treated him fairly.
The lawyer took in Harg’s hostile stance, then lowered his hand. “Ah. I see there’s going to have to be a leap of fa
ith here. Unfortunately, the first thing I need you to sign is a paper appointing me your counsel so I can represent you at the trial.”
“What trial?” Harg said.
“You don’t know? You are probably the only one in Tornabay, then. There has been quite the controversy over it.” He brought out a sheet, densely written with large calligraphy at the top, and laid it on the wood table. He then took a pen from the frizz of hair behind his ear, and an inkpot from one of many pockets in his voluminous overcoat. “Right there, if you please,” he said, indicating a place for Harg to sign.
Harg didn’t move. “How do I know what it says?”
Bartelso took out a pocket watch and glanced at it. In a voice of strained patience he said, “Unfortunately, the Admiral has only allowed me half an hour with you, and we’ve got a lot to cover. But do read it, if you must.”
Harg wasn’t sure whether the man meant to mock him or was merely an idiot who thought Adaina fishermen learned to read legal documents, so he just stared at him in silence.
After a few beats Bartelso said, “Ah. Not yet, eh? Well, we can take care of that later, then.” He whisked the document away and sat down at the table, putting on a pair of reading glasses and arranging his papers before him. “Have a seat, my boy. You make me nervous, standing there with murder in your eyes.”
“I’m not your boy,” Harg said.
Bartelso, who had up to now been in a constant flurry of motion, suddenly came to a stop. He took off his glasses, studying Harg seriously. “No, of course not,” he said. “An unfortunate figure of speech. I do beg your pardon.”
It was so startling to have an Inning apologize to him that Harg sank down on the edge of a chair. Outside the door, the music had grown louder. It was a waltz.
“Who sent you?” he said.
“A friend of yours. Nathaway Talley.”
Harg was not the slightest bit sure that Nathaway really was his friend.
“What are they charging me with?” he said.
“Only two things,” Bartelso answered. “Unfortunately, they’re assassination and treason. Either way, the penalty is death.”
Ison of the Isles Page 33
