Master of None

by N Lee Wood

  He listened to the words, their meaning following belatedly on the sound. Then he glanced at the medical taemora watching him impassively, no doubt the gear beside her lethal.

  “Yes, I understand, jah’nari l’amae.”

  So he relinquished what few secrets he had left, recounted the whole tawdry story—his infidelity, the botched plans and lies, her anger and hurt—detached from it all as if it had happened to someone else. In a way, it had been someone else, so long ago. He closed his eyes as he spoke, his skin quivering as it remembered Vasant Subah’s merciless touch on a deeper visceral level even if his conscious mind had been anesthetized.

  Then they grilled him with questions Vasant Subah had neglected to inquire into. Questions about his childhood, questions about the occupation, his mother, university, friends he hadn’t seen in decades and never would again. He struggled to remember the minutiae about people and places he hadn’t thought about in years, even as he recognized the prying insignificance.

  When they had finished with him, his privacy utterly violated, he sat, his legs beginning to ache stiffly, and listened to the flawless but somehow stilted Hengeli in his ear as Aelgar rose to disclose the details of his fight with Tycar, including, he noted, the resolution. The senior kharvah didn’t like him, and his annoyance at being outmaneuvered was plain, even in the interpreter’s impersonal monotone.

  But Aelgar knew how far he could take it, and managed to avoid outright judgment or condemnation. As did the other men of Yaenida’s House who rose to answer questions about his behavior, their hostility tacit but carefully neutral.

  Nathan looked at none of them until he heard one of them say, “He spends too much time digging in the dirt.” It was Yinanq, one of Yaenida’s great-grandsons, as yet unmarried. Nathan knew he was envious of his forthcoming marriage to Kallah, and raised his head to study the young man with vague curiosity.

  Yaenida blinked at him owlishly, as if perplexed. “He was trained as a botanist. He likes to grow plants. Why should you feel threatened if he chooses to make a garden?”

  The young man’s face was rigidly bland. “He uses tools he takes away from the grounds machines. Why does he need to garden when the machines can do it? The tools are sharp and heavy and he could use them as weapons.”

  Aelgar ducked his head to hide a rueful scowl. Even Yronae winced. Any false accusation, even those implied, would reflect badly on the Family’s integrity.

  “Has he ever made a threat or any gesture like a threat with these tools?”

  “He stabs the ground violently—”

  “Toward you, or any other person?”

  It took Yinanq several empty moments before he grudgingly admitted, “No. But he is strange.” The man’s demeanor slipped. “He should not be allowed to garden. It makes him dirty and smell bad.” Aelgar glanced at him warningly. Yinanq dropped his gaze.

  “Being strange is not a crime,” Yaenida said quietly. “Nor is being dirty or smelling bad, however offensive it might be. Life sciences may be more common to women, but the nurturing of growing things is one of the devotions to our Mother earth, and all that live from Her. Surely you can’t disapprove of that?”

  Although she was speaking to the young kharvah, Nathan was sure her remarks were directed toward the women. The man flushed, but said nothing. “We are not concerned if he shocks your sense of propriety. We are here to decide if Nathan Crewe Nga’esha, your brother, is a violent and dangerous man. Other than the one time with Tycar, have you ever seen Nathan attack or threaten anyone?”

  The man’s lips compressed, determined. “No, but I’ve heard . . .” “Heard what?”

  “I heard he threatened the children in the quarters where he sleeps,” the man finished resolutely.

  In the long silence, Yaenida looked back at Nathan questioningly. He drew a complete blank, his memory sluggish. He shrugged.

  “Threatened how?”

  “He shouted at them, waving his fists and threatening to hit them. They complain they are frightened of him.”

  Nathan shook his head at Yaenida, puzzled; then his face cleared as he remembered. “Ah,” he said. “The malicious little brats tormenting Raemik. I got tired of the noise, and yelled at them to shut the hell up and leave him alone. They did.”

  “In Vanar or Hengeli?” Yaenida asked.

  “Hengeli,” he admitted.

  “Did you ever shout at them again?” she asked wryly.

  “I haven’t had to.”

  He caught the amused looks on the women’s faces from the corner of his eye, but kept his gaze on Yaenida. She rubbed her fingertips over her dry, thin lips thoughtfully.

  “I’d prefer not to bring children into this,” Yaenida said.

  “Then you’ll have to take one of us at our word,” Nathan said evenly. It seemed the lajjae was good for something.

  “Thank you, Yinanq,” Yaenida said finally. He heard the rustle of cloth as the disgruntled man retook his place. “Now, Nathan, we must address the violent behavior you exhibited toward me yesterday.”

  Despite the dampening effect of the band on his wrist, he knew his life depended on his answers now. “Jah’nari l’amae, you’ve been on Hengeli worlds. You know Hengeli express ourselves verbally far more directly and passionately than do the Vanar, but we don’t resort that often to physical violence.”

  “Your wars, Nathan, are quite violent.”

  “Are you judging me, or are you judging the entire Hengeli history and culture?” Even Yronae raised an eyebrow. “I was angry and I shouted at you, l’amae, but I had no intention of striking you or causing you any bodily harm. Despite the fact that I’ve been abducted, sold like an animal, and held prisoner on Vanar—serious crimes on any other civilized world including Hengeli—all I did was shout at you. And for that small offense, you may murder me.” He raised his steel-clad wrist. “I am neither a criminal nor a madman. I’m not sure the same can be said about those who conspired to kidnap me in the first place.”

  He heard the sharp intake of the interpreter’s breath through the bead in his ear as she faltered, then continued translating his words into Vanar. Yaenida regarded him with amused, narrowed eyes.

  “You came to Vanar of your own free will, Nathan,” she said. “Did I?” He forced himself to smile, despite the lack of emotion. The expression felt as strange as a mask being held over his face. He held the smile and sat still with his spine erect. After a very long moment, she nodded.

  Without a word, the men stood up and filed out of the room. Once they had gone and the door closed behind them, the women stood and followed Yronae, retreating to a small anteroom, folding the screen around them. He could barely make out the murmur of voices as they talked among themselves. Except for the omnipresent Dhikar and the interpreter seated behind her, Nathan and Yaenida were alone.

  “So what happens now?” Nathan asked. He noticed the interpreter still recorded their conversation.

  “We wait for their decision.”

  “You don’t have a vote?”

  She smiled. “I have the only vote.”

  “Ah.” He shifted slightly, his knees beginning to ache, and he stared out at the reddening sky. The murmur of voices went on, like the rush of wind through leaves in a tree. He tried to arouse anger, fear, regret. Nothing. He thought of Pratima, and felt no distress he might never see her again.

  When he looked back, Yaenida was still watching him. “Promise me something, Yaenida. Even if you decide to kill me, first tell me why you did this to me. I think I at least deserve an explanation.”

  She considered it before she nodded.

  It took several hours, Yaenida dozing off at one point. The medical taemora discreetly approached the sleeping woman to examine her before gliding silently back out of sight. He placed his hands on the floor, pushing up to relieve the pressure on his throbbing knees, ignoring the interpreter’s scowl of disapproval.

  The muttering continued, rising and falling soporifically. Forbidden to stand, t
he ache spread from his cramped legs up his spine. Finally, he shut his eyes, concentrating on making himself into a thin string, flowing down evenly into the center of the world, trying to escape into the spaces between time and matter.

  It helped enough to startle him back to awareness as the women filed back into the room. Several looked unhappy, including the two from the Changriti Family, and the rest looked far from pleased. Yaenida was instantly awake, her eyes alert.

  “We have discussed this matter completely, Pratha Yaenida Nga’-esha,” one of the women said as they seated themselves on the floor cushions. The others nodded their assent. “We must remember that Nathan Crewe Nga’esha is now legally your youngest son. That of course complicates this matter. His personal offense must be considered as the act of a Vanar, not yepoqioh.”

  The interpreter tactfully translated the term as “foreigner,” although Nathan had heard it often enough to recognize the connotation of “ignorant nonperson not fully civilized.” Yaenida frowned.

  “While the incident is regrettable, we agree he has not demonstrated a sufficiently violent nature to represent any real or lasting threat to your House or to Vanar society.”

  Nathan felt no sense of relief.

  One of the Changriti women spoke. “However, we do feel Vanar culture is incompatible with others of the outside, which his actions have surely proven. For the sake of our own continued harmony as well as doing no injury to other foreigners, we strongly recommend that no more foreign males be allowed admittance to Vanar for any reason whatsoever. While we understand the Nga’esha feel it occasionally necessary to permit foreign guests for business purposes, we strongly urge the Nga’esha to tighten their restrictions on any visiting non-Vanar women and strictly limit contact between the Vanar and foreigners. We further condemn granting citizenship through adoption of non-Vanar into the Families, regardless of gender.”

  “Is this the consensus reached by you all?” Yaenida asked. The women muttered and nodded. “Sisters,” Yaenida said gently to the two Changriti women, “you still appear unhappy. Do you feel this matter of sufficient importance to call an Assembly of Families?”

  After an embarrassed moment, one of the Changriti women answered, “No, Pratha Yaenida. We have an obvious interest in this matter, of course, but there are better things to concern the Assembly than something as minor as a private Family quarrel. We trust, however, you will be able to correct this situation before it becomes a Changriti problem as well.”

  Through the film of his own detachment, he saw Yaenida’s flash of anger at the Changriti’s intimated barb, and wondered dryly at it. “My thanks to you all,” Yaenida said, and watched with hard eyes as the women left. The interpreter packed up her instruments and retreated as Yaenida signaled the taemora, pointing at Nathan’s wrist.

  He watched as the taemora slid the keypin into the band, springing it open, and removed it from his hand. The skin underneath had reddened, itching in the sudden exposure to air. Tiny pinpricks made neat patterns where microscopic needles had inserted themselves into his flesh. He felt no rush of feelings flooding back as he rubbed the chafed skin, looking up expectantly at Yaenida.

  “I’m too tired to go into long explanations at the moment, Nathan,” Yaenida said. “We’ll talk tomorrow, if you’re up to it.”

  “I’ll be up to it,” he said quietly.

  She chuckled. “Don’t bet on it.” As he got to his feet, he grimaced, lurching slightly. His legs had gone to sleep, feeling returning with painful needles as the blood flowed to starved muscles. The taemora caught him by the elbow to steady him gently. Bowing with her hand still holding him, he headed for the door.

  “Naeqilae ae malinam,” he heard Yaenida growl, and for a brief moment thought she was cursing him. Then he remembered the gender shift. Somehow, he understood she meant Lyris.

  XIX

  THE TAEMORA DIDN’T TAKE HIM BACK TO THE BOYS’ DORMITORY, INSTEAD guiding him through a maze of corridors and stairs to a room at the far west end of the women’s house. The single window overlooking a small garden was grilled with an iron lacework rather than the usual carved wood. It was pretty, loops and curls of metal shaped into leaves and birds, and quite secure. When she shut the door, Nathan heard the solid clunk of the deadbolt slide into place. He didn’t much care.

  The room had no decoration at all, but was not quite desolate enough to be called a jail cell. It was not a place he hoped he’d have to spend much time in, although he had lived through worse.

  A few ordinary pillows had been thrown onto a narrow ledge built along one wall, serving as both bed and divan. He sat on the low edge, legs crossed, and stared out through the openings in the metal lace barring the window. Rubbing his wrist, he wondered when his emotions would return, then was curious whether or not they would return. He hadn’t eaten since morning, but he had no appetite.

  He sat quietly for over an hour before he heard footsteps and the bolt sliding back. He turned his head as the door was pushed open, but made no other movement. Raemik held a rolled sleeping mat as the taemora carried Nathan’s own small chest of belongings into the room. She dropped it unceremoniously onto the floor as Raemik slipped wordlessly into one corner. Checking Nathan’s eyes and pulse, she muttered to herself and pressed a medgun against his shoulder, the contents hissing painlessly into his body. He had no interest in what it might be.

  She left, bolting the door firmly behind her. Raemik settled into the corner, sitting on his sleeping roll, chin on his knees.

  “Are you in trouble, too, Raemik?” Nathan finally asked.

  “No. But someone has to watch you.”

  Nathan smiled briefly, glancing at the barricaded window. “I don’t think I could escape. Even if I could, where would I go?”

  Raemik didn’t answer. Nathan leaned against the wall, withdrawn, gazing at the growing darkness without interest. The lights around the outside walls glowed as night fell, the sounds of insects growing in the quiet. Raemik had curled up on his sleeping roll, asleep. Stretching out across the narrow ledge, Nathan dozed off.

  He woke from his recurring nightmare, jerking out of the vivid dream gasping and painfully awake. For a moment, he was sure he was back in prison, sealed in a whitewomb, the suffocating gel clogging his lungs. His heart pounded against his rib cage, racing out of control. His nerves felt as if they were on fire, and he was convinced he was about to die. Raemik’s pale eyes glinted in the dark as Nathan stood up, his legs stiff. He fought down an insane panic, unsure of what he meant to do.

  Then his stomach rebelled and he smacked his hand against the wall panel, throwing up convulsively as the toilet emerged. He fell to his knees, his forehead pressed against the wall, eyes squeezed shut as he wept helplessly. Raemik’s cool hands settled gently on his shoulders.

  The boy helped him back onto his bed and sat next to him silently while he shuddered uncontrollably. Suddenly, Nathan laughed, horrified as the harsh sound tore out of him, leaving him breathless and watery-eyed. The laughter subsided.

  Exhausted, he fell asleep, limbs jerking as nightmares crawled through his brain. A cloud of shapeless black pursued him as he ran, the smell of smoke. His legs sucked down deeper into thick mud, a roar of death behind him he dared not look back at. His own voice crying out woke him. He lay on his back, drenched in sweat. His skin itched as if insects crawled on him. Raemik sat beside him, watching impassively.

  “How long...,” he croaked, swallowing against his parched mouth, “. . . how long does this go on?”

  Raemik shrugged. “I don’t know. The taemora says a day. Maybe two.”

  It was closer to three. On the third day, he had recovered enough to keep himself under control, although the irrational fears had given way to a glum depression. They both glanced up as the door unbolted, but instead of the taemora, Pratima stood in the open doorway. A sharp pang jolted Nathan from his gloom, and he smiled.

  Raemik bowed stiffly as his sister entered, then slipped around her to leave. />
  “You have no need to avoid me, Raemik,” Pratima said sadly in Vanar before he could vanish, but not turning to look after him. “I am your friend.”

  The boy stopped, his face unreadable. He likewise didn’t turn to look at his mother. “No,” he said, his voice old, “you are not.” Then he was gone.

  Pratima sat cautiously next to him. “Along with all the other reasons my brother has for despising me, I think he is also jealous.”

  Then she was hugging him tightly, her thin arms around his neck.

  XX

  THEY KEPT HIM IN THE ROOM, ALTHOUGH THE DOOR WAS NO LONGER bolted against him. He quickly found that he was never allowed out of someone’s sight no matter where he went within the House. Although he was free to walk the small enclosed garden outside his window, the main grounds and the river as well as the doors leading to the outside were now completely forbidden to him.

  For the most part, Pratima stayed with him at night, Raemik slipping away the instant she appeared. She shared his lonely meals, but disappeared from time to time. He asked no questions, and made no complaint, grateful she was there at all.

  When Laendor, one of Yaenida’s numerous cousins, arrived to inform him Yaenida had sent for him, she didn’t even glance at the Pilot, as if Pratima didn’t exist. He squeezed her hand and followed Laendor to the library.

  The room assaulted his senses, the smell of old books, stale smoke, and fresh polish as familiar as the buttery light cutting patterns through the wooden screen, but all of it now felt somehow wrong. Yaenida sat packed in pillows in her usual huge chair, her reader already glowing against the wood grain of the long table. His own reader lay unopened on the table.

  “I trust you are feeling better, Nathan?” she asked him with a mocking smile.

  He wondered if the flutter in his stomach was only a residual effect of the lajjae or if the fear was his own. He stared at her for a long moment, his mouth dry.