Master of None

by N Lee Wood

  He carefully extracted a small silk-covered object from the folds of his sati and unwrapped it. The petals unfolded into a single huge bloodred hibiscus flower, the stem secured to the thin wire used to anchor it into a braid. A burst of jade beads hung in a cascade under the flower.

  “Is this from you or Yinanq?”

  “Both of us, but it was his idea.” Jayati smiled, the knowing amusement belonging on a much older face. “He is capable of a few of his own, you know.”

  Nathan laughed, and had the boy help him position it into his still unimpressively short braid and wore it proudly the entire day until it wilted. Then he scandalized the men’s house by showing how one could make tea from it, making the flower’s color appear from the brownish infusion with a drop of lemon juice into the white porcelain cup.

  That was one idea that didn’t catch on.

  XXVII

  NATHAN WOKE TO THE SOUND OF RITUAL WAILING, THE EERIE WARBLING carrying from the women’s house like a pack of strange animals on the hunt. The hair on his arms stood up in alarm. He stepped out dressed only in his mati, the hallways in confusion, and saw the Nga’esha men standing with varying expressions of shock, silently unbraiding their hair. His heart sank as Raemik walked toward him, black hair cascading freely across his shoulders.

  “What is it?” But he knew, even as he asked.

  “Pratha Yaenida is dead.”

  Even so, it stopped his breath as much as if he’d been punched in the gut. He knew it had to happen sooner or later. But he had hoped, every day, it wouldn’t be today. He stood rooted, paralyzed, as his mind spun, his first reaction fear and loss. Now that Yaenida was gone, who could he talk to, who would protect him? Guilt followed—the old woman had died and he was thinking of only himself. It didn’t last long. Grief was a selfish emotion.

  “You should unbind your hair,” Raemik said quietly.

  He nodded, his hands numb as he loosened his braid. “What happens now?” he asked, his voice shaky.

  Raemik glanced over his shoulder as Nga’esha men wandered the halls, clutching each other and weeping. The boy’s eyes were solemn, but dry and indifferent. “We wait. This is not a matter that concerns men.” He smiled, the momentary expression caustic. “When they want you, you’ll be sent for.”

  Dazed, Nathan watched the boy walk past him, suddenly aware how much Raemik had grown in the past months. The pubescent softness was almost gone, and although he walked with his sister’s supreme grace, the long sinewy legs and angular shoulders were as masculine as Nathan’s.

  Neither he nor any other of the men was allowed at the funeral. Although none of the others had expected to be, Nathan felt the taboo like a personal slight. The sense of incompleteness left him bewildered. For two weeks, conversations in the men’s house were kept at a low murmur, an air of expectation as social positions shifted into new patterns of influence and power.

  Two days after the funeral, Nathan went to the men’s baths late in the evening, to try to soak away some of his tension in the hot water. Lounging on the steps at one end of the pool he let his thoughts wander, as intangible as the steam floating across the surface of the water. Aelgar waded slowly toward him, emerging from the vapor, his retinue trailing like specters behind him. Nathan wiped the condensation out of his eyes before he recognized the senior kharvah and bowed over pressed palms. Aelgar did not return the ritualistic greeting.

  The stocky potbellied man glared at him. “Move,” he said sharply. “Excuse me?” Nathan was confused more by the abrupt tone than the order.

  “You are occupying a space I want,” Aelgar said. His face twisted with hostile arrogance. “Give it to me.”

  Nathan blinked in surprise. “Of course, jah’nar Aelgar.” He stood up, and waded through waist-deep water from the steps. As he passed Aelgar, however, his feet became tangled with someone else’s. He tripped, falling face first into the water, and narrowly missed hitting his chin against the edge of the pool. He came up sputtering, unhurt, and flailed as he was suddenly shoved and again stumbled into the water.

  This time, instead of trying to stand, he kicked out and swam to clear the small group. Sculling on his back, he glared, his legs churning the water in Aelgar’s direction.

  “Yronae dva Ushahayam ek Nga’esha is the pratha h’máy of this House now, qanistha pautrah,” Aelgar said as he settled himself in the spot Nathan had just relinquished. The others watched Nathan expectantly.

  Nathan stared back, his eyes narrowed. The senior kharvah had addressed him as the youngest son of the youngest son rather than as the brother of the pratha h’máy, the difference in rank making his intent clear.

  “I am quite aware of that, paramah shaelah, most foremost brother-in-law,” Nathan said, choosing his words carefully.

  He caught the quick smirk from one of the men around Aelgar, but watched the senior kharvah’s face closely.

  “My daughter, Suryah, has been named as dalhitri h’máy.” Yronae had had only one kharvah when Suryah was born, Aelgar. Although her two subsequent husbands shared in the Nga’esha birthrights of her subsequent daughters, Aelgar held his high position in the men’s house through his claim on his first child, not through his wife.

  Nathan was suddenly sick of all the petty backbiting, the interminable jockeying, the shifts and skirmishes of Family relationships, the sad and desperate bids for precarious security held only through other people’s lives.

  “Lucky you, then, Aelgar dva Navamam Hadatha,” he snapped. “May your wife, my sister, live as long and as well as my mother.” For as long as he had to wait for Suryah to become the Nga’esha pratha h’máy, Aelgar would be simply a senior kharvah, not the more powerful kinship status of First Father. Nathan would remain a direct relative of the pratha h’máy, even if only through adoption.

  Aelgar did not react for a long moment, then smiled thinly. “Your benefactress is gone, and Pratha Yronae does not much like you,” he said with uncustomary bluntness. “I am blessed with a wife who listens to my counsel. You will need friends and supporters among us, if she even allows you to remain within the Nga’esha House.”

  “And what part of your anatomy do you propose I should kiss, Aelgar?” Nathan retorted, equally blunt. He was rewarded by the surprised murmurs and the flush of red on the senior kharvah’s face that had nothing to do with the heat. Nathan didn’t attempt to hide his anger. “The Pratha Yronae has other brothers. I am not interested in contesting them or you for position. Perhaps it is a failing of my Hengeli background, but I honestly want nothing more than to be left in peace.”

  Aelgar worked his teeth against his bottom lip as he listened. “Leave me alone and do what you like. The Pratha Yronae does not listen to my opinions, and I have neither the experience nor the talent needed for running the men’s house, which you have done an excellent job of in the name of my sister’s father for many years.” Aelgar looked both relieved and satisfied. “Listen to me carefully, Aelgar. I am not your enemy. But I swear to you, you really don’t want to make me one.”

  Nathan stopped, breathing hard, sculling in the deep water. No one spoke in the silence, astonishment on the faces around the pool. The Vanar were not used to direct threats, preferring to hide their intentions behind innuendo and allusions. But slowly, Aelgar nodded.

  “Bhraetae,” he said simply. Brother. Then he relaxed, leaning back against the steps, and closed his eyes.

  The conflict was over.

  Nathan swam to the other end of the long pool, and hauled himself out, still quivering with anger. One of the veteran sahakharae, Margasir, waited for him impassively, already pouring oil into one palm. Nathan lay facedown, his cheek resting on crossed arms, staring across the pool at the small group around Aelgar as the muscular masseur positioned himself on Nathan’s naked buttocks. The sahakharae began to knead his shoulders and back, digging strong fingers into the taut muscles. The older man grunted with disapproval.

  “Relax, qanisth’ aeyaesah, before I hurt you,” Marga
sir grumbled. Nathan grinned despite himself. “How am I the ‘troublemaker,’ Margasir? I was minding my own business.” He winced and squeezed his eyes shut as the sahakharae’s blunt fingers crushed his trapezius muscles under a viselike grip.

  “We all mind our own business,” the sahakharae said. “As Aelgar is minding his.” They didn’t speak for several minutes as the masseur worked. “I am thinking of leaving the Nga’esha House,” Margasir said finally. It was not a casual statement.

  “Why?” Nathan asked carefully. He felt the man shrug through the hands on his back.

  “The l’amae Yaenida was a good pratha h’máy,” he said. “Tolerant and often generous to sahakharae. The jah’nari Yronae is an excellent businesswoman.”

  Nathan analyzed the oblique statement. “Where would you go?” “I was considering perhaps the Changriti.”

  Surprised, Nathan pushed up on his elbows to glance over his shoulder at the sahakharae. Grinning, the man effortlessly shoved him back down to the mat, knocking the breath out of him. “Oof !” He hesitated. “Why the Changriti?”

  “I am old,” Margasir said calmly. He skidded a few more inches down along Nathan’s thighs to knead one hand against the small of his back, the other hand on the smaller man’s neck easily pinning him to the mat. “And I have no práhsaedam here to hold me.”

  Nathan struggled futilely for a moment, then let himself go limp. “Get off of me, Margasir,” he mumbled wearily with his face pressed into the mat.

  The naked sahakharae slid off to sit beside him cross-legged, white teeth sharp in his dark, wrinkled face. Nathan rolled onto one side, leaning on his elbow. “Aelgar is right,” Margasir said. “You will need friends now.”

  “And you know I am not interested in sahakharae.”

  Margasir shrugged. “I am not interested in you either, Nathan Crewe Nga’esha. You are far too ugly,” he said mockingly. Then his smile dimmed. “The new jyesth bhraetaeé will have their own favorites, or they will look for younger men.” He glanced around at the men in the baths, shrewdly calculating. “The changes here, not all will be good for me.” He glanced back at Nathan, dark eyes hard. “I have lived with the Nga’esha long enough to gather those secrets best left buried. I am only Middle Family, and don’t wish to return there. I’ve grown to like the life in the High Families. I have need for friends, too. Especially a young man of High Family who is married to the heir of another.”

  “As her most subordinate and least influential kharvah, Margasir,” Nathan reminded him. “And I’m not exactly in high standing with my newly elevated sister, either.”

  Margasir chuckled. “It’s high enough for me. Make me your práhsaedam, Nathan. If the Nga’esha insist you leave, take me with you when you go back to the Changriti. I am sure I will be of use to you before too long, troublesome bah’chae.” He leaned over to place one incredibly powerful hand on Nathan’s knee with mock seduction.

  “Even if it is only to keep away less refined sahakharae who lust after your golden hair.”

  “You got yourself a deal,” Nathan said in Hengeli. The other man did not have to understand the words to know their meaning.

  XXVIII

  THE NEW PRATHA YRONAE SENT FOR NATHAN TWO WEEKS AFTER PRATHA Yaenida died, the Dhikar escorting him to the Nga’esha principal court. He’d been in this huge room enough times that he shouldn’t have wondered at the odd sense of déjà vu. But as he walked across the familiar polished wooden floor toward the woman he had never been able to consider a sister, he realized what was lacking. He had half expected to see Pratha Yaenida tucked into her heap of pillows on the dais, nonchalantly smoking her water pipe and chuckling wryly.

  Instead, Yronae sat on the dais on a single embroidered cushion, one leg tucked under her, her arm resting across her other knee, her spine ramrod straight. Her daughter Suryah stood behind her mother, one hand resting lightly on the carved rail of the dais, her expression as rigidly austere as her mother’s as he approached.

  Various household taemora and Nga’esha relatives arranged themselves around the margins of the room in clusters according to their degree of privilege or seniority. He recognized most of them by name now and, more importantly, knew his own position relative to theirs down to the last ek and dva.

  No one spoke as he walked toward the Pratha Yronae. It was so quiet he could hear his bare feet whispering on the burnished inlaid floor. No breeze stirred the long streamers of silk, even the tiny brass bells silent. Exactly three paces from her, he bowed over his palms before hooking the end of his sati with his ankle and kneeling with a fluid elegance he’d gained from exhaustive practice, his sati opening just enough to expose his thighs without being offensive, his hands placed precisely on bare skin, his head canted respectfully with his gaze indirect but not inattentive.

  “Qanistha bhraetae, Nathan Crewe Nga’esha,” she said. “Jah’nari bhagini, pratha h’máy Yronae dva Ushahayam ek Daharanan traeyah Nga’esha.” The acknowledgment of his kinship with her and ritual listing of her Family alliances came effortlessly. He felt oddly calm, knowing he’d said it flawlessly—no Vanar could have done better.

  Yronae smiled and nodded her approval with the most remote of gestures, and for an elusive moment he could see Yaenida in her.

  “Your daughter is soon to reach her third birthday, is she not?” “Hae’m, pratha h’máy.”

  “The Nga’esha hear she is an exceptionally bright child, and as precocious as her father.” He wondered if she was making a subtle criticism, but said nothing. “The House of your mothers wishes you continued good fortune with her.”

  “Thank you, l’amae”

  The cordial exchange out of the way, Yronae put out her hand toward one of the taemora. The woman placed a reader in her palm and backed away respectfully. Yronae didn’t so much as look at her.

  “My mother was a most remarkable person,” she said. Nathan risked glancing at her directly, unsure of her meaning. “Perhaps her personality was influenced by her extensive travels and exposure to Hengeli worlds in ways most other Vanar have difficulty understanding. She was fond of many things Hengeli, and I know she reserved great affection for you.”

  He had no idea how to respond to that, so remained silent. Yronae looked down at the reader in her hand. “Usually when the pratha h’máy of a great House such as the Nga’esha dies, the conventions of endowments are reasonably straightforward. However, Pratha Yaenida made certain unique provisions that the honor of this House is bound to fulfill. We have had her testament adjudicated by counsel to the Assembly of Families, and it is their determination that, while certain of these bequests may be peculiar, they are all within the ordinances of Vanar law and must therefore be complied with.”

  She was reading Yaenida’s will, he realized. He glanced up at Suryah’s glacial face, then away, wondering what on earth Yaenida had embroiled him in now, her long reach from even beyond the grave.

  “As the youngest son of the late pratha h’máy, you are entitled to an increase in the lifetime percentage of the Nga’esha household revenues, as custom dictates. The net value has been adjusted from a rate of one-eighty-fifth to that of one-half of one percent per annum.” She looked up from the reader and added impassively, “Not a huge improvement, I’m afraid, but you should have enough to keep your new práhsaedam in fresh hair flowers.”

  One half of a percent of the entire Nga’esha annual income from the Worm would do a great deal more than keep him supplied with flowers, had he been anywhere else other than Vanar, he realized. He nodded without speaking, stunned.

  “Further, the Pratha Yaenida has made a special endowment for you. You are to inherit her private library.”

  “The library?”

  “With certain provisos, of course. The contents of the library cannot be destroyed or sold off, nor any of the furnishings. As per her instructions, all monitoring devices have been removed, and the library is to remain your sole property to use however you see fit during the duration of your lifetime
. Upon your death it will revert back to the Nga’esha Family.” For the first time, Yronae smiled, contemptuously. “Short of burning it down, it is yours to do with what you like. However, may I suggest that any of your more unorthodox ideas such as perhaps raising goats in it might not be appropriate?”

  He wasn’t sure if she was actually making a joke or not. “Hae’m, pratha h’máy.” he murmured absently, still absorbing the shock. “The library was monitored?” he asked.

  “Of course. It isn’t now. You will have complete privacy.”

  “Are all the rooms in the House monitored?”

  Suryah didn’t bother to hide her flash of irritation, but Yronae kept her face an impersonal mask. “The depth of your ignorance is a constant source of amazement to me, Nathan Crewe Nga’esha. I will never understand how my mother could find such unsophisticated and ill-mannered people so entertaining.”

  He knew when to shut up, willing himself back into proper Vanar etiquette, head bowed submissively.

  “One thing further: no one may enter the library except in your presence or by your permission.”

  He blinked, astonished. “No one?”

  “No one,” she repeated. “Not even myself, although might I assume that as your pratha h’máy this permission is granted as a matter of course?”

  He sat back on his heels, his mind whirling. “Hae’m, pratha h’máy,” he said before he had thought about it. Then he added cautiously, “I would be honored to accompany you at any time you desire, jah’nari l’amae.”

  Her smile thinned, but without hostility. He had managed to defer to her without allowing her into the library on her own. She tilted her head in the suggestion of a bow, acknowledging his victory, then snapped the reader shut.

  “That is all. You may go.”

  He stood and bowed, pausing briefly when one of his nieces handed him a small, ornate paper box without explanation. A brief glance back at Yronae didn’t encourage him to ask questions.