Master of None

by N Lee Wood

  Why in the world she had suddenly discovered renewed passion for him, especially at this moment, he couldn’t fathom. But as he slid back the door to her private rooms, it was all too obvious that was exactly what was on her mind.

  Pregnancy hadn’t been all that kind to Kallah. Stretch marks had been removed and her body skillfully resculpted, but she had never quite been able to lose the weight she’d gained after the birth. The grain of her skin had coarsened, her muscles still slack. Someone had spent as much effort on hiding her flaws while embellishing her best features as Margasir had done for him. Kallah lay artfully arranged on the spacious bed, half hidden by the long curtains of sheer silk drifting around the sides. Archaic candles bathed the room in a soft glow while the aroma of the narcotic incense impregnated into the wax filled the room. She wore the sheerest of tasmai, softening but not concealing the ornate corselette fashioned out of more gold wire and winking gemstones than fabric. It did its job admirably, Nathan had to admit, pushing up her breasts while accentuating the roundness of her belly in true Vanar style.

  “Be welcome, koshah,” she said, her voice husky. Her sentimental flattery didn’t soothe his uneasiness. “Would you care for a little wine?”

  Without waiting for whatever answer he might give, she gestured to one of the ubiquitous Dhikar, who poured them both a glass each, serving Nathan first before his wife. He mumbled his thanks and drank half of it in one gulp.

  She smiled flirtatiously, and he did his best to return it.

  “You may leave now,” she said, which baffled him until the Dhikar bowed and glided out of the room, which baffled him even more. Kallah motioned to him to join her on the bed. “We are completely alone.”

  “I did notice,” he said guardedly.

  She patted the bed. “Come sit with me, beloved.”

  He smiled back wanly and pulled the sheer bed curtain aside to sit beside her. She unfastened his pin and drew the end of his sati off from his shoulder, running her hands along the fabric covering his chest. Wincing as her fingers grazed a tender spot, he gritted his teeth in a determined smile. Her hands stopped as she looked up into his face with relish. “Did that hurt?” she whispered throatily, and rubbed her thumb against the wound more vigorously. This time he couldn’t keep the twinge from showing, hissing through his teeth as he reflexively grabbed her wrist.

  “Yes, l’amae, that hurts.”

  He expected her to rebuke him for daring to wrest her hand away, but strangely, she seemed more aroused than annoyed. “Show me. I want to see....”

  “It isn’t a pleasant sight.”

  “Show me.” This time there was no mistaking the command in her tone.

  Laboriously, he drew the mati over his head. She examined the wounds on his chest and abdomen with intimate care, her fingers caressing the healing incisions gently. Her elaborately lacquered nails traced the old scar on his left side, long healed.

  “My mother hates the sight of this,” she said.

  “Believe me, it was no pleasure acquiring it, jah’nari l’amae.” “Whenever she goes to watch the men bathe, if you are there, she will not stay. She thinks you purposely flaunt this scar just to insult her.”

  He didn’t respond, uncomfortable with the sudden knowledge that the Changriti men’s baths were observable to their pratha h’máy and making a mental note to avoid them in the future. And while Kallah knew his marriage had not been some clever scheme the Changriti pratha h’máy duped the Nga’esha into, a lie the scar on his side proved, she didn’t seem to care.

  Kallah bent her head to his chest, her hair screening her face as her lips brushed his injured skin with soft kisses. Maybe it was the maternal instinct coming out in her, he wondered.

  Then she bit him.

  “Ow! Goddamn it, Kallah!” He reacted before he had a chance to think, shoving her away from him. When she laughed and went for him again, he caught her by both wrists and had to wrestle her down to the bed. His broken hand throbbed, and he panted more in pain than exertion, straddling on top of her. Whatever painkiller Margasir had given him wasn’t nearly as effective as he’d hoped.

  “Kallah, nidhih paramah, darling, beloved, I wish you’d stop, please, this is most painful. . . .”

  She managed to shake off one hand, reached up to grab him by the hair, and yanked him down on top of her, her mouth clamping to his.

  “Mmph! Ouch! Stop it! Shit!” This time, they ended up sprawled half off the bed, his forearm jammed under her chin to keep her from biting him any further while he parried her flailing arms with his other hand.

  Then she stopped struggling, her face flushed. “Take me, Nathan,” she breathed.

  “Khee?”

  “Take me the way you would an Hengeli woman. There’s no one watching, you can do whatever you wish to me. . . .”

  She threw herself back limply as she wriggled her hips beneath him in what he assumed she assumed to be a provocative manner. “Oh. Right,” he murmured, completely bewildered now.

  “I want to feel like an Hengeli woman,” she said. “Be forceful, Nathan. Overpower me, ravish me, hurt me . . .” Then she eyed him warningly. “But don’t hurt me too much....”

  This was going to be a rather long night, he suspected. Mercifully, while Margasir’s analgesics hadn’t done much for him, whatever he’d given Nathan as an aphrodisiac was working excellently. Not that Kallah was helping much; every time he managed to position himself where it might do some good, she either whacked him on his broken hand or punched him in his extremely sore ribs. Finally he staggered off the bed altogether, landing on his backside on the floor in a snarl of sati silk and bedlinen.

  “Fine, if that’s how you want it, we’ll do it your way,” he said in Hengeli, furious as he stood up and shook the tangle of cloth from around his legs.

  “Yes, yes!” Kallah cried, rapturous. “Talk dirty to me in your savage language, treat me like an Hengeli woman!”

  Then she gasped in surprise as he grabbed her by both ankles to flip her over on her stomach, and launched himself onto her back. As he landed, he gasped himself, agony shuddering through him. Once he’d gotten his breath back, he seized her by the hips, hoisted her rear end into the air, and without any additional finesse plunged into her.

  “You goddamned people are all crazy,” he grunted, his words chopped into a fierce tempo. “If I tried this sort of crap with an Hengeli woman, she’d have my balls off in a pickle jar so quick I wouldn’t know what the hell hit me.”

  Kallah, whose command of Hengeli might possibly have included the profanity, squealed in ecstasy, her now safely ineffective fists pummeling pillows instead of him. Sweat poured off him, making his grip on her slippery. He nearly lost his hold as she tried to slither from under him. “Oh, no you don’t,” he scolded, grabbed her by the nape of the neck and pushed her head down, scooting his knees under her thighs to make it impossible for her maneuver.

  It must have been gratifying for her, as a few moments later her entire body shuddered violently and she shrieked so loudly it panicked Nathan, thinking he must have genuinely hurt her. He froze, fearful the Dhikar would rush in at any moment to rescue her, before she collapsed as boneless as a dishrag. Realizing, he strained to conclude the deed, managing it a few laborious minutes later. He felt hollowed out, and prayed he had done enough for one night to satisfy her as he rolled off to sprawl on the bed, winded, aching, and exhausted.

  He didn’t remember falling asleep, only being suddenly aware he was still in bed lying on his back, Kallah nestling against his chest with her hands tucked like a child’s under her cheek. His head throbbed, and every joint in his body had stiffened.

  She must have known he was awake, as she began kissing his chest gently, her lips soft and dry. He groaned, slipping his one good arm under her neck to hold her against him, hand on her shoulder.

  “Nathan?”

  “Mm-hm?”

  She remained silent so long he wondered if she’d forgotten what she wanted to ask and
had fallen asleep.

  “Do you still think of Pratima?”

  Every minute of every day. “Sometimes.”

  He had almost drifted back to sleep himself when she asked, “Were you thinking of her tonight, with me?”

  He drew away from her just far enough to look down into her anxious face, her eyes vulnerable. He laughed, a single snort, before he tenderly kissed her on the forehead and caressed her cheek with his broken hand. “No,” he reassured her. “Hand on my heart, Kallah, not for a single moment, I swear.”

  Relieved, she smiled back and closed her eyes as she snuggled closer. “You have pleased me well, nidhih kharvah. You are permitted to stay the night with me.”

  “Gosh, thanks,” he said in Hengeli. She was asleep moments later, snoring lightly, her breath wafting warm and cold air through the damp hairs on his chest. His fingers idly toying with strands of her hair, he stared up in the dark, now unable to think of anything but Pratima.

  XXXVI

  UKUL DAHARANAN WAITED TO BE ACKNOWLEDGED, STANDING IN THE archway of the Changriti’s men’s garden. Nathan looked up, startled, from where he sat in the shade of the courtyard arcade, then bowed politely over the reader in his lap and hurriedly swept the scattering of cubes on the ledge out of the way. “Please, be welcome, paramah shaelah.”

  Strangely, the senior kharvah’s usual expression of hostility was absent as he bowed in return but didn’t sit down. “Pratha Eraelin wishes to see you,” he said in barely a whisper. “Now.”

  Oh, shit.

  In all the time he had ever spent in the Changriti House, he had never once been summoned to Eraelin’s presence, never even seen the inside of the Changriti private council room. It was, surprisingly, larger even than that of the Nga’esha, with an excellent view of the mountains beyond the elaborately vaulted windows.

  Several Changriti women lined the wall bench or the wide ledges of the windows around the room, and an impressive number of Changriti Dhikar stood vigilantly. Ukul escorted him into the hall, and took his place with Eraelin’s senior kharvah and a few other privileged members of the male household. Nathan spotted Margasir among them, relieved to have at least one ally present.

  Eraelin sat on a dais similar to the Nga’esh’s in the center of the hall, the Changriti Family emblem carved on the latticed wood behind her. Kallah stood beside her, her hand resting on the back of her mother’s dais, as custom dictated. Eraelin watched him approach with glacial disdain, while his wife looked miserable.

  He stopped three paces in front of her and swept back the edge of his sati to kneel on the hard floor with not even the traditional woven mat to cushion his knees. He bowed deeply before sitting back on his heels, and waited for the pratha h’máy to speak.

  The tense silence continued for several minutes, but Nathan kept his gaze exactly where it should be, without fidgeting, in defiance. Eraelin nodded to one of the Dhikar sentries. At her signal, Vasant Subah appeared in the archway holding Aenanda by the hand. His daughter looked around anxiously, then brightened when she spotted Nathan.

  “Daddy!” she called to him in Hengeli.

  The Qsayati shushed her, and he shook his head at her warningly. Aenanda sobered, unhappy and confused, as she was led to a spot where they both could see each other. He fought down the flash of anger as Vasant Subah pulled the little girl into her lap.

  “The Changriti are greatly displeased,” Eraelin said finally. When she said nothing further, he waited pointedly several moments to highlight her own discourtesy. “I am sorry to hear that, jah’-nari l’amae.” He kept his tone neutral, but unapologetic.

  “Your ludicrous claim you were assaulted has been unsubstantiated, and any continued insistence of an investigation into what was clearly your own clumsiness is causing embarrassment to respected members of this Family. You will retract these allegations immediately.”

  He risked a glance at the Dhikar Qsayati. “I will of course accept any official result the Dhikar have reached from their investigation. But I do not withdraw my statement.” Vasant Subah snorted her contempt and looked away.

  “The Changriti are not in the habit of being humiliated by un-seemly public disputes,” Eraelin snarled, her voice thick. “I insist you retract your allegations and further instruct your vaktay to terminate her disgraceful legal proceedings at once.”

  He recognized the syntax she used to address him as insultingly low, one that he, as the son and brother of two pratha h’máy could expect never to be addressed in. He forced himself not to react, aware that Kallah dropped her own gaze in embarrassment.

  “My deepest regrets, jah’nari l’amae, but I must refuse.”

  “I will not tolerate your anmaenavah insolence,” Eraelin snapped. “I have never believed you capable of becoming truly civilized, and I have finally been proved right. Even your own Family has evicted you. Do you presume the Changriti are any less vigilant? If you do not renounce this shameful behavior immediately, you will be expelled from the Changriti House as well.”

  He still held himself rigidly correct, determined not to give her the satisfaction of pushing him into breaking the inflexible rules of Vanar conventions.

  When he didn’t answer, she said, “Furthermore, you would give us no choice but to have you repudiated as Kallah’s husband, causing enormous distress to your wife and your own daughter, as well as the Nga’esha Family when they are compelled to pay compensation for your abrogated marriage contract. You risk becoming naekulam, and you will never be allowed to see Aenanda again. Stop this foolishness now, and you may remain in the Changriti House with all honor intact.”

  He looked up at Kallah’s dismayed expression, then glanced at his daughter wriggling restlessly in Vasant Subah’s less than maternal grasp, the child obviously not understanding what was happening.

  “I renounce nothing, jah’nari l’amae,” he said tightly.

  The hush in the hall was so complete he imagined no one dared even breathe. Then Aenanda whimpered, trying to squirm out of the Dhikar chief’s grip. His teeth clenched, making his jaw ache.

  “How dare you defy me?” Eraelin hissed. “How dare you?” “Because I don’t want my daughter to see her father as a coward and a hypocrite—”

  Eraelin shot to her feet, all semblance of formal decorum gone. “Shut up! Shut up, you filthy goat turd! Don’t you presume to speak to me in that manner!”

  He stared at her, unsurprised by her ferocity but startled at her loss of control. She quivered with so much rage he thought for a moment she would leap down from her dais to attack him herself.

  Aenanda began to cry. “Daddy, I want my daddy...”

  At that, his composed facade cracked, and he risked looking at Kallah imploringly. Her chin quivering, she snapped her fingers. For a moment, Vasant Subah didn’t react until Kallah turned to glare at her dangerously, then she handed the child to a Dhikar. Aenanda struggled as she was carried bodily from the hall, her limbs flailing in ineffectual outrage. “Let me go! I want my daddy!” Her small voice faded, leaving a poisonous silence in its wake.

  With visible effort, Pratha Eraelin settled back onto the cushions and arranged her sati carefully. “Leave this House immediately,” she said finally, her voice trembling. “You are never to return here again.”

  He stood up, bowed to her deferentially, and walked from the room in a dignified calm he didn’t feel. As he passed the men, both Ukul and Margasir also stood and followed him out. Once outside, Ukul asked softly, “What shall I do with your things?” There was no triumph in the man’s voice, no satisfaction his rival had been ousted. He seemed genuinely shaken.

  “Send them to the Nga’esha House. Ukul . . .” The senior kharvah glanced up, and Nathan’s throat constricted painfully. “Please take care of our daughter for me.”

  Ukul’s eyes reddened as he nodded, and left Nathan and Margasir at the entrance to the men’s house. The two hadn’t made it out of the Changriti Estate before a young woman ran up from behind them, catching Marg
asir by one arm to stop him.

  “Margasir,” she said, pleadingly and out of breath, “you don’t have to go with him, don’t leave....”

  The woman spoke as if Nathan weren’t there, ignoring him as completely as a ghost. The sahakharae glanced at Nathan then back to her, his face phlegmatic. “He’s my práhsaedam, l’amae,” he said coldly. “As well as a brave man. Would you ask me to be any less than he is?”

  “But you’ve told me yourself, you don’t even agree with him!” she protested.

  “No, I don’t. But I do believe in honor and loyalty. Something the Changriti House should learn to appreciate.” He turned away, his face stony as she screamed tearful abuse after him.

  As they walked toward the men’s trains, Nathan said, “You don’t think what I’m doing is right.” He made it a statement.

  Margasir shrugged one shoulder. “I will defend your right to be wrong. If I do not, who will defend me when I am wrong?” Nathan stopped, looking down at the road in confusion. “What is the matter with you now?” Margasir demanded, annoyed.

  “I can’t go back to the Nga’esha.” He looked around vaguely. “I have nowhere to go.”

  After a moment’s silence, Margasir said more gently, “Perhaps my friends the Pakaran will—”

  “No. They are good people who don’t need my bringing them trouble. I certainly can’t sleep on a park bench and risk Vasant Subah arresting me for vagrancy. The only place I can think of is a charity shelter.”

  “You can’t go there,” Margasir objected. “You’re High Family, not naekulam. You would create a scandal!”

  Nathan laughed harshly. “A scandal? Pratha Yronae threatens to imprison me, Pratha Eraelin disowns me, my wife is divorcing me, they’ve taken my daughter away, and you’re worried that I will create a scandal?”