by P. J. Fox
Carl returned with the halter and handed it to Kisten, who slipped it over Avinas’ muzzle. He passed Carl the lead rope as the groom produced a box, which Kisten accepted in turn. Opening it, he removed a bottle and a wicked-looking syringe in a sterile pouch. Aria watched, fascinated, as he unwrapped the syringe and drew the injection out of the bottle, holding it up to the light as he bled it to test for air bubbles. A single drop of the vaccine pearled at the tip. Kisten slid his hand over the horse’s neck as he muttered a lot of soothing nonsense, until he found the muscle he wanted. He placed the heel of his hand against the junction of neck and shoulder.
“He kicked you,” Kisten said to Carl, without looking up, “because you tried to inject him in the rump.”
Which, Aria was later to learn, took a great deal less skill. Kisten thumped Avinas on the neck, hard, and again, his matter of fact approach demonstrating obvious experience. The needle plunged in; he checked for blood in the syringe and, when there was none, pushed the injection home.
He handed the syringe to Carl. “Clean him up,” he said, “and send someone to meet us outside.”
He led her down the line to another stall, where a fine-boned specimen stared out at her. Its coat was the same mottled gray as the underside of a stingray. “This,” Kisten said, “is yours.”
“Mine?”
“I had her sent out specially. I think you’ll like each other.” Aria hadn’t thought of anyone liking anyone. Did horses like people? She’d always assumed that, from the horse’s point of view, they must be more or less interchangeable. That a horse might prefer one person over another, or even care, had never occurred to her. She observed the beast with new eyes.
“Her name is Foxy Lady,” said Kisten. “Zoharin named her.” He smiled his odd crooked smile, and Aria smiled back. That Kisten had been a child once, who’d played silly games like Backstab Fish and who had a family and celebrated holidays and did every other mundane thing was sometimes hard to remember. His serious façade cracked very rarely.
He led Foxy Lady into the grooming area, telling Aria about horses generally and advising her specifically on how to interact with them. He handed her the grooming brush, showing her how to hold it, and pointed out which spots were likely to be ticklish. She ran the brush over Foxy Lady’s strangely soft coat, which the horse seemed to enjoy. Kneeling, Kisten lifted a hoof and demonstrated how to pick it. Aria was fascinated in spite of herself.
After showing her how to tack up Foxy Lady, Kisten attached the lunge line to her bridle and led her outdoors. Being inside was one thing; out here in the paddock with the sun shining down on her, Aria experienced another attack of nerves. Foxy Lady seemed huge. Weren’t there steps, or something? How was she, at five feet tall, supposed to get on top of that?
“Now what?” she asked in a small voice.
“Now,” said Kisten, grinning wickedly at her discomfort, “you get in the saddle. But first you check the girth.” He demonstrated. “This is just like checking a gun; even if you’ve just unloaded it, and you know you’ve just unloaded it, check anyway. Make a point to follow the same procedure every time, until you do so reflexively; it can and will save your life.”
He held out his hand. “Come on.”
“I don’t like animals larger than I am.”
“Which only leaves gophers,” he said indulgently. She voiced her concern about steps. He shook his head slightly. “No mounting block. Once you start using something like that, it’s a crutch you’ll never get over.” He smiled in a manner that was no doubt meant to be encouraging. “My sister is short, too, and she’s an excellent rider.”
“You mean your whole family does this?” They really were insane.
He laughed. “I’m expanding your horizons.”
“You’ve expanded them quite enough!” she said indignantly.
He laughed again, and then showed her how to mount her horse. “Hold the reins in your left hand,” he instructed, “and put your right hand on the saddle. That’ll give you a feel for where it is, relative to where you are. Now put your right foot in the stirrup.” He waited. He could be surprisingly patient. “Now,” he said, kneeling down, bend your left knee, just like that, and I’m going to support your heel. On the count of three, stand up on your right leg and I’ll boost you into the saddle.”
“What if the horse moves?”
“She won’t,” Kisten assured her. “She’s well trained.”
A minute later, Aria was shocked to find herself sitting astride Foxy Lady. Kisten held the lunge line. She looked down at him, a novel experience. She was too frightened to move.
“When something goes wrong,” Kisten told her, “most novice riders curl up into a version of the fetal position: hands in their lap, hunched over the pommel, howling and cursing. Or, alternatively, the horse moves unexpectedly, jerking his upper body out of position, and he moves his leg to compensate. In both cases, no part of his body is where it should be.
“Critical to success,” he continued, “is maintaining your balance. Develop a good seat, and the rest will come naturally. Riding isn’t hard.” The face she made in response to this comment was markedly dubious. “It isn’t. Really. People get in trouble later on because they rushed through the fundamentals, ignoring them, or weren’t taught properly. They end up compensating later on, which is where the trouble happens.” He smiled in what was meant to be an encouraging fashion, and she smiled back—if timidly. Maybe things wouldn’t be so bad after all.
He walked her through the correct alignment: ear, shoulder, point of hip and back of heel should all be held in a line perpendicular to the horizon, and she should drop her center of gravity as low as possible; not by digging in her heels, but by letting herself settle in the saddle. “Unlock your lower back,” he instructed, “let Foxy lead you and follow her movement.”
Aria squeaked. She was halfway across the paddock, Kisten walking backwards as he lectured her on the finer points of horsemanship. She’d been concentrating so hard on what she was doing that she hadn’t realized she was moving. Seeing her surprise, he smiled. “See, this isn’t so bad. Eventually, once you feel comfortable, I’ll teach you how to steer.”
Oh, right. She’d have to tell the horse where to go. She patted Foxy nervously on the neck.
“And then,” he said, “we can go riding together and explore our place of exile.”
Which, Aria thought, might not be so bad after all. She was enjoying herself now, because Kisten was. His enthusiasm was infectious and she was pleased, in spite of her reservations, that he wanted her to share the things he loved. He liked spending time with her, and she liked spending time with him. They had interesting conversations about all kinds of topics, ranging from the esoteric to the mundane. He’d taught her to play cards and she’d taught him how to pick berries, something she’d grown up doing in Cabot Lake Township.
She liked the idea of roaming the countryside with her husband, seeing what there was to see. Even Halstead, the continent’s—indeed planet’s—most populated province, was the next best thing to uncharted territory. Outside of Haldon, suburban sprawl gave way very quickly to wilderness. And from the forests to the meadows to the jewel-like scattering of lakes in the foothills, it was breathtakingly beautiful. But more than to simply experience these things, she wanted to experience them with him.
The demands of his position left little private time, when they could relax and just be themselves, two people who were married instead of a prince and his consort. There was an intimacy in his proposed explorations that he craved as much as she.
Every time they were alone together, she found herself falling more in love with him. A sentiment that sounded absurdly drippy even to her own ears, but was nevertheless true. Even though most of their interludes could hardly be considered exciting. He had a job, and responsibilities, and so did she—both as his partner, which could get a bit dreary at times but was nonetheless necessary, and to herself. When she wasn’t chatting up the signi
ficant others of various dignitaries, she was writing and pursuing her own interests. Because, for the first time in her life, she had both the means and the opportunity to do so.
And late at night, after dinner—which invariably included guests of the state that everyone despised—she and Kisten read to each other, and discussed the various doings in town and among the cantonment residents, and he shared his thoughts on his efforts to rebuild their war-torn home. The sewer project was coming along well, with only a few minor setbacks, and a water reclamation program had been implemented that would allow the city’s residents to reuse the thousands of gallons of rainwater that, up until recently, had otherwise been lost to the trash-choked gutters. The equally trash-choked river was being dredged, and the Merchant Council had finally agreed to cooperate with a plan to build schools. Kisten had repurposed one of the recently arrived missionary groups toward preaching the uses and benefits of toilets.
For the first time since she’d arrived in Haldon almost eight months ago, Aria felt real hope.
FORTY-EIGHT
Kisten lay in bed and stared at the high ceiling, which had been painted a delicate robin’s egg blue. The room was a pleasant one, open and airy, spoiled only by the noise of traffic below. People cursed at each other; horns blared. Somewhere, a dog began to bark. He wondered idly if it was the same dog that had been barking earlier.
Renta’s house was in the middle of the closest thing Haldon had to a fashionable quarter. At four stories tall, it blended in well with the handful of other new houses that lined the narrow street but towered over most of the rest. But both new houses and old followed the same basic construction pattern: featureless, almost prison-like outer walls enclosing a courtyard within. Balconies overlooked the small formal garden on all four sides, and the different rooms were mostly accessed either by walking straight from room to room or by stepping out onto them and journeying past one door to another. Although colorless by Bronte standards, Tarsoni architecture nevertheless held a monochromatic charm.
Renta’s room was all different shades of the same blue, accented here and there with white. To Kisten’s right, carved doors opened out onto the balcony. At the center of the garden was a large fountain of the sort one might expect to see in a village square, although the edges were ringed with apple trees. An incongruous note, to a native Bronte. Oranges wouldn’t grow in this climate, at least not outside of a greenhouse.
This was a very feminine space, perhaps not to his taste but he found it relaxing nonetheless. Renta’s young charges, regardless of their actual backgrounds, all appeared well-bred and well educated. And discreet. They were, according to her, all capable of carrying on a meaningful conversation as well as looking fetching in lingerie. Her goal, he knew, was to place them all in good households where they’d have some measure of security. Because, as she’d pointed out once or twice, no one wanted an old whore. He disliked hearing her say so, not because he disagreed with the sentiment but because of the pain behind the words. Renta had chosen her own life—Kisten would have helped her find a husband, if that was what she’d wanted—but she was a realist. And she had him, and always would.
He wondered at Aria’s forbearance, sometimes, but didn’t question her statement of acceptance. He loved Aria and, regardless of what she might think, truly the last thing he wanted was to cause her pain. But even if he’d been forced to give up Renta as a mistress, he never would have cut her out of his life. He owed her a greater debt than he could ever repay, but his attachment went beyond loyalty. Aria was right; he did love her, but not in the romantic, all-consuming sense in which he loved Aria. His feelings for Renta were of a quieter nature; she’d saved his life.
She’d been pleased, she’d told him earlier, that a charge of hers had left the house that morning to become the concubine of an officer with whom she’d been having a long-term affair. It was a common enough story: the man’s consort, disgusted by life in the colonies, had packed her bags and returned home to her mother. He could, she’d told him in no uncertain terms, either resign his commission and come home like a sensible person or resign himself to seeing her and their children once every three years. Home leave wasn’t permitted more often than that.
Listening to her, he’d been reminded unpleasantly of Asif. At least this particular story promised a happier ending. The officer in question had written back and forth with his consort, becoming painfully more aware with each passing month that their lives had diverged past the point of no return. Initially, he’d sought companionship partly out of loneliness but mostly out of anger; he’d show her, as seemed to be a common refrain. He hadn’t wanted anything other than a receptacle into which to vent his urges. Instead, he’d fallen in love with a woman who shared his passion for adventure, a cast off of parents who’d lost interest in her after her own failed marriage to a man who’d been unable to hold down a job even in his own father’s trading house.
A breeze blew in through the door, smelling of roses and scones. Someone was always baking something, at this house. Some university on Brontes had wasted a great deal of money in determining which scents most enhanced male sexual response. Each of the subjects had been given different things to smell, while researchers measured the blood flow to his penis. How any man could keep an erection under those circumstances, Kisten had no idea. Nevertheless, the researchers had discovered that men were aroused by food. The list of top ten smells was entirely composed of different foods: specifically, baked goods. Pies, scones, and doughnuts all produced terrific erections. As did Renta’s clients.
Which was probably why her house had escaped the massacre: Renta was known for her kindness to young girls, and contributed regularly to a number of civic organizations. Between her own considerable success as a madam, her private income and the additional allowance she received from him in exchange for her exclusive favors, she could afford it.
Kisten chuckled to himself. He was lying naked in Renta’s bed, enjoying her soft cotton sheets. His pillow smelled pleasantly of lavender. Most of the bedding was on the floor, but he’d retained half a sheet and it draped him from the waist down. He wasn’t sleepy, despite an extended lunch spent entertaining his hostess, but he had no particular desire to get up and be productive. In another hour or so he’d have to; he was expected at the residence for tea with the financial commissioner. Although Setji wasn’t any less of a pain in the ass than Kisten remembered him—he’d despised his erstwhile roommate as a dandy and a weakling, in their school days—he’d turned out to be unexpectedly good at his job.
Aria was a natural hostess, popular with both the men under his command and the women in their lives. This wasn’t Brontes, and social standards were much more relaxed. Still, there were those like Pasha, vaunted daughter of the House of Singh, who treated those she perceived as violating the natural order with contempt. Aria, meanwhile, treated consort and concubine alike graciously and with tact, earning the gratitude of several powerful men in the process. Aria understood her duties but, more to the point, understood that she was Kisten’s partner and that he needed her help. When he arrived, he’d no doubt find her charming the odious Setji by playing audience to his assorted sordid tales. Undoubtedly to Setji’s great relief, and certainly to Kisten’s, she’d put the awkwardness of her and Setji’s initial encounter behind her.
Still, there was the issue of…for lack of a better term, tact. That Aria knew he was seeing other women didn’t mean she wanted it rubbed in her face. Nor did he want to hurt her, and he wasn’t naïve enough to think that any level of acceptance from any woman meant she wouldn’t be hurt by smelling another woman’s perfume on him.
That problem had been solved, at least, by purchasing her the same perfume. So there would be no telltale traces lingering about him when he came home. A bath only did so much, and he was hardly in a position to have his suit cleaned between now and teatime. It was one thing to know, truly, and another to know. Success in these matters necessitated the careful maintenance of bou
ndaries. And, moreover, the maintenance of a certain illusion. What Aria merely guessed, she could ignore.
Moreover, Renta was hardly the only other woman with whom he amused himself. Although she was the only one he considered a friend. The others were merely playthings. Still, to Aria, another woman was another woman. He’d have thought that more women would be a good sign; it proved just how interchangeable they were to him. But Aria disagreed. He and she understood the arts of love very differently.
Even so, that she was possessive pleased him. He’d be terribly discouraged if she had no possessive feelings toward him at all. He could cope with her insecurities and those few, brief flashes of anger; but he didn’t think he could bear her indifference.
He’d become an expert in conducting multiple affairs at the same time years ago, when he’d still been in school.
He’d been home on leave and had fallen into the arms of not one but two women in quick succession. To describe these two women as mortal enemies would have been to make an egregious understatement. And yet both had been, if neither decent nor kind, then extremely accommodating and eager to please him. Most men were well aware that a certain breed of woman treated men very differently than she treated her own kind and he hadn’t been in the least fooled by their simpering and eyelash batting. Both women were atrocious; sharing, in the end, the sole redeeming feature of having a cunt. And both had, of course, found him out. But by then he was due to return to Mirzapur for the start of the next term.
However sad as her situation made her, he understood why Renta had chosen not to get married. As a courtesan, she was unusual for her breed in that she was, like Aria, a genuinely sweet woman. Their rigidly patriarchal culture gave her little room to maneuver; Renta had sought independence by the only means open to her. But she was utterly lacking in the mercenary instincts that seemed to sustain most other women who resented their lack of options and who refused marriage because they refused to bow down to a man.
