Master of None (14 page)

By midafternoon, he would climb the rubble of the damaged wall, checking through the cover of foliage to be sure no one was looking before lowering himself back into his stifling cloistered life. No one ever seemed to miss him, and he wondered if Yaenida knew about his private sanctuary.

Except for the rainy season, the weather remained monotonously warm and fair, reflecting his repetitiously empty days. Whenever the slightest change occurred, it was greeted with enthusiasm usually outweighing the event itself. When the really unusual happened, the exhilaration rippled through the men’s quarters with a festive spirit.

Pratima is coming.

He had no idea who Pratima was, but any novelty was welcome, the undercurrent of excitement infectious. The younger boys had trouble calming down in the evening, making sleeping in peace more of a problem than usual. Mock fights broke out, nervous wrestling while keeping a guilty eye out for adult reproach. Nathan noticed one boy getting more than his fair share of the furtive abuse.

He was past puberty—only Nathan was older—and Nathan wondered why the boy hadn’t been moved into the men’s house when he’d come of age to be sponsored by his father or an uncle, or even an older cousin. He stood out even without being the oldest boy there, his pale blue eyes setting off skin so blanched it seemed almost blue itself. Nathan would have thought him an albino were it not for his jet black hair. The boy endured the incomprehensible taunts stoically, yet the more the boy ignored the bullies’ teasing the worse it got. Finally, more annoyed at being kept awake than from altruism, Nathan had jumped up from his tiny bed and stalked over to where three of the boy’s tormentors had cornered him. They turned, staring up with their mouths open in startled O’s.

“Get the fuck away from him, you miserable little bastards,” he growled in Hengeli, knowing they didn’t understand the words. They understood the tone, however, as well as the anger of a fully adult man towering above them. They scattered. The dark-haired boy stared at him without alarm, but with a strange look of detached curiosity.

Nathan’s spontaneous gesture elected him the boy’s unwilling protector. They ate together, and with some rearrangement of sleeping mats, slept side by side. The boy accepted his daily disappearances without question or reproach, more of a presence than a friend. He rarely spoke, to Nathan or anyone. It took Nathan most of the week just to get the boy’s name out of him: Raemik.

Pratima is coming.

Nathan’s excursions were interrupted, as well as his morning lessons with Yaenida. Aelgar, Yronae’s senior kharvah, began rehearsing small groups for the upcoming banquet with a fervor bordering on hysteria. Aelgar’s hair, liberally streaked with gray, had receded from his temples, not helped by his habit of chewing on the end of his braid when nervous. During that week, Nathan kept tabs for his own amusement on how much hair the man gnawed off.

Since Nathan knew next to nothing of the essential etiquette, the senior kharvah appointed him to minor serving duties. While dozens of boys and younger men perfected intricate dances and the older men studied polite conversation and music, Nathan was drilled like a conscripted soldier on basic serving techniques: which hand to use to put a platter on the table, when to fill a cup or glass, how to sweep aside the sati folds when bending over to serve a full plate so as not to trip and inadvertently dump the meal into the diner’s lap.

Raemik had silently followed Nathan with the rest, his solemn eyes wide. But when Aelgar had frowned and snapped his fingers, the boy had faded away as silently as a ghost. Excluded from the general activity, Raemik waited each night in the deserted garden for Nathan. When he came to look for the boy, Raemik simply stood and followed him without response, no relief, no resentment.

The emotion Nathan had seen on the boy’s face was fear: every time Pratima’s name was whispered, his already white skin paled even further.

On the morning of Pratima’s arrival, Raemik vanished. Nathan spent an hour searching for him before Aelgar hustled him along with ill-disguised impatience. By the time the banquet began, he’d forgotten about the boy in the frenzied activity.

The music and laughter had gone on for hours before he was booted out the door to retrieve empty plates. For the first few passes, he concentrated on collecting plates without dropping them or screwing up the intricate protocol, without even noticing the people he gathered them from. Then, with delayed shock, he noticed the women were not Vanar. They weren’t Hengeli, either, and looked so ill at ease in their unfamiliar surroundings none of them even noticed his gawping.

“Move,”
Aelgar hissed behind him, startling him back into motion. He quickly retrieved dirty dishes while trying to eavesdrop on what little snatches of Hengeli he could overhear and figure out where the women were from by the native language they spoke among themselves.

He was wondering if he dared risk speaking to them when the second surprise of the night made him stop and stare. A woman in a black sati lounged beside Yaenida, serenely smoking a water pipe. Thin, almost skeletally so, with black hair framing a sharp-chinned face, her pale blue eyes set off skin so white it nearly glowed. It was as if Raemik had suddenly changed sex and grown twenty years older. This, he knew instinctively, was Pratima.

As if he had made some noise calling her attention, she glanced up at him with a colorless expression, then idly looked away.

The fourth time he passed behind Pratima, precariously balancing an armful of plates while observing the woman from out the corner of his eye, she said coldly without looking at him, “You are staring at me,
qanistha bhraetae
, little brother.”

Although her voice was soft, he could hear her clearly through the laughter and noise. She raised her face to him, the irises of her eyes so pale they seemed only visible by a thin blue ring separating them from her sclera, black pupils standing out in stark relief. Yaenida leaned back to look up at him as well, her lips quirked up into a wry smile.

“This naeqili offers humblest of apologies, jah’nari l’amae,” he stuttered out in bad Vanar.

Pratima’s only response was the tiniest rise of an eyebrow. It was astonishingly like Raemik. Then she turned away, ignoring him as completely as if he no longer existed.

Aelgar considered this evidence of dissatisfaction with Nathan’s performance, and abruptly switched him to the lowest possible job: banishment to the kitchen where he fed dirty plates into the washer for the rest of the evening. His slim chance of speaking with any of the foreigners was lost. Shortly after, he and the rest of the lower-status men were curtly dismissed, escaping with their own plates piled high with looted treats to gorge themselves in private.

He was not there when Raemik was presented, but Tycar, one of the younger sahakharae who had taken a more than comfortable interest in Nathan, relayed the gossip in slow, simple Vanar. Raemik had been ushered in, dressed in his best sati and drenched head to toe in gold and jewels. He could have been stark naked, the sahakharae commented, for all he seemed aware of his finery. The boy had removed the end of his sati, bared head high and proud, and looked straight at Pratima with his usual inert expression.

“Welcome, Sister,” he had said, and other witnesses agreed with Tycar that the boy’s voice had been clear and steady. “It is a joy to finally meet you.”

Pratima had said nothing for a long moment, then smiled. “It pleases me, young brother, to see how well you have grown.”

Raemik bowed, and she returned it before the boy turned and walked away, spine erect.

“It was as if he were like fog,” the sahakharae said, illustrating with his hands. “He had such grace, as if he had no feet, floating like morning mist along the ground. Not one sound. Even with all that jewelry, he made not one sound!”

But Raemik had made one sound that night that Nathan knew of. The boy had tapped Nathan’s shoulder far late in the night, wakening him, and sat on his haunches silently, eyes glittering in the dark. Nathan snorted awake, and stared at Raemik questioningly before he raised the sheet. The boy slid in beside him, curling his thin body into the curves of Nathan’s torso and legs, shivering violently.

Hesitantly, Nathan draped his arm over the boy’s side, his hand curled to cup the boy’s thin shoulder. For an awkward moment, he wondered if Raemik was expecting him to make a sexual advance before he realized the boy was crying, the sound barely audible.

He was only a scared, lonely child desperate for comfort, and Nathan had a sudden ache in his throat. He rocked him gently, shushing in the boy’s hair until they both fell asleep.

X

T
HE FOREIGN STRANGERS LEFT AND PRATIMA STAYED, ALTHOUGH THE
rhythm of the Household soon returned to near normal over the next few weeks. Yaenida seemed distracted, half Nathan’s lessons canceled. He saw little of Raemik during the day, but the boy didn’t repeat his single nocturnal visit. Nor, it seemed, was Nathan needed as his protector any longer. The younger boys and most of the men avoided Raemik with an almost uncomfortable diligence. Nathan spent more time in his private sanctuary, not realizing how much he missed the boy’s company.

On a cool midmorning, Nathan jumped the fence and hiked the distance to the river. When he reached the line of trees bordering the clearing, he stopped in surprise before ducking behind a covering of bushes. A woman dressed only in a black mati stood motionless on one foot, balanced on her toes, an alien shape in the clearing. Her other leg bent up at an acute angle, her foot at waist level, held out on a flexed leg. Her arms were held out from her sides, elbows bent and palms up, her thumb and middle finger together with the rest of her fingers splayed. Her head canted up to face the sun. The light dappled her white skin, reflecting colors, the green of leaves, brown earth, gold sun. A long thick braid of black hair hung down her back, the slight breeze lifting strands from her sharp face, her eyes half closed with a thin sliver of white showing, her mouth slightly open.

Pratima.

For a moment, resentment soured in his mouth. Annoyed with the trespasser intruding into his private domain, he then remembered he was not supposed to be here at all, and wondered if he could steal away before she spotted him. He studied her for a moment, trying to judge if she suspected his presence, and was startled by how absolutely inanimate she was, not simply still. No hint of breath, no slight quiver of muscles maintaining her balance. She looked like a sculpted dancer frozen in midstep, as still as if she were carved from stone. As inert as death.

He hid in the bushes behind the tree line and watched her for several minutes. His legs began to ache slightly from the crouch, and he shifted his own position as quietly as possible, amazed at the same time she had not moved at all. He decided she was unaware of him and it would be best for him to retreat as quietly as possible. He had moved only slightly to turn back before her eyes opened, head swiveling to stare straight at him unerringly.

“Stay, young bhraetae,” she said softly. He wondered how long she had known he was there. She swayed slightly, as if released from a spell, and lowered her arms and leg. “Join me.” The gentleness of her voice made it seem more a request than an order. She sat down on the ground cross-legged, recovering her sati from the grass and draping it casually around her shoulders.

He’d been caught. If it was forbidden, it was too late now. His heart thumping, he walked into the clearing and sat at a remove from her. Hands together, thumbs against his chest, he bowed slightly, keeping his eyes on her.

“Humblest apologies, l’amae,” he said in slow Vanar, struggling for the proper words. “This person (
bottom scrapings of the barrel status male
) means (
keep it in the present tense, stupid, it’s easier that way
) no trouble (
damn, is ‘trouble’ masculine or feminine?
) to you (
dative declension, highest possible status, just in case . . .
).

She returned the gesture somberly. “Nathan, isn’t it?” she asked in fluent Hengeli. Her accent was light, pleasant, pronouncing his name correctly but with an oddly old-fashioned accent, as if she’d learned the language from watching vintage entertainment programs. “Nathan Crewe. And, no, you didn’t disturb me.”

“You speak Hengeli,” he said, astonished.

“Among a few other languages. But I admit, I was expecting someone else.”

“Raemik,” he guessed. “I don’t think he knows about this place. I doubt he’d come even if he does if he knew you were here. Raemik is afraid of you,” he added, not sure why he was volunteering the information. She seemed to think about that for a moment, and nodded. “Sorry to disappoint you, it’s only me.” He tried a smile.

“I’m never disappointed.”

He hesitated, then asked, “How do you do that?”

She didn’t pretend not to understand him. “I could try to explain it, but I’m not sure you would believe me. It has to do with balancing on the alignment of the earth. It isn’t difficult, but it’s something that must be learned from birth.”

“Like Vanar.” He chuckled wryly.

“Not like Vanar,” she said seriously. “I was born to it.” She gazed at him with her astonishingly pale eyes, making him uneasy. As if she knew the effect, she turned her head slightly and spoke softly while watching the leaves flutter overhead. “I’m a Pilot.”

After a moment, he was aware his mouth was hanging open, and he bit his lip. “But I thought you were Vanar,” he finally managed, and mentally kicked himself.

“I
am
Vanar,” she said, amused. “All Pilots are Vanar.”

“I know that, but what I meant was I didn’t think Pilots ever left the Worms,” he amended lamely.

She smiled fleetingly. “What you meant is you thought Pilots were all hideous freaks who drink the blood of newborn babies to remain immortal. Sorry, that’s only a myth.”

“Like the one that all Hengeli men are psychotic rapists?” he shot back.

She laughed, the sound oddly musical and alien. “Touché. But it is true that Pilots rarely do go to ground. I don’t like being planetbound. It’s quite uncomfortable.” She glanced at him, and away again. “I spent some of my childhood here, though. This was my private spot when I was young and wanted to escape my teachers, too. When I have to come back, I like to come to this place.” She patted the old tree with affection. “Although it’s changed a little,” she said with a touch of irony.