Master of None (34 page)

“I’ll be happy to lend you a few cubes.” He took a putty knife from a pocket in his overalls and trimmed the caulk, the excess curling away in neat corkscrews. He glazed the rest of the door in silence, aware that the sahakharae remained where he was. When he’d finished, he swung the door open and closed experimentally to inspect the balance, and was satisfied.

The drone returned with the final load of stone, hooked itself into the small mixer for the mortar, and resumed constructing the back wall. Nathan cut open another bag of dry cement and poured it into the mixer, the drone measuring the proper amount of water itself. He shook his head, fine powder dusting his skin and hair, then glanced in irritation at the sahakharae still watching him silently.

“Is there anything else you wanted?” Nathan said crossly.

“Have I offended you in some way, jah’nar bhraetae? Is my music unpleasant to your ear?”

The boy seemed genuinely anxious, which only fueled Nathan’s exasperation. “No, Qim. Your music is...I like your music. It just reminds me of... someone.”

“Ah,” Qim said quietly. Nathan continued working while the sahakharae sat cross-legged on the ground, watching. After several minutes of silence, he said, “You should come back to the kaemahjah. It isn’t good to love anyone so much, Nathan Nga’esha, especially not a woman.”

“I hardly need advice on love from a damned sahakharae,” Nathan snapped. “And you have neither the age nor the experience to justify it.”

Nathan would have welcomed a quarrel, but instead the sahakharae swallowed, visibly shaken. Hands together and pressed to his forehead in the most deferential fashion, he bowed in contrition. “You are of course entirely correct. Please forgive my presumption, jah’nar Nga’esha, I meant no offense.”

Nathan’s shoulders slumped in defeat. “Forget it, Qim, it’s ...not a problem. I’m touchy about foolish things.” The boy straightened uncertainly. “If you want to come by my room later on tonight, I’ll lend you whatever takes your interest.”

Qim bowed again, this time with ordinary courtesy, and got to his feet. “Thank you. I will be honored.” Nathan didn’t watch him go.

He continued the work on his greenhouse, expending his anger on hard exertion, stopping only when it became too dark.

It wasn’t Qim who showed up that evening, however, but Margasir who appeared in the doorway waiting to be noticed and invited in.

“Yahaem ayo,”
Nathan said, surprised as he took the soundpearl out of his ear. He had been listening to some of his Hengeli music to decide which the boy might like.

Margasir came in, bowed his thanks as Nathan waved him to sit down. Even with his new práhsaedam, he had to follow the usual Vanar ritual of sipping liberally spiked coffee and commenting on innocuous subjects until the sahakharae got around to the point. Margasir, thankfully, knew how little patience Nathan had with formality and kept it to a minimum.

“I had a chat with one of my protégés this afternoon.” “ ‘Protégés’?” Nathan grinned. “Is this where I throw a temper tantrum to protest my jealousy?”

Margasir at least smiled at Nathan’s attempt at a joke. “No. This is where I prove myself as useful to you as I promised I would be. You may not realize it, being only an ignorant yepoqioh naeqili, but you’ve managed to attract a práhsaedam with a distinguished reputation. Families with promising boys engage me to train them to become sahakharae. Every one of my protégés has gone on to find placement in the High Families. You know this one. Qim, the musician?”

Nathan grimaced. “And no doubt he complained to you about what an uncivilized ill-mannered yepoqioh naeqili I am.”

“Actually, no. He’s come to me at a much older age than I usually teach, and still has much to learn. He told me he had offended you, and wished to be instructed in how to make amends.” Margasir laughed ruefully. “I didn’t tell him I have absolutely no idea. If you were Vanar-born, I would know. But if you were Vanar-born, the question would never have come up in the first place.”

Nathan leaned back against one of the floor pillows scrunched behind him against the wall and rested his arm over one raised knee. Here, in the privacy of his own room, he preferred comfort to tradition. Likewise, Margasir copied Nathan’s more casual pose, although he looked far less at ease with it.

“I wish people would learn that it’s much easier for me to offend them than for them to offend me. He didn’t offend me. All he wanted was to borrow some music cubes. And being Vanar-born, of course, he couldn’t just come straight out and ask for it, he had to play childish games first.”

Margasir frowned disapprovingly. “Childish? It might interest you to know that Qim is seven years older than you.”

“Qim? But he’s just a boy!”

“He’s had the best regenerative therapy from a very young age. Of course, his Family could afford it. Qim’s full name is Qim dva Daharanan Changriti.”

Nathan’s jaw dropped. “He’s Changriti?”

Margasir raised an eyebrow and smiled. “Son of the late Changriti pratha h’máy’s grandniece.”

Nathan absorbed this. “What the hell’s a Changriti son doing becoming a sahakharae?”

“Ah, now that’s an interesting story.” Something in the sahakharae’s tone told Nathan he wasn’t likely to enjoy it. “Some years ago, Qim met a woman from a very badly positioned Common Family. They were both promising music students and fell madly in love. Now had Qim simply obeyed his Family and married the High Family woman selected for him, he and the girl could have remained lovers and no one would have objected. But he was foolish. He refused, insisting he would marry only her. To prevent such an unprofitable marriage, the Changriti made her family a lucrative offer arranging for the girl to be transferred to one of their more remote stations off-world, out of the way. Her family was delighted with such an excellent deal. The girl was not.”

Nathan shook his head in sympathy.

“As it was, she never left Sabtú. Before the contract could be finalized, she killed herself. After that, there was no reason for the Changriti to pay off the contract. And rather than yielding to his Family’s will, Qim took his revenge by becoming sahakharae, which makes him worthless to the Changriti. Naturally, they disowned him. If the old Pratha Yaenida had not offered him a place here as sahakharae, Qim would now be naekulam. So you see, Nathan Crewe Nga’esha, Qim dva Daharanan Changriti does indeed have both the age and the experience to justify offering you well-meant advice.”

Nathan stared at him for a long moment before his shoulders slumped in defeat. “Shit,” he said wearily in Hengeli.

“In any case,” Margasir went on, “it was never Qim’s intent to offer you advice. He wished simply to impress you with his music in the hope you might allow him to listen to your Hengeli music.”

“Once again, it seems I’m the one who needs to be making amends, not Qim. So. Any suggestions how I fix this?” Somehow, he doubted another offering of hair flowers would suffice.

Margasir shrugged. “You are the son of a pratha h’máy. Qim is only a very minor sahakharae. And since it was he who offended you—”

“Damn it, I’ve told you he
didn’t
offend me—”

“Since
he
offended
you
,” Margasir insisted, interrupting Nathan’s protest, “a gracious man would allow him the opportunity to offer an apology. Might I suggest a suitable place for this might be in the privacy of your library?”

The library. Qim had also mentioned the library. “Of course.” “Good,” Margasir said with satisfaction. “Now, having demonstrated how valuable a práhsaedam you are incredibly lucky to have acquired, I humbly ask a small favor of you.”

“Anything...”

“Please be so kind as to groan ecstatically and tell me how fantastic I am in a very loud voice.” Margasir grinned wickedly at Nathan’s astonishment, adding, “Other ears are listening, and I
do
have my reputation to consider. Who will send their sons to me if I can’t please even one very ugly, barbaric yepoqioh?”

Nathan laughed. “Get out of here, you old fraud.”

XXX

H
E HAD LEARNED TO RECOGNIZE THE INDIVIDUAL
D
HIKAR ASSIGNED TO
stand watch outside his library by the way each of them knocked on the door. The Dhikar, unaccustomed to either locked doors or knocking to gain admission, had developed their own style of announcing visitors. He’d nicknamed the one who tentatively patted the door with her palm so lightly he nearly couldn’t hear it Flutterfly. Heavy Hand Hannah bludgeoned the door so hard he always started, and didn’t stop until he’d opened it. This time it was Two-Knock, the one who rapped on the wood with two distinctly spaced blows as solemn as announcing death itself. If any of them had real names, Nathan had never been able to discover them.

He opened the door and bowed courteously to Two-Knock, who nodded gravely back at him and allowed Qim past her.

The musician looked around curiously as Nathan shut the door, then asked, in nearly the same puzzled tone as had Raemik, “What do you do here?”

“Depends.” Nathan settled into the massive chair once belonging to Pratha Yaenida, sprawling casually. This was his inner sanctum, and he refused to obey Vanar protocol here. Qim’s eyes widened, but he said nothing, still standing politely with his hands clasped in front of him, head slightly bowed in proper sahakharae fashion. “I’m supposed to be translating it all into Hengeli, but mostly I just rummage through the archives for anything related to botany. Most of the rest is boring crap anyway, and I haven’t the patience for it. Would you please sit down and relax?”

Startled, Qim sat down in one of the chairs around the table so hurriedly Nathan nearly laughed. The sahakharae took a breath and began, “I asked your práhsaedam, my revered teacher, for guidance on how best to offer my apologies—”

“Yes, I know,” Nathan said, cutting him off. “Apology accepted, forget it ever happened.” The boy blinked, taken aback. “Look, Qim, I’m just an uncivilized yepoqioh. I can’t stand all these elaborate formalities, they drive me crazy. If you really want to offer me an apology, the best one would be to come straight out with whatever it is you wanted in the first place.”

Qim lowered his gaze to his hands clutched in his lap. “I only wanted to hear what Hengeli music sounds like.”

“Okay.” He opened the antique coffer where he kept his collection, scanning through the titles. “Although there’s no such thing as one Hengeli style. It’s not like Vanar, where there’s only one people, one language, one culture. There’s many different kinds of people with their own language and their own music on Hengeli.”

“Why?” Qim seemed genuinely baffled.

Taken aback, Nathan floundered. “Well... because it’s Hengeli. It’s where we all originated from, so they’ve had many thousands of years of history behind them. . . .” He studied the boy carefully. “They don’t teach you much non-Vanar history here, do they?”

“No. What do we need it for?”

“Right,” Nathan said, unable to think of an appropriate answer. “Anyway, it’s all different, and what I have doesn’t even come close to a full spectrum. I’m not allowed to import anything modern, meaning anything less than about a hundred years old. So mostly all I have is very ancient classical because that’s what Vanar Customs authorities consider ‘safe.’ ”

“Is it? Safe?”

Nathan looked up sharply. Qim’s face was as bland as his voice, but his eyes didn’t blink. “Some of it. We Hengeli also wrote a lot of pretty music designed to do nothing but please pretty girls. Is that what you’d like to hear?”

Qim shrugged one shoulder noncommittally. “If that’s all you have.”

Nathan smiled. “No,” he said carefully. “But without knowing what you’d like or not, I’ll just try a few things at random, okay?”

Mahler bored him. Wagner shocked him. Paganini confused him. Vivaldi entranced him. African Industrial Retro Wave excited him. Japanese Nouveau Zen music lulled him. Old Colonial music made him wince. But his favorite was Celtic jazz. Qim drew out a small felt bag from where he kept it tied under his sati and slid two small wooden flutes from it. Picking up one, he experimentally blew several running notes, following the long-dead musicians who had recorded the cube centuries ago. Then he caught the melody, his foot tapping a rhythm to the bodhran drums, closed his eyes, and played.

The boy was good. More than just good, Nathan realized, watching him sway with the music, oblivious as his fingers skimmed across the flute effortlessly. But while he played, Nathan picked up the other flute, examining it with intense interest. The surface was as burnished as copper, smooth and warm to the touch.

The music finished, and Qim opened his eyes, caught Nathan holding his other flute, and smiled.

“Do you make these?”

Qim nodded.

“It’s not bamboo.”

“No.” When he didn’t continue, Nathan held it up questioningly. “The proper sort of bamboo is too hard for me to get,” Qim continued. “It all has to come from off-world, and I can’t afford it. Anymore.” Not as a novice sahakharae rather than a high-ranked Changriti, Nathan understood.

“This is native wood.”

Qim nodded again.

“Where did you get it?”

Now the boy’s narrow eyes shifted around at the books, cautious. “It’s said the monitors were taken out of the library.”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

Nathan laughed. “For sure? I don’t. I have only Pratha Yronae’s word for it.” When Qim’s expression didn’t change, he added, “She’s a hard-hearted bitch, but I trust her.”

Shocked, Qim gasped. “Aren’t you afraid of saying things like that?” he asked once he’d recovered.

“If she is listening, then she’d reveal herself a liar and deserves what she hears. This is the one place I have ever been able to speak my mind. The old pratha knew how important that was to me.”

Qim considered this, then said slowly, “I’m not sure that is a good habit to become accustomed to.”

“Neither am I. Where did you get the wood?”

Taking the flute from Nathan, Qim concentrated on replacing them in the felt bag before he answered, keeping his eyes averted. “I can show you.” So much left unspoken in those few words, Nathan knew.