Master of None (38 page)
Nathan shrugged theatrically. “A few specially imported designer viruses, maybe. Nothing worth mentioning.”
Margasir stroked his braid thoughtfully, smoothing the end of it against his chest. “That must have been expensive,” he suggested with uncustomary bluntness.
“More than you really want to know. And much more than you will ever tell the Pakaran, yes?”
He nodded. “Yes.” He stood, the apprehension gone. “Well, at least it’s a nice box.” The big sahakharae turned to walk away.
“Margasir . . .” When he looked back, Nathan said, “Why did you want to be my práhsaedam?”
“You needed one,” Margasir said, again wary.
It was true—life had been much easier for Nathan. His quarters were always tidy now, fresh flowers by his bed, clean clothing laid out for him every morning. More importantly, he had been able to spend a good deal more time with his daughter at the Changriti House, Margasir always with him to cater to Ukul and his coterie, serving as a buffer between Nathan and the Changriti men and smoothing away any ruffled feathers.
“And you needed a patron who leaves you alone,” Nathan said with a smile.
If Nathan had wanted his práhsaedam to attend to his every whim, play endless qaellast games with him, sing and dance like a pet monkey, or supply nightly company as a sahakharae should, Margasir would have fulfilled his obligations. As it was, Nathan hardly ever knew where the man was half the time, nor cared.
“We suit each other well,” Nathan said.
Margasir returned his smile. “Yes,” he agreed dryly. “We do.” “There is no one I would prefer more as my práhsaedam than you, Margasir. No one. My mother, Pratha Yaenida, left me far more than any one man could ever use in a single lifetime. I would be profoundly insulted if, should you ever need anything, anything at all, you did not come to me and ask.”
Margasir stared at him, then his gaze dropped, his attitude once again disconcertingly humble. “There were many who said I was foolish to offer to become your práhsaedam, Nathan Nga’esha,” he said. “They were wrong. My life has been greatly enriched by your strangeness. And your generosity.”
Nathan felt uncomfortable. “Even if I am so very ugly,” he said, trying to lighten the tone.
Margasir looked up, his face split into a broad grin. “Fair enough, since I’m so lousy in bed.”
As he watched the older man walk away, Nathan felt an odd warmth that had nothing to do with sexuality, wondering at it. He hadn’t felt this way since Fat Ivan had awkwardly hugged him on the loading platform on Remsill, thumping him hard on the back before reboarding the
Warthog
. He had never seen the old fat bastard again, Ivan killed less than a year later. Nathan had a sudden memory of being a child again, back in Westcastle, feeling nothing at all as his mother either caressed him weepily or slapped him in her rage at the injustice of the world. He couldn’t even remember her face, while he had never been able to get Fat Ivan’s out of his memory.
He missed the old man more than he’d ever imagined he would.
W
HERE HIS DAUGHTER GOT ALL HER ENERGY FROM BAFFLED
N
ATHAN
. At this time of the evening, the playroom was empty but for Aenanda and her father, and one of the ever-present Dhikar guards standing watch.
“Then Qandra said red hair looked silly, and Sharu said Qandra was just jealous because she heard her tell Hasasi she wanted red hair too and that’s why she stealed all the red colors out of the paint box, except it didn’t work and just made her hair all sticky so her mother got really mad, then Qandra said it wasn’t so and she hit Sharu on the arm, like this.”
Aenanda demonstrated, thumping her small fist lightly against her father’s arm and giggling at his comic charade of injury. “And she made Sharu cry, so I told Qandra she couldn’t be my friend anymore and I wasn’t going to talk to her ever again...”
It was late, the Dhikar eying him reproachfully as he continued to sprawl on the floor with his five-year-old daughter. He helped her paste scraps of colored paper together as she related the day’s playground politics.
He sighed, picking dried glue from his fingertips. “Aenanda, Daddy’s tired. Speak Hengeli.”
“Okay,” Aenanda said, switching to fluent Hengeli without batting an eye. She wriggled on the floor as she sorted through the paper bits. “So then Sharu and me wouldn’t let Qandra play with us in the garden, are you going to use the yellow, Daddy? ’Cuz I want it for my . . .” She hesitated.
“Garmisan?”
“Butterfly,” he translated, and handed her the yellow paper. “No, you have it.”
“Bubberfly,” she repeated. She pushed back the mass of curling red hair from her eyes and attacked the paper with a blunt pair of scissors, cutting out a lopsided pair of wings. “We saw this really big bubberfly in the garden and Sharu tried to catched it, but it flew really really fast and she couldn’t jump high enough... oh!”
“What?” Nathan asked sharply, alarmed by her sudden uneasiness. “I’m not supposed to talk Hengeli anymore,” she said sheepishly, still using her father’s native language.
“Why not?” he asked, puzzled.
“Grandmama doesn’t want me to.”
“Ah.” He sat up and said carefully in Vanar, “In that case, we won’t speak in Hengeli.” He had no doubt he was constantly being monitored inside the Changriti House, with Pratha Eraelin scrutinizing every word for the slightest infraction. “We must do as Grandmama wishes.”
“Why?” Aenanda asked, then ducked her head at her father’s warning look.
“Khee’un?”
“Because she’s the boss. What she says, goes.”
“How come Grandmama can’t speak Hengeli?”
“Aenanda,” he chided, “we are not going to have this conversation. In either language, okay?”
The little girl pouted, chopping her bubberfly wings to shreds. “Father Ukul is learning Hengeli,” she muttered rebelliously, and glanced up at him slyly through gigantic eyelashes.
He should have scolded her, but his curiosity won out, just as he knew Aenanda knew. “Is he, now?”
“Uh-huh,” she said, her sulkiness a sham. “But his teacher isn’t as good as you. He makes lots of mistakes and he sounds funny. How come you don’t teach Father Ukul to speak Hengeli?”
“I didn’t know he wanted to.”
“Oh, yes,” Aenanda said cheerfully, her moodiness evaporating. “Mama likes it.”
That was news to him. As far as Nathan knew, other than the few memorized phrases Kallah had spoken at his adoption party, Aenanda’s mother didn’t understand a single word of Hengeli. And this discussion was once again skirting into dangerous territory.
“Right, you,” he said, and stood up to scoop his daughter into his arms. “You know what else Mama likes? She likes you to go to bed when you’re supposed to. So you’ll just have to finish your garmisam tomorrow.”
“Bubberfly,” Aenanda squealed.
“Garmisam.” He kissed her nose, then tried to hand her over to the waiting Dhikar. She clung to him tightly, the strength in her arms around his neck surprising. “Come on, Aenanda. It’s a long way back for me, and it’s getting late enough as it is. Time for bed.”
“Don’t go, Daddy,” she begged. “Why do you have to leave? Father Ukul and Father Raetha live with me. You could stay here all the time if you wanted to.”
His heart sank, but he tried to smile. “You know why, sweetheart. We’ve been through all this. I have work to do, and the only place I can do it is my library.” Someday, Aenanda would pick the logic of his arguments into as many shreds as she had her bubberfly wings. His reader was the best Nga’esha money could buy, more than capable of accessing anything he needed from any distance. But what a five-year-old couldn’t solve with logic, she tried with tears and tantrums, very much her mother’s daughter.
“No! I don’t want you to go, I want you to stay here!” She was struggling in earnest as he tried again to give her over to the waiting Dhikar.
“Aenanda, stop this right now,” he said sternly.
The child leaned away from him, quivering with rage, and slapped him in the face with all her small strength. It was painful enough to make him gasp, and he nearly dropped her in his surprise. They both froze, glaring at each other nose to nose. He heard the subharmonic hum, but the Dhikar drew back, cautiously measuring his reaction.
He simply stared at the child, waiting in silence. Aenanda’s temper collapsed with guilt, although she was still determined to get her own way.
“You have to do what I say,” she insisted.
“I do? And why is that?” he said calmly.
“Because Mama says so,” she said with less confidence.
“Mama says so.”
The last of her defiance crumbled under his skepticism. “Well... but you have to do what Mama tells you to, don’t you?”
“Yes, I do. And if Mama says I can’t come and see you anymore because it makes you behave like a violent uncivilized yepoqioh, what do I do then?”
Shamefaced, Aenanda hung her head, chubby legs kicking feebly. He glanced over her shoulder at the Dhikar. The usually stolid guard raised an approving eyebrow before she twitched her wrist, silencing the implants.
“Aenanda, you don’t like it when other people hit you. You don’t like it when they hit your friends, like Qandra and Sharu, do you?”
“No,” she said petulantly. “But when I’m pratha h’máy, then I’ll be the boss and what I say goes.”
“Uh-huh. When you’re pratha h’máy, I’ll worry about it. But until then, I’m still your father, and you’ll treat me with respect. Do you understand?”
She nodded, chastised but unhappy. Then she hugged him fiercely, her tears wet against his cheek. “I’m sorry, Daddy, I didn’t mean it...”
He closed his eyes, breathing in her scent, loving this child more than anything in the world. Sighing, he kissed her hair.
“Speak Vanar, Aenanda.”
W
ITH SO FEW OTHER PEOPLE ON THE TRAINS AND STREETS THIS EARLY
in the morning, Nathan enjoyed the relative silence as he made his way across town from the Changriti Estate to the safety of his library deep inside the grounds of the Nga’esha. He had reluctantly spent the night in his daughter’s House, having been summoned by Kallah after their daughter’s outburst. Their discussion was far more civil than he’d expected, Kallah more weary than displeased by her daughter’s violent behavior. The amount of time Nathan spent with his daughter was un-orthodox, but his visits with Aenanda would not be curtailed, to his relief. Unlike her mother, Kallah was willing to admit their daughter’s temper more likely a product of Changriti traits than Hengeli. Ukul had hovered unobtrusively in the background, silent and attentive as usual, but the senior kharvah avoided any eye contact with Nathan, probably mortified his private linguistic studies had been exposed.
Nathan left before sunrise, the last lingering stars fading in the still dark sky. A few shops were opening, preparing for the day’s coming business. Sodden leaves beaten from the trees by the rain in the night littered the walkway in tatters. He kept his eyes on the stone paved streets, wet and treacherously slick.
Half a dozen naeqili te rhowghá loitered along the wide boulevard, hoping to be hired to clear the walk by shopkeepers not willing to wait for the automated cleaners to make their pass before the shops opened. It seemed a lifetime ago since Nathan had done such menial labor before he had exchanged his humble sati for Nga’esha blue.
A man in a tattered white sati methodically swept the remains of leaves from the walk into the gutter. This one didn’t seem to be getting many jobs, judging by the man’s gaunt frame. Preoccupied, Nathan barely noticed him, quickly striding around him in his hurry to make the men’s train on time. Then something made him stop and turn, regarding the stooped man with puzzled curiosity.
When he did recognize Rulayi, it hit him as an almost physical shock. The once powerful shoulders had lost their vitality, Rulayi nearly skeletally thin. As Nathan stared, the former Nga’esha slowly ceased the methodical sweep of his broom and looked up. The genial man who had rowed Nathan out to collect plankton off the shores of Dravyam so many years ago gazed back at him apathetically, his eyes vacant. After a moment, Rulayi pulled the white sati over his head, and Nathan spotted the lajjae on his wrist.
“Rulayi?” he said, although there was no question. The man shifted his attention to his broom and turned his back toward Nathan, beginning the dilatory sweep along the stones at his feet, as ponderously stoic as a castrated bull. So this was the punishment the Nga’esha had meted out as just, the man’s mind permanently crippled while stripping him of any rights to the protection or support of his Family.
Appalled, Nathan took three quick steps and was around him, grasping him by the forearm to force the man to stop. He wondered how many times he’d walked straight past Rulayi without even seeing the man, so inured now to the anonymous naeqili te rhowghá on the streets that he barely noted their existence anymore.
A movement in the doorway caused them both to turn, Rulayi half a beat behind Nathan. The shopkeeper stood with her arms crossed over her chest, studying him narrowly. Her eyes flickered from his hair to the costly pin holding his Nga’esha blue silk sati over the Changriti burgundy. She glanced at the stack of heavy gold bracelets on his wrists, the gleam of jewels on his ankle winking between the folds of birdsilk, the expensive sandals protecting his elaborately hennaed feet. She knew exactly who he was.
“You are interfering with his labor, young kharvah,” the woman said carefully, her tone both chiding and respectful. “I am not paying him to stand and talk.” She wore a cheap floral sati, a daughter of a Middle Family, he knew, and not that well placed in her own hierarchy. She resented the disturbance by an obviously rich Nga’esha kharvah. Most likely, she was a younger cousin who would have had to do the job herself had the rhowghá not shuffled through the streets in search of early work.
Nathan stared at her before her lips thinned with irritation. He then bowed, hands together. “Apologies, l’amae,” he said quickly. She smirked at his heavy accent. “Please, allow me. . . .”