Master of None (50 page)

Dhenuh leaned one shoulder against the arch, a hand placed delicately over her swollen belly, eight months pregnant. She wore no bead in her ear, no black transmitter clamped to her throat. Her eyes were indifferent. “I have been sent to see if you are hungry, Cousin,” she said. “We may be here for some time.”

He shook his head. “What’s happening, please?” He kept his voice carefully flat, unassertive.

She smiled fleetingly, without warmth. “We are resisting an extremely hostile industrial takeover.”

That she had not told him to be silent was a positive sign. He decided to push his luck. “Changriti?”

She grimaced, rubbing one hand against the child in her womb. “Of course. With the help of your people, it seems. They were conspicuously quick to take advantage of the problem.”

“Problem.” He repeated the word, careful not to make it a question.

She wasn’t fooled. “You, little brother. You are the problem.”

He glanced past her toward Yronae, the pratha h’máy still locked into her remote trance. She seemed either unaware or unconcerned that her kinswoman was standing talking to him. “How am I the problem, Cousin?”

She laughed, low and humorless. “You breathe. It’s enough.”

He went still. “That’s easily changed,” he said, his voice colorless. “Easily,” she agreed. “But it wouldn’t solve anything. Not now.” He felt rather than heard the rumble through the earth, feeling the vibration in the pit of his stomach. Others felt it as well, multiple voices pausing. He knew what that sound meant, he remembered it well from Westcastle. He wondered if they knew as well. Dhenuh glanced up at nothing, staring vacantly, and grunted in her throat, her face blank with fear. Her head swiveled to glance at Yronae, as did several others’. Only the white-clad Dhikar security continued, unconcerned, their passionless murmuring oddly comforting in the muted room. Yronae had her head tilted back, staring at the vaulted ceiling, waiting. Whatever reports there were came in transmitted to each bead. Then with a collective shudder of relief, the hum of multiple voices resumed.

“Oh, dear Lady, protect us,” Dhenuh whispered in disbelief. “Where are the children?” Nathan asked sharply.

“Safe.” She glanced down at her belly. “And the men, all safe enough.” When she looked at him, he could see the fear in her eyes behind the brave smile. “As we are here, for now.” She flinched again, her whimper of pain nearly inaudible in her throat.

He reached a hand toward her. “Your baby is hurting you, Cousin. Please, sit with me.”

“It is normal,” she said stiffly.

He nearly laughed. “Nothing is normal at the moment.”

She remained standing. “I don’t like you, Nathan Crewe Nga’esha,” she snapped, her words uncharacteristically brusque for the normal Vanar manners. Rudeness seemed epidemic. “I never have, I never will.”

He kept his hand extended. “Many people don’t, Dhenuh dva Arjusana Nga’esha. I’m used to it. Please, for your child’s sake sit down.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she lowered herself gingerly to the cushions, leaning on his arm and shoulder to lever her awkward weight. They sat without speaking, side by side, watching the activity resume. Yronae paced in a circle, reminding Nathan of a caged leopard, stopping only once to stare at them. Her expression was unfocused, like a dreamer caught up in a trance. He was unsure if she really saw them or not.

Dhenuh’s breathing was ragged. She winced as her unborn baby kicked, and he could see the movement of the child in her womb, even under the silk sati. Wordless, he shifted position to sit behind her cross-legged. She made no protest as he placed one hand on her shoulder to hold her still and the other against the small of her back, massaging slowly, his fingers probing the strained muscles. She held herself rigidly erect, reluctant under his touch.

He said nothing, shutting his eyes as he let his hands work. Following the bones of her spine, he kneaded the tight muscles on either side, climbing the vertebrae one by one methodically. By the time he had reached her shoulders and neck, her tenseness had subsided, but he could feel the baby still moving, still agitated. He uncrossed his legs, stretching them one to either side of her. “Lean back against me, bahd’hyin,” he said quietly.

She stiffened, trying to pull away. He held her by one shoulder, but not hard. “I don’t like you,” she repeated, her voice thick.

He chuckled. “And I don’t like you,” he said, pleased by her surprise. “But your baby doesn’t know me well enough yet to hate me.

Perhaps you can teach her later. For now, put your legs out and lean back against me, my stubborn, cranky second cousin.”

Unwillingly, she complied, and he adjusted her against his chest to let the heat of his body warm her back. Placing his hands firmly against her side, he spread his fingers and rubbed his palms in slow circles, feeling the outline of the child underneath his touch. “I learned how to do this for my wife when she was pregnant with my own child,” he said, his head bent over her shoulder, mouth close to her ear. Her hair tickled his cheek, smelling of jasmine.

She started slightly, and he wondered why before she said, “Your daughter. She’s Changriti.”

“And part Hengeli, like me. A dangerous enemy.” He meant it to be ironic.

Dhenuh snorted. “You might be the enemy. The Changriti are merely... competitors.” She hesitated and added more kindly, “But I hope your daughter is safe.”

His hands stopped their soothing movement. “Thank you. So do

I.” The baby kicked, as if annoyed he had interrupted his therapy. He resumed, feeling the child’s agitation yielding under his touch. Even after the baby had subsided, he continued to massage Dhenuh’s belly. She sighed, closed her eyes, and leaned her head back against him, nestling her check against the curve of his neck. He kept his own eyes open, alert. He was doing this as much for himself as for her, he knew, using her like a shield between him and the relentless activity he didn’t understand going on around them outside the tiny alcove.

“I’m frightened,” she whispered suddenly, barely audible.

“I know.”

Yronae gestured as she spoke to someone who was not in the room with her: angry, jerking motions of her hand.

“They say you’ve been in war before,” Dhenuh said, her voice kept low.

He stared at the pratha h’máy’s profile, at the sharp, fine chin and nose, dark skin, trying to see Yaenida in the woman’s face. “Yes,” he said inattentively.

“What is war like?”

He glanced at Dhenuh. Her eyes were open, watching the muted commotion around them. He didn’t know what to say. “It’s bad.” He didn’t want to talk about it.

She sat up, pulling away from him without looking at him, and got to her feet. “Thank you,” she said stiffly, and walked away. When he looked back at Yronae, she was staring directly at him, hostile. He froze, then forced himself to bow his head toward her, very humble and very correct. Her mouth twitched, and she spoke, her words directed into the transmitter at her throat.

As if on command, a Dhikar turned from the far end of the room and walked to stand guard outside the arch of the alcove, legs apart, hands clasped loosely behind her back. Yronae had already looked away, again focused on the world outside channeled into her ear and eye. He wondered if Dhenuh was in trouble. No one spoke to him again for several hours.

He settled his back against the wall and dozed off, the drone of voices monotonous. When he woke, his bladder was full.

“Excuse me,” he finally said to the Dhikar standing outside the alcove. She turned her head to him indifferently. “I have a need...?”

She nodded, touched one finger to the transmitter anchored to her throat, and spoke quietly. Within seconds, another Dhikar had joined her to escort him between them across the room. He passed Yronae by less than an arm’s length, but the woman didn’t appear to notice him, oblivious to his existence. The guards marched him down a short hall to a large bathing room, various fixtures obviously designed for the benefit of female anatomy rather than male. Behind him, the water in the long, shallow bathing pool was mirror smooth, reflecting the pinpoints of lights arranged in patterns of constellations above.

There was no possibility for privacy. He turned his back to his guards, reaching between the folds of his sati, and lifted the hem of the mati. It took several awkward moments before he could ignore the eyes behind him and relax his sphincter enough to piss. He shook himself and rearranged his clothing before he turned. The women watched him steadily, no expression on their flattened faces. He looked toward the pool, then back. “May I bathe?”

He was not so interested in hygiene as he was in the answer. The two women exchanged a glance. One shrugged, speaking quietly to someone far outside the room. Yronae? She listened, then nodded to him. His heart sank. It meant it would be some time before he saw the surface again. Things had to be very bad above them.

Without enthusiasm, he unwrapped his sati and drew the mati off over his head, folding them sloppily and dropping them onto the shelf. He stepped into the water, the reflected lights shivering in the circles radiating across the surface. As the first ripple reached the other end of the pool, he heard a hum as the recycler activated. Bubbles erupted from the far end. He ignored the two Dhikar, lowered himself into the warmth, and swam toward the other end.

It was hotter at the foaming end of the pool. Steam began to rise from the pool’s surface. He swam aimlessly for a long time, back and forth across the length of the pool, having nothing better to do than allow his muscles to take over, letting his mind drift. Ducking his head underwater, he drew his knees in to sink to the shallow bottom. He listened to the muffled sound of the machinery in his ears, blotting out the world above him for as long as he had oxygen in his lungs. His chest burned, and he shot up again, gasping in a breath as he broke the surface. His eyes stung as he blinked, rubbed at them, and squinted through the steam at the stout shape of a woman sitting on a bathing stool at the other end, waiting for him.

Mahdupi.

Glancing behind him, he saw the two Dhikar still stood watch back-to-back, one facing him, the other out. Reluctantly, he swam to the other side and held on to the edge, wordless. The old woman smiled.

“When you are finished, you will need someone to braid your hair,” she said calmly, and held up a comb. “As there are no other men here to help you, allow me the pleasure. I should like to satisfy my curiosity about how such fine, golden hair might feel.”

She handed him a towel as he pulled himself out of the water, and didn’t avert her eyes as he dried himself. He wrapped the towel around his waist and sat down on another of the bathing stools. Her fingers unraveled the braid and picked the banded string of beads from his hair before she toweled it until it was mostly dry, saying nothing. It hung to the middle of his back, thick reddish gold, curling even when wet, as she began to comb it out from the bottom.

“Why am I the only man here?” he risked asking. She paused for a beat, the comb through his hair pulling his head back on his neck. When she didn’t answer, he added, “It’s me, isn’t it? They want me.”

“Mm.” He couldn’t tell if the grunt was an assent or denial.

“The Changriti?”

He twisted to look at her. Her face pinched in distaste, but she didn’t answer. She pushed his head back around and continued worrying the tangle of hair.

“Why? What have I done?”

“You needn’t take it personally,” she said thinly. “At least not this time. They are worried about what you know.”

“What I know?
What
do I know?” He knew he shouldn’t have persisted, but the mystery was more ominous than the possible consequences.

She exhaled in irritation. “Nothing. Only they haven’t realized it yet. But they’re frightened.”

“Not of
me
.”

“Of course, of you.”

He said nothing for a long moment, letting her strong fingers divide his hair into thick strands. “Are you also afraid of me, l’amae Mahdupi?”

She chuckled. “I haven’t decided yet, child. It has been most educational watching you over the years, like a fox set loose amongst the pigeons, but not always agreeable. Would you like me to work the beads back into your hair?”

“I don’t care.”

She left them out, the hair pulling his scalp as she wove the plait. When she had finished, he swiveled on the stool to face her. “Pratha Yaenida always respected your opinions greatly,
maetaemahi
Mahdupi.”

She grimaced. “Please, don’t call me a grandmother. It makes me feel ancient. And it gives you no advantage to exaggerate your relation to me. I know full well my kinship with you.”

“I need to know what is happening.”

She smiled, and he could see in the fine bones of her face how she must have once been quite attractive. “I wish someone would explain it to me, bah’chae.”

He continued to gaze at her until she tilted her head questioningly. “Please don’t call me a small boy. I am not.”

Her chin lifted, and her smile widened. “Ah.
Now
I am afraid of you.”

He looked away, frustrated. “It was not intended as a threat.”

“I didn’t take it as one. Get dressed,” she said gently. He stood and retrieved his clothing, the gauzy silk dampened from the steam. Pulling the mati over his head, he kept his eyes averted from any of the watching women, his hands expertly pleating the sati around his waist, tying it off and looping the rest around his neck to let the end hang down his shoulder. He clipped it to the mati with the brooch Kallah had given him.

He followed his guards out passively, Mahdupi beside him, back to the circular room. Fewer people crowded into it now. Yronae sat before a low desk, three screens embedded in its surface. She looked up as he entered, unfocused, still locked into another world, although her eyes tracked him as he returned to the small alcove. Dhenuh was nowhere in sight. Mahdupi patted him gently on the shoulder. “When there is a need for you to know, I’ll come for you.”

As she left to speak with Yronae he settled back into the floor cushions. Someone had set up a small table, various covered dishes left on it. He lifted a lid to one, the sudden aroma of spice making his mouth water. He ate quickly, his hunger sharpened by his swim.