Master of None (52 page)

Yronae was breathing hard, her nostrils flaring. “Be glad Yaenida is dead,” she said, more quietly, “because if she were still alive, I think I would strangle her myself.” Pulling the tasmai around her shoulders with angry jerks, she leapt from the dais, pacing the room like an enraged leopard.

“What could she have been thinking of? Not the Family, certainly not the honor and welfare of the Nga’esha. Willful, selfish, stupid, thoughtless
bitch
.”

Nathan’s hand holding the coffee trembled hard enough to spill hot liquid onto his fingers. Quickly, he put down the cup and sucked the spilled coffee from his skin. He looked up, hand still in his mouth, meeting Yronae’s spiteful glare.

“The instant she was dead, I should have had you stuffed back into a whitewomb and left you there to rot,” she said softly, chilling him.

Mahdupi sighed dramatically, breaking the tension. “Are you finished with your tantrum yet, child?”

To his surprise, Yronae closed her eyes, her shoulders slumping. “Quite,” she said softly.

“Feel better now?” “Infinitely.”

“Always healthy to have a good screaming temper once in a while, so long as it’s kept private.” Mahdupi glanced at Nathan, smiling tightly. “And now that you’ve indulged yourself with a delightfully gratifying sulk, Yronae, it’s time to face the problem.”

Yronae sat back down on the dais and swept the mass of loose hair back from her face, fingers raking her scalp. “The terms are totally unacceptable, as they well know,” she said directly to Nathan, her voice calm, businesslike. “We will be expected, of course, to offer a counterproposal.”

“What sort of proposal, pratha h’máy?” His own voice shook. “First, allowing our male Pilots to leave Vanar is out of the question. They would have precious little opportunity to enjoy their so-called freedom before they were seized and exploited by potential off-world competitors.” Her tone was brisk, pragmatic. “Second, I will not permit you to go anywhere outside the Family jurisdiction. You would be murdered inside an hour.”

“What exactly, then,
would
you be offering them, Yronae?” Mahdupi asked wryly.

“We’ll offer a share of the revenue income.”

“Which they have little use for,” Mahdupi said, earning a glare. “More control over their own reproduction,” Yronae continued. “Another useless offer,” the older woman said, pouring herself another cup of the strong, thick coffee. “They can’t leave the Worm long enough, and the boys can’t survive there.”

“And his safety,” she answered, ignoring Mahdupi as she studied him, her eyes narrowed. “He can’t stay here, and we haven’t had complete reports on how badly Dravyam has been hit. Have Calidris Station evacuated, and all personnel completely replaced with Nga’esha Dhikar.”

“Calidris? That’s just a freight depot, there’s hardly anyone there.” “Exactly. It’s small enough to ensure complete security. He’ll be safe there. I want him removed to a Nga’esha station immediately.”

Nathan started. “No,” he objected. “I’m not leaving Vanar.” Yronae snarled in frustration, punching the dais beside her with one fist. “I am sick and tired of your pigheaded yepoqioh defiance, Nathan Nga’esha. You will leave if I say you leave!”

“It’s not much of a difference either way: a hostage isolated on a station or a hostage down here, hiding like a mole in the dirt.” He couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice.

“The argument is moot,” Madhupi interrupted evenly. “You would need Pilot cooperation to transfer him to a station in the first place, which they are unlikely to give. And while I’m sure most of Vanar would be pleased to see him gone, you don’t defuse a bomb by putting it in a box and hiding it at the back of a storage cabinet.”

Yronae swore, a remarkably vulgar curse he had rarely heard from a Vanar, and never from a woman. Even Mahdupi’s eyebrows lifted. “Then instead of constantly naysaying me,
you
tell me what compromise they might find acceptable!” Yronae snapped.

Mahdupi smiled and sipped her coffee. “I haven’t the vaguest idea, Pratha. I haven’t spent all that much time in their company to know what Pilots might possibly want.” Yronae, absorbing her meaning, turned on Nathan with narrowed eyes.

“But
you
have.”

“Yes,” he retorted hotly. “Mostly what they want is to be amused. I think they must be very amused right now, Pratha Yronae.”

Mahdupi chuckled as Yronae glared. “Pratima was your lover,” she said doggedly. “She would listen to you. Talk to her, reason with her. Surely she wouldn’t wish any harm to come to you as a result of her reckless actions.”

He glared at her, furious. “Willful, selfish, stupid, thoughtless bitch,” he whispered.

Her jaw clenched, the muscles along smooth cheeks twitching. “You will not dare refuse, Nathan, not and jeopardize the entire Family. The contempt you show for the Nga’esha name would be severely penalized—”

“Don’t threaten me,” he said softly. “It’s beneath you.”

She flushed, calming herself by visible effort. “I will not—do you hear me?—will
not
permit the dismantling of seven centuries of Vanar culture on the caprice of lovesick Pilots. But whether I like it or not, you now wield considerable influence for which I need your cooperation. I have offered you your freedom, which you have foolishly turned down. I have offered you more wealth than most men could ever dream of, and that doesn’t seem to interest you either. I somehow doubt offering you a more substantial role within the Family hierarchy will satisfy you. What you
do
want is as unreasonable as what our Pilots are demanding. It’s impossible. I know you have no reason to feel any loyalty toward me, to the honor of the Nga’esha or to Vanar. But neither of us will leave this room until we have reached an agreement.”

“No loyalty?” he said in disbelief. “Why do you think I chose not to leave Vanar, Yronae?” He used her name deliberately, watching her eyes widen, but she didn’t protest. “I know you’ve despised me. You don’t agree with my beliefs, but you haven’t gone so far as to unlawfully silence me. Not because you were protecting Nga’esha interests, but because it was
right
. Your honor won’t let you do otherwise.

“But your honor didn’t keep you from using me to negotiate with my own people, just as you would use me again, and I have never refused you,
never
. What more do I have to do to prove to you I am as Vanar as you are, possibly even more so because I
chose
to be. I’ve paid ten times over to be given that right.”

Yronae remained silent. He walked around the dais to stand in front of her, looking her straight in the eyes.

“Look at me,” he said softly. “Open your eyes and see that I am not so different from you. Yes, I am angry, and yes, I want changes. But is what I want really so unreasonable? All I want is to walk down the streets of Vanar with my head held proudly, as you do. I want to be free to go where I want, on
Vanar
, as you do. I want the right to see my daughter, to help raise her to grow up to love and respect me. I want to choose what I do with my life, and not live in constant fear and submission. I want only what is just, and I want your help to do it. I
need
your help.”

He paused, gauging her reaction. Her face had paled, but she was listening.

“We are both at fault, Yronae. I have never thought of you as my sister, family in name only, but not in my heart. You’ve never seen me as anything but
aeyaesah yepoqioh
, a bad practical joke your mother inflicted on your Family. But I
am
Nga’esha. I am proud to be Nga’ esha. If now you need my help, just ask me for it. Say, ‘help me, little brother.’ ”

Mahdupi put a hand over her mouth as if to hide a smile, but her eyes were somber.

“I promise you nothing—” Yronae began.

“I don’t want promises. Say, ‘help me, little brother,’ ” he repeated firmly.

“I will not beg!”

“It’s not begging, Yronae. I’m your brother. All you have to do is ask for my help. As I’ve asked you for yours.”

She stood with her lips pressed so tightly together they were bloodless, as if she had to keep them clamped shut to prevent the hated words from spilling out. Her chin trembled, her entire body shaking as she turned away from him, stalking across the room with aimless fury. Mahdupi moved to her side and placed a gentle hand on her arm, stopping the frenetic movement.

“Help me, little brother,” Yronae said stonily, her back to him. He exhaled, unaware until then he’d been holding his breath. “My pleasure, Pratha Yronae.”

XLIII

O
NCE IT WAS CLEAR THE
H
ENGELI WERE NOT GOING TO CONTINUE
their assault, the Nga’esha began to return to the House. Or what was left of it. The west half of the House had nearly been obliterated, many of the women’s lavish rooms buried under rubble. One wall of the council room had fallen, the roof gone, leaving the once burnished parquet flooring exposed to the elements. The men’s quarters had been relatively unscathed, and men were doing their best to make their women comfortable in unfamiliar surroundings, mingling freely for what might possibly have been the first time. But while repairs had begun almost immediately with the usual Vanar efficiency, many of both sexes still wandered the ruins aimlessly, dazed and tearful.

Push that button, pull that trigger.
Nathan wondered how tiresome and dull Yaenida would have found this violence inflicted from a safe distance on a people with no experience of war. He watched as one of the dozens of taemorae sifting through the debris suddenly fell to her knees and vomited, still holding onto a severed hand—Dhikar, he noted distractedly, to judge by the silvery threads of implants dangling from the jagged stump. The two stoic Dhikar Yronae had assigned as his omnipresent bodyguards didn’t so much as blink.

The attack had been conducted with impressive precision, demolition confined to the Nga’esha House, and even then only to areas the Hengeli thought most vulnerable or likely to yield results. Yronae’s personal quarters and administrative offices had been targeted, but when whoever had ransacked her state-of-the-art equipment had realized they were only facades for the real machinery safe underground, the search was abandoned and the remains torched.

The damage to his library was impressive but mostly superficial. There was nothing in the old pratha’s archives of value to their rivals, anything of a sensitive business nature long removed. Yronae had little interest in antiquated literature or obsolete cultural records. The shelving had been pulled down with savage force, books and papers scattered and trodden on. Although some of the ancient books had been irreparably destroyed, like Yronae’s offices, the information within them was preserved in the data archives deep underground. The entire room could have been burnt to the ground without the loss of a single word. Still, the wanton vandalism saddened him.

The huge table of native wood had been methodically hacked to kindling. Whatever it was suspected of concealing, it had been nothing but a very antique, very beautiful slab of venerable timber, and its destruction made him angry.

Broken glass crunched underfoot, hidden under the scattered papers. He kicked torn pages aside to find the shattered remains of Yaenida’s water pipe. He squatted in the wreckage, picking up fragments, then sighed. Any fleeting notion he had that somehow it could be put back together again evaporated. He let the broken pieces fall from his fingers.

“Qanistha bhraetae,” he heard a voice say behind him. He stood and turned toward the door of his library. Four taemorae stood just outside the door, or at least what was left of a door hanging on twisted hinges after an explosion had ripped it to shreds. Even in the midst of the devastation, the women still rigidly adhered to the Family formalities. They would not, could not enter without his permission. He smiled bleakly, put his hands together, and bowed with almost ironic correctness.

“Qanisthaha bhaginae?”

“The pratha h’máy has sent us to ask if you require any assistance.” He looked around at the wreckage, then, unable to hold back, began laughing. Fortunately, they could see the black humor in the situation as well, and smiled.

“Please, cousins, be welcome.”

They were happy enough to take instructions from him without undue offense, carting off the hopeless rubble while salvaging as much as they could from what was left. Once the remains of Yaenida’s great table had been removed, the carpenters had plenty of room to work and swiftly repaired those shelves still standing or rebuilt those that had to be replaced. Even the two Dhikar grudgingly helped with some of the manual labor, while keeping one eye constantly on him.

Yronae visited briefly only once to examine the renovations, all of the Nga’esha House under refurbishment. He thanked her earnestly for the workers she’d allocated to him. She’d grunted, noncommittal, and left without a word.

He was pleased to find his small collection of music cubes, although many of them were still missing, scattered into the general mess after someone had stomped on the antique coffer to break it open. The machinery with the player was beyond hope, and one of the taemora graciously fetched her own personal system. He selected Mozart’s Coronation Mass, and smiled when the taemorae glanced at each other, puzzled by the “Gloria” movement. The mix of men’s and women’s voices reverberated in the cavernous room, one of the very few choral works the Vanar Customs had reluctantly allowed him to keep once he had convinced them the language was far too ancient for him, or anyone else on Vanar, to decipher.

They hadn’t understood, he thought as he watched Vanar women hammering and sawing and reconstructing his library to the exuberant voices of long-dead singers. He didn’t need to understand the words to understand the music.

For their part, the taemorae endured it patiently before one of them asked him courteously if they might be allowed to listen to their own music. Mozart’s ebullient chorus was replaced by the whining insipid melodies Vanar women preferred. But they were happy, and he was having his library repaired.