The Palace of Impossible Dreams (11 page)

“You.”

Stellan put down the vegetable knife. “You cannot be serious.”

“I've never been more serious.”

“I'm already married.”

“Actually, you're dead, Desean. You don't even own that name any longer. So we'll make one up for you. We'll give you a history. I can get word to a few people I can rely on and can probably even send you over the lake with a few trustworthy retainers. You can grow a beard. I can show you how to bleach your hair. Tides, now I'm immortal, I can probably command a whole bunch of Crasii to lie about who you are and claim they've been in your service for years.”

“But there are people in Caelum who know me, Declan. The
queen
knows me.”

Hawkes dismissed his concerns with a wave of his hand. “People see what they want to see, Desean. Trust me—you're dead and died in prison a suspected sodomite. Nobody will associate the crown princess of Caelum's new husband with the dead and dishonoured sodomite from Glaeba.”

“What's a sodomite?” Nyah asked.

Stellan gave Declan a look and then turned to Nyah, but before he could say a word, Declan said, “It's the reason you'll be safe with Stellan as your husband.”

“Safe from what?”

“I believe Declan is trying to tell you I won't force myself on you, Nyah, because even if I could come to terms with the Caelish custom of having sexual relations with children, my preferences lie elsewhere.” He met Declan's gaze defiantly. One thing this nightmare of recent months had taught him was that he was over lying about who and what he was, even to a child.

Nyah looked at him in disgust. “You mean you prefer . . . like . . .
old
people?”

Declan choked and turned away.

“
What
?”

“Well, you said you don't agree with our custom of marrying when we're still children, and that your preferences lie elsewhere. Does that mean you'd rather, you know,
do
it, with old women?”

Declan looked fit to burst something. And despite himself, Stellan smiled. Good intentions were one thing, but sometimes the reality was just too difficult.

“I'm afraid so,” he said with a sigh, not daring to look at Hawkes, who
was trying desperately not to laugh. “My wife . . . she was . . . almost thirty. And still it wasn't enough for me.”

“That's really quite sick, you know, Lord Desean.”

“I know. But I just can't seem to help myself.”

“As for you,” she said, punching Declan in the arm as she turned away from Stellan, the matter apparently disposed of as far as she was concerned. “How does a man know something like how to bleach hair?”

“My mother was a whore. I lived in a brothel until I was ten.” He leaned a little closer and said with a conspiratorial smile, “I can tell you all manner of ladies' beauty secrets.”

Nyah's eyes lit up. “Really?”

“ 'Course, it won't be enough to tempt your new husband, what with his sick preferences and all . . .” Declan was talking to Nyah but he was grinning from ear to ear, and looking straight at Stellan.

Stellan glared at him, but decided not to buy into the argument. Nyah had an explanation and Declan was having a little fun at his expense. This could have gone a lot worse.

“Can you pierce my ears? Mother would never let me do it.”

“Ears? Tides, I can show you how to pierce your nip . . . well, maybe not. But I suppose we can't do much damage if we just do your ears.”

“Then do it elsewhere,” Stellan commanded, as much to gain some time to think as from his desire to have some space to prepare dinner. “I'll call you when the food is ready.”

They needed no further prompting to leave. Declan seemed to understand he wanted time alone, and Nyah was now set on having her ears pierced.

“Did you really grow up in a brothel?” Nyah was asking as Declan herded her outside.

Stellan didn't catch his answer. Declan closed the door and left him alone in Maralyce's small mining cabin with his turnips and the spectre of a future filled with lies, deception, a sham marriage and the threat of constant discovery.

Except for the turnips
, he decided,
nothing much has changed.

“I wish to speak with you,” Cydne Medura announced on the evening of their last night onboard ship. “About your future.” The Senestran coast was in sight, the weather muggy and warm and the crew busy preparing the ship for their trip through the reefs and into the sheltered harbour of Port Traeker, on tomorrow's tide.

Arkady looked up from the tray of surgical implements she was gingerly retrieving from the bowl of boiling water she was using to sterilise them. He'd spoken in Glaeban, something he only tended to do if he wanted to have a meaningful discussion with her. Although she'd been learning the language, Arkady's Senestran still wasn't good enough to hold a conversation of any substance in it. “You mean I
have
a future?”

“You must stop answering back like that,” he scolded. “Such a response when we get home will get you whipped.”

“Yes, master,” she replied.

“And taking
that
tone with your betters will only make things worse.”

“Well, that's my problem, you see,” she said. “I'm not used to having
betters.
”

He stared at her for a moment with a puzzled frown and then shook his head. “I see, you are being funny. This is your Glaeban sense of humour, yes?”

“I'm sorry, master,” Arkady said, nodding meekly. Cydne had been remarkably good to her, and she didn't want to alienate him. It was just with Senestra so close and the future so uncertain, she was desperate.

Now was not a good time, she reminded herself, to let her desperation manifest itself as sarcasm. She had been remarkably lucky so far. Cydne Medura treated her with cautious disdain, torn between her status as a slave and his attraction to her obvious education, something unheard of in his world, where female slaves in particular usually didn't know how to read.

“I have been thinking about what to do with you when we make port.”

“Your wish is my command, my lord.”

Cydne shook his head. “I wish I could believe that, Kady.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged, choosing his words carefully. “You are not a slave, Kady.
Not in your heart. You speak the words of obedience, but you don't mean them.”

“I've done everything you've asked of me.”

“You've humoured me, Kady, because, in your mind, I am the lesser of two evils. I worry about what will happen to you when you are confronted with a less understanding master.”

“That's kind of you, sir, but you really don't have to worry about me. I'll find a way to . . . survive.”

His eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You were going to say escape, then, but thought better of it.”

“No I wasn't.”

“Kady, I'm not sure how to impress this upon you, but you really must watch your attitude in Senestra. You are no longer a noblewoman. You are no longer a physician's daughter. You are a chattel and you must behave as such. There is no escape. You are a branded slave and you will always
be
a slave. You must begin to accept this.”

“I'll try to bear that in mind.”

Cydne shook his head. “No, you won't. I can see the defiance in you, just in the way you stand. You will not survive, unless . . .” He hesitated, and then, for no apparent reason, he blushed crimson.

“Unless what?”

“Unless you learn to do as you're told.”

Arkady was fairly certain that wasn't what Cydne had been planning to say, but she didn't press the issue. Rather, she decided to get the conversation back on track.

“You said you wanted to talk about my future.”

He nodded, as if glad for the change of subject. “I have it in my power to see you are placed in my care when we leave here.”

Arkady stared at him in surprise. “But I thought I was just a wretched batch-bought slave? Aren't we the lowest of the low in your country?”

“Naturally—being
makor-di
—you would not be permitted to serve in the household, but I have duties as a physician that take me into the more . . . undesirable parts of the city on occasion, to treat those less fortunate.”

“You mean Crasii slaves.”

He nodded. “Among others. Admission to the Physicians' Guild in my country requires proof of one's altruistic intentions. I am always in need of a well-trained assistant to work in my clinic and accompany me on my requisite visits into the rural areas of Senestra. With your skills, you would
be suitable. Although you would have to learn to speak our language better.”

“So they make you take turns in treating the poor?” Arkady was surprised to hear it. Except for Cydne Medura, her experiences with the Senestrans thus far had been less than favourable. She was astounded to learn they could be compassionate. “That's not a bad idea, really.”

“You see, you cannot help but judge us. You will not last long as a slave, Kady.”

“Unless you decide to keep me in your service?”

“Exactly.”

Given the alternative, Arkady didn't need to think about it for long. “Fine. Sign me up.”

Cydne let out a woeful sigh. “Even now, you speak as if you have a choice; as if I am discussing options with you. Whether you approve of this plan or not is entirely irrelevant, Kady. You must understand that.”

“I'm sorry.”

“If only you were,” he sighed. Then he squared his shoulders, as if bracing himself for something unpleasant. “There is, however, a task you can perform to prove your reliability. If you perform it adequately, I will consider allowing you to accompany me as my assistant when we reach Port Traeker and you will be spared the fate you are so desperate to avoid.”

“So . . . what . . . this is some sort of test?”

“If you like.”

Arkady couldn't see the harm in that. She even sympathised with Cydne's position. She knew she was going to make a lousy slave. She could hardly blame the young doctor for wanting to make sure of her before taking on the responsibility of such a fractious servant. And she was prepared to do whatever it took to avoid becoming a batch-bought slave slated for an early death after being shipped to a mining camp or a slave compound as a concubine.

“What is this test, then?”

“In four days, I am to be married.”

“Yes, you told me that.”

“I am expected to . . . know certain things . . .” He was all but cringing with embarrassment. “About women . . .”

Arkady frowned, not sure what he meant. And then she noticed he was blushing crimson again and she realised what he wanted from her. The idea seemed so absurd, she couldn't help but smile. “Are you serious? You're asking
me
to show you what to do?”

“Again you assume this is a request.”

“You are a doctor, aren't you? I mean, you know the basic—”

“Do not mock me, Kady,” he warned. “You have no status here or any right to question me. I have kept you with me up until now because your presence gives me status among the crew, and you appear to be disease free. There is nothing more to it.”

“And
that's
your idea of being romantic, is it?”

Her question clearly puzzled him. “What?”

“Is that what you're planning to say to your blushing bride on your wedding night?
I have chosen you because your presence gives me status, dear, and oh, you appear to be disease free?”
She shook her head in wonder. “I'd be gearing up for that family feud you're so desperately trying to avoid, if I were you, Cydne. Once your new wife reports back to Papa about your bedside manner, you're going to be in big trouble.”

He glared at her. “I am not asking you to comment on my . . . my bedside manner; simply to show me the most appropriate . . . you know . . . the physical things that might make my wife, perhaps . . . enjoy—”

“Why do you assume they're two different things?”

“What?”

Arkady sighed, finding it hard to believe she was having a conversation like this with anyone, let alone the man who currently considered himself her master and had shown little inclination to do much of anything in his bunk but get it over and done with in the shortest time possible. “There's a difference between making love and just having your way with someone, you know. And I'm assuming, since this is the woman you're planning to spend the rest of your life with, your goal is the former, not the latter.”

“Well . . . yes . . . I suppose . . .”

“And I'm guessing Senestran custom insists your new bride will be as inexperienced as you are.”

He nodded, looking very uncertain. Arkady thought he might be regretting ever raising the subject with her. He was asking for a lesson in technique, not a lecture. But this was a subject close to Arkady's heart. She had been in the place Cydne's future bride would soon be forced to go, and it wasn't pleasant. “Then put yourself in her shoes for a moment. Try to imagine what it must be like to be young and innocent, and in the power of a man you barely know, aware he can do anything he wants to you, and you have no way to stop it.”

“Marriage is a woman's sacred duty!” he objected. “You make it sound as if I will treat her no better than a slave.”

“If you march into the bridal chamber on your wedding night and the best compliment you can come up with is ‘you're disease free,' I'm pretty sure that's what you'll be making her feel like.”

The determined set of Cydne's shoulders began to sag. Arkady wondered how long it had taken him to work himself up to even mentioning this. He was a proud—albeit painfully shy—young man. The pressure of his upcoming nuptials, the weight of his family's expectations . . . all of it must be eating him up inside.