The Sardonyx Net (28 page)

“Yes, Zed-ka.”
 

“That was good. It occurred to me that the Hype cops may not be satisfied with hanging around in the parks. How good are you at noticing a shadow?”
 

Dana licked his lips. “I don't know,” he said.
 

Zed snorted. “You were a smuggler, Dana. You know enough to look behind you.”
 

“Yes,” Dana said. “But it's easier to spot a shadow in the Hyper district—”
 

“I know,” said Zed. “But when Rhani goes out, I want you to watch. A-Rae might be having her followed.”
 

“Or you,” Dana said.
 

Zed nodded. “Or me. Thank you for reminding me. We don't know what he wants, after all. Maybe he thinks I'll lead him to the Yago drug dealer.” He grimaced. “One thing I'll say for A-Rae, he isn't subtle.” He stepped back. “Good night.”
 

“Good night,” Dana said, astonished. Zed's footsteps echoed down the hall. Night, Dana thought, night was the safe time.... Memories of the Net engulfed him, and he shivered.
 

He closed the door firmly, and turned on the auditor again. “Fugue for Three Flutes” filled the room. Dimming the lights, he undressed. The sheets were fragrant and cool; as he slid between them, Dana thought of Rhani, Rhani and Zed. She had said specifically that they had not been lovers. She's beautiful now—she must have been lovely at seventeen, he thought.
 

He closed his hands to fists, remembering the warm, liquid touch of her tongue on his palm. She wanted him; he knew it, and it terrified him, knowing that if Zed found out about it, it could cost him his sanity, if not his life. He assumed she usually took lovers when Zed was on the Net. What must that be like for him? Ridiculous to feel sympathy for Zed Yago—but he recalled the moment in the bedroom that afternoon, when Rhani asked why people changed their names, and Zed had answered, “To obliterate all traces of a person you no longer desire to be.”
 

He turned out the lights. Now the only illumination was the city light seeping through the window. The house was still. Stratta's flutes wove fluid serene patterns. Dana wondered where Tori Lamonica was now. He let breath hiss through his teeth, thinking of the Hype, the vast, vertiginous darkness wreathed in hieroglyphs of ruby dust, and him with his ship vibrating beneath his feet....
 

He shifted to lie on his side. Now he could not see the window. Rhani Yago. If she wanted him—well, she could have him. He was her slave. And maybe, if he pleased her enough, maybe she would free him.
 

Maybe.
 

 

 

 

 

Chapter Ten

 

 

The morning of the day before the Auction, Abanat children flew kites.
 

Rhani could see the kites out her washroom window. As she dried her face, she watched them dance in motley array and imagined them to be a flock of birds. There were all different colors and styles of kites to be seen: box kites, parafoils, lozenge kites, parawings, dragons, skates, Musha kites: many were silver with the blue “Y” imprinted on them. The Yago Bank had been giving those away all week. The children were gathered on the brown-red lump of a hill known as the Barrens; Rhani could just make them out, dark figures against the northeast sky, dressed in bright reflective colors as if they were mimicking the kites.
 

She had not flown kites on the Barrens the day before the Auction. Other children did that; Yagos did not. She walked out of the washroom to her bedroom. Amri was waiting for her, holding in her small arms a length of silver cloth. Taking it from her, Rhani twisted it about herself in stylized folds.
 

Amri watched, rapt. “That's beautiful, Rhani-ka,” she murmured.
 

“Thank you,” Rhani said. “It's called a
sari
. The style of it comes from Old Earth.” She had learned to wear it from her mother, who had learned to wear it from her mother, Orrin, and Orrin from Irene, and Irene from Lisa Yago. Originally, it was worn over a tight-fitting, short-sleeved blouse. But the blouse was binding, and Rhani chose to do without it. The fabric was apton; sleek and light. She tucked the final folds of it around her waist, and swirled the long trailing end of it up about her head. “Where's the pin I set out this morning?” she asked. Amri picked it from the table. Rhani let the end of the cloth drape over her shoulder, and stood still to let Amri secure it with the simple silver pin.
 

Around her neck she hung Zed's gift, the pendant with the miniature stun charge. Her hair was tightly braided into a cap on her scalp. As she turned toward the dressing alcove, a knock on the door told her that Dana had arrived. “Tell Dana he may come in.”
 

He was wearing the clothes she had instructed Binkie to have made for him: dark blue trousers, a dark blue tunic, sandals, all very plain. He was wearing sunshades pushed to the top of his head. “Good day,” she said to him.
 

“Good morning, Rhani-ka,” he said. His voice was stiff. She frowned, wondering—ah. He was not wearing the earrings.
 

“Did Binkie not give you the earrings?” she said.
 

He held out his right hand. The sapphire clusters lay on his palm. “I don't want to wear them.”
 

She rubbed her chin. “Why not?”
 

He said, “Hypers wear earrings. On Nexus it's an insult for anyone not a Hyper to walk the streets wearing earrings, or any other kind of jewelry.”
 

Rhani said, “This isn't Nexus, and anyway, you are a Starcaptain.”
 

“I am a slave,” he said.
 

Exasperated, Rhani scowled at him. This was the man who, on the way to Sovka, had said defiantly, “I am a Starcaptain.” Had Zed been tormenting him? She was sure not. Gently she said, “We do not keep such custom in Abanat. It would please me if you would put the earrings on.”
 

He bowed. “As you wish, Rhani-ka.”
 

She turned in a circle, wanting him to notice her. “What do you think?” she said.
 

“The cloth is beautiful.”
 

Nettled, she glared at him. He pretended not to see it. Damn it, why would he not look at her? “Close your eyes,” she ordered. He obeyed, eyelids trembling slightly. She gestured to Amri. The girl trotted into the dressing alcove and emerged, carrying the black wig. Rhani sat on the stool and Amri fitted it over her scalp. It was light as a hat; the hair was artificial, but so fine that it felt natural. It hung just past her waist. She swung her head from side to side, and hair swept across her neck, shoulders, and back. Dana's eyes were still closed. She said to him, “You may open your eyes.”
 

He did, and focused on her. She grinned and spun in a circle; the hair made a sweeping arc. “Well?” she said.
 

He said, “Are wigs Abanat custom, or a Yago adaptation?”
 

“I had it made years ago,” she said. “It was just a whim.”
 

Dana wondered what lover she had last beguiled with the toy. The black hair deepened the tint of her skin to bronze. The pendant gleamed against her throat, and the silver cloth wrap she wore hugged her like a second skin. He said honestly, “
You
are beautiful, Rhani-ka.”
 

She smiled. “I thank you.” She slipped her feet into a pair of waiting silver sandals. “I'm ready. Let's go.”
 

Amri went ahead of them down the stairs. She went to the slaves' hall, and Dana heard her open one of the storage bins. She returned with two parasols; Dana took them both, assuming he was expected to hold Rhani's for her, but she took it from his hand. Binkie and Corrios were standing near the door. “I'll be back after noon,” she said to them. “Zed is at the Clinic, and I expect he will be there till late in the evening.”
 

“Yes, Rhani-ka,” said Binkie. Corrios nodded.
 

“I'm at Dur House, of course. If you must reach me there, send a live messenger. Don't use the com-unit.”
 

Binkie said, “Yes, Rhani-ka.”
 

Corrios opened the door. Rhani snapped her parasol open and up as she stepped into the light. It made a circle of shadow at her feet. She squinted, and half-turned back to the house. “My sunshades.”
 

Dana got them. Corrios closed the door. They went down the steps and across the street into Founders' Green. Dana glanced around but if anyone was watching them he could not see it. There were few people in the fenced-in park. They traversed it, exited through the gate, and turned west to walk along the Boulevard. Rhani's wig made Dana nervous; it was as though he walked with a stranger, who might vanish at any time.
 

As if she had read his thought, she slipped her arm through his. “Don't get lost,” she said.
 

The sunlight battered the parasols. Strolling slowly in the heat, they passed a row of ornate, curlicued gates. People rode the movalongs, passing those who chose to walk. Silver-sided bubblecraft, rotors whirring, hovered like giant birds over the city. They crossed a market square: a naked man balanced on a tightrope wire above their heads. A woman with a blue bottle in her hand was sitting beneath a tree, singing. A peddler waved sticks of self-igniting incense: the smoke made Rhani sneeze. In the center of the square stood a fountain: water spurted out of a shallow pool through and over the frame of a geodesic dome.
 

“That looks like fun,” Dana said.
 

Rhani nodded. “Once in a while, when Isobel wasn't home, Corrios used to take us, Zed and me, to play in the fountain. It was fun.”
 

He wondered what kind of childhood she had had, if fun was something she could only have in her mother's absence. He could not ask that—not yet. But he could ask, perhaps, about another thing. “May I ask you something?”
 

Her arm tightened on his. “Go ahead.”
 

“Corrios has no tattoo scar.”
 

“Corrios was never a slave.”
 

“Then why is he on Chabad? There are plenty of worlds he could live on which get less sunlight.”
 

“He chose to stay,” Rhani said. “He was born on Chabad. He has worked for Family Yago for fifty years, since he was fourteen.”
 

“That makes no sense.”
 

“Perhaps not,” said Rhani. “Corrios was born sixty-odd years ago to one of my mother's slaves. Such things do happen. By Chabadese law, a child born to a slave becomes a ward of whatever person or Family owns the parent who claims it. His mother claimed him. Corrios was brought up by Family Yago. At the termination of her contract, his mother chose to stay on Chabad. Isobel offered to make a formal transfer of wardship, but the woman refused. She wanted no part of her son. Corrios stayed at the Yago estate. At fourteen he became an adult and asked Isobel if he could stay at the estate, to work. He did Cara's job, he was cook, he was steward. When I was ten, Isobel made him caretaker of the Abanat house. He is well paid; he can afford passage to anywhere in the Living Worlds. He doesn't want to go. I have asked him.”
 

Dana said, “It sounds incredible.”
 

Rhani said, “I don't see why. It's not a bad life, even for an albino on this planet, working for Family Yago.” She smiled. “The manager of the Yago Bank told me he can trace his family's service to mine back through five generations.”
 

She spoke as if such loyalty was to be expected. He realized that she was used to being deferred to, served, by other people. She had Cara, Immeld, Corrios, Timithos, Amri, himself, even Zed, as accessories. She seemed to have no friends, unless the people she saw at parties were friends. And Binkie. It was easy to forget about the silent secretary. He moved softly; he rarely spoke unless Rhani spoke to him. And Rhani thanked him, and used him as ruthlessly as she used one of the household machines.
 

He wanted to ask about Binkie, about Amri. But he did not think—how strange Chabadese etiquette was—that she would tell him about them; they, unlike Corrios Rull, were slaves. “Doesn't that wig make your head hot?” he asked. He was sweating beneath his clothes.
 

“A little.” She shook her head, and the hair moved. “It's very finely woven.”
 

They went by a musician bending over drums, and their steps quickened to the rhythm of the drumbeats. “In Abanat, do you often have daytime parties?”
 

“No.” Rhani smiled. “Maybe Ferris Dur wants to start a fashion. Family Dur is the First Family of Chabad, and other Families follow its lead in social matters, sometimes.”
 

“Does Family Yago give parties?” he asked.
 

“Of course. This year it's planned for six days after the Auction.” She glanced sideways at him. “You know that the Auction is tomorrow.”
 

“I know,” he answered.
 

His tunic was sticking to him. He started to ask where they were going when he saw, beyond the pastel walls of smaller houses, a huge barrackslike house made of gray stone. “Dur House?” he said. Rhani nodded. A red-and-gold flag fluttered over its entrance. There was a design on the flag: an axe, single-edged, short-handled, poised to strike.
 

“The Dur crest,” Rhani murmured. As if quoting, she added, “If you oppose the axe, it cuts.”