In Conquest Born, page 21
“Please.” He watched as she gestured to a servant in the hallway, issuing orders that were not commands only by virtue of linguistic technicality. It would satisfy this man to have food brought. . . . Briefly he wondered who served as Token Dominance, acting as Master of her House, and what the relationship was between them. Female-owned Houses were always a careful study in social balance.
She turned back to him, her face a thing of sunlight. “If you tell me it isn’t some sort of business that brought you all the way out here, I’d be pleased. Of course, I wouldn’t believe you for a moment.”
At that moment the light entering the room must have fallen below some preset standard, for a golden beam from the ceiling ignited the firepit, which burst into matching flames. The fuel had apparently been scented; as it burned it released a gentle perfume into the room’s cool air. “Lovely,” he admired.
She lowered her eyes, acknowledging the compliment. How strange she was, how non-Braxaná! All the body language he had come to associate with his people was absent in her, and in its place was an uninhibited lightness which seemed entirely alien to his tradition. Yet what was there in the social codes that decreed excessive seriousness? Even her manner of dress, though technically Braxaná, displayed more individuality than Central tradition usually inspired. The hands which poured him more wine were clothed in dove-gray sueded leather, and the surface of her matching tunic had been brushed to a soft nap. The harsh line of the high Braxaná boots were missing from her; instead of tight breeches and black leather she wore soft leggings of the same gray, and the tips of her footwear barely peeked out, matching, from beneath the hem. The only black she wore was a sash—which drew attention to her small waist—and a collar, which set off by contrast the glowing white of her face. Over her shoulders black hair spilled richly, thick with curls, a pure and velvet black to be silhouetted against the firelight. To Zatar, who was accustomed to the harsher Central styles, she seemed delightfully exotic and strangely fragile.
“If somewhat alien,” he added.
“But pleasing?”
“Oh, yes.” He sipped the wine and found its surprising lightness not without attraction. “Very much so.”
“The Karviki excel in many areas, food and decor being two of them. I think one of the greatest advantages of living far out in the Holding is an opportunity to taste the truly alien. Don’t you?”
“One of them.” He dared, “Is that what prompted you to leave Braxi?”
He had shifted into a more sexual speech mode and perhaps it was that which caused her to look away from him, as if something she saw in his eyes disturbed her. She forced a laugh; it lacked the spontaneous lightness of her previous expressions. “I wasn’t Braxaná enough for Central life, if you must know. “ She had begun the sentence in the Basic Mode but concluded in the Negative, as if to say that what lay beneath his words should not be discussed, was an unwelcome topic. “I found it nothing more than a progression of unwelcome political maneuverings, and the Central Braxaná no more than the slaves of their politics.” She caught his eyes and her expression clearly said: men such as yourself. “I stayed as long as I had to and then sought out a better place.” She leaned against the table, languid and comfortable. “Here I’m a goddess. The locals adore me. I feed their pride just by being here; would a purebred Braxaná make her home on Karviki if the planet wasn’t in some way superior. And that’s what our image is all about, I think—certainly a just reward for all the social nonsense we put up with. But it’s different here. I don’t have to spend every waking moment proving I’m more Braxaná than anyone else. These people take my racial superiority for granted. And they would do anything to please me—anything at all.” She smiled. “I like that.”
A servant entered, bowed, and presented a golden tray for their perusal. “Sihk-tail, broiled in sekwa-butter.” It was clear from his demeanor that he was bound to her more by awe and devotion than by mere wages. “A Karviki delicacy, Lord.”
Zatar accepted a long, slender fork and lifted one of the bits of spiced seafood to his lips. He tasted it, savored it, then nodded. As if that signaled the appropriateness of the offering, L’resh had the man put it on the table between them.
“Most unusual,” he assessed, not unpleased.
“Most of Karviki is, to the Central mind.” She leaned forward, then hesitated, as if she lacked the proper words to begin what she wanted to say.
“Please be free,” he encouraged.
“All right, Lord Zatar. Why have you come here? I told you—” she spoke hurriedly “—I hate the social games of your planet. And I don’t play them well. So please, if you would just come to the point and explain yourself. . . .”
He put down the fork and looked at her carefully. Whatever doubts he had entertained regarding this move had been banished by the light of her presence. “If I must,” he said finally, then softly, as befit her person: “I’ve come to court you for Seclusion.”
It was hard to say if astonishment, anger, or fear weighed more heavily in her expression; a moment later, however, all but the first had vanished. With careful control she told him “I’ve borne four living children.”
“I know that.”
“Do you also know what that entails? Do you have any concept of the pain involved?” Emotion poured into her voice—proud, angry, wounded. “Do you know what it’s like to endure those zhents of waiting, to live with that hope, and never know if it’s going to prove worthwhile in the end? A man knows nothing of such things, Zatar! I’m an Elder. I’ve had my four children for the sake of the Holding. What makes you think I would ever willingly go through that again?”
It was not in his best interest, he knew, but nonetheless he countered, “Perhaps I forget your earned title as easily as you forget mine.”
“Very well, Kaim’era,” she snapped, and then, with an effort, calmed herself. “You’re right, and I’m sorry. The fact that men of your position were a constant annoyance to me during my years on Braxi is no reason to deny you your right to stand among them. Nevertheless, another Seclusion is out of the question; there are no words you can say that will change that. Surely you knew that would be the answer. Why did you come all this way just to hear it?”
“My bloodline is Plague-prone, “ he said quietly. He was using the Basic mode but added a sexual undertone, to indicate that his attraction to her was above and beyond his proposition. “A condition that was probably worsened by my parents’ inbreeding. I think you can understand that if I’m going to be pulled away from the War to sire a child, I would like to create one that might stand some chance of survival.”
“Is that the only reason?”
“Isn’t it enough?” Her eyes chided him: Have it all out in the open. No games. Very well. “I need a Seclusion close to the War Border.”
“So you came all the way out here? Wrong direction, Kaim’era.”
“The women in the Central System can’t afford to put that much distance between themselves and their Houses for any length of time. I sought a woman whose House could function in her absence—as yours can—and one who might bear a living child in a reasonably short period of time. I’m working among commoners, L’resh. If I desert my work at the Border to obsess myself with a woman, they won’t understand it. Braxaná power can’t survive ridicule—voiced or unvoiced. If I let this interfere with my Border activities, I may as well return to Braxi and give up on the War entirely.”
“I wouldn’t wish that on anyone,” she said dryly. “But you’re young. Why are you going through all this now, if it’s such a problem?”
“The Elders ‘suggested’ it.” The look of anger that passed over her face confirmed one of his guesses: Elder though she was, she hadn’t been consulted. “The majority of them would probably like to see me safe on Braxi, where they could keep an eye on me.”
“Other Braxaná have gone to war.”
“And remained islands in the midst of battle. A brief call to glory, the sacking of a planet or two, and a triumphal return to the Mistress Planet. Never making contact with the men who serve them, or the planets that depend on them. The Central Elders are afraid for their image, L’resh, afraid of what might happen if one of their kind lives day in and day out among commoners. Also, the Braxaná who’ve gone to war have been young men seeking to make a name for themselves. Never someone who already wielded considerable power on his own. Never a Kaim’era—until now. They feel threatened. They’re trying to pressure me back into civilian life, where they think I belong.”
“So it’s politics again. How dare they! Don’t we have troubles enough fulfilling our quotas, without making reproduction a tool of politicians—a weapon?” She shook her head in amazement. “More than anything I’ve ever heard, your words make me glad I left Braxi when I did.”
He smiled, clearly amused by some secret thought, and withdrew a slender vial from his sash. “In your anger you remind me, Lady. I brought you a gift.”
“A bribe?”
“ ‘The Braxaná collects bribes as just tribute; only a fool pays before he bargains.’ He uncapped the vial and poured its contents—thick, golden, translucent—into one of the goblets. “I thought I would bring you some small taste of what the Central System does have to offer. I’d be pleased if you’d accept it.”
She looked up at him; her long dark lashes were like bird’s wings framing her eyes. It struck him that he had never seen a woman more attractive to him. “What is it?”
“A Central liqueur.” He threw the vial into the fire, where it melted, crackling. “Both rare and expensive. A suitable offering?”
She sipped from the goblet, then stopped to savor what remained on her tongue. “Sweet,” she said approvingly.
“Central taste.”
He sat in silence while she finished the tiny portion; she was grateful that doing so spared her from having to speak. Once she looked up at him, startled, as though it had just occurred to her that he might drug her, but the thought was ludicrous; what could he gain in a single night that wouldn’t cost him more when she brought him up on charges? When she had finished the liqueur, she set the goblet on the table and slowly pushed it way from her. “Zatar, I . . . I can’t. I’m sorry you had to come all this way to hear that. But it’s just not possible.”
He touched the side of her face with a black-gloved finger and felt her tremble. “Your features would find beautiful inheritance in a son, L’resh.”
“I can’t, Kaim’era, please. . . .” She pushed his hand away, reluctantly, it seemed. “I fulfilled my duty early in life so that I could move away and enjoy my freedom.”
“And you don’t even realize the magnitude of what you’re saying! L’resh, there are women who spend their lifetime trying to fulfill their quota. You’re not fifty, and already you’re done with it! Four living children in eight pregnancies—I want to breed that back into the Race.”
“It’s not my responsibility,” she countered weakly. He was pleased to note that in response to his use of the sexual modes she had finally come to use one herself. Longing. . . .
He moved closer and when she did not move away he touched her, then drew her into his arms. She was warm and fragile, and she trembled as he kissed her.
“No,” she whispered.
He reached for her again but she drew back suddenly. “No. I turn you down. That’s my right as a purebred. I’m sorry. I refuse.” Her eyes were wet and her voice was shaking. “Please let me go.”
He made no further move but neither did he release her. His original guess, he realized, had been correct. “L’resh,” he said softly, with as much sympathy as his language was capable of expressing. “How long since you’ve tasted a man?”
She shuddered in his arms, but made no additional attempt to draw away from him. “There are other pleasures,” she said finally.
“You know what I mean.”
She lowered her eyes. “You don’t understand. I almost died, Zatar. What pleasure is worth death?”
“And without pleasure, what is life?” He began to take off his gloves, and although she knew the implications she said nothing. “Sometimes, in the Center of the Holding, one can obtain a liqueur whose taste is so sweet to women that they embrace pleasure as they never dared before.”
She looked at him, alarmed. “What was that you gave me?”
He put his hand against the side of her face, gently, reveling in the touch of smoothness against his bare skin. “Contraception,” he said softly.
Her eyes widened.
“You’re going to tell me it’s illegal, and I’m going to say I know it. Would you like to remind me of the death penalty? I’ve destroyed the only evidence.”
She was still in shock from the revelation. “How . . .”
“There’s nothing so illegal that no one supplies it—and nothing supplied that a Braxaná can’t get hold of. Do you think that we on Braxi can afford to lose our mistresses to pointless labor, much less death in childbed? We’re not that barbaric, although we play at it.”
“But isn’t there risk?” she breathed.
“There’s risk.” He kissed her, long and sweetly, reveling in her response. There was a decade’s hunger in her, if his guesswork was good—not an unpleasant prospect. “Tell me no,” he offered, “and I’ll leave.”
She clutched him tightly to her. There were no more words after that, or any need for them.
The rising sun woke him.
He got up slowly, careful not to jar the bed they had later retired to—or rather, the webbed whatever-it-was that passed for such on Karviki. The skin of his face was taut and dry, and it occurred to him that he had never removed the previous day’s cosmetics. Quietly he searched the room for astringent, soaked it into a cloth lying beside its jeweled bottle, and cleansed the excess white from his face.
She stirred, and awoke. Her dark eyes wide, she watched him. “You’re leaving?”
“I have to.” He dampened the cloth again and brought it over to her. “I have the War to get back to.”
She closed her eyes and let him wipe the paint from her skin. She seemed hardly paler for its absence. “I wish you wouldn’t,” she whispered.
He kissed her. “So do I,” he said, and his regret was genuine.
Then she drew him down to her, and for a short, sweet time the War was irrelevant.
The red sun rose higher and its light first approached, then washed over the two of them. He lay back for a while, content with the moment, forestalling a reassessment of his purpose in visiting her. Then he caught her eyes. She was leaning on one side, watching him, and the look on her face said that she knew what he was thinking.
“It came to me one day how overwhelmingly stupid we’ve been,” he said quietly. “Nature guarantees fertility. Fertile creatures reproduce. Infertile creatures don’t. And then we, self-made gods that we are, defied that law.”
She took his hand in hers; was there any contact more sensual than that? “Four children,” he mused. “No fewer. And under no circumstances more than that. Their sense of responsibility satisfied, the women of our Race find alternatives to childbearing. Exactly four offspring per person, two and hopefully no more to die of the Plague, perhaps another in the War. If we had just let it be. . . .” He squeezed her hand. “It would have bred out.”
She nodded, her eyes lowered. He was right, and it hurt to acknowledge it. “If you don’t force those who have trouble with it to make the quota—”
“Then we’ll surely die out. We don’t have the numbers to support that strategy, now. It has to come from the other end.” He stroked her face, her hair. “There’s more at stake than my own contentment, here. I didn’t want to say it, but there it is.”
“Why didn’t you want to say it?”
“Because we’re a selfish people, and the good of the group isn’t supposed to outweigh the pleasures of the individual.”
“Ah,” she said softly. “More Central custom.”
“Braxaná custom, I’m afraid.” He tipped up her face until she was looking at him. The corner of one eye was wet. “Give me a child, L’resh. I own a planet right by the War Border, more than suitable for human habitation. I’ll build you a House to equal this one, and have artists from all over the Holding brought to you. I’ll give you a thousand times more beauty and pleasure at the Border than any other place could ever offer you. Give me a living child, and I’ll keep you supplied in contraception for the rest of your life.”
There was the bribery. How long had she hungered, how desperately had she dreamed of finding a solution? Would she be willing to risk her life once more, in order to live the rest of it more fully?
She looked away from him, her thoughts elsewhere, and after a moment slowly nodded. “If you stay the afternoon,” she whispered. There were tears in her voice.
Which was better invitation, he thought, than any speech mode could manage.
Harkur: If a man understands the priorities of his fellows, he can lead them. If he fails in this, all the good intentions in the world won’t buy him loyalty.
THIRTEEN
The wind driving dust into her eyes, Anzha lyu Mitethe waited.
Her face was not the face of youth, although she was still young. Her eyes may have shone with strength and determination, but they never radiated warmth. The lines of her face bespoke bitterness and anger and, had she smiled, the resulting rounded creases would have been at odds with those already there.
She was not attractive. She was not unattractive. The aura of command was too strong about her for one to be able to isolate physical appearance for judgment. She had presence.
She also had control, and now she exercised it. Like all Braxaná she had learned to hide her emotions. If she trembled now, it was inside; no one observing her would think that she was afraid.
That was as it should be.
When the ramp was lowered, she took a deep breath of the local air before ascending to the transport. Being on a planet’s surface wasn’t pleasant for her; more and more the evidence of nature at work made her uncomfortable. Her phobia was growing stronger year by year, despite her efforts to overcome it. It was therefore with great pleasure that she would exchange the dusty, threatening air of this planet for the human-controlled atmosphere of a warship.
