J. F. Bone, page 16
“On the contrary,” I said, “Martha is too hard.”
“And what do you mean by that?” Martha asked with an edge in her voice.
Kyri laid a hand on her lips. “You mustn’t talk to your lord like that!”
“Why not?”
“It’s not feminine.”
“It wasn’t intended to be,” Martha said. “It doesn’t mean I don’t love him, but it’s merely to let him know that he’s no better than I am. Men get these silly delusions.”
Kyri’s mouth opened in a shocked “O” of surprise.
“I wouldn’t advise you to try it, Kyri,” I said smiling, “Martha and I were raised in a land where men and women are equal.”
“How terrible,” Kyri said softly. She turned to Martha, “I’m sorry for you.”
“You’re sorry for me!”
“I’ve wondered at times why you were so strong and so fierce. Poor Martha.”
“Just what is this ‘poor Martha’ bit?” Martha demanded.
The Tharn inclined her head. “You are a woman,” she said.
“Of course I’m a woman.”
“And yet you try to act like a man.”
“I do not.”
“But you do, Martha. You talk back to your lord; you fight with him. You practise with weapons. You talk about government and laws and taxes. You want to make your voice heard. You wear those ridiculous trousers, ride jessets, walk unescorted through the castle and the town, read books, hate cooking and needlework, know nothing about running a household, and in fact you behave as much like a man as possible.”
Martha eyed Kyri with mild surprise. “What would you want me to do?” she asked, “become a spineless complaisant worm? Women are just as good as men. Better in some ways. We live longer. We’re less subject to pressures. Pound for pound we’re stronger. And if we try we can be just as tough.”
“And what do you gain?” Kyri asked, “You aren’t treated with courtesy. You can’t use your proper weapons to get your way. You have to compete with men on their terms and in their world. You can’t afford to let down. Is it worth it?”
“And that has been your downfall,” Martha said. “You are passive. You cannot fight for what you want. You take what comes to you, rather than going out to get it.”
Kyri nodded. “Yet in most cases, just as much comes to one who waits as to one who runs. Not many women want what you do. Most of us would rather be women than to compete on man’s terms in a man’s world. As for me, I feel that I would lose more than I could gain, for in the long run I cannot avoid my sex. Men and women were made for a purpose: man to support the family, woman to nurture it. We are essentially preservers, not predators, and we deny our sex when we try to be what we are not.”
“Perhaps for you, but not for me,” Martha said shortly, “and I’ll bet that there are more women like me hiding under dresses in Tharn than there are ones like you. They simply don’t have a chance to express themselves.”
Kyri shook her head. “We can’t prove this; so why argue about it? I’m tired. I’m going to bed.” She walked out of the room, her movements as graceful as a dancer’s.
Martha looked at me, “And what do you think of that, my lord and master?” she asked with quiet triumph. “The girl stood up for her ideas.”
“She certainly isn’t the same as when she came here.”
“She isn’t well yet, but she’s a lot better.”
“She’s well enough.” I said.
Martha shrugged. “You’re in no mood to listen. I’ve been watching you. You have spaceship on your mind.”
I nodded. “It’s never very far from my mind.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“And I mean it just as sincerely.”
Martha sighed. “I worry about Kyri. I expect it’s the maternal in me, but I think of her as a daughter.”
“Don’t worry,” I said, “I’ll send Vra Branvar a big contribution for the temple. With the priests praying for us. how can we lose?”
“Easily,” Martha said cryptically.
Martha could still be angry that I wanted to exhibit Kyri but I didn’t think so. I suspected that she was worried, but that couldn’t be helped. “We have to go,” I said. “You know how Sar Malthor is about invitations.”
Martha shrugged. “Oh, all right, I’ll go. But I wish Alyse were here to help me dress. She picked a poor time to have a baby!” She walked across the room to the small still pool of water set into one of the walls and looked down into it. “It’s virtually impossible to do an adequate job with this makeshift,” she said disgustedly. “I’d give anything for a good mirror. Incidentally, when is that glass works of yours going to produce some decent plate? They’ve done nothing so far but make jewelry and art objects and bottles.”
“It won’t be too long,” I said. “We’re working on it. However, I wanted to get glassblowing started before we went to casting and molds. Insulators and batteries require a glassblowing technology. You can’t hold acids in earthenware vessels unless they’re glazed and even glaze doesn’t hold too well with strong ones. And you can’t keep current in wire without insulators.”
“You never stop, do you?” she asked a trifle bitterly.
“I can’t,” I said. “I’d like to, but I can’t. I keep thinking of your father and the confederation.”
“Lifeboats don’t have temporal compensators,” she said. “If you get spaceborne you’ll have to face that.”
“I know,” I said, “a thousand years could pass.”
“A thousand? Do you know how far you are from home?”
I shook my head.
“A million would be more like it,” she said. She shrugged. “Oh to hell with it,” she snapped. “Let’s get ready for the banquet.”
The Great Hall of Zamal Castle was filled with a long U-shaped table lined with benches. Servants of the castle, and others hastily recruited from town were running about carrying smoking platters and dishes, wine jugs and trays of fruit. At the head table Sar Malthor and his wives, Sar Tami, myself, Kaver, Sar Malthor’s military chief, Martha, Othvar and a few of the important merchants of the town sat in elevated state looking down at the lesser folk seated along the arms of the “U.”
I nudged Martha. “Where’s Kyri?” I asked. “I don’t see her anywhere.”
“The grand entrance; she’ll be here! Look! here she comes now!”
I gasped. Martha must have helped her make that gown, I thought. It was a masterpiece, concealing, yet hinting at things no Tharn seamstress could imagine. Hours of consummate art and careful fitting had gone into the heavy brocade from which Kyri’s face and neck arose like a bronze flower. There was a subtle grace in her movements, enhanced by the ripple of cloth over her body.
Sar Tami half rose from his seat, “Kyri!” he said. The word was strained through a tight throat.
Sar Malthor sucked in his breath with a faint whistling sound.
Without a word, Kyri crossed the room and stopped in front of the table between the two lords. “My lord,” she said, and neither knew to whom she was speaking. “I should have come sooner, but I lacked the courage.”
“You’re beautiful!” Sar Tami said, “even more beautiful than when we were betrothed.”
“I am not the same as I was,” Kyri said. “Then I was a child. Now I am a woman.”
“I know,” Sar Tami murmured. “It could hardly be else.”
“But you thought that my hardships with Sar Virra had destroyed my beauty?” Kyri asked, “and you hesitated to send for me?”
“I never knew for certain that you were here,” he said, “or that you were alive. No, that is a lie. You are right. I knew all right, but I was afraid your beauty was destroyed.”
“I waited for you.”
“I am here. I came. I still didn’t know that you were whole, but I came anyway. I cannot be parted from you, and that is the truth.”
“For me? Not for knowledge of the semaphores?”
“To seek you. Had I desired only the semaphores I could have sent my seneschal. And Warn had already sent me plans. No, I was told you were alive, and I came seeking you. Yet I will admit that I came in fear. I had heard tales that were not pretty. I feared you had been changed.”
“I have, my lord.”
“But the change becomes you. You are a lady, a great lady. I have never lost my love for you. I have never wed although I could have done so many times.”
Kyri blushed and looked helplessly at Martha. Martha smiled and nodded.
“I wish to ask two questions, my lord,” Kyri said. “In public, where all may hear.”
“What are they?” Sar Tami asked. His voice was unsteady.
“First, do you still want me?”
Sar Tami nodded. “More than ever,” he said. “My eyes are filled with you.”
Kyri nodded. “And do you want me as your wife?”
Sar Tami never hesitated. “Yes,” he said and his voice was firm. “I want you as the mother of my children.”
“If you would not, I would,” Sar Malthor said.
Sar Tami darted an angry glance at his host. “The question was mine to answer, my lord.”
“And well you have answered,” Sar Malthor replied. “It becomes you.”
“I have not seen her for nearly three years,” Sar Tami said. “May I have the opportunity to look my fill?”
“My lord,” Kyri said. “This is not seemly. I am not your mistress nor your wife, that you should say me so.”
“Call a priest. Let us be wed.” Sar Tami said.
“This Sal Malthor’s house. He is lord here.” Kyri insisted. “He freed me. It is his will that I obey. He slew Sar Virra and I owe him much. Yet he has not claimed me as was his right. He has treated me with gentleness, stayed my terrors, made me whole again. Have you done as much?”
“I thought you dead.”
“You should have looked. No—perhaps it was well that you did not.”
Sar Tami sighed. “I was at fault,” he admitted, “yet I still love you, and I will have you as my wife.”
“And you, Sar Malthor, will you release me? For by law I belong to you as do all Sar Virra’s chattels.”
“I never laid claim to you,” Sar Malthor said. “You are free to stay or go.”
“It is too bad that you have three wives already,” Kyri said.
“Many lords have more.”
“Yet I am a selfish woman,” Kyri said softly, “I would be like Martha and have a man to myself. Would you put your other women aside?”
Sar Malthor shook his head. “No. They are good wives and have borne me sons. I could not in honor do that. Nor, much as I desire you, would I do it.”
“I have no wife,” Sar Tami said. “I have never married. And I shall never marry unless it be with you.”
Kyri looked at Sar Malthor. “You are a true lord, and had it been that I were betrothed to you, I would marry you gladly. For you would be gentle and kind. And I need gentleness. Yet I need love more. And I love Sar Tami.”
The Lord of Jartan’s face lighted. “Then it is me?” he asked.
“It was never anyone else,” Kyri said. “But I feared that Sar Virra had defiled me forever. I did not feel worthy to be your mate.”
“There is but one thing to do,” Sar Tami said. He turned to Sar Malthor. “Would you call a priest, my lord? I have lived in hope that Kyri was alive—and fear that she was dead. I have lived too long with hopes and fears. I want to live with joy.”
Sar Malthor smiled slowly. “I thought it would end thus,” he said. “Nor am I unhappy. But know this. If you are not a true lord to Kyri I will call you out and strike you down.”
“I would deserve it,” Sar Tami said. “And now, my lord, the priest.” He looked at Kyri. She nodded, eyes glowing, face alight. And Vra Branvar entered, dressed in his robes of office with a smile on his face and a “bless you my children” benediction on his lips. It was pure camp, but the crowd loved it, and so did the principals.
“You staged that like the final act of a musical,” I whispered to Martha.
She looked at the pair. “Thank God for happy endings,” she said. “Would that they came more often.”
“It’s not entirely happy,” I replied, “Nor do I think it will ever be. There will be dark nights and sudden fears. Kyri’s not finished with Sar Virra yet, and she is right when she says she needs love. Sar Tami will have his troubles.”
“Perhaps. Still you seem to have few enough with me, and my past could well be darker than Kyri’s.”
“We’re different.”
Martha laughed. The merry sound cut across the noisy hall. “And besides,” she said, “you’ve never bothered about wedding me.” ,
“You know our laws as well as I do,” I replied. “We’ve been married ever since I made that entry in the log.”
“I’d like something more formal. Something to remember.”
I shrugged. “If we ever get home I’ll marry you in the National Cathedral—in front of the entire world, if you wish it.”
“That would be nice,” Martha said, “I like large audiences. But what will we do with the children?”
“What children?”
“The one I’m carrying for openers. By next year you’ll be a father.”
I looked at her. There was no amusement in her eyes, just a deep unfathomable tenderness I had never seen before.
“I told you that I’d have your child,” she said.
“How long?” I asked.
“Three of these months at least. I’m surprised you haven’t noticed.”
“Well, I did think you were fatter; and that explains your moods.”
She laughed. “They’re just beginning. Just wait.”
“No way,” I said. “I’m going to move faster now. I have no desire to raise our child on Tharn.”
She shrugged. “That’s immaterial. If we go we go. If we stay we stay. Right now I feel like your wife, and it’s not a bad feeling.”
“Don’t let it overpower you,” I said. “We have lots to do.” I took her hand and held it tenderly. “I really don’t understand you. We’re not secure by any means. The priesthood wants my hide. The conservative members of the Tarnas’s council are snapping at Sar Malthor for keeping me. It’s going to be hard for him to resist the pressures to dump me. And so you get pregnant.”
“Twill be a counter-irritant, milord,” she said softly. “You need other problems than those of state.”
I laughed and kissed her, and for the first time since Sar Malthor became Provincal I relaxed. What the hell, I thought, with someone like Martha supporting me I can beat the lot of them.
CHAPTER 23
I couldn’t help thinking that Martha was right about the antipathy of the priesthood for strong rulers. Certainly she saw the causes of conflict better than I, and recognized the basic truth that secular and religious authority could not share power over the folk. One of the two must triumph, and the Tarnas must become a king who was secondly a priest, or a priest who was secondly a king.
But although I had noticed a tendency for individual priests to grasp for power, I thought nothing particular about it. After all, it was natural to be power hungry. It was only when Vra Branvar remonstrated about the speed with which new developments were entering Tharn society that I began to suspect that the priesthood was unhappy. Vra Branvar could care less for power beyond that which he had, and this clouded the issue even as his repetitive admonitions and protests triggered an alarm reaction in my mind.
I had always considered priests as people dedicated to their gods and their doctrines; unworldly folk who dealt with such intangibles as morality and souls. In Tharn, at least, I couldn’t have been more wrong. Those were the outward trappings: the things that appeared to a casual and uninquisitive eye, but they weren’t true. The Tharn priesthood was, with few exceptions, dedicated to power. They believed that the temple was the only group fitted to run the nation, and that the secular arm should be subordinate. Their goal was a theocratic state, and I had come into that ideal like a gust of wind into a dusty cave.
I was anathema, for I brought with me the one thing that a theocracy cannot endure—change! A theocracy thrives on stasis, for a stable and unchanging world is the best environment for the establishment of doctrine and dogma, the two pillars that support the churchly state.
The matter came to a head when I was attacked by one of the castle guards. The fellow had apparently watched me for weeks, reading my habit patterns until he thought he had found the ideal place to cut me down. What he didn’t know was that Earthly color vision is far more sensitive than that of a Tharn, and that I was aware of the bluish gray of his cloak against the grayish white of the stone where he lay hidden. And, aware of his presence, I recognized the threat implicit in it, as he had no right to be in this area, which was forbidden to anyone except my personal staff, Martha, and Sar Malthor.
I recognized him as one of the donjon guardsmen. “Arund,” I said, “put down that knife!”
“Heretic conjer!” he said, “die!” And then he lunged at me.
He was being overly dramatic, a cold little part of my mind thought. It was like a bad play. I slipped past the thrust, caught his wrist in an arm bar, leaned forward and dropped him on his back, kneed him in the groin and kicked him in the face as he doubled up with pain. Then I called the guard.
Sar Malthor wanted to hang the man, but I prevailed on him to let me have the fellow. I took him down to the warehouse where I had stored the lifeboat and used the Hunt-Winslow to extract his memories. In an hour I knew who had hired him and why. It was a shock. I would never have expected Vra Branvar to participate in an assassination plot.
I had Arund placed in the dungeon, and with several men I couid trust, I went to visit the castle priest. He didn’t deny my charge.
“I hired the man,” he said, “and told him to kill you.”
“But why? I thought we were friends.”
“I am also a soldier of Tharn,” the priest said. “I, too, take orders.” He smiled faintly. “But I am justified. I told them it wouldn’t work—that you couldn’t be killed by any ordinary plot. But from now on, if I were you, I would beware of arrows and never walk too close to the walls where things could fall upon your head.”
