High Couch of Silistra (5 page)

I inspected my reflection once again. Good enough, I thought, and tossed the bone comb on the couch. The rust silk set me off to my best advantage. There was, however, something missing. Thoughtfully, I disengaged the clip that held the two ends of the silk strap together at my right hip. I lifted the ends and stuffed them through my chald, so that they were tightly belted to my waist. Then I refastened the clip higher on my thigh. I fingered my father’s ring for a moment. Better. I turned, slowly, full around. Much better.

As I made my way to the dining hall, my anticipation heightened. My hungers had sorted themselves out. I was more than ready to eat, and the smell of roast parr and fried grintafish made my mouth water.

M’lennin’s back was toward me, and he was engaged in animated conversation with one of his visitors, he whom I took to be the pilot, for his hair was cut close to the head, and he wore a tight-fitting brown uniform, that of his vocation. The small dark man was almost hidden behind a pile of Silistran fruit of every conceivable variety. I stood in the doorway scanning the room, as is my wont. All the food upon the table was Silistran. M’lennin never ate local produce. There was a whole parr, its skin shining with glaze, its square snout propped up in the air by the name fruit between its teeth. There was a side of denter, with roast tuns, a starchy dark-skinned tuber, for garnish. The table, as long as my body and half as wide, was overflowing with meats and vegetables and fruits. There were four large decanters, two of an amber liquid which I took to be brin, for it bubbled and frothed, and two darker, almost certainly kifra wines. It was an impressive spread, and would have fed forty, rather than four. M’lennin was consistent, at least, in his excess.

M’len and the pilot had not noticed me. I stepped silently into the hall, planning to cross the marble floor unannounced.

I had made perhaps a third of the distance when a hand came down firmly from behind me on my left shoulder. Reflexively I dropped and kicked out. I felt my foot connect with something hard. Crouching free, I pulled my hair back from my face.

My would-be attacker was on his knees, clutching his diaphragm.

M’lennin and the pilot were leaning on each other, laughing hysterically. I saw the overturned chairs and spilled fruit on the floor, and the menial robot clicking irritably as it scurried to set things right.

“I would introduce you two,” gasped the Liaison through tears of laughter, “but I see you have already met.”

My adversary raised his head to me, steadying himself with one hand on the floor as he rose. I, too, got to my feet.

My hands on my hips, I regarded him. I did not think the situation humorous. I have had much training from the Slayers. My teacher, Rin diet Tron, would say I have many moves. I would say I have a few, though I am no match for a Silistran Slayer.

“My apologies, lady,” said my attacker. He was a good head taller than I, dark-complexioned, with a great mass of black hair. Under straight, pronounced brows his eyes were gray, frank, open. A smile played at the corners of his mouth. I thought him very attractive, though overly muscled. I had brought him down through luck, and he knew it. He weighed perhaps thrice what I carried. He rubbed his middle.

“I am Estri,” said I, extending my hand palm up. I would not exchange apologies with him. I smiled and nodded my head.

“Khaf-Re Dellin,” said he. His voice was pleasant, low and rich. His large hand, palm down, enveloped mine. The back of his hand was fleeced with black silky hair. He wore a white, collared shirt, and the black shorts I knew were part of the Liaison dress code, though M’len always wore pants and boots.

His eyes had mine, and we stood there, palms touching, longer than was appropriate. Neither of us spoke. I searched for something to say, but I was mute. Instead I disengaged my hand and turned to M’lennin.

“You had better teach him some manners before he goes to Arlet,” I advised in a low voice.

“Perhaps you will do it for me,” he said, giving me a piercing stare. He stepped between us and put his arm around Dellin’s shoulder. He had to reach up to do it. The Liaison First said something to the Liaison Second in a voice too low for me to catch his meaning.

“Seat yourself, Keepress,” said M’lennin. I did so, choosing a spot before the platter of parr. I winced when my bottom settled on the padded bench.

M’len, standing over me, grinned and reached under the table. When his hand reappeared, it held a cushion. I took it and placed it beneath me, and sat again, this time gingerly.

The Liaison First took his armed chair at the narrow end of the table. The pilot sat across from me. He introduced himself as Dalf Tragett, of Beten, a B.F. planet in the adjacent quadrant. I had had Betenese in Astria. They are tiny powerhouses, brilliant and sensitive. The Betenese are among the best mathematical minds in the B.F., much sought as astrogators. We exchanged suitable pleasantries and I asked after two captains I knew from his home town. He was flattered, surprised at my interest, and we chatted.

Dellin had not seated, but continued his inspection of the tapestries that hung from the gray walls of the huge and lofty dining hall, that inspection which my entrance had interrupted.

I was piqued.

M’lennin was openly amused. He leaned back in his steel and sueded armchair, sipping brin. As host, he should have served us, but he did not.

I rose to serve the pilot, and turned to face M’len, letting my hair fall over my shoulder so the Betenese could not see my face. I stuck my tongue out at the Liaison First, and he choked on his frothy mouthful.

“Brin is a lightly intoxicating drink, brewed from grain called binnirin, which grows both wild and cultivated all over Silistra and is one of our staple crops,” said I, handing a crystal glass of amber liquid to the pilot. He sipped it hesitantly, then nodded and took a larger swallow.

“It will not, of course,” I continued, “intoxicate a Beten, unless one of such prodigious appetites were to drink, perhaps, a whole barrel.”

We both laughed. I poured another tall foaming glass and carried it across the hall to Dellin, where he was dutifully inspecting a Torth sculptured panel. I looked back over my shoulder and saw M’len handing a pipe to the pilot.

“Liaison,” said I, a safe distance from his broad back, “will you taste brin?”

He turned and looked past me toward the table. We were well out of earshot, if we kept our voices down.

“Keepress,” said he, extending his hand for the glass, “I will have whatever you see fit to give me,” and his eyes were frank and appreciative.

I tossed my head, letting some of my nearly dry hair fall over my breast. The curling ends rested on my naked thigh.

“My couch-price,” I breathed, “is fifty gold dippars, in Astria. Here, however, I am at the Liaison First’s disposal. Should you make an arrangement with him, I would have no choice but to honor it.”

A cloud crossed Dellin’s face. Had I misread him?

“I would give you that chance,” said he. His voice was low but angry. “I would make an arrangement with you, not M’lennin. I want nothing not freely given.” I saw that he had much to learn of Silistra.

“And I cannot,” I explained, “give you what is not mine to give.”

He looked at me, not understanding, leaning his shoulder against the Torth panel, sipping his brin so that I could not see the expression on his face.

“You are incredibly beautiful,” he tried again.

“Surely worth fifty gold dippars, then?” I asked.

“Doubtless,” he confirmed.

“I cannot lower my price, my value, my status, by lying with a man like some binnirin farmer’s daughter, for nothing. Do you understand? On Silistra, such things are not done. If you would have me this night, you must pay my couch-price to M’len, or strike with him some bargain.” I smiled reassuringly. “You have much to learn before you go to Arlet.”

He raked his fingers through the harth mass of his hair, shaking his head slowly from side to side, and handed me the half-full glass of brin.

I took it and tried to suppress my amusement as he strode to M’lennin’s side. My former couch-mate would be very annoyed, but he had little choice. M’len could not, in his position of mentor to Dellin, refuse him. I had no choice at all, but it happened that I wanted the Liaison Second. I would, in any case, have had to abide by M’len’s decision, even if Dellin had been old and ugly. Had he been the least attractive man on Silistra, I would have answered him the same. But he was not.

I watched them. Dellin bent over M’lennin. M’lennin rubbed the back of his neck and played with his glass. The Liaison Second nodded, and the Liaison First smiled. I thought the smile a trifle strained from where I leaned against the Torth sculpture at one end of the long, narrow, high-ceilinged gray room.

It was good to watch Khaf-Re Dellin move, I decided as he came toward me, graceful, fluid, catlike on the balls of his feet. He did not swagger or strut, but moved with sinuous, unconscious ease. In his hand he held a second glass of amber brin.

When he reached me, he took the half-glass from my hands and gave me the full one. He leaned one shoulder against the wall, looking down at me with a bemused expression on his strong-boned face.

“I have little understanding of Silistran customs, but I would be a fool did I not wish to learn.” He reached out and touched my hair, then my neck.

“You struck, then,” asked I, “a satisfactory agreement with M’len?” I read his path, as it is said, by precipitating the question and watching his mind react.

“You are mine, as the Liaison put it, to command until sun’s rise. I command you, then, to tell me now if you would prefer to avoid my touch.” His face was but inches from mine; his narrowed eyes searched.

“Avoid it.” I laughed. “Does the musician avoid his instrument? Does the singer avoid the song? Such is my chan-tera; my study, my vocation, my way of life!” I turned my face to his. He took a kiss from me. I tasted my own blood as his lips pressed down upon mine. His hands were on my buttocks.

After a time he pushed me from him and held me at arm’s length, his fingers digging into my shoulders.

“Your answer does not satisfy me, woman. Do you want me?” He shook me.

“Do you want me to want you, Liaison? Your mouth says one thing, your touch another,” I replied. His face showed no expression, but he turned me and pushed me toward the table, slapping me ungently on the rear. For that question, the Liaison Second had no answer.

“We have delayed the meal overlong,” said he instead. The pilot and the Liaison First stared at us until we were seated behind the roast parr. M’lennin drummed his fingers on the tabletop. He had the look of a man who had tasted kifra gone sour.

“Where are you from?” I asked, passing Dellin his plate, upon which I had placed three thick strips of parr, juicy with blood.

“M’ksakka is where I grew up,” said he, accepting the cream sauce I passed him. He spooned some on the stewed name he had chosen from a large bowl of mixed fruit, “but I was born on Itabe, of a M’ksakkan father and Itabic mother. Why?”

“Curiosity. You remind me of M’len in some ways,” I said, shooting a look at the Liaison First. “He has never truly gotten used to Silistra. I think perhaps he is afraid that it is all just a dream and one day he will awaken and find himself Liaison to a mining colony on Centaus. They instill a strange brand of morality on M’ksakka,” I added, serving the ruby kifra wine.

“Not as strange a brew as is found in Astria,” growled M’lennin. “I might prefer Centaus, were I given the choice.” He popped a chunk of grintafish, crispy and brown, into his mouth. “I hear the food on Centaus is incomparable.”

We all laughed. Centaus was a bare, airless rock. The colony was underground, the food hydroponically grown.

“And there is no blasted chaldra to drive a man mad. Nor chaldless outlaws, nor highborn ladies of the evening. Just men making a good living, who have no compunction about doing so.” He drained his wineglass and refilled it. “Planet of dizzy whores,” he grumbled.

Dellin had one hand between my thighs beneath the table. With the other he forked a bit of mashed tun into his mouth.

“I see nothing wrong with Silistran food. In fact, I rather like it,” said the Betenese pilot, emptying one decanter of kifra and starting upon the second. The Beten was quietly getting very drunk.

“Has Estri told you, Khaf-Re, that she intends to make her way to Arlet on a mission of great chaldric importance? Everything on Silistra has chaldric importance,” said M’lennin bitterly.

I choked on a bit of narne. I had wanted to tell Dellin in my own way, at a more opportune moment.

The Liaison Second squeezed my thigh. He put down his fork and looked at me.

“Perhaps,” said he, “if I can get a pass’s advance on my salary, the Well-Keepress of Astria will allow me to deliver her to Arlet?” He was grinning.

“Doubtless, if that is the case, she would allow it,” said I, straight-faced.

“Done,” snarled M’lennin around a mouthful of denter, “though, if the Liaison Second will allow the Liaison First to advise him, there are other women on Silistra, many more reasonably priced. One should taste the vintage before stocking the cellar.”

“That’s one bottle I would buy unopened,” mumbled Dalf Tragett, the pilot.

“Thank you, Master Astrogator,” I acknowledged, but the Beten slumped forward on the table. Kifra is smooth and deceptively delicate, but it is potent.

“Speak to me of these chaldless,” said Dellin to M’lennin, as the button-bristled tubular menial robot blinked its way to the table with a pot of steaming rana grasped in its jointed metal tentacle.

As I served the sobering rust-colored brew to the three of us, M’lennin launched into a tirade concerning the ungrateful malcontents that harried tourists and waylaid star-goods caravans. It annoyed him terribly that the chaldless seldom bothered Silistrans. The pilot snored loudly. I thought he would sleep until sun’s rise.

M’lennin ran dry of words as I served the fruited binnirin cake, and we ate it in silence. The Liaison First then pulled out a large-bowled ragony pipe and filled it carefully from his parr-hide pouch. I knew what he had filled it with from the weed’s yellow smoke and acrid odor. We would smoke danne, the rare and costly psychotropic herb that grows high on the Sabembe range. Three puffs would put an out-worlder such as Dellin out of commission for hours.