Master of None (31 page)

“Congratulations, elder brother,” Nathan responded, although he was older than Yinanq by more than a decade. It wasn’t the number of years, Nathan understood by now, it was the position in the Family, the constant shuffle up and down the familial ladder monitored with obsessive attention by everyone anxious to improve his own standing. “What Family has found you so excellent in their favor?” He wouldn’t ask what woman; asking after a specific woman would be too impolite. Even the most important of wives were of secondary importance to their Family.

Yinanq smiled, the first look of genuine satisfaction Nathan had seen. “The Sahmudrah,” he said, trying and failing to keep the pride out of his voice. “I have been asked to be first husband to the daughter of the dalhitri.” The First Mother’s granddaughter, Nathan knew, and knew the Sahmudrah had only one unmarried granddaughter, so far the only daughter of its heir. Nathan hadn’t bothered struggling through much of the gossip in the news articles he’d subscribed to on his reader, but judging by the recordings of Elon dva Arjusana ek Sahmudrah, she was young and exceedingly attractive. It had been a topic of hopeful gossip among a good many Nga’esha where she might come looking for an eligible kharvah. No doubt there were quite a number of disappointed Nga’esha commiserating one another while Yinanq circulated his good news.

Nathan offered even more congratulations with a sense of relief. Yinanq had made a far more favorable bargain than had he been selected as Kallah Changriti’s third husband. The younger man hadn’t come to gloat, Nathan presumed, but to let him know their rivalry had been settled.

But that was not the purpose of Yinanq’s visit, Nathan realized as the man lingered. He grew impatient as they continued the painfully stilted formalities, Yinanq reluctant to leave. Just as Nathan was trying to think of a polite way of asking him to either get to the point or piss off so he could get on with his work, the younger man fidgeted with the hem of his sati, cleared his throat, found something interesting under the edge of his thumbnail, and spoke while keeping his eyes on his hands.

“The flowers you gave Tycar look good in dark hair,” he said. And stopped, all his attention on his thumb. His hands were trembling.

“Yes,” Nathan agreed, baffled.

“It’s very popular. Many of the sahakharae now demand flowers for their hair instead of jewelry.”

Nathan stared at the younger man now picking furiously at his cuticle.

“They count the number of blossoms to decipher hidden meanings,” Yinanq continued, “and compare the color between themselves. Giving hair flowers is becoming a ceremonial art in itself. You have given Vanar a new fashion. Everyone is talking about it.”

Inwardly, Nathan groaned, both at having invented yet another interminable Vanar ritual and at the inane conversation. Then Yinanq dropped his hands into his lap and looked up, gazing with reflexive precision just over Nathan’s shoulder, but unable to hide the misery on his face. “I apologize for saying you were dirty and smelled bad. And... and telling our jah’nari pratha h’máy you threatened the children.”

The young man’s voice was shaking as badly as his hands.

“But both of those things were true, elder brother. I’m sure you only did it for the sake of the Family.”

Yinanq lowered his head, close to tears. Suddenly Nathan realized just how young the man was, barely more than a boy. “No, I did it because I was jealous, because I was afraid of you and thought it was unfair that a rhowgha yepoqioh should have the luck to marry the Changriti heir instead of me.”

After having lived so long in the stifling formality, the convolutions of half-speech, this naked and honest confession left Nathan stunned. He stared at the man only a few years older than Raemik. “Oh, for godsake . . . ,” he started, then stopped, realizing as Yinanq looked up in confusion that he’d spoken in Hengeli. “Yinanq, I accept your apology. Now you know you were not chosen for the Changriti only because the Goddess had something better in mind for you. May you father many daughters and die an old and happy man.”

If he had thought this ritual blessing would make the boy feel better, he was even more confused as Yinanq’s eyes reddened, his face frozen with embarrassment as tears threatened to spill over.

“Now I know you are not yepoqioh, you are my revered uncle, my great-aunt’s excellent little brother, and this stupid naeqili was wrong to doubt the wisdom of our pratha h’máy when she brought you into our Family. All the Nga’esha know you are
koshah
, a treasure more valuable than a mountain of pearls, wise and good and truly civilized, most venerable Nay-teen Karoo . . .” Yinanq’s damp eyes were wide, almost wild as he babbled.

Nathan sighed. “Yinanq...”

“I have to persuade my
práhsaedam
to come with me when I go to the Sahmudrah,” the boy blurted out. He stopped, gulping.

Nathan waited. When Yinanq didn’t continue, he said quietly, “I’m not so wise as you think. I don’t understand what any of this has to do with me.”

“I’ve known Jayati all my life. We grew up together, he’s my only real friend,” Yinanq said, his voice hoarse with the attempt to keep it steady. “I don’t know anyone in the Sahmudrah Family, all of the Nga’esha kharvah there are old men. If he won’t come with me, I’ll be totally alone, I’ll have no one.”

Nathan understood. The bond between many of the marriageable men and the sahakharae, even when it wasn’t sexual, was often closer than marriage. Considering the nearly hostile nature of relationships between men and women, it would have been surprising if it weren’t. The strain between Yinanq and his favorite was one of simple hurt and jealousy, the irrational anger from the fear of losing a loved one. Nathan understood it well enough.

“What would it take to convince your friend?”

“A perfect gift. Hair flowers like you gave Tycar.”

“But that’s easy. You know where I bought them, they must have plenty more where those came from.”

Yinanq shook his head. “It’s true, that shop is doing an excellent business now, everyone goes there, the
saudaegar
can’t keep up with the demand, and she curses your name as much as blesses it. Many others are selling hair flowers, too. But Jayati says the custom started with you. You are the expert, and only you know which are the perfect flowers, they must be as exquisite as those you gave to Tycar. He says you must choose for me, only you. . . .”

Nathan sat back on his heels. Yinanq’s head drooped so low it practically touched the floor, his skin flushed a deep, mortified red.

“You know what I think?” Nathan said slowly, and smiled as Yinanq lifted his head just far enough to peek at him. “I think Jayati doesn’t give a shit about the flowers.” He used the Hengeli profanity, hoping that might catch on as well. “What he’s doing is testing you. He knows there have been bad feelings between us, and he wants you to prove to him that you love him more than you are afraid of me. To see if you can swallow your pride enough to ask for my help.”

As Yinanq blinked at him, Nathan could see he knew that already, wondering at the former rhowgha yepoqioh’s incredibly dim wits. “But I still need a gift,” he insisted plaintively.

“And I need to be left alone to work. What do you think will happen if I help you choose the ‘right’ flowers? Everyone will come to me to choose for them. I’ll be plagued by a thousand others who would want the same privilege.”

“Then you refuse to help me?” It was nearly a sob.

Nathan grinned. “No, I think I have a solution, and a suitable vengeance on you for calling me dirty and smelly.”

Yinanq flinched, but said nothing as he listened.

Two days later, Nathan sauntered out into the men’s enclosed garden and, as if by total coincidence, bumped into Yinanq and his favorite sahakharae sitting by the fountain. Several other men loitered in the sunshine, one of them idly plucking on a kapotah lute with far more skill than Nathan would ever have. Yinanq glanced up nervously as Nathan greeted them, Jayati bowing in return.

Jayati looked even younger than Yinanq, but his expression was cooler, the self-possession of someone who knew he was in control, whatever the realities of his social relation to Yinanq. He was handsome, as most sahakharae were, his face still pudgy with the roundness of baby fat not yet hardened by age, but at the moment hardened by an expression of profound dissatisfaction.

With a somewhat less than unrehearsed voice, Yinanq invited Nathan to share the sunlight on the edge of the fountain with them. Nathan was careful to sit beside the sahakharae where he could easily see the violet flowers woven into the boy’s dark braid, along with a spray of tiny gold beads. The beads were actually quite a nice touch, Nathan thought. For the several minutes of bland pleasantries he exchanged with the two boys, he kept glancing at Jayati’s braid while trying not to be too obvious about it.

Finally, he paused, looked directly at the flowers and said, “Lilac.”
“Khee?”
Jayati said.
What?

Nathan nodded at the flowers. “That’s what they’re called in Hengeli. I don’t know the name in Vanar.”

Which of course was a barefaced lie. Horticulture was the one subject in Vanar he knew better than any other. He inhaled the fragrance, then looked at Yinanq. “What a wonderful choice. Are they from you?”

Wordless, Yinanq nodded as Jayati glanced between them and fingered the braid speculatively, uncertain.

Nathan shook his head in a pose of wonder and admiration. “How much better, far more sophisticated than the simple gift I made so long ago to
my
small brother, so ingenious of you to bring perfume and beauty together. The pale violet neatly complements the Nga’esha blue. How lucky
your
small brother is to have such a talented friend in you, Yinanq. And the gold beads are truly a Vanar finesse I could never hope to match, the way they bring out the depth of the color...”

He carried on in this way for a few more moments before he was afraid he’d break out laughing and spoil the whole game. Yinanq looked slightly ill, but smiled wanly.

“If ever again I need to make such a gift myself, Yinanq, may I come to you for your advice?”

Yinanq nodded again, then opened his mouth. “Yes.” It came out as a croak. Nathan thanked him, careful not to notice the open-mouthed eavesdroppers, and stood up to leave. He turned away, but not so quickly that he missed Jayati’s hand slip onto Yinanq’s knee, or Yinanq’s face light up in relief.

The market value on plum blossoms plummeted sharply, while lilac became the sudden rage, along with innumerable strands of gold beads. When Yinanq made his barefoot trek to the Sahmudrah estate for inspection by his future wife’s various menfolk, he had to lug enough lilac along to be smelled coming from two blocks away.

The competition for the most inventive or showiest flowers became cutthroat fierce. Nathan strolled several times past the garden, staying just far enough away to be inconspicuous and trying not to grin as Yinanq was pestered at every turn for advice on just the right color, how many cuttings were too much, which was better: lily of the valley or alyssum? Did marigolds smell good or bad, and were salpiglossis too big? Could pearls be used rather than gold? Were hair flowers only for sahakharae or could just anyone wear them?

Could even
women
wear them?

The one and only time two bitter adversaries arrived on his doorstep to settle a heated dispute, Nathan simply pleaded he had to bow to Yinanq’s far superior aesthetic taste and sent them on their way. Yinanq’s eyes began to have an edge of panic around them whenever Nathan spotted the boy striding rapidly through the gardens as if trying to outrun his pursuers.

A week before Yinanq’s marriage, Jayati came to visit. Yinanq’s práhsaedam was far more comfortable in his presence than his friend had been. After half an hour of sipping brandy-laced coffee and swapping salacious gossip about the various foibles in the Sahmudrah and Changriti Families, Jayati finally said, “I have something for you.”

He carefully extracted a small silk-covered object from the folds of his sati and unwrapped it. The petals unfolded into a single huge bloodred hibiscus flower, the stem secured to the thin wire used to anchor it into a braid. A burst of jade beads hung in a cascade under the flower.

“Is this from you or Yinanq?”

“Both of us, but it was his idea.” Jayati smiled, the knowing amusement belonging on a much older face. “He
is
capable of a few of his own, you know.”

Nathan laughed, and had the boy help him position it into his still unimpressively short braid and wore it proudly the entire day until it wilted. Then he scandalized the men’s house by showing how one could make tea from it, making the flower’s color appear from the brownish infusion with a drop of lemon juice into the white porcelain cup.

That was one idea that didn’t catch on.

XXVII

N
ATHAN WOKE TO THE SOUND OF RITUAL WAILING, THE EERIE WARBLING
carrying from the women’s house like a pack of strange animals on the hunt. The hair on his arms stood up in alarm. He stepped out dressed only in his mati, the hallways in confusion, and saw the Nga’esha men standing with varying expressions of shock, silently unbraiding their hair. His heart sank as Raemik walked toward him, black hair cascading freely across his shoulders.

“What is it?” But he knew, even as he asked.

“Pratha Yaenida is dead.”

Even so, it stopped his breath as much as if he’d been punched in the gut. He knew it had to happen sooner or later. But he had hoped, every day, it wouldn’t be today. He stood rooted, paralyzed, as his mind spun, his first reaction fear and loss. Now that Yaenida was gone, who could he talk to, who would protect him? Guilt followed—the old woman had died and he was thinking of only himself. It didn’t last long. Grief was a selfish emotion.

“You should unbind your hair,” Raemik said quietly.

He nodded, his hands numb as he loosened his braid. “What happens now?” he asked, his voice shaky.

Raemik glanced over his shoulder as Nga’esha men wandered the halls, clutching each other and weeping. The boy’s eyes were solemn, but dry and indifferent. “We wait. This is not a matter that concerns men.” He smiled, the momentary expression caustic. “When
they
want you, you’ll be sent for.”