Master of None (47 page)

He said promptly, in Vanar, “Son of Yaenida, brother of Yronae, husband of Kallah, father of Aenanda.”

She stared at him blankly. “I meant, what is your name?” “Nathan Crewe Nga’esha,” he said.

Her smile widened, but grew no warmer. “That’s an Hengeli name,” she said with satisfaction.

“Nga’esha isn’t.”

“You’re Vanar?”

“Yes.”

She studied his sati. “And Nga’esha?”

“I am the youngest son of the former pratha h’máy, Yaenida Nga’esha. Yronae is my sister.”

“Amazing. Your late mother must have been exceptionally fertile at such an advanced age.” Nathan didn’t respond to her sarcasm. “You speak excellent Hengeli.”

“Thank you.”

“You
are
Hengeli, aren’t you?”

He thought about how to answer that, aware others were listening. “Yes,” he said after a moment. “I’m also Hengeli.” He kept it in the present tense.

She laughed, the sound small and tight. “Ironic, isn’t it? The first Nga’esha man I ever get to meet turns out to be Hengeli.” He didn’t respond. “If you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Crewe, what is an Hengeli man doing at these meetings?”

It had been a long time since someone had addressed him as “mister,” the sound of it jarring.

“I’m an interpreter.”

“Bullshit,” she said. He translated the word literally into Vanar in his head and thought of Yronae trying to puzzle out the meaning of the word, wondering what bovine droppings had to do with anything.

“I don’t translate conversation. I’m there to give the Nga’esha pratha h’máy the benefit of my knowledge of Hengeli culture. Cultural analyst, if you prefer.”

“It was my understanding that foreign men were strictly prohibited on Vanar.”

“They are,” he agreed. He didn’t elaborate.

“Aren’t you homesick, Mr. Crewe?” Ruuspoelk asked. Her tone was casual, if the question was not.

He considered the nuances of the question carefully before he answered. Even with Yronae’s assurance he was free to discuss anything with this woman, he knew this skated a dangerous area. “I’m married to the Changriti dalhitri h’máy. We have a daughter. Her name is Aenanda. It means ‘joy’ in Vanar. This is my home now.”

It didn’t answer her question, but it did. She stared at him for a moment before she leaned back.

“Hm.” She nodded, her eyes wandering to take in his dress. “You seem to have adjusted well enough. Gone native.”

He heard the implied insult. He didn’t allow any anger to show, feeling, in fact, little of anything.

“How in the hell did you end up here, of all places?”

He thought of Pratima in the clearing by the river.
So tell me, what’s a nice Hengeli boy like you doing on Vanar?
It was certainly a question he’d never been able to answer to his own satisfaction. He gave his long-established excuse. “I came looking for a plant. About so high.” He held his hands up to measure. “Dark reddish leaves, primitive pseudoflowers. Indigenous to Vanar.”

“A plant?” she echoed cynically.

He replaced his palms against his thighs. “I was a botanist before I came to Vanar. I still am.”

She didn’t answer for several seconds, studying him thoughtfully. “That’s not what we’ve heard,” she said finally. “We’ve heard you were abducted and sold into slavery.”

He felt his face go cold. There was only one way she could have known that, only one source she could have heard it from. Lyris. Even angry, he chose his words cautiously, knowing as well as she did that their conversation was being recorded.

“An exaggeration at best,” he said. “And if you already know who I am, you also know I’ve had several studies on indigenous Vanar botany published in Hengeli academic journals over the past four years, which I’ll be happy to supply you with should you care to read them. Now, if your curiosity is satisfied, may I go, or is there anything else you wanted to see me for?”

“Your help, Mr. Crewe,” another voice behind him said.

He twisted to stare at the ambassador standing behind him, her back against the closed door. He got to his feet more quickly than was graceful. “Excuse me, but I was not given permission to speak with anyone other than Heloise Ruuspoelk.”

“I don’t give a damn.”

“I do. This conversation is over,” he said, now openly angry.

“No, I don’t think so. This conversation is just starting,” Suzenne Rashir said, her face hardened. “And unless my sources about Vanar manners are in error, you won’t lay a hand on me to force me away from this door, which means you aren’t going anywhere until I say we’re done here.” She smiled, a twin to the frosty expression of her aide. “So, which are you? Vanar or Hengeli?”

“It doesn’t matter which I am. If I touch a woman against her will, Yronae Nga’esha will have me skinned alive.
Not
a reliable test of my loyalties. But if you don’t get away from that door voluntarily, I will be forced to call for assistance. This room is being monitored, Madam Ambassador, as I’m sure you’re aware, and I can’t believe you really want to cause an incident. Not on Vanar.”

The smile had vanished, replaced by a flat, unreadable veneer. “Shout as loud as you like,” she said calmly. “No one will hear you.”

“Among my various other duties,” Heloise Ruuspoelk said, “I’m also a debugging expert. Vanar monitoring systems are admittedly extremely good, as most of them are based on Hengeli technology to begin with. But our neutralizing is even better.” She pulled a small slender device from under her tunic and held it lightly in her hand. The dull burnished copper cylinder looked like an ordinary reader pen, more ornamental than functional, which, he suspected, it was supposed to.

“Then the pratha h’máy must be aware by now something is wrong,” he said, now afraid as well as angry.

“We’ll take the risk.”

He was shaking, outraged. “You’re not the one taking it,” he snapped. “Instead of spending a few minutes explaining the nuances of a recorded conversation to the pratha h’máy, all you’ve done now is ensure I’m going to be spending the rest of the night resurrecting it word for word from memory.”

“Then she’s going to want you to listen carefully, isn’t she?” Heloise Ruuspoelk said. “All we’re asking you to do is stay a few minutes, have a friendly chat. That’s all. Then you can tell her anything you want.” She chuckled. “Even the truth.”

“Please sit down, Mr. Crewe,” the ambassador said.

He reluctantly walked back to the floor cushion and knelt, brushing his sati back with one foot, in pointedly Vanar formality. The ambassador pushed away from the door and sat down next to her aide, legs crossed clumsily.

“Nga’esha is one of the Nine High Families,” Rashir said. “How did
you
become a Nga’esha?”

“I was adopted. It’s common practice here.”

“You must miss your real family.”

He almost laughed, but not in humor. “As far as either I or the Vanar are concerned, the Nga’esha
is
my real family. I haven’t seen my birthmother in twenty years.” How easy it was to say “birthmother” rather than “real mother,” he realized. “I doubt she knows I’m on Vanar, or cares. I don’t know where she is now.”

“How sad that you can disown your own mother like that.” The expression in Rashir’s eyes was chilly. “But I suppose being Vanar and a Nga’esha does afford you a more lavish lifestyle than that of the average Hengeli,” Rashir said, glancing significantly at his massive gold bracelets. He kept his hands still, not acknowledging the look. “The Nga’esha are the most powerful of the Nine Families. Being a Nga’esha as well as married into the Changriti must give you a great deal of money and power, doesn’t it?”

He allowed himself a snort of amused scorn. “You really don’t understand how things work here, do you?”

“Evidently not,” Rashir agreed promptly. “We don’t have the benefit of your extensive experience. Which puts us at a somewhat unfair disadvantage.”

He hesitated, weighing his loyalties. “I have an income from my Nga’esha investments, modest by Vanar standards, which I agree outside Vanar would be an enormous fortune. I make more money in a single month in interest alone than either of you will ever earn in your entire lives.”

Rashir remained impassive, but Ruuspoelk’s eyes blinked rapidly for a moment before she regained her self-control. It was a small pleasure, but satisfying.

“But since I can’t spend it anywhere but Vanar, I hardly qualify as being wealthy. While being the brother of the pratha h’máy might give me some minor privileges, I’m only a man as well as the youngest brother, and still obviously Hengeli. I’m third and least important husband to a Changriti. Marriage does
not
make me Changriti, only my daughter. I’m my wife’s property, not family. Any ‘influence’ I have over either the Nga’esha or the Changriti is limited in the extreme.”

“Property,” Ruuspoelk said with distaste.

He looked directly at her. “Property,” he repeated firmly.

“There are men who enjoy being dominated by women. Is that why you’re here, are you one of those sort of men?”

If she was trying to goad him into a reaction, he had had too much practice at keeping his temper hidden. He smiled dryly. “Not according to my pratha h’máy,” he said, knowing that would have amused Yronae.

“I see. Are you happy here?”

He wished Yronae had not insisted he meet with these women on his own. “Sometimes.” He also wished he were a better liar.

“Would you like to go back? With us?”

He wondered if Yronae had known they would make him that offer. “I left Hengeli when I was nineteen. Regardless of how I got here or why, I’m not a prisoner. I’ve had to learn how to balance my allegiances, but I’ve chosen to stay, of my own free will.”

“We know all about balancing allegiances, Mr. Crewe. Things have changed since you were last in Hengeli. The civil war has been over for years. Former enemies work together now quite compatibly.” She exchanged a wry look with Ruuspoelk. “Hengeli has enjoyed twelve years of unbroken peace, the damage so completely repaired you wouldn’t know the war had ever happened. We’ve all worked hard for peace. No one,
no one
wants another war. But every day, innocent Hengeli are dying in a conflict they didn’t start and certainly don’t deserve, unable to protect themselves or their families.” It was a set speech delivered with a politician’s plastic earnestness.

“I’m well aware of the consequences of war, Madam Ambassador.” He knew he could keep his face and voice matter-of-fact. “My father was killed by a sniper when I was seven. He was holding my hand when he was shot. My mother was a mathematics teacher. There wasn’t much call for her qualifications in a refugee camp. She and I weren’t close. I didn’t see much of her; she worked most days in forced labor crews defusing mines in the occupied zones and most nights in someone else’s bed to keep us from starving. So excuse me if I feel no moral obligation to help you to decide whose father deserves to die and whose does not.”

Rashir listened with cordial disinterest, but Ruuspoelk flushed. “But you knew all this, didn’t you?”

If he had hoped to shame either woman, he had failed. “Of course we did, Mr. Crewe,” Ruuspoelk said. “Your presence at such a high level Nga’esha meeting came as a surprise. That prompted us to do some digging. Not easy, since few people outside Vanar even know you exist. Your disappearance didn’t create much of a stir, frankly. But our intelligence division is good, very good. And very quick. We know all there is to know about you, right up to the time you dropped out of sight. Our data on you after Vanar is admittedly a bit hazier. You’re wrong about your mother, by the way. She does care.” She smirked at his reaction. “She’s alive and well in Villemare-del-Sol. Happily re-married. You have a half brother. His name is Francesco. He’s twelve. Looks a lot like you.”

He was silent for a moment. “Please give them my best,” he said finally, his voice toneless.

Rashir had sat quietly while her aide spoke, without intervening. After a moment, Ruuspoelk exhaled through her nose in contempt. “We also know about your felony convictions.”

He had been the same age as his unknown half brother, running in a small gang of children for the protection of numbers rather than trying to survive alone. The first offense had been for stealing potatoes from a black market trader, the magistrate correspondingly lenient. The second had been for heisting an expensive sport scoot in a desperate bid to escape Westcastle. Unfortunately, it had belonged to one of the military police sergeants assigned to the border patrol of West-castle. After a ludicrous low-speed chase, he’d crashed, the scoot demolished while he escaped unhurt. His pursuers remedied that disparity. After he was released from the infirmary, he spent six months in squalid internment before his mother could raise enough to pay the fine for his release.

“And your mother wasn’t the only one who traded on her favors in Westcastle, was she? We know how you coerced Ivan Brohm to get him to smuggle you off Hengeli. We also know how you forged your credentials and lied your way into Remsill University. By the way, your degree has been revoked.”

If they hoped to shake him a second time, it was their turn to fail. “If your past behavior is anything to go by, it’s not beneath you to use less-than-ethical methods for your own personal gain.” Her scorn was almost palpable. “From thief and bumboy con man to a prominent member of the Nga’esha Family is an extraordinary achievement, wouldn’t you say? Just out of curiosity, is your pratha h’máy aware of your criminal record?”

He almost laughed. “Every detail, Madam Ambassador.”

He was certain this woman had never been in a refugee camp, was one of the privileged whose homes hadn’t been blown out of existence. He wondered how well she would have resisted Vasant Subah’s interrogation techniques.

Nor was their information as good as she thought: she was dead wrong about Ivan Brohm; Nathan hadn’t had to coerce anyone. Regardless of Fat Ivan’s other personal vices, he had never laid a finger on Nathan. Once he had discovered Nathan had a fascination for living plants, he had been delighted to take the boy under his wing. The terraform systems technician became the closest thing to a father Nathan had ever known. He latched onto both the older man’s affection and the science like a lifeboat, the two mixed together. He had learned to put the war behind him, carve out his own bit of normal existence. Her derision didn’t shame him.