Master of None (5 page)
She stepped close to tighten the elaborate handcuffs, the metal grinding into the bones of his wrists. He stifled a small grunt of pain.
“You will not speak unless requested to do so,” Vasant Subah said quietly, close enough to breathe the words in his face. “You will do exactly as you are told without resistance. You will answer any questions put to you promptly and courteously. You will offer no opinions, make no demands, and ask no questions. You are to be respectful and cooperative.” He felt the hum of her implants through the metal on his wrists, and shivered. She didn’t blink as she watched him struggle for self-control. “Do you understand?”
He nodded, doing his best to prove himself very respectful and cooperative.
She glanced away from him toward the woman in blue, then back, her dark eyes hard. And nervous, he realized with surprise. The woman in blue grunted, frowning, and turned to pull the door to one side. It slid open on silent tracks. He followed them into a large room, his damp feet sticking to the cold floor.
They stopped three paces away from an immense mountain of embroidered cushions where a small, ancient woman reclined. She wore a bright silk tunic underneath shimmering blue cloth ornately folded and wrapped around her gaunt figure. Gold bracelets sparkled against her dark skin, tiny beads of lapis lazuli woven into her intricately braided silver hair. He gazed back at her with interest, his eyes hungry for color.
Gracefully, the Qsayati Vasant Subah bowed and knelt, sitting back on her heels on the floor, her palms against her thighs. “Do as I did, Nathan Crewe,” she said softly, without looking at him.
Awkwardly, he bowed and lowered himself to the floor, heels tucked under him, his shackled hands in his lap. The old woman studied him curiously, dark eyes glittering in amusement. Unsettled, he lowered his gaze to the ornate manacles on his wrists, his knuckles whitened as his fingers laced together tightly. He was shaking uncontrollably.
“My name is Yaenida Nga’esha. You may address me as Pratha Yaenida,” the old woman finally said, her voice hoarse but her Hengeli fluent and nearly unaccented. She chuckled at his surprise, a dry rasp of humorless sound. “I will be your teacher.”
S
IX MONTHS LATER, NATHAN HAD BEEN RELEASED, THE TRANSITION DISCONCERTINGLY
abrupt. He had awoken in his locked cell one morning like any other, dressed in his white prison trousers and tunic, and now that it had grown long enough, combed his hair back from his face and tied it into a short queue at the nape of his neck. Then he waited patiently for the Dhikar to arrive.
They appeared exactly on time. By now, he knew most of the Dhikar who came to escort him to Pratha Yaenida. Although none of them were malicious, courtesy was critical: the slightest show of defiance would be instantly punished. He stood as soon as he heard the door begin to slide back. Feet together, spine straight, his palms together with his thumbs pressed against his chest, he greeted his guards with a slight bow and a murmured,
“Tah byáti, bahd’hyinae.”
Good health, elder sisters.
When he had begun to speak to his guards, the Dhikar had stared at him blankly and treated him with indifference, polite but impersonal. The first time one of his guards hesitated and recognized him with a nod and a soft,
“Tah byát bah’chae,”
he’d been unable to repress his laugh of pure delight with his success. She glanced at her companion, then back at him before she shrugged.
What exactly his “lessons” with Pratha Yaenida were supposed to encompass were, at first, difficult to understand. His lack of ability to master even the fundamentals of the Vanar language obviously disappointed her, and his explanation that he was a botanist, not a linguist, had irritated her. Eventually, she began to tire of him, often days passing before he saw her. Her disinterest spurred him to try even harder, as she had made it clear his aptitude toward Vanar protocol and language was crucial if he hoped to attain any measure of freedom ever again.
This day, like any other day, he exchanged this small greeting with the Dhikar before they marched him silently down the long, empty corridors. But instead of turning toward the teaching rooms, they escorted him to a large office. Behind the low table that served as her desk, the Dhikar police chief, Vasant Subah, examined a reader, its faint light reflecting in her dark eyes. He hadn’t seen her since the arrival of Pratha Yaenida, and had fervently hoped never to see her again. His heart dropped, but he bowed politely, exactly as he’d been taught, and steeled himself for another round of grim torture.
The Qsayati’s gaze flicked up to him briefly, but she didn’t acknowledge his greeting.
Like the Dhikar, she wore her hair pulled back tightly in a plain braid down her back. But she was smaller, more delicate than the usual caste of big-boned, muscular Dhikar, and the subtle burgundy edging along her shimmering white kirtiya declaration enough of her higher lineage allying her to what he now knew was the Changriti Family. In the hollow between her clavicles, a tiny subvocal transmitter gleamed black like a necklace suspended without a chain. Her only other ornamentation was the soundpearl nestled in her ear.
She closed the reader and rose from the table. He flinched involuntarily as she took his arm, her fingers cool. Even dormant, he imagined he could feel the implants under her skin vibrate. But he’d simply been given a new white linen sati, a box with his few possessions in it, a blank datacard in a pouch hung around his neck, and a slip of paper with an address written in corkscrew Vanar script. Vasant Subah had unceremoniously escorted him up through the underground levels out into the open street, hailed a passing taxi, and told the driver where to take him.
“I’m free?” he had asked, disbelieving.
Her smile was devoid of warmth. “You’ve been released,” she said in her lightly accented voice. He was sure it was not at all the same thing.
“But... Pratha Yaenida?”
“Has no further interest in you.”
“I don’t understand. What do I do now?”
“The best you can,” she said derisively, and left him alone with the driver. The taxi had abandoned him at the foot of the charity shelter, apparently paid in advance as Nathan had no money, no idea what Vanar money even looked like. He had managed to find the apartment simply by holding up the slip of paper to passersby with a hopeful expression on his face. After several attempts resulting only in irritated scowls from women, a small elderly man dressed in white like himself emerged from the shelter and pointed a shaking finger up the narrow stairway before scuttling hurriedly away. Nathan climbed up one flight after another, stopping for several more confused queries before someone grudgingly led him to a tiny room at the top of the complex.
He sat for several hours in the room trying to mentally adjust to the change before the panic began to creep in. Despite all his lessons with Yaenida Nga’esha, all the information he’d wheedled from Lyris on the
Comptess Dovian
, he knew next to nothing about the society he had just been dumped into. He couldn’t speak the language, knowing only a handful of Vanar phrases he’d memorized by rote. He didn’t know where he was, or what was expected of him.
Barely wide enough to take five paces in any direction, his new room was not all that much bigger than the locked hospital cell, if more colorful. The walls flowed one into the other, rough plastered and shaped by hand. Previous occupants had decorated the walls with a riot of odd animals and flowering plants, strange huge-eyed lizards hiding in the leaves. The paintings ranged from the crudely amateur to exquisite artwork, abstract designs and symbols or the twisted Vanar script scrawled over dozens of drawings of highly explicit sexual acts, many with a faceless woman of monumental proportions. Some of these fantastic women had more arms or legs than normal, some with strange-colored skin, some in ritualized poses as if frozen middance. But always, the woman was naked and her blank visage wreathed with waving lines Nathan assumed to represent blazing light. He found the chaos of images unsettling.
Quarried natural stone on the floor had been polished by many generations of bare feet. An alcove recessed in the far wall included a lumpy sleeping mat and several well-worn pillows. Above that was a half-moon-shaped open window with no curtains or shutters, only an overhanging screen on the outside wall to keep the rain out. A narrow ledge ran along the two side walls, neither of them square, and neither with a sharp edge. The fourth wall was barely more than an open doorway, an arched opening into the hall with no door. Other than the sleeping alcove, he had no furniture, not even a rug thrown down on the floor to relieve the emptiness.
At one end of the room, a miniature kitchen was built into the ledge: a tiny refrigerator, a kettle for hot water, one microburner for cooking, and a flash sink to clean the few pots stored in the cabinets under the ledge. By midafternoon, he was hungry and had no idea how even to feed himself. A quick examination of the kitchen revealed only a small supply of smoky dark tea and a small earthenware pot of old damp sugar probably left behind by the previous tenant, but nothing else.
At twilight, the odor of cooking and the murmur of voices began to fill the halls. But when he went in search of a possible meal, he met only with hostile stares and eloquently turned backs. He drank heavily sugared tea that night to fill his stomach. He slept badly, unfamiliar noises waking him several times from hazy, disturbing dreams he forgot instantly. In the morning, he wrapped his sati around himself clumsily before beginning the journey down twenty flights of stairs in search of food.
He explored the broad main pedestrian street lined with tiny shops and filled with people, the vast majority of them women. After so many months in prison, seeing only his guards and his teacher, the sudden presence of so many people was almost overwhelming. It also became quickly apparent his appearance made him the object of open curiosity. People stopped at the sight of him and turned to stare as he walked by. He had never considered himself a big man, but in the midst of a crowd of slender, dark-skinned Vanar, he felt huge and awkwardly conspicuous.
He kept on walking doggedly, smiling and bowing and observing everything around him with desperate determination. He paused several feet away from one shop, the entire front wall folding down to convert into an accordion of shelves displaying vegetables in artful arrangements. A plump woman wearing a garishly bright sati stood behind the rows of fresh vegetables and chatted with another woman examining her goods, even white teeth flashing in their dark faces. He watched carefully as the customer handed her a datacard the seller then brushed a finger across. His hand went to his chest, feeling for the datacard in its pouch.
But when he tentatively approached the vegetable seller, her smile turned down into a scowl. She spoke rapidly, her speech incomprehensible to him, but her surly expression and shaking finger clear enough.
He had had nothing for more than a day, his stomach empty and his head light.
“Vahdaemih be mát Vanarha ko,”
he said insistently,
I don’t speak Vanar
, and pointed at the vegetables with one hand while holding out his card hopefully with the other.
As soon as she heard him speak, her own harangue cut off mid-sentence. She stared at him in almost comical surprise, stepping back to look him up and down in a broad theatrical gesture, eyes protruding in obvious alarm. Then she started again: a fast shrill of gibberish and a clear gesture for him to leave, clear off, go away.
He swallowed, too hungry to give in, and said again, “Vahdaemih be mát Vanarha ko, l’amae.” He offered her his card, pointing toward the vegetables, smiling so hard his face ached.
“Bhukh’tsit.”
Hungry.
Her diatribe increased in loudness, drawing a curious audience. Her feet spread apart and fists planted firmly on her hips, she complained to the neighboring merchants drawn out of their shops to watch. At any moment, he expected her outburst to draw the unwelcome notice of the Dhikar police.
“Okay, okay,” he said in Hengeli and backed away with hands held up appeasingly. “Just forget it...,” and started when he felt someone grasp his forearm. He stared down at a young woman, her head tilted as she squinted in the sunlight. She wore a pale green saekah under a tunic of the same color, the rich birdsilk shot through with intricate silver embroidery. The sheer layers of cloth seemed to float around her slender body, hinting at the shape underneath. When she spoke, he understood nothing. His shoulders slumped. “Vahdaemih be mát Vanarha ko, l’amae,” he repeated miserably.
Her lips opened in a slow, knowing smile, teeth bright. No more than fifteen or sixteen, she was slender, with the softly contoured face of adolescence. She examined him with the same frank curiosity mingled with fear as the merchant had, then, to his astonishment, reached up tentatively to touch his hair. Barely long enough to pull back and tie with a short piece of string, stray curls were always escaping. He forced himself to remain motionless, acutely aware he was becoming the focus of unwanted attention by the small crowd.
Her arm dropped, several layers of gold bracelets jingling. She turned and spoke arrogantly to the merchant, who, still glowering, tossed a selection of vegetables onto a broad green leaf, rolled it expertly into a package, and handed it her. The girl spoke again, her tone reproachful. The merchant’s scowl deepened, but she reached under the counter and produced a small bundle to slap on top of the package. When the girl attempted to offer her card, the merchant refused with melodramatic wounded pride.
The girl bowed before she turned and gave the packages to Nathan. With his arms full, he bowed to her as best he could, but she had apparently not finished with him. Taking him possessively by the arm, she led him away from the bad-tempered vegetable vendor to another small shop along the boulevard. People gaped as they passed, whispering and pointing and nudging one another. She seemed oblivious to it.
She stopped and spoke to him, gesturing to indicate he should wait outside. He nodded, watching her through the window as she selected a few objects from the shopkeeper, paying for them with her own card. She emerged to add these to his load, chatting with animated gaiety, clearly enjoying herself. He had no idea why she had elected herself his benefactress, but he was in no position to discourage her.