Quatrain (21 page)

“Just taste it,” she said. “A few sips. I think you’ll like it.”

He complied, but two swallows were enough to convince him that his head would be spinning if he had any more. “It’s very good. What is it?”

“A kind of wine made from fruit that can only be found in northern Inrhio. Very expensive. My grandmother grows acres of the stuff.”

He couldn’t resist one more swallow. The wine tasted like wild berries and black soil and fermented exaltation and money. “What did you say to those people before they left?” he asked.

“I told them I thought their baby was adorable.” The surprise on his face must have been hilarious, or the wine had gone instantly to her head, because she threw her head back and laughed. “It was something to say,” she added. “It gave me a chance to approach them and let them know I approved of them. You can hardly walk up to complete strangers and say, ‘Good for you! You’ve risked banishment and brutality and ostracism just to be together, and I applaud your choice! You’re in the vanguard of social change, and even though it’s hard on
you
, the generations that come after you will have an easier time of it because you were brave enough to fall in love.’ So instead I told them I liked their baby. It means the same thing, but it’s more socially acceptable.”

He took a much longer pull on the wine this time; he felt a flutter at his elbows and knees and knew that it wouldn’t take much more for him to get drunk. A certain recklessness overtook him, or maybe he was drunk already, inebriated on something other than a high-proof indigo vintage. He finished off the wine and set the glass down with a snap. “You intrigue me, Jalciana Candachi,” he said. “Even though I wish you didn’t.”

She laughed at him again. “I know I do, Kerk Socast,” she replied, “and I’m going to make sure it stays that way for a long time.”

O
ver the next three weeks, Kerk visited the Lost City seven times. Each time, he first stopped in Del’s office to inquire after news of his mother; each time, she told him she had no answers for him.

On his fifth trip, he asked her if she was lying. Not as bluntly as that, of course. Speaking in goldtongue, he said, “I like to think the lady Del believes that my visits to the Lost City have been beneficial to its residents.”

“Indeed, Kerk Socast, the time you have invested in the young men of this neighborhood has paid back more handsomely than I could have imagined. I freely admit I was not pleased with you the day you first arrived, but now I am glad every time I see your face at my door.”

“It has become my plan,” he said, “to return to the Lost City at intervals for the foreseeable future. To continue teaching the baltreck teams until I have no more to teach them.”

“That is welcome news,” Del said.

This was the tricky part. He spoke slowly. “You need not fear that any news you have to give me about my mother would change my mind. Even if I learn my mother is dead, I will return to the Lost City as I have promised.”

There was a good deal of comprehension on her face. But she, too, replied in the most roundabout fashion. “I like to think I would not stoop to abusing a man’s trust in such a way,” she said. “I like to think I would not withhold information simply because it was advantageous to me to know something that someone else did not.”

He stood up. “Then I will come again in a few days, and perhaps you will have an answer for me, and perhaps you will not. And whatever you tell me, I will return again a few days after that.”

“Then I will see you again at that time,” she said.

Most days, when Kerk coached the boys, Jalci was in the gymnasium watching. In the middle of that third week, she had a surprise for him: dozens of shirts of all different sizes in four different colors.

“Not quite team uniforms,” she said cheerfully. “But better than socks and headbands.”

“Where did you get these?” he asked as the boys ripped open packaging and argued over who would wear what colors.

She waved a hand. “One of my donors runs a clothing store. I talked about the value of sports in teaching teamwork and pride. Most of these were extras from bad dye runs. He was just as glad to get rid of them.”

Kerk was watching the boys parade around the gym floor, seeming to stand taller and shoot more accurately once they were properly attired. “This was a great kindness, Jalciana Candachi.”

“I’ve been thinking,” she said.

He glanced down at her, smiling faintly. “I have come to feel a certain disquiet whenever you open a conversation with those words,” he said.

She gave him a look of utter innocence. “I can’t imagine why you would say that.”

“What have you been thinking about?”

“Most of the schools within the city have baltreck teams,” she said. “Gulden
and
indigo schools. They play championship games in the spring. It might be possible to have your boys play one of the school teams. I could help arrange that.”

He just looked at her, keeping his face blank. What had startled him most in that sentence was the phrase
your boys
. These lost children were not, by any measure, his. He was not responsible for them; he had no hand in their destiny; he did not even
want
to be considered their surrogate father, not in the smallest, remotest fashion.

That was not the part of her comment he addressed.

“There’s no team here,” he said. “Just people playing.”

“Aren’t there eight men on a baltreck team?” she persisted. So she had been investing some time in getting to know the game. “Plus three alternates? You have at least five players who are actually gifted. With a few months of coaching—”

“They would still not be good enough to make a decent showing of themselves against skilled players from an organized team,” Kerk said. “And they would not want to play if they would be humiliated.”

She was listening carefully. “You mean, if they wouldn’t win.”

He smiled. “No gulden man likes to lose at any contest, that’s true, but in this case I said what I meant. If they could play a game they had a
chance
at winning, I would be willing, but I don’t think such a chance exists.”

“But if you continue coaching them—”

“I do not believe my skills are good enough to put them on a level with other teams.”

She frowned and then shrugged. “Well, think about it from time to time,” she said. “Maybe you’ll change your mind.”

No gulden woman would have said such a thing to a gulden man; no gulden woman would have thought she could continue to wheedle and plead and come up with fresh arguments and wear down the patience of her husband or father or son. But then, as had been clear from the very first day, Jalciana Candachi had no intention of behaving like a gulden woman.

“Maybe,” Kerk said, and slipped onto the polished floor to resume his coaching.

Four days after that conversation with Jalci, Makk came home from school with complex forms for Brolt to fill out. The boy’s birthday was less than three months away; the school had to arrange for the transfer of responsibility from the father to the young man. Makk and Brolt disappeared together into Brolt’s
hoechter
, no doubt laying out the course of Makk’s future. Kerk spent the evening in the women’s quarters, playing games with Tess and the girls and trying not to let his mind fret too much over his own future. More than once, he caught Tess’s troubled gaze on his face, but he did not share his uneasiness with her and she was not bold enough to introduce the topic.

The following night, Kerk made his own appearance at the
hoechter
door, knocking respectfully. Brolt was relaxing in a deep, comfortable chair, reading what looked like a historical novel, but he smiled as he looked up and saw Kerk.

“Come in,” he invited. “I keep thinking this book will begin to catch my interest, but so far it has not, so I would much rather have a conversation than try to read.”

Kerk stepped inside and spoke formally. “The conversation I would like to have is of a serious nature, and perhaps my father-who-is-not would prefer to concentrate only on lighter topics at the end of a busy day.”

Brolt’s face sharpened but he did not look alarmed or dismayed. “Indeed, no, I am alert enough for important debate,” he said. “Close the door so that we are not disturbed.”

A moment later, Kerk was sitting across from Brolt in one of those well-padded chairs, wondering where to start. Goldtongue had never seemed so abstract—but circumlocution had never seemed more necessary.

“It is hard to believe,” he said at last, “that in eleven weeks, Makk will become a man. I remember when he was a baby, sleeping in his mother’s arms. I remember how small his fingers were when they caught at his father’s hands.”

“It is strange indeed,” Brolt agreed. “I myself have aged only by a year or two. How can Makk have aged by twelve?”

They both laughed at that, though Kerk’s laugh was a little sad. “When Makk becomes a man,” Kerk went on, “he will no doubt wish to participate in his father’s business. His father has built a successful, honorable company where any man would be proud to work.”

“He does wish it,” Brolt said. “We have discussed the areas where he might profitably begin his training. He will be a man, it is true, but still a very young one. There is much he will need to learn, and it will take a great deal of time.”

“Your nephews both continue to be employed in your firm as well,” Kerk said.

Brolt nodded. “They are good workers and loyal to the business.”

“Perhaps Brolt Brazhan is more blessed than a man could want,” Kerk said softly. “Perhaps he has an excess of young men for whom he feels he must find a place in his company. Perhaps he is hoping that one of the young men under his care might look for a situation elsewhere.”

Kerk wanted to drop his eyes as he said the words, a sign of both humility and respect, but instead he kept them on Brolt’s face, to show fearlessness and strength. Brolt’s return gaze never wavered as he closely listened and carefully answered.

“I have long been proud of my ability to provide for so many members of my family,” Brolt replied. “If I had ten sons, I could feed them all. If I had twenty nephews, all of them could find a place in my house and in my business. I am not overburdened with young men. I have places for them all and am happy to be able to provide for them.”

Kerk felt a rush of relief so powerful it almost made him sway in his chair, but he still did not drop his eyes. “Brolt Barzhan is a generous man. No wonder his household is vigorous and full,” he said.

“And Makk Barzhan will be a generous one as well,” Brolt said. “In the normal course of events, as you know, a man dies and his sons take over his properties. I am unfortunate in that I have only one son, but fortunate in that his notions align so closely with mine. He, too, values the contributions of his cousins and his stepbrother. He would be loath to see any of them leave the company once it comes under his control. He told me so just yesterday, without any prompting on my part. I do not think there will ever be a time, Kerk Socast, when you will find yourself thrown into the world without any semblance of family at your back.”

Kerk took a sharp breath, for that was more direct speaking than goldtongue usually allowed. “I did not mean to cast doubts on how well the Barzhans guard their ties of family,” he said.

Brolt smiled and leaned over to briefly rest his big hand on Kerk’s shoulder. “And you did not,” he said. “You spoke up just as you should, and that took courage. For my part, I needed no courage at all! I was merely required to be benign and munificent.”

Kerk allowed himself a laugh, though it was a small one. “Perhaps for a man like yourself, such a conversation was easy,” he said. “I am not so certain that a mean-spirited individual would have answered as you did.”

Still smiling, Brolt dropped his hand and leaned back in his chair. “But I confess, I thought you might be coming to my
hoechter
with a different sort of question,” the older man said.

Kerk gave him an inquiring look. “What question might that be?”

“It has not escaped my notice that you have spent a great deal of your time away from the business and away from the house,” Brolt said. “Clearly, there are other enterprises that have captured your attention. What does a man of your age find so fascinating? I ask myself. There seem to be two possible answers. One, it might be a woman.”

“A woman!” Kerk exclaimed, so surprised that Brolt laughed out loud.

“When I was your age, I might not have been eager to marry, but I was eager to know more about women,” Brolt said cheerfully. “It seems logical to suppose that some of your time has been spent with a member of the opposite sex.”

“No,” Kerk said decisively—and then, as Jalci’s image rose unbidden in his mind, “Well, yes. But not the kind of woman you mean. That is—she’s not—I don’t think of her as—It’s hard to explain,” he ended lamely.