Resistance: Hathe Book One (33 page)

Once
through the hall doors, he saw that matters had improved little.
Marthe was still withdrawn, standing isolated on one side. He
recognized her stance immediately; whenever the hot tongue of
either Bendin or Marthe had landed them in yet more trouble, they
had always stood so; Bendin tall in the back and Marthe in front
but turned towards him, shielded from wrath.

Radcliff was speaking urgently to his affronted mother, but in
vain. Though her reported words of greeting to Marthe labeled her
an inherently compassionate woman, he guessed she was too used to
the awe her position commanded to accept the impudence she’d faced
here tonight. From what Hamon was saying, it seemed she’d seen vids
of the peasants on her son’s dispatches home, and whatever Marthe
might claim to the contrary, Hamon’s mother clearly had no reason
to believe her new daughter-in-law was anything but one of the
primitive natives of those images.

Wrong
approach, decided Jacquel, watching Radcliff. The only way to
soothe that stiff-necked bureaucrat was a direct apology from the
offending party, and Marthe was in no state for that. I guess it’s
up to me, then. He moved toward Marthe.

“
Bendin would have been proud of you,” he drawled in
Harmish.

She
gasped, staring at him in shock.

“
Just how do you propose to make amends for your appalling
conduct, Marthe an Castre. Or do you
want
these Terrans to
see us as no more than barbarians?” She shook her head slowly, as
if trying to clear away the last vestiges of wine and
emotion.

“
Well, niece of my father’s wife, will you apologize to she
who is mother of your husband?”

The
harshly formal words worked. He could see her thrust away the fug
of misery.

“
Friend of my brother, I will,” was her barely audible reply.
“From you, also, I beg forgiveness, for allowing the wine and the
occasion to make me so forget the codes of our people.”

“
It
is granted, sister of my friend.”

He
smiled encouragement and took her arm in support as he led her up
to the Administrator. But the guards leapt in front of their
mistress and the lady stared haughtily at the Hathian pair. Then
Jacquel saw her glance at her son. Despite the cold mask of the
soldier he’d assumed, Radcliff’s face told the truth of his
feelings too clearly to miss: He was besotted, utterly and
completely.

Jacquel had known it from the start, now he saw the
realization hit the man’s mother. No matter how affronted she might
be, it would change not one whit the look on her son’s face. I know
how you feel, madame, thought Jacquel in grim humor. And you can do
as little about it as I.

Even
as he thought it, Madame MacDiarmid admitted it by her actions.
Sighing, she called the guard to stand back.

As for
Marthe, she knew she must rescue the night somehow, but try as she
might, she couldn’t bring herself to lift her eyes to look at her
mother-in-law. At a silent prod from Jacquel and ever conscious of
Hamon’s intense stare, she coughed nervously and began to
speak.

“
Madame, mother of my husband, I apologize for my total lack
of proper conduct and hope you will forgive my outburst. I fear the
wine and the natural emotion of the evening overcame the somewhat
tenuous control I usually strive to keep over my regrettable
temper.” She gulped and now managed to glance at the older woman’s
face. It was unrelenting, though she did receive a nod of
acknowledgement.

Desperate now, Marthe was reduced to begging. “Mother of my
husband, please, for the sake of the deep affection we both hold
for your son, I beg you to overlook this unfortunate incident.” She
stared beseechingly, still hating the woman’s words, but knowing
that the safety of her whole planet hung on the Administrator’s
reaction. Not to mention her own happiness.

Then
words of acceptance came, and a hand was extended. But it was cold
and rigid in Marthe’s thankful grasp.

Hamon
had stood silent throughout, still partly caught by the curiosity
that demanded he see what would happen. But the self-absorbed
shield of professionalism could not stand against Marthe’s
humiliation. With an angry cry, he strode to stand beside his wife,
grabbing her hand away from his mother’s.

“
There’s no need for that, Marthe. My mother should have
thought before acting so obnoxiously the conqueror in front of you.
Not that I ever thought to hear you defend the peasants so
forcibly.” He smiled quizzically, relieved beyond words to see he
could bring a charmed flush to her face, even here. He swung round
to his mother. “Perhaps, Mother, you could apologize as graciously
as my wife has done. I think I ought to take you on a tour of one
of their old cities. I daresay all my vids have been censored. You
need to see the other side of this world, to balance the propaganda
that has been fed back to Earth.” His mother looked up sharply.
“You did know that we had conquered a superior
civilization.”

“
Superior?” He sensed she was about to add a scathing
rejoinder. His arm tightened around Marthe in warning. His mother’s
eyes traced his hand and her lips clamped shut.

“
Surely my father told you that, or have you been too buried
in your own problems to look outwards to Alliance affairs. Do you
not know that among the other planets, including the previous
Hathian regime, we’re considered something of a backward
ghetto?”

“
What do you mean, backward?” He saw the pain on her face at
the cynicism in his voice. He’d always been her favorite child, and
he had never before spoken to her in anger. She reached out a
tentative hand.

It
never reached his cuff. There was a flurry of cloth and a young man
Hamon hoped had gone appeared before her, his bedraggled hair and
open-mouthed grin testament to a mellow befuddlement. Before his
mother could do anything about it, her hand was taken and a flowery
kiss bestowed upon it.

“
Most gracious and beauteous lady, pray listen no more to your
son lest he further confirm everything he says. A backward ghetto
indeed! When may I ask, Major, did you hear any of Hathe to be so
ill mannered as to describe you thus within your hearing. Madame,
look at me. Can you imagine such vulgar sentiments emanating from
these lips? That the husband of my step-mother’s niece should so
demean your race!” He paused, sighing dramatically as he gazed
sorrowfully at Hamon in regret.

Hamon
glowered back. “What did you think of Terrans then, before we
arrived?”

“
Think of Terrans?” Des Trurain spared all of a moment to
consider it, then shook his head. “Don’t remember ever doing so.
Marthe, do you recall thinking of Terrans?” There was a pensive
frown on the man’s lips, but Hamon recognized the slight touch of a
dimple at the corner of her mouth. His wife was of a mind to play
along with her old friend’s game, it seemed, and merely shook her
head. He wished the situation would allow him do other than let
her.

Des
Trurain put an identical look on his own face. “Mind, madame, if we
knew that you possessed such elegant ladies, we certainly would
have cast you a thought,” he said, flourishing low over her still
entrapped hand. This time, she managed to wriggle it out of his
grasp, just as Hamon growled at him to let go of his mother, naming
him a lecherous reprobate. Which words, of course, thoroughly
engaged his mother’s interest. Hamon could only curse at his
stupidity.

“
And
just who might you be, young man?” she demanded.

“
Me,
madame? Nobody at all. A mere wretch marooned here by my thankless
kin. Bereft of all am I,” the annoying Hathian said with another
dramatic sigh.

Hamon
was about to seriously damage the young Hathian, but fortunately
Marthe recognized his fraying temper and judged it time to
intervene. Whether to protect her friend or her husband, Hamon
thought it best he not know. Not if he hoped to salvage anything
from this night.

“
May
I present Jacquel des Trurain, the son of my aunt’s husband and an
old friend of my twin brother,” she said. “Like myself, he was left
behind when our people fled Hathe.”

“
And
your brother? Did he too remain?”

“
No,
madame. He was killed fighting to keep your people off planet long
enough to allow the rest of the Haut Liege to escape.” Her voice
sounded flat and emotionless, too tightly controlled by her will.
Hamon could only guess at the pain it hid.

“
I
did not realize,” came his mother’s equally cool reply. “I
understand now your reaction to my words. Please accept my
apology.”

“
With deep pleasure, madame.” This time, at least, her hand
was accepted with a semblance of warmth. One hurdle
overcome.

“
Now
that I’ve got this mess sorted out, I trust I can count on you to
manage the rest,” crowed Jacquel
sotto voce
.

For
once, Hamon couldn’t be angry. An unwelcome crisis had been
averted. Marthe’s choice of words still puzzled him. The stars knew
she voiced her loathing of the peasants often enough, to suddenly
now turn around and defend them. He filed it away for later. Right
now, calling her on it would gain him nothing. He didn’t need more
lies between them, or barriers hindering his study of the Hathian
pair, a study as essential as ever.

And at
a deeper level, he did not wish this night marred.

Some
while later, they returned to the reception area, Madame MacDiarmid
arm in arm with her new daughter-in-law, and if any might wonder
whether the Administrator’s smile was a little forced, he knew he
could count on her power to ensure that none dared voice the
thought.

For
Marthe, the evening had been scarred, but not ruined. A friendly
woman was now alienated, but she pushed it aside philosophically.
There were so many obstacles between her and Hamon; what was one
more? Their love was doomed anyway. Why waste what time was left
brooding over which of the opposing forces would finally bring the
whole facade crashing down. She shrugged and turned to Hamon,
leaning close in joyful promise.

He
understood, his fingers clenching hers in equal pledge. He looked
down and saw a curiously detached look on her face. After chatting
briefly with Madame MacDiarmid, she moved off to mingle with her
guests, stopping to talk with first this one, then that. Marthe was
welcomed eagerly by them all. Hamon recognized the practiced art of
a diplomat’s daughter. Others felt only the ease she engendered,
the ready dissipation of tension and the scattering of
rumor.

Des
Trurain was her equal, noted Hamon wryly, watching as the two
worked to restore the glamour and romance of the evening. He had to
admire their skill. A part of him wondered bitterly how many would
later remember anything of significance in the disturbance. Then it
ceased to matter, as a figure of glimmering moonshine danced over
to him, the rosiness of her cheeks and the sparkle of her eyes only
enhancing her beauty. He smiled at her bubbling joy and took her
outstretched hand, holding firm to the quiet contact of finger to
finger as both turned back to address the others about
them.

Barely
noticed at first, then just there, the musical notes stole into
Hamon’s mood. He stood relaxed, watching the people in the room. It
was late, yet none had retired. Hidden niches enclosed gentle
rendezvous and matters weighty and philosophical flowed freely in
discussion. Ponderous affairs of the world and soul, solved
ingeniously now by protagonists utterly safe from acting upon their
thoughts.

The
music entered as a delicate counterpoint to the hum of human words.
So quiet was the refrain, at the barest threshold of
audibility—reedy, feather light, delving into relaxed and cogent
minds—acceptance and surrender were unconscious. His gaze took in
the native onlookers standing apparently aimlessly about the
perimeter of the room in barely defined pairs. Briefly glimpsed
under the cloaking hoods, he caught faces smiling in precious
recognition.

Slowly, as if on a time scale outside human experience, the
strange tune became louder. So gradual that, once acknowledged
consciously by the crowd, none questioned its existence. Melodies
and harmonies tumbled in, building a music both haunting in its
simplicity and beguiling in its complexity. He had always loved
music, but this was something new.

He was
holding Marthe lightly within one arm and could feel her response.
He looked down and noted the upward curve of her lips and the touch
of a faraway gaze in her eyes. The strains were as familiar to her
as to the other Hathians. Idly he stayed listening, noting hints of
primitive Terran music forms. Was that a touch of a Celtic lament?
Or there, a strain of a Renaissance court dance overlaid with the
exotic complexities of the Indian sitar. But they were superficial
similarities. The cadences now permeating every corner of the room
originated not in any soul of Earth origin.

The
sound began to swell. Slow and stately, yet with an underlying call
that tugged deeply at the core. The chattering groups grew silent.
Entwined couples were still. A space had cleared in the centre of
the room, and the guests clustered about, waiting. It was as if a
cloud of tranquility had descended.