Fifteen minutes later, as they were lighting the lamps, there came the give-away flurry all through the house. She went down to meet him. He should not find her spread out for him tonight, or even malleable.
She was prepared, and when he walked in, she thought, you see, he’s just a man. You are obsessed by him, but he has not allowed you to love him. It can be borne.
But she avoided his touch and his eyes.
The dinner was served then, in the salon. They spoke desultorily of basics, the needs of the house, the climate. If he was amused, he did not display it. She felt his glance on her, and now and then the intensity of a prolonged stare, which she did not meet.
Inevitably, learning so much of Val Nardia, she had copied her, some of it without knowing.
The dinner ended, and he had not mentioned the bed upstairs.
He walked to the hearth and leaned there, drinking wine.
“Tomorrow, I shall be sailing for Lan.”
“Lan?” she said, courteously, as if she had never heard of it.
“There seems to be some trouble.”
She said nothing, did not care. He had invaded Lan, probably Lan resented it.
“The forthcoming war no longer seems to interest you,” he said. “They say on the streets, Free Zakoris could destroy Istris in an hour. The whole island in six days.”
“But you are the beloved of Free Zakoris.”
“Ah. You do listen, then.”
“I shall pray,” she said, “that the sea is tempestuous for your crossing.”
“It’ll take more than salt water to drown me,” he said. He emptied his cup and she came solicitously to refill it. “Val Nardia,” he said, “often had her hair dressed in that same way. Did they tell you?”
She raised her head and met his eyes then, and said quietly, she did not know why, “Her shade comes to me and instructs me, how to resemble her the most.”
“Bleach your skin,” he said, “and say ‘no.’”
“I shall,” she said, “say no.”
The blackness of his eyes, live as something pale and molten, bore down on her.
“What a pity,” he said, “to have ridden all this way only for supper.”
“There are several pretty girls in the house. One of them even dyes her hair red.”
He smiled slightly. He seemed to be jesting with her as he said, “Or I’ll take you anyway. I sometimes enjoy a little opposition.”
“Of course. Do whatever you wish.”
“You aren’t like her,” he said, “at root. Not like her at all. When you consent, when you refuse. When you most remind me of her I can most perceive it’s a reminder, nothing more.”
“Why am I here then?” He said nothing. She said, “Yes. A man loses a jewel of great worth from a ring. He replaces the jewel with another which, though flawed, will complement the setting. He values it less, but there. The ring is to be worn.”
“And she,” he said, “could never have thought to frame that so wittily.” He drank the rest of the wine. “You know where I’ll be sleeping, if not with you. Send some girl along. I leave the choice to you.”
An hour later, she herself went to the guest chamber.
In the morning, she told herself this too did not matter, that to prevaricate was senseless. Her body had been pleasured. Why not?
But she could no longer rely upon herself, traitor and liar that she had become.
And to admit this, in itself was another form of traitorousness, as she discovered.
They breakfasted together in the salon. She disliked the normalcy of it, her position fixed: His mistress, with all that title’s most dismal connotations. Already, she heard the going about below, his men readying to leave.
When he rode away, what? Another long vacancy, further peering after his sister’s phantom, impotent plans.
“Do you,” she said, “ever remember me when you’re elsewhere?”
He acquiesced amiably. It was a woman’s question. He seemed deliberately to miss the sharper point.
“Yes, Ulis. You’re my haven.”
“From what? The cares and toil of state? But you are in love with those.” With the little knife she sliced open a fruit, and looked into the stained glass of pulp and seeds as if to read portents. “Perhaps I should give you some token to remind you of me. A lock of hair. Like the hair that was sent to Iros, to mislead him to his death.” She said: “You went to great lengths to obtain me. Am I worth it?”
He rose. He nodded to her, said he must be off, remarked that she was beautiful, and that essentials the house required would be delivered in his absence.
Something absurd happened. “Get out,” she said, and her voice was like a cough, and she had snatched the little fruit knife off the table.
She saw she had his attention. He was nonplussed. She had done this, maybe—Val Nardia—
But then he turned and walked toward the door. And Ulis Anet hurled the knife after him. It was a wild cast, aimed for no vital spot. It went through his left sleeve, hovered, and dropped spent on the rugs.
He paused. He did not glance at the ripped sleeve, the knife. He moved slowly and came back to her and she, out of character, lost, stood before him waiting vulgarly for some blow. He did not lay a finger on her. Only the eyes struck down. And a few words.
“Tame yourself, lady,” he said. “We lack conversation as it is.”
“I didn’t mean to do such a thing,” she said. She was void of expression, or excuse. “It serves no purpose.”
“None,” he said.
Soon, the door closed, and he was gone.
The trio of ships, thrust by the rain-speared wind, made speed. Then, as Lan’s bladed coastline came near, they began to throw a shadow in the north. The tall, knife-edge shape of three Zakorians bore down on them. The Karmian vessels flew merely the Lily. The Zakorians hoisted no flag, but their sails had relinquished the Double Moon and Dragon of the Old Kingdom, and of old piracy. Each wore now the sigil of the Black Leopard.
Kesarh’s captain, standing in the bow, said, “Are they after a fight, my lord?”
“You forget, the Lily and the Leopard are fast friends.”
The ships hailed each other peaceably. Thereafter they moved together on the last of the day’s journey into the rocky shelter of the land.
An orange sun went down behind them, and through the burnt, wet shade on the sea, a parcel of Free Zakorians rowed over. Kesarh’s galley took them aboard.
“We thought your King was here,” said the Free Zakorian commander.
Kesarh, mailed, unjeweled, without device, said, “Did you? Never mind. I have his authority.”
The Zakorian was not a fool, not deceived, but neither prepared to argue with conviction. Tall and brutalized, he had one memorable adornment. The left eye, which was gone, had been replaced by a smooth ball of opal.
“King Yl sends greetings then, to your King, through you.”
“Thank you,” said Kesarh. “I’ll remember to convey them.”
“And I’m authorized to offer assistance.”
“In what capacity?”
“There is awkwardness in Lan.” This polite, sarcastic phrase delivered in the Zakorian slur was nearly laughable. Kesarh did not laugh.
“What awkwardness is that?”
“Karmian troops in Lan have rebelled against King Kesr.”
“King Kesr,” said Kesarh, “would be most surprised to hear this.”
There was a stasis. Then the Zakorian said:
“My galleys will escort yours to the port of Amlan.”
“No,” said Kesarh. He smiled gravely. “Karmiss holds Lan. The entry of Free Zakorian warships into her harbors at this time would be regarded, by the King, you understand, as an act of aggression against Karmiss herself.”