Alikhan accepted, as Martinez had hoped he would. He knew that Narbonne, Fletcher’s formet valet, didn’t like being Alikhan’s junior, and he wasn’t surprised when Narbonne asked for a discharge.
Montemar Jukes was more problematical. “I don’t think I’m going to need an artist after this,” Martinez said. “I won’t have a ship to decorate.”
Jukes shrugged. “I can save those plans for another day, my lord. But on Zanshaa you’ll have a palace, won’t you, Lord Captain? You and your lady? And won’t that palace need decorating? Perhaps with a full-length portrait of Lady Terza to match the one of yourself.”
“Ah…perhaps,” Martinez said. He didn’t want to admit to himself that a future without Terza was a possibility that lurked somewhere in the back of his mind.
Jukes remained on his payroll, and began contemplating themes for the decoration of a large house.
The surprise was the cook, Perry.
“I’d like to request a discharge, my lord,” he said.
Martinez looked in surprise at the young man standing opposite his desk.
“Is there something wrong?” he asked.
“No, my lord. It’s just that…well, I’d like to strike out on my own.”
Martinez regarded him narrowly. “Thereis something wrong, isn’t there?”
Perry hesitated. “Well, my lord,” he admitted, “sometimes I wonder if you actually like my cooking.”
Martinez was astonished. “What do you mean?” he said. “I eat it, don’t I?”
“Yes, Lord Captain. But—” Perry strove for words. “You don’t pay attention to the food. You’re always working while you’re eating, or sending messages on the comm, or dealing with reports.”
“I’m a busy man,” Martinez said. “I’m a captain, for all’s sake.”
Determination settled across Perry’s expression. “My lord,” he said, “do you even remember what you ate for your noon meal?”
Martinez searched briefly through his memory. “It was the thing with the cheese,” he said, “wasn’t it?”
Perry gave a little sigh. “Yes, my lord,” he said. “The thing with the cheese.”
Martinez looked at him. “I’ll give you the discharge if you want,” he said, “but—”
“Yes, please,” said Perry. “Thank you, my lord.”
Feeling slighted, Martinez wrote Perry an excellent reference, in part so he could feel superior to the whole situation.
That evening, at his meal, he looked at his plate with a degree of suspicion.
What was so special about it? he asked himself.
Sula gave a dinner to thank Michi for her own dinner party, and Martinez, Chandra, and Fulvia Kazakov were invited. Martinez would have been the sole male at the affair if it hadn’t been for Haz, Sula’s premiere.
Sula’s dining room onConfidence was metal-walled and painted a pale, sad shade of green. An overhead duct was a hazard to anyone tall. She had tried to make light of it by paintingDUCK! on the duct in red letters. She served Hairy Rogers for cocktails, followed by wine and brandy. Martinez suspected that, as a nondrinker, her knowledge about how much alcohol people could actually consume without falling over was shaky. She was well on her way to getting everyone plastered.
Martinez sobered at the table, where he sat opposite Sula. Each cell in his body seemed to yearn toward her with every beat of her heart. He hardly dared look at her. Instead he did his best to follow the conversation, which was bright and amusing and concerned as little as possible with the war, Fleet business, or politics. The captains might be losing their ships, and all the officers might have a permanent black mark against their names for being a part of Chenforce, but the long, violent contest was over and they had all survived. Healthy animal spirits were rising, and on a pair of tubes soaring between the stars, there were only so many outlets.
Perhaps alcohol was safest, after all.
As the voyage progressed, he saw Sula frequently. There were only two ships, and the officers were social beings. Some kind of party occurred every day, though it wasn’t always the captains who were involved.
Still, it was half a month before Martinez dared to invite Captain Sula to dine with him alone.
He met her at the airlock—she had a different orderly this time, a straw-haired woman, but still with a Medal of Valor. Martinez escorted Sula to his dining room, where he offered her a choice of soft drinks. She had a glass of mineral water, and Martinez, who out of courtesy to his guest had decided to avoid alcohol, had another. Sula looked at the Jukes portrait of Martinez, looking brave and dashing at the head of the room, and smiled.
“Very realistic,” she said.
“Do you think so?” He was dismayed. “I’d hoped for better than that.”
Sula laughed and turned her attention to the murals of banqueting Terrans, the bundles of grapes and goblets of wine and the graceful people wearing sheets.
“Very classical,” she said.
“It only looks old. Let me show you another piece.”
He took her into his sleeping cabin and ordered the lights on, to revealThe Holy Family with a Cat. Sula seemed amused at first, and then a little frown touched her lips, her eyes narrowed, and she stepped closer to the ancient work. She studied it in silence for several long minutes.
“It’s telling a story,” she said. “But I don’t know what the story is.”
“I don’t either, but I like it.”
“How old is this?”
“It’s from before the conquest. From North Europe, wherever that is.”
She gave him a sidelong glance. “Martinez, you are really appallingly ignorant of the history of your own species.”
He shrugged. “Before the conquest it was all murder and barbarism, wasn’t it?”
She turned once more to the painting. “Judge for yourself,” she said.
He looked at the cozy little family around their fire, and a warm affection for the painting rose in him. “The picture belongs to Fletcher’s estate now,” he said. “I wonder if they’d let me make an offer.”
Sula looked at him. “Can you afford it?”
“On my allowance? Only if they don’t know what it’s worth.”
She glanced briefly at the other pictures, the blue flute player and the landscape. “Any other treasures?”
He took her into his office. She looked without interest at the armored figures and the murals of scribes and heralds. Then her eyes were drawn downward to the desk, to the pictures of Terza and young Gareth that floated in its surface.
Martinez held his breath. The moment crucial, he thought.
The light in her eyes shifted subtly, like a wispy cloud passing across the sun. Her lips quirked in a wry smile.
“This is the Chen heir?” she said.
“Yes.”
“A healthy child?”
“So I hear.”
“He looks like his father.”
Her eyes followed the images as they floated over the desk’s surface.
“Howis your marriage, anyway?” Her tone was delicate and light, shaded with irony. They were both pretending that she didn’t care about the answer.
“It seemed to go well enough for the first seven days,” Martinez said. “Since then I’ve been away from home.”
“Seven days?” She smiled. “Fertile you.”
“Fertile me,” he repeated pointlessly.
He fought the impulse to take her in his arms.
Not on Michi Chen’s flagship, he thought.
There was the sound of footsteps in the dining room, Alikhan bringing in the first plates of snacks.
Sula brushed past him as she walked to the dining room door.