“Only one person,” Aspundh said mildly, glancing at Gundhalinu. “And that was years ago.”
“And did she?” Gundhalinu asked, trapped again inside a moment of double vision.
Aspundh looked back at him in sudden surprise. His gaze turned measuring, and his face became expressionless. “I believe she did. But then, she was not, of course, a Kharemoughi.” He smiled slightly. “I have never been to Tiamat myself, but I’ve felt a fascination with the place ever since, wondering what could have obsessed her so about it.”
“It does get under your skin, somehow,” Gundhalinu said, feeling a faint smile turn up the corners of his own mouth. “I had always wanted to see the place, when I was young.”
“Where are you staying while you are planetside, Commander? At your family estates?”
“He’s staying with us,” Pernatte said. “Right, BZ? I may call you BZ—?”
“Please.” Gundhalinu nodded and his smile widened, barely covering his surprise. He wondered whether Vhanu had forgotten to tell him about his accommodations, or whether he had merely forgotten that he had heard about them. He glanced at Vhanu, whose own expression looked slightly disoriented.
“Call me AT, then,” Pernatte said, and his wife echoed him, “CMP—” When the Pernattes took an interest in someone’s life, their interest was, it seemed, peremptory. He took a deep breath, remembering that it was not BZ Gundhalinu, a complete stranger with a past they would find reprehensible and future plans they would consider treasonable, whom they were taking into their lives like an orphaned child; it was a construct, an image, a Hero of the Hegemony—a glittering, fame-encrusted shell, bright enough to blind even them. Ride it, just ride it.
“…is not so far away, then,” Aspundh was saying. “I realize your schedule must be extremely tight, Gundhalinu-ken,” using the title that marked him as a sibyl, “but perhaps you might find space in it for a quiet meal at my home? I would very much like to talk more with you about our mutual interest.”
“Thank you, Aspundh-ken.” Gundhalinu nodded, reading what lay in the older man’s eyes. “I would enjoy that.” He glanced at Vhanu. “Make rearrangements, will you, Vhanu?” He smiled apologetically. There seemed to be no natural breathing spaces in his life at all, anymore.
Vhanu nodded, looking both surprised and resigned. “Yes, Commander.”
“I’ll make arrangements with your aide.” Aspundh bowed graciously, as if he sensed the growing restlessness of his hosts. “I know everyone here is eager to make your acquaintance.”
Gundhalinu damped his curiosity and let himself be led on through the crowd, from one introduction to another, gradually progressing from one room to another. He realized with a kind of surprise that he was actually beginning to enjoy himself; because for once the people he was being forced to meet were his own people— people who spoke his language, not simply figuratively but literally—who looked like him, acted like him, responded predictably to his jokes and stories. More than predictably—enthusiastically. Old and new acquaintances, the best and brightest of the people he had admired for a lifetime, were all around him now, proclaiming their admiration for him. And after all, it was not as if he had done nothing to deserve it; he had. He could let himself acknowledge that now, let himself begin to believe that he truly had expunged his dishonor in his people’s eyes.
Vhanu rejoined them after a time, relieving Gundhalinu of having to remember the names and credentials that went with every face he saw, and making him remember again his odd brief encounter with KR Aspundh. He checked his calendar unobtrusively and found the requested dinner date there. He ate another pastry, listening to the silent reminder in his brain that said nothing was what it seemed.
But the cool, fluid strains of music moved with him like a sense of ease from room to room. The music was always changing, because there was a different group of musicians, with different instruments, in each new hall—and yet it was always the music he remembered from his youth, the classical refrains with their hidden mathematical secrets of structure and counterpoint that he had studied in school. Music was a form of mathematics made tangible, and so it was everywhere in the world of the Technician class, reminding them always, gracefully, of their place. The food and drinks circulating through the crowd were a movable feast, all his favorite delicacies of boyhood, beautifully prepared, exquisite to look at, tasting even better to his heightened senses than he remembered.
The Pernatte manor house had been decorated with the same relentless sophistication as the Pernattes themselves, furnished in what he assumed was the most modern fashion, since he did not see any furniture that seemed to be in a style he remembered. There were vast islands of low modular couches in intense but subtle combinations of colors, and flat, slab-like tables that probably contained hidden functions he couldn’t imagine. The polished stone walls were empty of any decoration unless it appeared to be functional; the works of art scattered on stone pedestals among the bright settee islands were all historical—archaeological treasures, remnants of the Old Empire’s glory. The effect in the vast space of the rooms was striking but austere, almost monolithic, even when the space was cluttered with bodies, as it was now. From time to time he became aware that his eyes were searching for the mystery woman, but he did not see her. He hoped that he would find her before the evening was through, enjoying the prospect of the encounter with guilty pleasure.
“Ah—” Jarsakh said, beside him, as a gleaming servo murmured a few inaudible words in her ear. “I believe our entertainment for the evening is about to begin. We’ve reserved the best viewing spot for you. I hope you enjoy art.” She took his arm.
“Very much,” he said. “And frankly I haven’t had much of an opportunity to view it, in recent years.”
“You’ll have an opportunity to do more than that, tonight. You’ll have a chance to interact with it—”
He smiled, intrigued, as she led him outside through the sighing breath of a door onto a patio open to the sky.
“BZ—!”
His smile faded abruptly. He turned, peering across the shifting dance of the crowd. He almost swore, remembered himself in time, swallowing the bitter words like vomit. “Excuse me, CMP,” he said to Jarsakh, and left her side. “Vhanu,” he murmured, keeping his voice down with an effort. “What are they doing here?”
“Who, Commander?” Vhanu tried to follow his gaze.
“My brothers.” Gundhalinu felt every muscle in his body tense as if he were about to be attacked, as he watched his brothers make their way inevitably toward him.
Vhanu registered his answer, looked back at him uncomprehendingly. “Your family, sir? Didn’t you want them here?”
“No,” he said gently, “I did not want them here. I do not want them here. They—” They tried to murder me. “We do not get along.”
“I’m sorry, Commander.” Vhanu shook his head, his expression caught between embarrassment and curiosity. “But they are your only close relatives, I believe—? Your eldest brother is the Gundhalinu head-of-family. We could hardly have excluded them, if you wanted this occasion to be—”
Gundhalinu waved him silent as Jarsakh rejoined them, with her husband at her side. “Is everything all right, BZ?”