It’s not about you!she had cried. A reassurance he found pleasing.
It was all Sula’s mess. Let her find her own way out of it.
Martinez let himself into the Shelley Palace, threw his overcoat over the ugly bronze Lai-own on the newel post, and made his silent way up the stairs. It was sheer bad luck that he encountered Roland, who was putting the remains of a late supper into the hallway on its tray so that a servant could pick it up in the morning. Roland straightened, adjusted his dressing gown, and gazed at Martinez with cool interest.
“Matrimonial ambitions thwarted, I take it?”
“Oh be silent for once, can’t you?” Martinez brushed past Roland toward his room.
Roland’s voice pursued him. “Would you like me to take up your cause?”
Martinez paused at his door as a savage laugh rose to his throat. “You? Talk to Lady Sula on my behalf?”
“Talk tosomeone, ” Curiosity entered Roland’s mild gaze. “What’s the problem, exactly? I would have thought she’d leap at the chance you offered her.”
“The problem,” Martinez said through clenched teeth, “is that she’s crazy.”
“Better to find out now rather than later,” Roland said. His tone was sympathetic.
The last thing Martinez needed was Roland’s sympathy, or his help either, so he bade his brother good night and went into his room. He tore off his jacket and flung it on the bed in anger, then hopped on alternate legs while he yanked off his shoes and kicked them under pieces of furniture.
She calledme, he thought in cold fury. It had been Sula who had initiated contact after her previous flight. It was she who had come up the skyhook to meet him as he stepped offCorona. She had pursuedhim.
Well. The pursuit was clearly over.
Martinez glared at the wallpaper for a while, and then he found his eyes sliding to the comm unit.
Call her, he thought. Call her anddemand an explanation.
He took a step to the comm, then stopped. She hadn’t given him an explanation the first time she’d walked out on him; what made him think she’d give him an explanation now?
He stepped away from the comm, then sat on the bed, his big hands dangling uselessly between his legs.
He stood up again. Then sat down. Then he lunged for the comm.
Sula didn’t answer. When the automated message service clicked on, Martinez broke the connection.
He didn’t want to leave a message. A message was something she could laugh at.
Better to find out now rather than later.Roland’s words echoed in his skull.
Martinez called again after twenty minutes. And again after an hour.
He knew that Sula had no place to be but at her apartment. He pictured her sitting before her comm display, contempt glimmering in her green eyes as she watched the system log one call after another…
Martinez went to the window and stared out at the dark, empty street, and over the sound of the wind skirling against the eaves he could distinctly hear the sound of dreams quietly crumbling to dust.
Sula lay curled on her side in the great ugly Sevigny bed and pressed a pillow to her chest as if it were a lover. The morning light shone bright through a crack in the drawn curtains. Her eyes felt hot and sore. The scent of Martinez was still faint in the bed, and the pillow was moist with her tears.
She hadn’t cried in all the years since she had taken a pillow very like this one and pressed it over Caro Sula’s face. That effort had wrung the last tears out of her, had made her stony, like a high, cold mountain desert. She had adopted Sula’s rank and position and moved into the place that had been reserved for her, and all the while she had despised those she’d duped, those who, like Jeremy Foote, considered themselves the epitome of creation. She had seen what the High City called worldly, and known that none of those supposed sophisticates had seen what she had seen, done what she had done, or would have dared to make the choices she had gladly embraced.
But all that had ended with Martinez. At his appearance she had felt the first fall of rain on the arid wilderness she called her heart. She had greened under his touch, blossomed like the desert after the first rains.
And now the moisture was being squeezed out of her again, drop by drop, by the relentless hand of remorse.
Why couldn’t I trust him?Anger curled her hands into fists, and she battered the pillow as if she were hammering the life out of an enemy.
Her alarm chimed, reminding her that she had to give her deposition in the Blitsharts trial. She doubted she had slept at all. She rose from her bed and felt a stab of pain in the stiffened, clenched muscles of her back.
Sula showered and donned her undress uniform. She made a pot of tea but couldn’t bring herself to drink it. The comm display glowed at her from the desk in the front room: at some point in the long despairing hours of the night, she’d told the comm to refuse all calls and to devote itself exclusively to calling up all available information on the Peers’ Gene Bank. She downloaded the information into her sleeve display and reviewed it in the taxi, and while waiting to give the deposition.
Rage began to simmer in her as she discovered the law to be just as Martinez had described it. A drop of blood was required for Peers not just on on Zanshaa, but on the accelerator ring and in the unlikely event that Peers married somewhere else in the system. She set out to find worlds where Peers did without a gene bank, and found nearly thirty, including Dandaphis, Magaria, Felarus, Terra, and Spannan, the planet of her birth.
Sula could hardly accept Martinez’s proposal with the proviso that they had to travel to one of these obscure worlds for the marriage. Therehad to be an exception to the regulation, and she set her computer to seek through every available database for every rule and paragraph and picture and article ever written about the Peers’ Gene Bank.
Then it was time to give her deposition, and found that the attorney for the insurance company provided a suitable target for her wrath.“Haven’t you asked that question twice already? Didn’t you hear my answer the first time? Are you deaf or an idiot?”
The attorney for the Blitsharts, though feigning disapproval, seemed to enjoy the flaying of his colleague, at least until it was his turn.“What kind of imbecile question is that? If I had a cadet as thick as you are, I’d order him to defect to the Naxids and let him sabotage them.”
The savagery had made her feel better for an instant, and afterward empty. She returned to her apartment, drank a cup of cold tea, and ate some of the food she had acquired in the expectation of sharing it with Martinez.
As she sat alone in the silent apartment, the anguish began once more to fill her.
She should have trusted him, she decided. She could have said, “I’m not the real Lady Sula. The real Sula died and I took her place. If anyone checks the records at the Gene Bank, they’ll find that out.”
She could have trusted Martinez that far. She wouldn’t have to say how Caro Sula had died.
But she hadn’t brought herself to tell Martinez anything, not even a fraction of the truth, and now it was too late. If he’d ever been inclined to trust her, that trust must have been shattered.
Vipsania’s wedding was as magnificent as the short lead time and the thinned population of the High City would permit, and was held at the palace of Lord Eizo Yoshitoshi, the groom’s father. Roland delayed things by arriving a few minutes late, thus earning a frown from Lord Yoshitoshi, who had been standing amid his new in-laws in an attitude that suggested he was testing the air for bad smells.
After Roland made his apologies, the couple, along with selected representatives of their families, convoyed to the Registrar, where the brief official ceremony was performed by one of the Yoshitoshi cousins who wore the scarlet and white sash of a Judge of Final Appeal. By the time they returned the reception was in full swing, with a Cree band playing its witty way through old standards and Lai-own waitrons in stainless white satin jackets circulating with drinks and canapes.