“You’re beautiful,” he murmured.
“Thank you.” She smiled and kissed his ear. He could feel the warmth of her cheek against his own.
Nor were his words anything less than the truth. Terza was lovely in her brocade, with her black hair worn loose past her bare shoulders. She had carried herself all day with perfect grace and composure. The wedding, which she had organized in all its complexity, had gone without a hitch and spoke well for her managerial skills.
Surrounded by the ritual and Terza’s perfect presence, Martinez found in himself the flicker of a growing hope. Much better than black self-disgust he had experienced last night, which he had spent with Amanda Taen.
That had been the end result, perhaps, of an excess of bonhomie occasioned by Lieutenant Vonderheydte’s wedding. The bride, Lady Daphne, had been a young, plump, good-natured redhead, completely unlike anyone Martinez had envisioned as the partner for Vonderheydte in the long-distance delectation that Dalkeith had described.
It was then that Martinez recalled that Vonderheydte’s video lover had been someone named Lady Mary.
Oh, he thought.
Martinez began to relax amid the company of his former shipmates. Vonderheydte had no relatives on Zanshaa and so had called in the Fleet for support: every officer and cadet of Vonderheydte’s acquaintance had been invited. AllCorona ‘s officers were present, except for Shankaracharya, who Martinez assumed was still in hiding.
Martinez was no longer in command of them and he could be at his ease. The young officers were in high spirits, and their merriment rang through the ballroom. The hot punch tasted innocent enough but reeked of brandy fumes. At some point in the afternoon Martinez began to realize that, as an officer at least two grades senior to any other present, his presence was becoming an inhibition to the verve of his juniors. He was perfectly at home among them, but the feeling was not quite reciprocated. He began to fear that at any moment he’d overhear one of them refer to him as “the Old Man.” Saddened by this, he raised a glass of punch and offered the bride and groom a final toast, and then made his way out.
Alcohol swam through his head as he descended the broad hotel stair. The evening was young and there was nowhere for him to go—he could go to the Shelley Palace and watch his brother in triumph; he could visit Terza while she was organizing their nuptials and annoy her by getting in her way.
The ringing chant of the “Congratulations” round from “Lord Fizz Takes a Holiday” began to sound from the Empyrean Ballroom upstairs. A desperate sadness began to creep into Martinez’s thoughts. This kind of joy was beyond him now.
For all that he’d burned for promotion, he had enjoyed his career as a junior officer. The responsibility had been light, the companionship for the most part pleasant, and the nights had been his own.
Those carefree nights were gone, especially now that he was about to become annexed to the Chen family. One Chen would be his superior officer, another his wife, another his patron on the Control Board—and Roland, in charge of the Martinez family checkbook, would pay for it all. After tomorrow he could scarcely take a step without their combined approval.
That was when the disgust had begun to overwhelm him. It was his own ambition that had led him into this trap, a marriage to a woman he barely knew, and to whom he was likely to bring only pain. If he could bring himself to dislike Terza he might find relief—he could simply use her then, use her with a clear conscience, and know that she deserved to be used. But knew Terza well enough to know that she deserved well at the hands of any husband, and deserved as well a better husband than he.
Dancing through his thoughts was the tempting impulse to flee. Run as Sempronia had run, and take his chances.
But Sempronia’s example showed him what he could expect. His allowance cut off, his patronage in the Fleet turned to outright enmity…Instead of enjoying a private income like that of most officers, he’d have to live on his pay while administering whatever obscure rathole of a supply depot or training camp to which the enmity of the Chens condemned him.
Martinez took a detour into the hotel bar and dwelt on these matters for the space of two drinks. By the time he’d finished the second the vision of Amanda Taen had risen in his mind. A final night of bachelor revelry seemed the very least he could offer himself, a last blaze of freedom before the velvet night of captivity.
When he called Amanda he discovered to his surprise that she had no plans, and was amenable to dinner and a visit to a club afterward. She was as full of fun as he remembered—joyous, uncomplicated, uninhibited—and when he bedded her she was delight itself. It was only afterward that she mentioned his upcoming marriage, which she’d seen, of course, in the society reports.
“I don’t do married men,” she said. “So from this point on, you’re on your own.”
“I’ll miss you,” Martinez said, with perfect sincerity.
“I’m glad I’m not rich or a Peer,” she sighed. “I can marry whomever I want.”
A bubble of sadness burst in Martinez’s heart at the truth of these words, and he felt the tentacles of Clan Chen drawing him toward his destiny.
Now—the tentacles wrapping him head to foot—Martinez made his way with Terza through the throng of guests and to the car that waited outside. He shook Lord Chen’s hand, and the veteran politician gave what Martinez somehow knew was a perfect imitation of a heartfelt smile. Lady Chen allowed him to touch one frozen, clenched knuckle. Roland offered him as triumphant thump on the shoulder.
Followed by Alikhan, who wore an immaculate uniform and who carried the Orb in its case, Martinez and Terza descended into their open-topped car. Alikhan joined the driver in the front, and the car carried them away to the Hotel Boniface, where Martinez had rented a suite in which they could enjoy married life for as long as the Fleet permitted.
The car cruised down the Boulevard of the Praxis. The breeze threw back Terza’s hair, revealing the curve of her throat. It was still early evening, and people on the street were going to their entertainments. Martinez gave a start at the sight of white-gold hair gleaming beneath a streetlight—but as he stared he realized this wasn’t Sula, but a shop clerk trudging her way to the funicular and her home in the Lower Town.
Terza’s maidservant Fran was waiting for her in the suite. While Fran looked after Terza in the dressing room, Alikhan turned down the bed, laid out Martinez’s dressing gown and pajamas, then helped Martinez out of his jacket and boots.
“Thank you, Alikhan,” Martinez said. “You’ve been splendid tonight.”
Alikhan beamed from beneath his spreading mustachios. “I wish you every happiness, my lord.”
Alikhan withdrew: servants were stabled in another part of the hotel. Martinez stripped off the remainder of his uniform. He stared for a moment of incomprehension at the pajamas, then threw them in a drawer. He donned the dressing gown and stepped into the bathroom to brush his teeth and comb his hair. He returned to the bedroom and wondered whether he should get into the bed, or wait for Terza.
He turned down the lamp to a modest glow and smoothed the bedcovers. Hope and resentment warred in his thoughts. He mentally added the hours he’d actually spent in Terza’s company, and found them to be less than eight.
There were several women, he recalled, that he’d taken to bed on less than eight hours’ acquaintance. Why should this occasion be any different?
And yet it was. The other women he need not have seen ever again, but he would be with Terza for the rest of his life, or at least until her father ordered her to divorce. Tonight would have lasting consequences, and those other nights had not.