Dangerous Women Part 8

"And Alais," she said.

"Oh, Alais," he said. He took her hand. "Nora, listen, something is going on between Mama and Papa, I don't know what, but something. Be brave, Nora. Brave and good." His arm tightened a moment and then he stood and walked away.

"When will we be in Poitiers?" Alais said happily. She sat on a chest in the back of the wagon and spread her skirts out.

Nora shrugged. The carts went very slowly and would make the journey much longer. She wished they would let her ride a horse. Her nurse climbed in over the wagon's front, turned, and lifted Johanna after her. The drover led the team up, the reins bunched in his hands, turned the horses' rumps to the cart, and backed them into the shafts. Maybe he would let her hold the reins. She hung over the edge of the wagon, looking around at the courtyard, full of other wagons, people packing up her mother's goods, a line of saddled horses waiting.

The nurse said, "Lady Nora, sit down."

Nora kept her back to her, to show she didn't hear. Her mother had come out of the hall door, and at the sight of her everybody else in the whole courtyard turned toward her as if she were the sun; everybody warmed in that light. Nora called, "Mama!" and waved, and her mother waved back.

"Lady Nora! Sit!"

She leaned on the side of the wagon. Beside her, Alais giggled and poked her with her elbow. A groom was bringing the Queen's horse; she waved away someone waiting to help her and mounted by herself. Nora watched how she did that, how she kept her skirts over her legs but got her legs across the saddle anyway. Her Mama rode like a man. She would ride like that. Then, from the gate, a yell went up.

"The King!"

Alais on the chest twisted around to look. Nora straightened. Her father on his big black horse was riding in the gate, a line of knights behind him, mailed and armed. She looked for Richard, but he wasn't with them. Most of the knights had to stay outside the wall because there was no room in the yard.

Eleanor reined her horse around, coming up beside the wagon, close enough that Nora could have reached out and touched her. The horse sidestepped, tossing its head up. His face dark, the King forced his way through the crowd toward her.

She said, "My lord, what is this?"

He threw one wide look all around the courtyard. His face was blurry with beard and his eyes were rimmed in red. Nora sat quickly down on the chest. Her father spurred his horse up head to tail with her mother's.

"Where are my sons?"

"My lord, I have no notion, really."

He stared at her, furious. "Then I'll take hostages." He twisted in his saddle, looking back toward his men. "Get these girls!"

Nora shot to her feet again. "No," the Queen said, forcing her way between him and the wagon, almost nose to nose with him, her fist clenched. "Keep your hands off my daughters." Alais reached out and gripped Nora's skirt in her fist.

He thrust his face at her. "Try to stop me, Eleanor!"

"Papa, wait." Nora leaned over the side of the wagon. "We want to go to Poitiers."

The King said evilly, "What you want." Two men had dismounted, were coming briskly toward the wagon. He never took his gaze off her mother.

The Queen's horse bounded up between the men and the cart. Leaning closer to the King, she spoke in a quick low voice. "Don't be foolish, my lord, on such a small matter. If you push this too hastily, you will never get them back. Alais has that handsome dowry; take her."

"Mama, no!" Nora stretched her arm out. Alais flung her arms around her waist.

"Please-please-"

The Queen never even looked at them. "Be still, Nora. I will deal with this."

"Mama!" Nora tried to catch hold of her, to make her turn and look. "You promised. Mama, you promised she would come with us!" Her fingers grazed the smooth fabric of her mother's sleeve.

Eleanor struck at her, hard, knocking her down inside the wagon. Alais gave a sob. The King's men were coming on again, climbing up toward them. Nora lunged at them, her fists raised.

"Get away! Don't you dare touch her!"

From behind, someone got hold of her and dragged her out of the way. The two men scrambled up over the side of the wagon and fastened on the little French princess. They were dragging her up over the side. She cried out once and then was limp, helpless in their arms. Nora wrenched at the arm around her waist, and only then she saw it was her mother holding her.

"Mama!" She twisted toward Eleanor. "You promised. She doesn't want to go."

Eleanor thrust her face down toward Nora's. "Be still, girl. You don't know what you're doing."

Behind her, the King was swinging his horse away. "You can keep that one. Maybe she'll poison you." He rode off after his men, who had Alais clutched in their grip. Other men were lifting out Alais' baggage. They were hauling her off like baggage. Nora gave a wordless cry. With a sharp command, her father led his men on out the gate again, taking Alais like a trophy.

Her arm still around Nora's waist, Eleanor was scowling after the King. Nora wrenched herself free and her mother turned to face her.

"Well, now, Nora. That was unseemly, wasn't it."

"Why did you do that, Mama?" Nora's voice rang out, high-pitched and furious, careless who heard.

"Come, girl," her mother said, and gave her a shake. "Settle yourself. You don't understand."

With a violent jerk of her whole body, Nora wrenched away from her mother. "You said Alais could come." Something deep and hard was gathering in her, as if she had swallowed a stone. She began to cry. "Mama, why did you lie to me?"

Her mother blinked at her, her forehead crumpled. "I can't do everything." She held out her hand, as if asking for something. "Come, be reasonable. Do you want to be like your father?"

Tears were squirting from Nora's eyes. "No, and not like you, either, Mama. You promised me, and you lied." She knocked aside the outstretched hand.

Eleanor recoiled; her arm rose and she slapped Nora across the face. "Cruel, ungrateful child!"

Nora sat down hard. She poked her fists into her lap, her shoulders hunched. Alais was gone; she couldn't save her after all. It didn't matter that she hadn't really liked Alais much. She wanted to be a hero, but she was just a little girl, and n.o.body cared. She turned to the chest and folded her arms on it, put her head down, and wept.

Later, she leaned up against the side of the wagon, looking down the road ahead.

She felt stupid. Alais was right: she couldn't be a king, and now she couldn't even be a hero.

The nurses were dozing in the back of the wagon. Her mother had taken Johanna away to ride on her saddle in front of her, to show Nora how bad she had been. The drover on his bench had his back to her. She felt as if n.o.body could see her, as if she weren't even there.

She didn't want to be a king anyway if it meant being mean and yelling and carrying people off by force. She wanted to be like her mother, but her old mother, the good mother, not this new one, who lied and broke promises, who hit and called names. Alais had said, "Your mother is wicked," and she almost cried again, because it was true.

She would tell Richard when he came back. But then in her stomach something tightened like a knot: if he came back. Somehow the whole world had changed. Maybe even Richard would be false now.

"You'll be a Crusader," he had said to her.

She didn't know if she wanted that. Being a Crusader meant going a long, long way and then dying. "Be good," Richard had said. "Be brave." But she was just a little girl. Under the whole broad blue sky, she was just a speck.

The wagon jolted along the road, part of the long train of freight heading down toward Poitiers. She looked all around her, at the servants walking along among the carts, the bobbing heads of horses and mules, the heaps of baggage lashed on with rope. Her mother was paying no heed to her, had gone off ahead, in the mob of riders leading the way. The nurses were sleeping. n.o.body was watching her.

n.o.body cared about her anymore. She waited to disappear. But she didn't.

She stood, holding on to the side to keep from falling. Carefully, she climbed up over the front of the wagon onto the bench, keeping her skirts over her legs, and sat down next to the drover, who gawked down at her, a broad, brown face in a s.h.a.g of beard.

"Now, my little lady-"

She straightened her skirts, planted her feet firmly on the kickboard, and looked up at him. "Can I hold the reins?" she said.

Melinda Snodgra.s.s A writer whose work crosses several mediums and genres, Melinda M. Snodgra.s.s has written scripts for television shows such as Profiler and Star Trek: The Next Generation (for which she was also a story editor for several years), a number of popular SF novels, and was one of the cocreators of the long-running Wild Card series, for which she has also written and edited. Her novels include Circuit, Circuit Breaker, Final Circuit, The Edge of Reason, Runespear (with Victor Milan), High Stakes, Santa Fe, and Queen's Gambit Declined. Her most recent novel is The Edge of Ruin, the sequel to The Edge of Reason. Her media novels include the Wild Cards novel Double Solitaire and the Star Trek novel The Tears of the Singers. She's also the editor of the anthology A Very Large Array. She lives in New Mexico.

Here she takes us to a distant planet to show us that even in a society where s.p.a.ceships thunder through the night and aliens mingle with humans on crowded city streets, some of the games you might run into go way back.

THE HANDS THAT ARE NOT THERE.

Gla.s.s met gla.s.s with dull, tuneless clunks as the human bartender filled orders. A Hajin waitress with a long and tangled red mane running down her bare back clicked on delicate hooves through the bar delivering drinks. The patrons were a surly lot, mere shadows huddled in the dark dive, and carefully seated at tables well away from each other. No one talked. Subst.i.tuting for conversation were commentators calling the action of a soccer game playing on the wall screen over the bar. Even those voices were growling rumbles because the sound was turned down so low. The odors of spilled beer and rancid cooking oil twisted through the smoke, but they and the tobacco smells were trumped by the scents of despair and simmering anger.

This dank hole was a perfect match for Second Lieutenant Tracy Belmanor's mood. He had picked it because it was well away from the s.p.a.ceport and he was unlikely to meet any of his shipmates. He should have been happy. He had graduated from the Solar League's military academy only last month and had been a.s.signed to his first posting. Problem was, his fellow cla.s.smates had walked out as newly minted first lieutenants, but such was not the case for the lowborn tailor's son who had attended the academy on a scholarship. When he had received his insignia, he'd stared down at the stars and single bar and realized that he was one rung below his aristocratic cla.s.smates, even though his grades had been better, his performance in flight the equal of any of them save Mercedes, whose reflexes and ability to withstand high gee had put them all to shame. When he'd looked up at the commandant of the High Ground, Vice Admiral Sergei Arrington Vasquez y Markov, the big man had casually delivered the explanation, totally unaware how insulting it had been.

"You must understand, Belmanor, it wouldn't do for you to be in the position of issuing orders to your cla.s.smates, especially to the Infanta Mercedes. This way you will never hold the bridge solo, and so be spared the embarra.s.sment."

The implication that he would be embarra.s.sed to issue an order to highborn a.s.sholes, including the Emperor's daughter, had ignited his too-quick temper. "I'm sure that will be a great comfort to me as I'm dying because one of those idiots wrecked the ship." But of course he hadn't said that. The unwary words had been at the edge of his teeth, but after four years being drilled in protocol and the chain of command, he managed to swallow the angry retort. Instead he had saluted and managed a simple "Yes, sir." At least he hadn't thanked Markov for the insult.

Later, he wondered why he hadn't spoken up. Cowardice? Was he really intimidated by the FFH? That was a terrible thought, for it implied that he did know his place. If he was honest with himself, that was why he hadn't attended the postgraduation ball. He knew that none of Mercedes's ladies-in-waiting would have accepted him as escort. He couldn't bring a woman of his own social strata. And Mercedes was the daughter of the Emperor, and no one could ever know what they had shared, or that Tracy loved her and that she loved him.

So he didn't go to the ball. Instead, he stood on the Crystal Bridge on Ring Central and watched Mercedes, out of uniform and a vision in crimson and gold, enter the ballroom on the arm of Honorius Sinclair Cullen, Knight of the Arches and Sh.e.l.ls, Duke de Argento, known casually as Boho, and Tracy's nemesis and rival. It should have been Tracy at her side. But that could never be.

Tracy took a long pull on his whiskey, draining the gla.s.s. It was cheap liquor and it etched pain down his throat, and settled like a burning coal in his gut. Unlike the other morose and uncommunicative patrons, Tracy had chosen to sit at the bar. The bartender, a big man, the stripes on his ap.r.o.n imperfectly hiding the grime, nodded at Tracy's empty gla.s.s.

"Another?"

"Sure. Why the h.e.l.l not?"

"You've really been hammering these down, kid." Tracy looked up and was surprised by the kindness in the man's brown eyes. "You gonna be able to find your way back to your ship?" Whiskey gurgled into the gla.s.s.

"Maybe it would be better if I didn't."

A rag emerged from the ap.r.o.n pocket and wiped down the steel surface of the bar. "You don't wanna do that. The League hangs deserters."

Tracy downed the drink in one gulp, and fought back nausea. He shook his head. "Not me. They wouldn't look for me. They'd be glad the Embarra.s.sment has been quietly swept under the rug."

"Look, kid, you got troubles. I can see that."

"Wow, you always this perceptive?"

"Cut the att.i.tude," but the words were said mildly and with a faint smile. "Look, if you want feel better about the state of the galaxy and your place in it, you should talk to that guy. It may all be bulls.h.i.t, but Rohan's got one h.e.l.l of a story."

Tracy looked in the direction of the pointing finger and saw a portly man of medium height seated at a corner table and cuddling an empty gla.s.s. His dark hair was streaked with grey, and his forehead overly large due to the receding hairline. The bartender moved to the far end of the bar and started filling the empty gla.s.ses on the Hajin's tray. Tracy looked again at the slumped man. On impulse, he s.n.a.t.c.hed up his gla.s.s and walked over to the table.

Jerking a thumb over his shoulder at the bartender, Tracy said, "He says you've got a good story that's going to put everything in perspective for me." Tracy kicked out a chair and sat down. He half hoped that the man would object and start a fight. Tracy was in the mood to hit somebody, and here on Wasua, unlike at the High Ground, a fight wouldn't turn into a stupid duel. Tracy touched the scar at his left temple, a gift from Boho. A closer look at the man revealed the unlikeliness of a fight breaking out. There was no muscle beneath the fat, and dark, puffy bags hung beneath his eyes.

"Loren doesn't believe me," Rohan said. "But it's all true." Alcohol slurred the words, but Tracy could hear the aristocratic accent of a member of the Fortune Five Hundred. G.o.d knew he could recognize it. He'd been listening to it for four d.a.m.n years. He even feared he'd begun to ape it.

"Okay, I'll bite: What's all true?"

The tip of the man's tongue licked at his lips. "I could tell the story better with something to wet my throat," he said.

"Okay, fine." Tracy went back to the bar and returned with a bottle of bourbon. He slammed it down between them. "There. Now I've paid for the tale. So go on, amaze me."

Rohan drew himself up, but the haughtiness of the movement was undercut when he began swaying in his chair. A pudgy hand grabbed the edge of the table and he stabilized. "I am more, much more than I seem."

"Okay." Tracy drew out the word.

The man looked around with exaggerated care. "I have to be careful. If they knew I was talking ..."

"Yes?"

The man drew a finger across his throat. He leaned across the table. His breath was a nauseating mix of booze and halitosis. "What I'm going to tell you could shake the foundations of the League."

The drunk poured himself a drink, tossed it back, and continued. "But it happened-all of it-and it's all true. Listen and learn, young man." Rohan refilled his gla.s.s, topped off Tracy's, and saluted with his gla.s.s. This time he settled for a sip rather than a gulp. Rohan sighed and no longer seemed focused on the young officer.

"It all started when one of my aides arranged a bachelor party ..."

If a strip club could ever be considered tasteful, Rohan a.s.sumed that this one fit that bill. Not that he was an expert. This was his first time in such an establishment, where human women flaunted themselves, much to the fury of the Church. So why had he agreed to join his staff at a stag party in honor of Knud's upcoming nuptials? The answer came easily. Because my wife's latest lover is the same age as my daughter, and this one was just too much. So his presence in the Cosmos Club was-what? Payback? And how likely was it that Juliana would ever find out? Surpa.s.singly small. And that she would care? Smaller yet.

He blushed as a nearly naked hostess, her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and mons outlined with a jeweled harness, took their coats and, with the graceful hand gestures of a trained courtesan, ushered them over to the smiling maitre d', a handsome man with a spade beard and sparkling black eyes. He led the group through tall double doors and into the club proper. The lighting in the main room was subdued, but recessed spotlights struck fire from the slowly rotating platforms that held beautiful, naked women. The platforms were shaped like spiral galaxies, the stars formed by faux diamonds. Rohan stared at the rounded b.u.t.tocks of the girls and wondered what those behinds looked like after a long night seated on the platforms. Between the platforms was a stage made of clear gla.s.s. A crystal pole thrust up, an aggressive statement, from the center of the stage.

Waitresses dressed-no, make that accented-with the same kind of jeweled harness worn by the hostess moved between the tables, serving drinks and food. Rohan saw a Brie en croute garnished with sour cherries go past on a tray, and the aromas from the kitchen were as good as anything he'd smelled in the city's finest restaurants. His belly gave a growl of appreciation. Yes, definitely an upscale establishment, catering to the wealthy and wellborn of the FFH. Another anomaly struck him. There were no aliens present. The waitstaff were all humans, an expensive affectation. Rohan a.s.sumed that in the bowels of the kitchen, Hajin and Isanjo labored as dishwashers, but the image presented to the paying customers was aggressively human.

John Fujasaki had reserved a circular booth at the edge of the stage. An ice-filled champagne bucket and the expected bottle were already waiting. As the party arranged themselves, the maitre d' opened the bottle with a discreet pop and filled their gla.s.ses. The upholstery was plush, made from neural fabric that sensed the tension in Rohan's lower back and began to ma.s.sage the spot. The floating holo table displayed a constantly shifting view of spectacular astronomical phenomenon. Rohan stared, mesmerized, as a blossoming supernova tried to consume his drink.

John Fujasaki, the instigator of this outing, leaned in close to Rohan and murmured, "You're blushing, sir." Laughter hung on the words.

"I'm not accustomed to seeing this much ... female ... flesh," he murmured back.

"Pardon my saying so, but you need to get out more" was the response. Then John turned away to respond to another comment.

Rohan watched the bubbles rising in his gla.s.s and wondered what the young aide would think if he knew that his boss did frequent less reputable establishments in Pony Town that catered to humans with a taste for the alien and the exotic. Then the hypocrisy of his anger at his wife over her infidelity struck him. He fell back on the age-old defense: whoring was expected of men, and no woman should place a cuckoo in her husband's nest. The excuses rang hollow.

John tapped his gla.s.s with a spoon. The young men fell silent and Fujasaki stood up. "Well, here's to Knud. Those of us who've avoided the wedded state think he's mad, and those who have entered the bonds of matrimony also think he's mad. But at least for tonight we'll put aside such worries and concentrate on sending him off in style. So, a toast to Knud on his final night of freedom, and may it be memorable!" John cried.

There were calls of "Here, here!" from around the table; gla.s.ses were clinked, drained, and refilled. Knud, smiling but with a hint of worry in the back of his eyes, laid a hand over his gla.s.s. "Now, go easy, fellas. I have to be in reasonably good shape tomorrow."

"Not to worry, Knud," Franz said. "You're with us."

"And that's why I'm worried."