Princess of the Void ch 8 - sorry

“Two salt-passings,” Grant says. The shuttle anchors on a plate-glass platform emerging from a canopy of Ptolek II's blood-red trees. “Or a seasoning of your choice.”

“Let’s say… one salt-passing and one hand-feeding,” Sykora says. “What’s the going rate on those?”

“Depends on the hand food.” Grant unbuckles from the shuttle “I’d do a grape if you let me put a dartboard in the cabin.”

“Dartboard, fine. But you’ll have to do some furniture stuff for the darts.”

“Furniture stuff?”

“Let me sit on you,” she says.

“At lunch?”

She winks. “We could do it in private.”

“Will they believe you need to compel me just to pass the salt?”

“Compulsion feels pleasant,” she says. “For the husband. Newlyweds often overdo it. It’s a flirtation and a flex. Two public compulsions will be enough, I think. Though if you need to leave the table, I may compel you to respect the groom’s code.”

“Groom’s code?”

“Be well-behaved, go nowhere you shouldn’t, touch nothing that isn’t ours, and come right back,” she says. “It’s a traditional courtesy in the Imperial houses that the husband may go un-escorted through the grounds as long as he’s compelled. In your stead, I’d need a guard.”

“Even to go to the bathroom?”

“Oh, yes. Can’t be too careful. We can go invisible, darling, remember? Much room for skulduggery. It’s an escort for every Taiikari guest, or you fill your manor with infrared cameras, and there’s ways to fool those. But in your case, dear Maekyonite, our biases will be your invisibility. They’re expecting an obedient fish out of water. Act airheaded and gormless, and they’ll excuse any social mistakes. They’ll underestimate you. And when my eyes flash…”

“I feed you those grapes,” he says. “Maybe I toss and you catch it in your mouth.”

Sykora stifles a giggle. “Insufferable Maekyonite.”

“I need to prove my aim’s good,” he says. “For the dartboard.”

They sit in an echoing dining room, sized for dozens of guests. Their end of the table is a little island of activity in the grand, polished chamber. The grand giant of Ptolek shines through the arched windows, dying the feast set before them a russet pink. Garuna’s serving them a Taiikari variation on a salad bar—ripe berries and leafy roughage in great grassy beds, crusty loaves still steaming from the oven, glistening slabs of caramelized protein. Grant doesn’t ask what anything is, just copies Sykora’s spread. Everything is fresh and delicious, if a little bland for his taste.

Garuna’s husband Jumail is a meek and unobtrusive man, whose only words that afternoon are a stiff “Majesty. Prince Consort. Welcome.” upon his introduction. He tucks in and eats with the air of a worker on his lunch break. He’s the first Taiikari male Grant has met whose eyes are visible, and it’s a minor shock to see that they’re gold rather than the red of every female he’s met.

Two couples, and Garuna’s mother, a primly dressed and imposing woman named Lady Frelle. The servants outnumber them.

“I do wish we’d had more time to create a full to-do,” Garuna says. “There’s many, many ladies who would love to welcome you back.”

“I’m sure.” Sykora smiles prettily. “Something I was keen to avoid, in fact. I appreciate the intimacy.”

“Me too. Oh, I’m sure they’d just be mobbing your husband.” Garuna giggles. “What a fabulous prize you’ve found, Sykora.”

Sykora sips her water. “He is one-of-a-kind.”

“I can’t imagine this is anywhere near the grandeur you’ve experienced as a husband-of-the-void, Prince Consort,” Garuna scoops a dollop of chutney across her plate. “But we are so grateful you accompanied Sykora.”

“On the contrary,” he says. “It’s the finest terrestrial hall I’ve ever been in. And the food is just delicious.”

“How kind of you to say.” Garuna beams. “Your Taiikari is very good.”

“I can’t take any credit for that.” He taps his temple. “Sykora provided me an implant.”

“Fascinating,” Garuna says. “The technology of the voidships.”

“Grantyde.” A gentle tug on his sleeve. He turns to a flash gilding Sykora’s pupils. “Pass the salt, please.”

Garuna gives a catty grin to Sykora as Grant reaches across the table and slides it over to her. “His wingspan is so impressive.”

“Thank you, darling.” Sykora winks at Grant as she gives her roasted vegetables some much-needed seasoning.

“It has been fascinating,” he says. “The implant, I mean. Getting used to it is faster than learning a new language, I’m sure. But there are remarkable differences.”

“Such as?” Garuna’s mother takes a break from nibbling her salad to ask it.

“For one thing,” he says, “I was never the type to say remarkable.”

“What would you say?” Garuna asks.

“Something pithier, I think. Maybe wild.” He grins. It’s strange—he was never much of a talker in his original tongue. But ever since he got this implant, the words have come easier and easier. As if his mind had been waiting for the right language to unfurl itself.

“Wild.” Garuna guffaws. “Oh, how delightful. That’s so wild.”

“And firmament,” Grant continues. “In my language, that’s antique.”

“Oh?” Garuna spoons a candy-colored bushel of sauteed leaves onto her plate. “What would you call it, then?”

“Space,” he says.

Garuna blinks. “Oh. That’s rather… verbatim.”

He leans forward a little. “Do you want to know what the Maekyonites’ word for Maekyon is?”

“Please.”

Grant gives an insider grin. “Earth.”

Garuna claps delightedly. “A world called Dirt that calls the firmament Space. Was your original name Man?”

He laughs along with her. Sykora’s smile is flinty on its edges.

“So much of what I do is so dreadfully boring, I’m sure.” Garuna giggles. “Your wife is sweeping around the sector, blasting malefactors out of the firmament and exploring alien frontiers. I host balls and watch numbers move around.”

“Numbers of great import, of course.” Lady Frelle cuts in. “What we lack in excitement, we make up for in utility.”

“It’s all exciting to me, ma’am,” Grant says. “Maekyon hasn’t even expanded into its solar system yet. The firmament is still such a novelty. Do you ever deal with space pirates? Thank you.” He scoots backward to give a servant access to his water glass. “Or smugglers?”

“Pirates, certainly.” Garuna looks up and her eyes flash. “Water.”

The servant cuts quickly across the close end of the table to attend her glass.

“Or should I say your good lady wife deals with them,” Garuna continues, as if the man didn’t exist. “But smuggling, no. No, I shouldn’t think so.”

“Our refiner clans keep very thorough records,” Frelle adds. “Her Majesty is always welcome to audit them.”

“The clans serve at the Empress’s pleasure,” Garuna says. “There’s simply no market for smugglers to sell into. We have no customer but the Empire, and the Empire’s rates are set. And quite generous. No undercutting, no gouging, no dramatics. The only way to maximize profit is to maximize production. It promotes healthy competition.”

“Ah, of course.” He sponges up a spot of chutney with a crust of bread. The state of affairs Garuna describes would encourage smuggling, he thinks, but there’s a party line she’s sticking to. “I apologize for my presumption.”

Jumail coughs as a scrap of pilaf escapes down the wrong hole.

“Oh—” Garuna’s hand covers her mouth. “Oh, dear. There’s surely no need for that, Prince Consort.”

Sykora’s toe nudges Grant under the table as she issues a nonchalant laugh. “My husband is a new acquisition. The first Maekyonite to join the Empire. He’s adjusting quickly. But naturally, there’s a bump here and there.” She pats his leg. “We refrain from apology outside of rather severe circumstances, darling.”

“I’m—” He bites down before the repeated faux pas can pass his lips. “I see.” He rises from his seat. “May I excuse myself, ladies? Could you direct me to the bathroom?”

“But of course.” Garuna gestures with her spoon. “Past the greenhouse door and to your right, Consort.”

“Remember the groom’s code, dear.” Sykora’s eyes flash. “No doors beyond the one you’ve been directed to, no touching anything that isn’t ours.”

He makes a show of bowing low at the waist and kissing her ring. “Of course.”

Grant wanders from the room, past the armed guard on the banquet hall door. The man just gives him a brief nod. Nobody moves to escort or intercept him.

He’s dangerous. He’s a fly in the imperial ointment. A glitch in their mainframe. It’s a welcome feeling.

He peeks into the greenhouse window as he passes. The foliage beyond is red and shaggy, like a vine meets a conifer. The creepers appear like oversized moth caterpillars.

He does his business and emerges back into the hallway. He dawdles again at the greenhouse door. Some catty part of him wants to go through it and look around, just because he can.

“Prince Consort.”

The voice snaps him from the thought. He turns toward it. Frelle curtseys a greeting. Here, out of the light of Ptolek, he sees how vividly magenta her skin is beneath her elegant, pleated gown.

“Lady Frelle.” He bows back.

“It’s my good fortune to run across you here.” Frelle takes a smooth step closer. “I’d hoped we might speak, away from the ladies of import and station.”

His hands are still damp. He wipes them surreptitiously in his voluminous pockets. “Sure.”

“Are you enjoying yourself, as a husband-of-the-void? The adjustment period can be severe for newly uplifted species. But you and the Princess seem to be getting on well.”

“Sykora is being very accommodating with me,” he says. “As are you and your daughter.”

Her smile transforms her face, from sharp and severe to kind and matronly. “We’re all just so pleased to see our void princess finally together with someone. We had thought she’d be chaste all her days. That’s not uncommon among the voidship coterie, you know. They sip Kabira’s wort to muffle the heart, and occupy all their spare time with dominion. But I should have guessed a woman of her high taste was simply holding out for a fine specimen like you.”

It catches Grant off-guard, every time another compliment arrives on his looks. He’s not an eyesore, but few people ever gave him a second look on Maekyon. “I’m humbled by her attention, ma’am.”

“You’re comfortable aboard the Black Pike?”

“It’s a wondrous vessel, ma’am.”

“And the compulsion? She isn’t abusing it?”

“No, ma’am. She’s being quite judicious.”

“Do Maekyonites have the warmth, I wonder?”

“The what, ma’am?”

“The compulsion warmth,” she says. “Taiikari gentlemen experience it. My husband tells me it feels like the first sip of mulled wine after a frigid walk.”

“Oh. That warmth.” He nods. “Yes. It’s very nice.”

“Tell me, then. And don’t lie.” Her eyes flash. “Is your wife here on suspicion of foul play?”

She’s compelling him.

She thinks she’s compelling him.

His surprise she must take as confirmation that she’s got him. A satisfied pursing of her lips as she monitors him.

“I don’t think so.” He tries to sound gormless and entranced.

“She has mentioned nothing to you?”

“No.”

“Do you think she believes Garuna, then?”

“Yes, I believe she does.”

“Has she told you about the Trimond Refinery?”

“No.”

“What about Lorimare Holdings?”

“Doesn’t ring a bell, ma’am.”

“Good.” She looks him up and down. “I ask again, and be truthful.” Flash. “She isn’t abusing you, is she?”

“No, Lady Frelle.”

“And she has no paraphilias or embarrassments? No secret shames she’s laid bare?”

“No.”

Frelle steeples her fingers. “She’s formidable, your wife. But the last thing she needs to be doing is chasing conspiracies and making unnecessary enemies. She has so much of substance already on her plate. A laundry list of ladies to catch up with. A rival with a vendetta. A handsome new husband.” Her eyes flash again. “Give us a smile, won’t you?”

The absurdity of using compulsion for the request would bring the grin to his face even if he’d been unwilling.

“And he has a lovely smile, too.” She rests a hand on her heart. “It’s enough to make you wish you were a Void Princess, dynasty or not.”

“What does that mean, madame?”

“She hasn’t told you? I suppose she wouldn’t. She’s a proud woman.” She gives his arm a little squeeze. “Your wife has a husband-of-the-void because that’s the only husband she is allowed, Prince Consort. Void Princesses may wed no Taiikari and bear no heirs. The Empress would never allow them to live.”

He can’t quite diagnose the feeling this information raises in him. A pull on his diaphragm, a gray knot tying itself in his stomach. Whatever this reaction is, it must show on his face, because Frelle clucks her tongue sympathetically. “Oh, poor thing. I oughtn’t have told you that. It’s upset you, I can tell.” Her eyes flash again. “Forget this conversation and this compulsion. If your wife inquires, we exchanged brief pleasantries. That is all.”

“Hey—so Frelle compelled me.” Grant loosens his seat buckle as the last of the exit-velocity shakes dissipate.

An atonal jingle as Sykora’s ears flicker. Her head darts to his. “What?”

“Garuna’s mother. It was when I went to the bathroom. She intercepted me.”

“She—oh my God.” Her eyes flare and widen. Now that her hat’s stowed and he knows to look, he sees her horns curl upward through her hair. “That harridan.”

Whoa. “I’m guessing you’re not supposed to compel other people’s husbands.”

“You are not.” She’s throttling the yoke like it owes her money. Her knuckles are white on the joystick. “You are most certainly not. Oh, Grantyde. My poor man. What did she make you do?”

“She tried to pump me for information,” he says. “I pretended—”

Sykora nearly yanks the controls out of their housing. “Pump you?”

“Turn of phrase, Princess. It just means she asked me questions.” He holds his hands up. “She asked about the Trimonds and about something called Lorimare Holdings, and she looked for secrets. I lied, she told me to smile and squeezed my bicep, and then…” He thinks about hiding his new knowledge from her. No. “And then she told me about the restriction on you. The husband-of-the-void thing. And to forget everything.”

She tilts the yoke up. “I’ll flay that bitch. I will make a banner out of her. This is an insult that does not stand.”

“You can’t,” he says. “She told me to forget, Sykora. If she knows I told you, the jig’s up.”

“But she dared.” Her eyes flash red. “She compelled my husband. She forced you.”

“She didn’t force a thing,” he says. “I lied to her. This is an advantage. It confirms your theory, it makes them think you’re off their back—”

“But the smile.” She bristles. “The touch. The poison she dripped.”

“It really was okay, Sykora. It was like a granny in a grocery store. It would have been sweet if she wasn’t asking about corporate espionage. I’m used to worse at this point.”

He realizes how that came across as her cheeks color and her eyes snap to the Black Pike in the distance.

“Sorry,” he says.

“Don’t say sorry,” she says. “People of our station do not say sorry.”

Her continued insistence on avoiding apologies prickles him. “How am I supposed to apologize for apologizing, then?”

“You don’t. Why would you? You did well. You have every excuse in the world to make these mistakes. If any fault’s to be meted out, it’s mine for bringing you here. To these mesmeric vipers.” She shudders. “These ingrates. I keep their shipping lanes clear and operational. I overlook their obvious insubordination and their bickering. And this is their repayment.”

“Look. If you’re angry for me, don’t be. I haven’t been in a matriarchy long enough for it to bug me, being called handsome. Maybe give me a few months. If you’re angry because someone messed with your property—”

“Someone messed with my husband.” She releases the yoke. “You are my husband, Grantyde. I am upset because it’s my responsibility to protect you and keep my promises to you, and I failed you. I said you wouldn’t need to act compelled beyond what was necessary. Don’t call yourself my property. I hate when you do that.”

“It’s what I am.” He crosses his arms. “I’m not trying to upset you, but until you free me, I am your property.”

She puts her forehead in her hands and rubs her temples.

“Do you believe I chose you because of the Empress’s edict?” she finally asks. “Because I had no other choice?”

“It had crossed my mind.”

She shakes her head. “I chose you because you were gentle with me. You were the only kindness I ever saw in that unlit place. And taking you with me was the only way to save your life.”

“You thought I was a tool,” he says. “You told me so.”

“I was lying. To both of us. I’d been so powerless for so long. I wanted that power back, and I became vindictive, and I told a vicious lie because I thought it would make me feel powerful again. I was afraid of how I felt. I’d spent so long at the mercy of your people, and admitting my feelings, even to myself… I thought it would put me at your mercy all over again. And it was a horrible mistake, and now I’m terrified that it has befouled us forever. You must believe me that I never would have said those things if I’d only seen you for what you are. If I’d only been kinder, been more careful. I would have begged you to come with me. I can’t compel you and I don’t care, Grantyde. Do you realize the risk I’m taking?”

“Well I’m sorry if it’s inconvenient you can’t just hypnotize—”

“Stop.” She looks away from him. “Stop saying sorry, Grantyde. That is a painful word. It’s not a word we use the way you do.”

“I’m not Taiikari,” he says. “And I wouldn’t refuse an apology from you.”

“I am trying,” she says. “I am trying very hard to be what you want me to be. I have—” She swallows. “I have spent many years preparing to be a wife. And imagining how it would be, and dreaming of it. I was taught a way to keep a man and please him. And you want another way, and I am trying, because you are worth trying for. I beg for your patience.” Her eyes glisten—is she holding back tears? “Be patient with me.”

He exhales and looks out into the firmament, at the alien sun cresting the corner of Ptolek. “Okay,” he murmurs.

A nudge at the edge of his pinky. Sykora’s placed her hand on the armrest console where his rests. He lifts his palm and lays it over hers.

They drift toward his wife’s kingdom.

Sykora spends the rest of the day in meetings with an endless succession of bureaucrats, clerks, engineers, and officers, each trying gamely to convince her that their concerns are critical for the continuing operation of the Pike. Grant waits silently by her side, absorbing what little he can of the voidship’s endless complexities and machinations. Besides her duties as a mediator between the populated worlds, Sykora is apparently a general in an unending skirmish against at least five pirate chiefs he’s counted, and an explorer of the many unexplored planets and moons in her sector, and an enforcer of the Empire’s myriad laws governing the firmament.

All these duties she accomplishes with a patient formality. Around 1900 hours, he briefly excuses himself from her command deck and returns with a pair of hard-won sandwiches he wrestled from the quartermaster. She gives him a smile and a “Thank you, Grantyde.”

“You’re welcome, Princess.”

She brushes his arm—just a light touch—before returning to her conversation with a survey team leader.

Those are the only words they exchange for the rest of the day.

“I’ll be up early in the morning.” Sykora waits until the lights are out to slide her uniform off and slip into bed. “I’ll try not to wake you.”

“We’re still on half-duty, aren’t we?”

“The rest of the ship, yes,” she says. “There’s no half-duty for me, I’m afraid. As I suppose you saw.”

“I did. You’ve got a lot on your plate.”

“With any luck, it’ll thin out as I clear my backlog.” Sykora’s silhouette is picked out by the stars as she stretches her shoulders. “Good night, husband.”

There’s so much he wants to say, but it’s all gnarled and contradictory in his head, so he settles for “Good night.”

But it isn’t a good night. Sleep eludes him. He stares at the ceiling, and then at the stars, their fretted lights stitching through the gossamer silks of the cabin.

A shallow breath sounds from Sykora’s bed. And then another.

He isn’t sure what he’s hearing until one breath breaks into a squeaking moan. He tilts his head. Sykora is lying on her side. Beneath the covers, she’s moving.

He shifts and eases himself onto his elbows. The noise stops.

He climbs out of bed. The carpet’s fluff tickles the spaces between his toes as he crosses the cabin.

Her eyes track him, confused and anxious. She’s got something coarse-looking and dark hugged to her chest like a security blanket, half-hiding her face. His shearling coat, he realizes. The one he gave her on the night they escaped.

He slips into bed beside her. He lays his hand halfway between their bodies. She stares at him and for a moment he sees her through time, naked and timid behind a pane of glass, deep under the surface of the world he left behind. Hours and days and months of darkness and abuse and then one person who looked at her and saw a person looking back. Saying hand, back and forth. The crayons and the songs.

He moves his hand further forward. She takes it. Her tail snakes between her legs, anchoring itself on her thigh and working its way back and forth. Her fingers creep down her belly and join it. The dim magenta light of the nebula shines on her damp skin.

He listens to the silky sounds her fingers make, her sighs, her feathery, desperately suppressed moans. A jolt ripples her. The tendons in her wrist flex. An exhale catches and releases on a G. Her hand interlaces with his. Her grip twitches.

Her mouth hangs open, and the soft swell of her stomach brushes on his forearm, and her back arches, and she comes, noiselessly at first and then with a ragged gasp of “Grant” that heaves her chest and flutters her eyelids.

She pants for air and clings to his hand like it’s the only thing keeping her from spinning into the endless firmament. Sweat gleams in the soft swoop between her breasts. Her eyes refocus and find his face in the dark.

They’re brimming with tears.

“I’m sorry.” Her shoulders hunch. “I’m sorry for everything, Grantyde. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

He wants to move closer. He wants to replace the coat in her arms. He is going to do none of that until she frees him.

But he holds her hand, at least, and she clings tight to it while she weeps into his old Maekyonite shearling.

Her breath eventually becomes deep and even. A canine twitch crosses her body as sleep takes her. He thinks about extracting his hand from hers, and going back to his own bed across the room.

He stays.