The Call of Earth: 2 (Homecoming) (5 page)

Oh, it was a delicious dream! Never mind that Sevet was only a single year older—to Kokor that made all the difference. Sevet might be ahead
now,
but someday soon youth would be more valuable than age to them, and then it would be Kokor who had the advantage. Youth and beauty—Kokor would always have more of both than Sevet. And she was every bit as talented as Sevet, too.

Now she was home, the little place that she and Obring rented in Hill Town. It was modest, but decorated in exquisite taste. That much, at least, she had learned from her Aunt Dhelembuvex—Obring’s mother—that it’s better to have a small setting perfectly finished than a large setting badly done. “A woman must present herself as the blossom of perfection,” Auntie Dhel always said. Kokor herself had written it much better, in an aphorism she had published back when she was only fifteen, before she married Obring and left Mother’s house:

A perfect bud
of subtle color
and delicate scent
is more welcome than a showy
bloom,
which shouts for attention but has
nothing to show
that can’t be seen in the first glance,
or smelled in the first whiff.

Kokor had been proudest of the way the lines about the perfect bud were short and simple phrases, while the lines about the showy bloom were long and awkward. But to her disappointment no noted melodist had made an aria of her aphorism, and the young ones who came to her with their tunes were all talentless pretenders who had no idea how to make a song that would suit a voice like Kokor’s. She didn’t even sleep with any of them, except the one whose face was so shy and sweet. Ah, he was a tiger in the darkness, wasn’t he! She had kept him for three days, but he
would
insist on singing his tunes to her, and so she sent him on his way.

What was his name?

She was on the verge of remembering who he was as she entered the house and heard a strange hooting sound from the back room. Like the baboons who lived across Little Lake, their pant-hoots as they babbled to each other in their nothing language. “Oh. Hoo. Oo-oo. Hoooo.”

Only it wasn’t baboons, was it? And the sound came from the bedroom, up the winding stair, moonlight from the roof window lighting the way as Kokor rushed upward, running the stairs on tiptoe, silently, for she knew that she would find her husband Obring with some whore of his
in Kokor’s bed
, and that was unspeakable, a breach of all decency, hadn’t he any consideration for her at all? She never brought
her
lovers home, did she? She never let them sweat on
his
sheets, did she? Fair was fair, and it would be a glorious scene of injured pride when she thrust the little tartlet out of the house
without her clothes!
so she’d have to go home naked and then Kokor would see how Obring apologized to her and how he’d make it up to her, all his vows and apologies and whimpering but there was no doubt about it now, she would
not
renew him when their contract came up and then he’d find out what happens to a man who throws his faithlessness in Kokor’s face.

In her moonlit bedroom, Kokor found Obring engaged in exactly the activity she had expected. She couldn’t see his face, or the face of the woman for whom he was providing vigorous companionship, but she didn’t need daylight or a magnifying glass to know what it all meant.

“Disgusting,” she said.

It worked just as she had hoped. They obviously had not heard her coming up the stair, and the sound of her voice froze Obring. For a moment he held his post. Then he turned his head, looking quite foolish as he gazed mournfully over his shoulder at her. “Kyoka,” he said. “You’re home early.”

“I should have known,” said the woman on the bed. Her face was still hidden behind Obring’s naked back, but Kokor knew the voice at once. “Your show is so bad they closed it in mid-performance.”

Kokor hardly noticed the insult, hardly noticed the fact that there wasn’t a trace of embarrassment in Sevet’s tone. All she could think of was, That’s why she had to find a new hiding place, not because her lover was somebody famous, but to keep the truth from
me.

“Hundreds of your followers every night would be glad for a yibattsa with you,” Kokor whispered. “But you had to have my husband.”

“Oh, don’t take this personally,” said Sevet, sitting up on her elbows. Sevet’s breasts sagged off to the sides. Kokor loved seeing that, how her breasts sagged, how
at nineteen Sevet was definitely older and
thicker
than Kokor. Yet Obring had wanted
that
body, had used that body on the very bed where he had slept beside Kokor’s perfect body so many nights. How could he even be aroused by a body like that, after seeing Kokor after her bath so many mornings.

“You weren’t using him, and he’s very sweet,” said Sevet. “If you’d ever bothered to satisfy him he wouldn’t have looked at
me.”

“I’m sorry,” Obring murmured. “I didn’t mean to.”

That was so outrageous, like a little child, that Kokor could not contain her rage. And yet she did contain it. She held it in, like a tornado in a bottle. “This was an accident?” whispered Kokor. “You stumbled, you tripped and fell, your clothes tore off and you just happened to bounce on top of my sister?”

“I mean—I kept wanting to break this off, all these months . . .”

“Months,” whispered Kokor.

“Don’t say any more, puppy,” said Sevet. “You’re just making it worse.”

“You call him ’puppy’?” asked Kokor. It was the word they had used when they first reached womanhood, to describe the teenage boys who panted after them.

“He was so eager,” said Sevet, sliding out from under Obring. “I couldn’t help calling him that, and he likes the name.”

Obring turned and sat miserably on the bed. He made no attempt to cover himself; it was obvious he had lost all interest in love for the evening.

“Don’t worry about it, Obring,” Sevet said. She stood beside the bed, bending over to pick up her clothing from the floor. “She’ll still renew you. This is
one
story she won’t be eager to have people tell about
her, and so she’ll renew you as long as you want, just to keep you from telling.”

Kokor saw how Sevet’s belly pooched out, how her breasts swung when she bent over. And yet
she
had taken Kokor’s husband. After everything else, she had to have even
that.
It could not be borne.

“Sing for me,” whispered Kokor.

“What?” asked Sevet, turning to face her, holding her gown in front of her.

“Sing me a song, you davalka, with that pretty voice of yours.”

Sevet stared into Kokor’s eyes and the look of bored amusement left her face. “I’m not going to sing right now, you little fool,” she said.

“Not for me,” said Kokor. “For Father.”

“What
about
Father?” Sevet’s face twisted into an expression of mock sympathy. “Oh, is little Kyoka going to tell on me?” Then she sneered. “He’ll laugh. Then he’ll take Obring drinking with him!”

“A
dirge
for Father,” said Kokor.

“A dirge?” Sevet looked confused now. Worried.

“While you were here, boffing your sister’s husband, somebody was busy killing Father. If you were human, you’d care. Even baboons grieve for their dead.”

“I didn’t know,” said Sevet. “How could I know?”

“I looked for you,” said Kokor. “To tell you. But you weren’t in any of the places I knew. I left my play, I
lost my job
to search for you and tell you, and this is where you were and what you were doing.”

“You’re such a liar,” said Sevet. “Why should I believe this?”

“I never did it with Vas,” said Kokor. “Even when he begged me.”

“He never asked you,” said Sevet. “I don’t believe your lies.”

“He told me that just once he’d like to have a woman who was truly beautiful. A woman whose body was young and lithe and sweet. But I refused, because you were my sister.”

“You’re lying. He never asked.”

“Maybe I’m lying. But he
did
ask.”

“Not
Vas,
” said Sevet.

“Vas, with the large mole on the inside of his thigh,” said Kokor. “I refused him because you were my sister.”

“You’re lying about Father, too.”

“Dead in his own blood. Murdered on the street. This is not a good night for our loving family. Father dead. Me betrayed. And you—”

“Stay away from me.”

“Sing for him,” said Kokor.

“At the funeral,
if
you’re not lying.”

“Sing
now,”
said Kokor.

“Little
hen,
little
duck
, I’ll never sing at
your
command.”

Accusing her of cackling and quacking instead of singing, that was an old taunt between them, that was nothing. It was the contempt in Sevet’s voice, the loathing that got inside her. It filled her, it overfilled her, it was more than she could contain. Not for another moment could she hold in the tempest that tore at her.

“That’s right!” cried Kokor. “At my command, you’ll
never
sing!” And like a cat she lashed out, but it wasn’t a claw, it was a fist. Sevet threw up her hands to protect her face. But Kokor had no desire to mark her sister’s face. It wasn’t her face she hated. No, her fist connected right where she aimed, under Sevet’s chin, on her throat, where the larynx lay hidden under the ample flesh, where the voice was made.

Sevet didn’t make a sound, even though the force of the blow knocked her backward. She fell, clutching at
her throat; she writhed on the floor, gagging, hacking. Obring cried out and leapt to her, knelt over her. “Sevet!” he cried. “Sevet, are you all right?”

But Sevet’s only answer was to gurgle and spit, then to choke and cough. On blood. Her own blood. Kokor could see it on Sevet’s hands, on Obring’s thighs where he cradled her head on his lap as he knelt there. Glimmering black in the moonlight, blood from Sevet’s throat. How does it taste in your mouth, Sevet? How does it feel on your flesh, Obring? Her blood, like the gift of a virgin, my gift to both of you.

Sevet was making an awful strangling sound. “Water,” said Obring. “A glass of water, Kyoka—to wash her mouth out. She’s bleeding, can’t you see that? What have you done to her!”

Kyoka stepped to the sink—her own sink—and took a cup—her own cup—and brought it, filled with water, to Obring, who took it from her hand and tried to pour some of it into Sevet’s mouth. But Sevet choked on it and spat the water out, gasping for breath, strangling on the blood that flowed inside her throat.

“A doctor!” cried Obring. “Cry out for a doctor— Bustiya next door is a doctor, she’ll come.”

“Help,” murmured Kokor. “Come quickly. Help.” She spoke so softly she almost couldn’t hear the sound herself.

Obring rose up from the floor and looked at her in rage. “Don’t touch her,” he said. “I’ll fetch the physician myself.” He strode boldly from the room. Such strength in him now. Naked as a mythic god, as the pictures of the Gorayni Imperator—the image of masculinity—that was Obring as he went forth into the night to find a doctor who might save his lady.

Kokor watched as Sevet’s fingers scratched on the floor, tore at the skin around her neck, as if she wanted
to open up a breathing hole there. Sevet’s eyes were bugging out, and blood drooled from her mouth onto the floor.

“You had everything else,” said Kokor. “Everything else. But you couldn’t even leave me
him.”

Sevet gurgled. Her eyes stared at Kokor in agony and terror.

“You won’t die,” said Kokor. “I’m not a murderer. I’m not a
betrayer.”

But then it occurred to her that Sevet just
might
die. With so much blood in her throat, she might drown in it. And then Kokor would be held responsible for this. “Nobody can blame me,” said Kokor. “Father died tonight, and I came home and found you with my husband, and then you taunted me—no one will blame me. I’m only eighteen, I’m only a
girl.
And it was an accident anyway. I meant to claw out your eyes but I missed, that’s all.”

Sevet gagged. She vomited on the floor. It smelled awful. This was making such a mess—everything would be stained, and the smell would never, never go. And they
would
blame Kokor for it, if Sevet died. That would be Sevet’s revenge, that the stain of this would never go away. Sevet’s way of getting even, to die and have Kokor called a murderer forever.

Well, I’ll show you, thought Kokor. I won’t let you die. In fact, I’ll
save your life.

So it was that when Obring returned with the doctor they found Kokor kneeling over Sevet, breathing into her mouth. Obring pulled her aside to let the doctor get to Sevet. And as Bustiya pushed the tube down into Sevet’s throat, as Sevet’s face became a silent rictus of agony, Obring smelled the blood and vomit and saw how Kokor’s face and gown were stained with both. He
whispered to her as he held her there, “You do love her. You couldn’t let her die.”

She clung to him then, weeping.

“I can’t sleep,” Luet said miserably. “How can I dream if I can’t sleep?”

“Never mind,” Rasa said. “I know what we have to do. I don’t need the Oversoul to tell us. Smelost has to leave Basilica, because Hushidh is right, I can’t protect him now.”

“I won’t leave,” said Smelost. “I’ve decided. This is my city, and I’ll face the consequences of what I’ve done.”

“Do you love Basilica?” said Rasa. “Then don’t give Gaballufix’s people somebody they can pin all the blame on. Don’t give them a chance to put you on trial and use it as an excuse to take command of the guards so that his masked soldiers are the
only
authority in the city.”

Smelost glared at her a moment, then nodded. “I see,” he said. “For the sake of Basilica, then I’ll go.”

“Where?” asked Hushidh. “Where can you send him?”

“To the Gorayni, of course,” said Rasa. “I’ll give you provisions and money enough to make it north to the Gorayni. And a letter, explaining how you saved the man who—the man who killed Gaballufix. They’ll know what that means—they must have spies who told them that Gab was trying to get Basilica to make an alliance with Potokgavan. Maybe Roptat was in contact with them.”