The Summer Queen (110 page)

“You did it for yourself,” Gundhalinu snapped, suddenly both
angry and defensive. “Don’t confuse the two things.”

Vhanu’s mouth tightened, at his use of the formal you. “Very
well then. I did it for both of us—for all of us, just as Tilhonne did.” His
expression changed; he put his hands on Gundhalinu’s shoulders with gentle
insistence. “BZ, thou know I have always had the highest regard for thee. Thou
are my friend. There is no one I admire more. But whatever thy reasons are for
wanting to be here, I promise thee, once thou have taken the time to think it
through thou will be grateful for what we did tonight.”

Gundhalinu said nothing more, watching the last of the water
of life disappear down the last eager Assembly member’s throat. “They’re going
in to dinner,” he said finally, turning back, meeting Vhanu’s gaze. “Shall we
join them?”

Vhanu nodded, and they went in together without further conversation.

The rose-colored light of dawn was showing through the storm
walls at the end of Azure Alley as Gundhalinu reached his townhouse door at
last, weary and alone. He glanced toward the dawn, the proof that a world, and
a universe, still existed beyond the changeless walls and undimming light of
Carbuncle. He looked away from the brightening sky again, without emotion, too
drained to feel anything at the sight of it, to find any false symbolism in the
simple light of day.

His memory of the night just past, after the appearance of
the water of life and the disappearance of the Queen, was a blur: an endless
meal that he had barely touched, punctuated by endless questions from the First
Secretary. He had answered the questions to the best of his ability, unable to
focus on anything but the knowledge that Sirus was a powerless figurehead,
which Sirus knew as well as he did; that no protest anyone made, no matter how
influential, would be enough ... that Moon had left the starport without giving
him a chance to explain. All that he knew clearly now, standing on his own
doorstep, was that he had a headache three times the size of his head, and even
the complexities of his door lock were barely within the capacity of his
problem-solving.

He tripped over something that lay in the shadows of his entryway,
swore as he lost his balance and banged his shoulder against the wall. He bent
down, to discover a wide, flat bundle sitting on his step. He explored it
cautiously with his hands. It was large but very light, and rustled faintly
when he shook it. There was no note attached to it, not even his name; but for
a reason he could not explain he sensed no threat about it. He picked it up,
holding it under his arm as he deactivated the security lock and let himself
inside. He dropped the lidded basket on a table in his living room, and went in
search of a pain patch for his aching head.

He came back through the wide, arched doorway, loosening his
collar, and collapsed on the earth-colored native couch. He breathed in the
faint ocean-smell of the dried seahair that had been used to stuff its
cushions. He sighed, realizing that he had actually begun to find the peculiar
odor soothing. He put his feet up and closed his eyes, calling on music from
the entertainment system across the room. The familiar strains of a Kharemoughi
art song filled the silence of the house as he let the analgesic patch do its
work; feeling it dull the pain until there was only a bearable heaviness behind
his eyes, and he could think again.

But the thoughts that seeped back into his consciousness as
his mind cleared only seemed to him to be a different kind of pain: the nagging
ache of his growing frustration, of futility, isolation and regret. He sat up,
telling himself angrily that this was no more than he could have expected. Had
he really become such a fool that he believed his own press—believed that the
Hegemony would grant his every whim because of what he had done for them? Or
that Moon Dawntreader had been secretly longing for him to return, thinking
only of him all these years, as he had thought only of her—that they would fall
into each other’s arms like the lovers in the wretched Old Empire historical he
had been addicted to in his youth?

He pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Gods ... he
was exhausted, he should go to bed before he sank any deeper into this
trackless bog of self-pity. He had always known what the reality of the
situation here would be; he had just never wanted to believe it. He let his
eyes take in the timeless, vaguely alien contours of the room, picturing the
layout of the townhouse, one of the best in the city: ten rooms, their walls covered
with beautiful murals of sea and mountains, in which he lived all alone, in
rattling emptiness—as he would likely go on doing for years, unless he ...
unless he ...

He stood up abruptly, and spoke the music off again. This
had been his own choice. He had made his bed; he might as well lie in it.

As he started across the room, his eyes caught on the
package he had brought inside, still waiting on the stolid, square-legged table
beside the couch. He sat down again, taking the lidded basket into his hands,
breaking the seals that held it together. He lifted off the lid and set it
aside; sat staring in amazement at the thing which lay in a nest of sea grass
inside.

It was a mask—a traditional Festival mask, handmade, exquisitely
crafted; like the masks he remembered from his last Festival on Tiamat, and not
the hurried, uninspired things he had seen cluttering shops in the Maze as this
Mask Night approached. He had not bought one; had not even looked at them
twice.

And yet this mask was new, not some relic that had been
stored for a generation in someone’s closet .... He touched it tentatively,
wonderingly, seeing the glittering pinpoint diamonds of the stars, fragile
veils of nebulosity spread across the dark silken reaches of space; the wings
of midnight; the utter blackness of a Black Gate’s heart, of the Transfer, of
eyes without sight ... and at its heart, a face made of light, reflecting,
mirroring the world and all its variety ... showing him his own face, looking
back at him. And suddenly he knew whose hands had made this thing for him; who
had sent it to him, and why.

He smiled, taking the mask in his hands, lifting it
carefully out of the basket and holding it up to study it. He laid it back in
its resting place again after a long moment, and got to his feet, stretching. “Tomorrow,”
he murmured to it, feeling his perspective restored; feeling an odd sense of
peace settle over him as he climbed the stairs, in search of a resting place of
his own.

“Jerusha.” BZ Gundhalinu stood aside, letting Jerusha
PalaThion enter his townhouse. He closed the door again hastily on the din of
Festival revelers. They had been celebrating in his alley, as they had been
celebrating all through the city, for three solid days now since the Assembly’s
arrival. He felt his face settle into a frown of concern as he saw her
expression. “What’s wrong?”

The tight line of her lips curved up into an ironic smile. “I
wish those didn’t have to be the first words out of your mouth every time you
see me unexpectedly, BZ.”

He laughed, ruefully, as he led her in through the hall to
the sitting room. “So do I.” He settled into a chair, inviting her with a
gesture to do the same. The room was lamplit; the heavy draperies drawn across
the windows in the wall behind her shut out prying eyes and the city’s endless
artificial day, letting his body at least pretend to believe that it was night,
and time to rest. He sighed, leaning back in his seat. “This had better be
good. Riots? Bomb threats? Assassination attempts on the Prime Minister?”

Jerusha shook her head, glancing down. “Nothing so simple, I’m
afraid.” She looked up again. “There’s no easy way to say this. Tammis is in
trouble. He’s down at the station—”

“Ye gods,” Gundhalinu sat forward. “He’s been arrested?”

She held up her hand. “No. He got beaten up and robbed. He
was trying to pick up a male prostitute. He picked the wrong one ....” She
shrugged.

“But he’s—” Married. Gundhalinu didn’t finish it, realizing
all at once why their marriage was a troubled one.

“I’m keeping him at the station because he won’t go to the
medical center.”

“His wife works there.”

She nodded, and ran a hand through her hair. “I thought you’d
want to know.”

He sighed, looking away from the unspoken sympathy in her
eyes. “Bring him here.”

He waited. The time passed interminably, until at last there
was another knock at his door. He opened it. Tammis stood in the sheltering
alcove, with Jerusha hovering like a shadow at his back. He entered the
townhouse at Gundhalinu’s nod, moving stiffly; his lip was swollen, his eye
bruised. Jerusha raised a hand in farewell and disappeared into the crowd.

“Thank you for coming,” Gundhalinu said, closing the door.

“Did I have a choice?” Tammis frowned.

“No. But thank you anyway.” Gundhalinu led the way to his
sitting room again, offered his guest a seat again.

Tammis sat down, warily and painfully. “Why am I here, Justice
Gundhalinu?” he said, and Gundhalinu saw him flush as he asked it—afraid that
he already knew, afraid of the gods only knew what consequences.

Gundhalinu took a seat on the couch across from him. “Because
we need to talk, about the reason why you won’t go to the med center.” He
studied the boy’s face surreptitiously, meeting his resentful stare; searching
for resemblances, and finding them. He glanced at the trefoil Tammis wore, its
clean light winking against the soft folds of his dirt-smudged vest; glanced
down at his own trefoil.

“What makes you think that’s any of your business, Justice?”
Tammis said, holding himself like the son of the Queen. His voice was not as
steady as he probably wished it was. “Are you doing this because you’re
sleeping with my mother?”

Gundhalinu stiffened; he did not answer for a moment, trying
to pull his thoughts and his resolve together. “Not exactly,” he murmured at last.
“I’m not sleeping with your mother. But I am your father.”

Tammis froze as the words registered; although there was no
surprise at all in his eyes. He did not ask if it was really true. The silence
continued between them, while other emotions claimed the space behind his eyes.

At last Gundhalinu got up from his seat, moving across the
room to stand before the boy. He looked down into the bruised, apprehensive
face, observing Tammis with a trained eye. “I expect right now you feel like
bloody hell,” he said, barely touching Tammis’s bruised cheek. Tammis flinched
away from his hand. “But I don’t think it’s life-threatening.” Not meaning
simply the obvious damage.

“How would you know?” Tammis said irritably.

“I’ve survived this long,” he answered gently. Tammis looked
up at him. “I have some first aid supplies in the bathroom, if you want them.”

“No.” Tammis shook his head, looking down.

Gundhalinu nodded, understanding too why he would not end
his physical suffering even when he could.

“You say you’re my real father, and that’s why I should talk
to you. But that’s only what you say. You don’t know anything about me. What
makes you think you can understand me, if my—my own family can’t?”

“Do you talk to them about the problems you’re having? Can
you?” Gundhalinu sat down again, this time taking a closer seat.

Tammis frowned. “You mean, that I can’t decide whether I
want to make love to men or women? That’s why this happened to me tonight, you
know.”

“I know.” Gundhalinu nodded.

Tammis watched him darkly. “Did you ever feel like that? Did
your own father ever call you a pervert?”

Gundhalinu shook his head. “No,” he said. “But he went to
his grave thinking I was a coward. Everyone who mattered to me considered me a
coward, once. Some of them still do, in spite of everything I’ve accomplished.
They also called me a degenerate, for falling in love with your mother, because
she wasn’t a Kharemoughi.” Tammis’s frown faded. For a moment Gundhalinu wasn’t
sure which confession had caused the surprise reflected on his face.

“There was a time when even I thought I was better off dead
... but one special person changed my mind.”

“Who?” Tammis asked sullenly.

“Your mother.”

Tammis blinked suddenly, rapidly, and looked away.

“Have you tried to talk to your mother about this, or ... or
to—” Sparks. Your Father. He broke off

Tammis shrugged, a hopeless gesture. “She never has time to
listen to anything. She hasn’t for years. And she’s a Summer .... She makes us
go to the Summer clan gatherings, and study our traditions, so that we know who
we are and what our people believe. For years I’ve heard the Summers, my
people, talk about how wanting somebody you couldn’t make children with went
against the Lady’s Way.” Habitually he made the triad sign with his fingers. “They
say ‘the Mother loves children above all else’—even though they use childbane.
They don’t have to have children, somehow that’s all right with the Lady ... as
long as they always put the right parts together.” His voice turned bitter. “If
my mother knew, she might ... she might ...”

“... stop loving you?”

His face reddened. He pressed his lips together, and nodded.
“Like Da. Da ... saw me, once.” He lifted his hands, let them drop into his
lap, hopelessly. “I’m an adult, I’m a married man. I should be able to solve my
own problems!” He shook his head.

“What about the Winters—your friends?”

He shrugged again. “I don’t know what they really think ...
neither do they. Some of them don’t like it ... some of them don’t care about
anything. But that’s because they’re like the offworlders, they don’t have
strong traditions and values, the way we do—”

“You mean like Summers?”

He nodded.

Gundhalinu smiled faintly. “Oh, you’ll be surprised ....
There’s an old saying we have on Kharemough: ‘My gods or your gods, who knows
which are stronger?’ That’s why we honor them all—just in case. There are more
cultures even than gods in the Eight Worlds, and among them you’ll find people
who are willing to kill you, or each other, over any difference in belief or
lifestyle or physical appearance you can imagine—and some you can’t. They all
think they’re right. There’s no Truth, Tamrnis, only differences of opinion. If
that confuses the Tiamatans, they’re not alone.”