The Summer Queen (79 page)

It was only a joke, she had said to him, last night, when
she had finally come back into the room, clean, neatly dressed in robe and
slacks, and perfectly composed.

She had only meant to make him laugh; it had happened at the
wrong moment, she was dreadfully embarrassed ....

He had assured her that he understood; but it had taken him
nearly an hour to turn her back from an excruciatingly polite stranger into the
quick-witted, laughing woman whose pungent humor and chameleon moods he had
been looking forward to sharing for weeks. She had shown him her latest
works-in-progress; they had played two games of chama instead of one.

And then, as they sat together drinking lith on the west
wing balcony, watching the shifting colors of the night, he had told her about
Tiamat. She had not asked him to, but he had seen in her eyes her need to
understand, and knew that he could not leave her without any explanation at
all.

And so he told her about the sheltered young Tech who had
gone to Tiamat full of romance and arrogance, certain of his place in the
universe, and its justification. He told her what Tiamat and its people had
done to him, to teach him that pain and brutality and futility were his real
fate. Death before dishonor. He had sworn the blood oath with his companions at
school, never believing that he would ever come to such a place; that, held
captive by nomad thieves, caged like an animal, he would take the sticky lid of
a food can and slash his own wrists, praying to die ....

But he had not died. And then his captors had given him Moon—another
dazed hostage battered by fate, a hapless Summer girl caught up in the motion of
a Game beyond her comprehension .... Or at least that was what he had believed,
then. An illegal returnee who claimed the sibyl net itself had sent her back to
Tiamat, on a kind of holy quest. He had thought she was slightly mad. Only
afterward had he come to realize how much more she really was ... after she had
won their freedom, his grudging respect, his unwilling heart ... after he had
lied to and betrayed his own people to help her reach Carbuncle; after he had
become her lover, and led her to the man she was desperate to save, the man she
was actually married to ... only after she had become the Summer Queen, and he
had left Tiamat without her, without betraying her. Leaving forever, or so he
had thought.

Only then, trying to rebuild his own life and career, had he
realized fully what he had only sensed about her before: that she was right
about everything she claimed. And he had believed then that he had been nothing
but a meaningless pawn in the Great Game he had not even known the rules of
himself.

“And that’s what drove me into World’s End.” He shook his
head, gently touched the trefoil sign. “And suddenly I was no longer only a
pawn. I was changing history.”

His wife sat silently for a long while after he stopped
speaking, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring up into the sky. At last
she looked down at him, and shook her head slowly. “Thou are worthy of thy
ancestors,” she murmured, and took his hand, lifting it to her forehead in a
gesture of admiration.

He pulled his hand from hers in sudden impatience, and said,
“I haven’t told thee everything.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Do thou think thy ancestors told
the world everything—every single, terrible part of the truth?”

He looked at her.

“‘History’ is merely what someone thinks happened, Gundhalinu-ken,”
she said softly.

He stared at her, while behind his eyes he remembered being
Ilmarinen, in the beginning: Ilmannen his ancestor, who had committed treason
for the greater good, and set the Great Game in motion .... He sighed. “Why is
it that the obvious things are always the most difficult to see?”

Pandhara touched him again, hesitantly; her hand slid down
his arm and fell away. “Because if it weren’t so, life might actually begin to
make sense.” She met his gaze, glanced away again as if it were painful. But
her voice was cool and dry as she said, “And we couldn’t have that, could we?”

And somehow after that there had seemed to be nothing more
to say; so he had bid her good night, and gone off to his room. Even though he
had gotten to bed far later than he had intended, he slept as poorly as a man
on the eve of execution.

This morning they had gone to Serakande Center, where the
Art and Science Museum was featuring a show of her works. He had worn
nondescript civilian clothes, and few people had looked at him twice. Pandhara
had been the center of attention; he had enjoyed the luxury of standing
unmolested in someone else’s shadow, watching the world interact with her,
observing her grace and intelligence, the way her pleasure made her shine, the
way it drew them to her.

Afterward he had taken her to his favorite restaurant; the
owner had brought them a bottle of imported Lilander, from her private stock.
Later they had discussed art and politics in the comfortable darkness of a
back-street tea shop, sitting with a handful of Pandhara’s old friends. They
were all creatives, Nontechs who sat smoking spicesticks and making no
concession to her new highborn status, or even to his. They had called him “sibyl,”
and he had known that, coming from them, it was honor enough.

And now the sun was going down on the last day he would ever
spend on his homeworld; and as faint music drifted out through the open doors,
he sat gazing up at the wife he would never see again, feeling as though he had
never really seen her before. “Thou look beautiful tonight,” he said, with
difficulty, as she lifted her hand to him in greeting. He touched it with his
own, feeling the warmth as their palms met, his eyes never leaving her face as
the words brought out her smile. “I am grateful to thee, for today.” He looked
away at last, toward the sea. “I’ll cany it with me for a lifetime, after I’m
gone.”

“As will I,” she said, turning her own gaze to the sea. “BZ ...
last night I thought a great deal about all the things thou told me. And about
things thou said thou had not told me—”

He looked back at her.

“Some of the things,” she said carefully, “I think were
there all along, between the words. But—”

“But thou need to know the rest.”

She nodded.

“I—” He pressed his mouth together. “Ask me. I’ll tell thee
everything I can.” Realizing that what he did with the rest of his life could
very well affect her, even half a galaxy away.

She rested her hands on the stone-capped top of the wall; he
saw the fingers tighten. “When thou asked me to marry thee, thou said thou did
not want a—a marriage in fact, but only in name. Was it because of this woman
on Tiamat, the one who became Queen? ... Are thou still so much in love with
her, after so long? Is that why thou’re going back?”

“Yes,” he whispered, looking down.

She leaned against the wall, her eyes still on him, her face
uncertain. “Thou said 4hat she had a husband?”

“Yes.”

“That thou had only one night with her?”

“I only slept with her once. But it was more than that—”

“I know. I ...” She glanced away, lifting her chin. “But
thou haven’t seen her nee. It must have been—”

“Twelve years. More than eighteen, for her.” He looked up
again. “How do I know she still wants me? I can’t know, for certain. But Fire
Lake showed me glimpses of my future ... it showed me her. And—” He took a deep
breath. “I’ve spoken with her, since I left Tiamat.”

She stared at him, incredulous. “How? No one can even send a
message—”

She’s a sibyl, and so am I. It’s possible ... and that’s all
I can tell you. I Shouldn’t even say that much.” He glanced down. “I’ve
communicated with her several times since I left. She knows what’s about to
happen. She’s afraid of it. And she has every right to be. The Hegemony wants
only one thing from Tiamat—the water of life. The Summers consider it a
sacrilege to kill the mers, and the mere have m hunted close to extinction as
it is. There is even evidence in the sibyl net that mers may be sentient ....”

“What?” she said, in disbelief. “But that means—”

“Genocide.” He nodded. “If it is true, we’ve been committing
genocide for centuries.”

“Have thou told anyone about this?”

He laughed bitterly. “I tried. No one on the Central
Coordinating Committee wants to hear it. Pernatte made it very clear to me that
further argument, or any public protest, could ruin my career ....”He shook his
head. “If the Queen resists new hunting, which she will, that will give the
Hedge the excuse it needs to trample them into the mud, the way it’s done for a
millennium. That’s why I had to become Chief Justice. I have half a chance now
to keep control of the legal system, to draw the line between government and
exploitation.”

“Are thou so sure that will happen, without thee?”

He nodded, tight-lipped. “The signs are all there.
Everything I hear. No one’s talking marriage upstairs, they’re all talking
rape. The pols want easy profit, the Blues want an excuse to flex their new
weapons technology, and everybody wants more power. The time lags were all that
kept them from doing anything about building a new Empire, until now. Exploiting
Tiamat is a perfect first step.”

“But with the stardrive, the Hegemony will become a meaningful
political and economic unit anyway.” Pandhara gestured with her wine glass,
glancing up at the sky. “Even a marginal world like Tiamat will become a valuable
resource; there simply aren’t that many habitable planets. Without the Old
Empire’s starmap data to show us other inhabited systems, it could take
generations to find even one world we aren’t already in contact with.”

He nodded, pushing restlessly to his feet. “I know that. I
make that point at every opportunity, upstairs. But it may take years before
the Hegemony’s leaders see the big picture clearly. By then it will be too late
for the mere, and maybe for the humans on Tiamat as well.”

“Does Moon know that thou’re returning?”

“Yes.”

“How does she feel about that?”

“I think ... it makes her afraid, too.”

“And thou—?”

He looked back at her for a long moment without speaking;
turned away, averting his eyes to the view of the land falling into shadow, the
distant, gleaming sea. “I’m afraid,” he murmured at last, “that I don’t want to
give this up, Dhara. I’m afraid that, after all I’ve gone through to reach this
point, I don’t want to go back to Tiamat.”

He felt her come softly up behind him where he stood, felt
her arms slip beneath his and circle his chest, holding him; felt her warmth
against his back, her hair gently brushing his neck as she rested her head on
his shoulder. She said nothing more, did nothing more, only held him.

Slowly, uncertainly, he lifted his own hands to cover hers. “I
could stand here like this, looking out at this view, for the rest of my life,”
he whispered, “and be perfectly happy ....” Thinking that he could run for the
World Parliament, and be elected: work to redirect the fate of this world, his
own world, instead of one whose people would probably only hate and resent him
for it. “Right here, right now, I have everything that I ever dreamed of having—more.
I feel respected, honored ...” He moved inside the circle of her arms, turning
until he faced her. “Even ... loved?”

Her arms tightened around him, as his own arms closed her
in.

“Sathra, bhan, your guest is coming in—”

Gundhalinu jerked guiltily as the estates manager stepped
onto the balcony with a brief bow, found him embracing his wife, and hastily
departed. Gundhalinu took a deep breath, realizing that he had every right to
be found embracing her; realized that somehow he was no longer touching her at
all.

The compassion in her eyes as she took his arm to go in and
greet KR Aspundh was, for the moment until she looked away again, more painful
than the sorrow that lay below it.

Aspundh looked at them both a little oddly, when they
greeted him like a pair of mourners; but he made pleasant, innocuous conversation
as they waited for dinner, and gradually Gundhalinu felt the tension leaving
the air, letting go of his body. They all drank a great deal of lith, and
somewhere in the middle of the main course Pandhara began to tell off-color
jokes, which Aspundh unexpectedly found hilarious. Gundhalinu watched Aspundh
laugh, in silent astonishment, too preoccupied to find anything amusing himself
except the sight of the old man’s obvious pleasure.

“Delightful, PHN—” Aspundh gasped, still short of breath. “And
my compliments to your chef, my dear.” He lifted his glass to her, and washed
down the last of the spicy, unfamiliar stew with another swallow of lith. “Best
meal I’ve had in years.”

“Thank you—” she said, and pressed her hand to her mouth,
giggling as though it reminded her of another joke. “Did thou enjoy it, BZ—?”

He nodded, feeling mildly out-of-focus. He had hardly been
aware of eating at all, but his bowl was almost empty. “Excellent,” he
murmured. “What is it?” He ate another mouthful.

“Grisha,” she said, beaming. “My mother’s recipe.”

“Grisha—?” He swallowed convulsively, and began to cough. “You
mean we’re eating rat meat?”

“BZ! How dare thou suggest it.” She looked at him in
disbelief. “We are nol eating rat meat. Don’t be such a bloody snob.” But she
began to giggle again, helplessly. “Thou’ve never eaten grisha ....”

“My father used to make it all the time,” Aspundh said. “I
loved it.”

Gundhalinu stared at him. “But grisha is ... is—”
Remembering a beat too late that KR Aspundh’s father had been a Nontechnician.

“So’common’ ... ?” Pandhara reached across the wide table to
pat his hand, reaching to his rescue. “Of course it is. ‘Common* only means
that everyone eats it.”

He looked back at his dish, shaking his head. “My nurse ...
told me when I was a boy that Unclassifieds ate grisha made out of rat meat and
spoiled vegetables.”