“Angry at myself for letting her take me by surprise,” said Param.
“She’s your mother. Of course her plotting against you took you by surprise.”
“She’s not my mother, she’s Hagia Sessamin. She does things for royal reasons, not personal sentimentality.”
“That’s the lie she tells herself to excuse her crimes,” said Olivenko. “You can believe her if you want, but I don’t. I think she acts only for personal reasons, and never once thinks of the kingdom.”
Param felt her anger flare up, but stopped herself from speaking sharply. How could she defend her mother after what the woman had done to her?
“It’s like your father,” said Olivenko. “The best man I ever knew. He said that he was pursuing a way through the Wall for the benefit of the whole kingdom. He talked about how the opening of the border would free everyone, widen the world. But it was all very vague. What he really wanted was to find some reason to exist.”
“He was Sissamik,” said Param. “That’s a reason to exist.”
“It’s an office. A title. He told me once—just once, mind you—that he was a mere decoration on the costume of a deposed queen. An accessory, like shoes, like a hat. If his wife ruled, he would still have no power; since she did not, he was worse than useless.”
“He was wonderful,” said Param. “He was the only one who treated me like . . .”
“Like a daughter.”
“Like a little girl,” said Param. “But yes, like a daughter.”
“He found you fascinating. ‘She’ll be Sessamin someday, after her mother, and if she has power she’ll have the power to be a monster if she wants, like her great-grandmother, the boy-killer.’”
“He said that?”
“It wasn’t an insult—it was one of her self-chosen titles. She killed all her male relatives so that no man could rival her daughter for the Tent of Light. She chose Knosso to be your mother’s consort, and left strict instructions that he was to be killed after he fathered two daughters.”
“Two?”
“Just in case,” said Olivenko. “Your mother bore Rigg instead, and then Knosso never quite managed to sire another child on her. So he never found out whether someone would have carried out old Aptica Sessamin’s command. There had been a revolution in the meantime, but that didn’t mean some old royalist wouldn’t try to fulfill the old lady’s wish.”
“He must have talked very candidly with you.”
“More like he forgot I was there, and talked to himself. He wanted to do something great. Maybe he did—but then he died, so he didn’t get to enjoy the fruits of his labor. He passed through the Wall, and then drowned. Was there a moment there in which he said, ‘I did it!’ and savored his triumph? Or was it all just the hands of the monsters from the sea, dragging him down?”
“I thought you said he was unconscious.”
“That’s what the learned doctors declared, but I suspect it was only to console your mother. I think he was struggling. I think he was awake.”
“How awful.”
“Awful for a few moments, and then he was dead. The cruelest means of dying still ends the same. With release.”
“Release,” said Param. “It sounds pleasant.”
“And yet I don’t want to do it,” said Olivenko. “Not now, not ever. Miserable as I sometimes am in this life, I like being alive.” He held up his hands. “I’m used to having these fingers do my bidding. I don’t even have to ask them. Before I even think of what I want, before I could put my wishes into words, they’re already obeying me. My feet, too. My eyes open when I want to see, and close when I want to sleep. Such obedient servants. I’d miss them.”
“So you think some part of you will persist after death?”
“If not, I won’t know it,” said Olivenko. “And if so, then I’ll miss my hands and feet and eyes and also lunch. I’ll miss food. And sleep. And waking up.”
“Maybe death is better.”
“Not according to the advertisements.”
“What advertisements?”
“You see? If it were better, there’d be advertisements.”
“Why bother to advertise, since everyone’s going to do it anyway?”
“I didn’t think of that,” said Olivenko ruefully.
Param chuckled, and then realized she was amused. That, for a moment, she was something like happy. “Well, thank you for that,” said Param.
“The laugh was your own,” said Olivenko. “I was merely ridiculous.”
“It was kind of you to be ridiculous for me.”
They talked on, the easy conversation of new friends, each telling about experiences that illustrated some point they were making, spinning out the yarns of their lives and weaving them together haphazardly into a sort of homespun that wrapped them both and made them feel warm. Through it all, Olivenko only rarely looked at her; whether it was deference to her rank or sensitivity to her shyness or a kind of shyness of his own, she didn’t know. But it allowed her to look at him fully, frankly, deciding that as grown men went, he was not bad looking. Manly enough in the cut of his jaw and the strength of his neck, but still with the eyes of a scholar, a kind of distance, as if he could see things that ordinary people never saw.
And what did he see? He had seen Father, and liked him, and cared about him.
And he sees me. And likes me. And . . .
Param felt herself blush a little and she turned away. She felt herself coasting along the edge of slow time, but did not step over. She remained here with him.
“Thanks for not leaving,” said Olivenko.
“You knew?” Param said softly.
“I don’t know what you thought of,” said Olivenko, “or what you saw, but you turned away and froze. Like a deer, the moment before it leaps away. I was afraid you were going to leave.”
“I might have,” said Param. “But I decided not to fear you.”
“Yes, that’s what everyone decides,” said Olivenko. “I’m not much of a soldier, not much of a guard.”
“But you’re guarding me,” said Param. “I’m not supposed to fear you.”
“Well, that’s good then,” said Olivenko. And then he went off on a story about a time when he challenged a drunk who was trying to stray into the wrong part of the city, and the drunk showed his contempt by urinating on him.
“No!” cried Param.
“Oh, we arrested him, which means we knocked him down, and the sergeant didn’t understand why I didn’t kick him there on the ground. How could I explain that I agreed with the man’s assessment of me as a soldier? The sergeant was ready to believe I was a coward, and he taunted me, saying that I liked it, come on everyone and pee on Olivenko, it won’t make him mad.”
“How crude,” said Param.
“They didn’t do it,” said Olivenko. “I gave the drunk a couple of kicks. It didn’t hurt him much, there was so much wine in him, and it got the sergeant to shut up.”
“Oh,” said Param, vaguely disappointed.
“If I had principles,” said Olivenko, “I would never have helped a couple of fugitives like you and Rigg get away.”
“Then I supposed I’m glad you don’t.”
And so it went until Rigg and Loaf and Umbo came up the stairs, and Param saw the facemask on Loaf’s head and cried out in sympathy and horror, and she felt Olivenko’s arm around her, his hands on her arm and shoulder, steadying her. “Stay with us,” said Olivenko.
“Vadesh did it,” said Rigg. “He claims this is a different type of facemask, created to blend harmoniously with humans.”
“Loaf is still alive in there,” said Umbo.
“Can’t you take it off?” asked Param.
“It would kill him,” said Rigg. “Or he’d kill us. When you reach to try to pry it off, Loaf turns into a soldier in battle. He’d break us like twigs.”
“Olivenko’s a soldier, too,” said Umbo.
“Not like him,” said Olivenko. He wasn’t going to try to pry off the facemask.
“Then what are we going to do?” asked Param.
“I think now is a good time to get out of Vadeshfold,” said Rigg. “To a wallfold that doesn’t have Vadesh in it. Or facemasks.”