Mischa could only sit silent and uneasy with her inexperience at consolation.
"She wouldn't have been happy here," Jan said bitterly. "Go back to bed."
He stood up, but Mischa reached and stopped him with a touch. "That's what I mean," she said, and left him, alone.
Chapter 8
Subtwo heard the faint scratching on his door and turned from the bright twisting figures on the console screen. "Come."
Madame entered and stood before him. He smiled to see her; it had been only a few days since he had talked to her, but seemed much longer. "Good evening."
"Sir."
"What's the matter?" He had learned the subtleties of her voice, the tones that meant she wished to ask a question or make a suggestion, but was restrained from doing so by protocol and training. He was accustomed to directness, but directness was denied her. He wished again that she would tell him her name.
"There is a young girl—"
"It's all right. I said she could stay."
"She is a thief, sir."
"I know. She told me."
"You trust her?"
"She wants things I can give her more than she wants anything she could take. Has she been here before?"
"Yes, sir."
He waited for her to continue, but she did not. She had trained herself to answer only questions asked, not questions implied. It was a small defiance that could neither be identified nor objected to on any level of rationality. This similarity of a human being to a computer might have pleased him some time before, but now, with this human being, it did not.
"What happened?"
"The Lady Clarissa sent her to be flogged."
"Flogged!"
"Yes, sir."
More and more often these days Subtwo felt the need for profanity, but he had not yet found words that comforted him. "Fools," he said. "I'll tell them she's to be left alone."
"If—"
"Yes?"
"It might be safer. for the child. if she stayed out of the Lady's sight."
"Is she that vindictive?"
Madame did not answer.
"All right," Subtwo said. "I'll warn Mischa to avoid Clarissa."
Madame bowed her head to him.
He wished she would drop her deferential pose: he was sure now that it was a pose, a self-protecting wall that hid her intelligence and her pride. He had known many people, but he had never been more than superficially and physically close to anyone but his pseudosib, and that closeness had been forced on them. He had begun to hope for, to need, a relationship with commitment and responsibility.
"I regret disturbing you for such a trivial matter."
"I don't mind."
She took that as a dismissal and bowed again. As she turned to leave, the glow of his display screen brushed the smooth skin of her cheek and her bare hip. He leaned forward, reaching toward her, and she heard him and turned back. "Is there something you wish?"
He let his hand fall, suddenly abashed. "I have been. lonely." He could think of nothing more adequate to say.
"If you would tell me your preferences, sir—"
He stood; she became silent.
He went to her, stopping very close, looking down at her. "I have been lonely," he repeated.
She almost fled; she whirled and ran three steps before she stopped, he hoped for some reason more than fear. She did not turn. He followed, and stood behind her. The tendons in her neck were taut. He wanted to touch them, kiss them, feel her pulse against his lips; he wanted her to turn suddenly and embrace him; he wanted to feel her tongue against his teeth and her silver fingernails in his back. He wanted to explore her while she explored him; he wanted to writhe with her in warm darkness. He lifted one hand, but stopped himself when his fingers brushed the soft fibers of the black velvet she wore. He was shaking.
"Sir—" Her voice trembled. She cut herself off and stood, silent for a moment, her breathing slow and deep. "There are others in the Palace. They are trained." She was distant again: the perfect servant, and her voice was hard.
"I can buy that in the street. I can trade a moment of pleasure with any member of my crew."
She did not respond. For a long time, neither of them spoke.
"I have wanted. something more."
"Something like love?" she said abruptly and sardonically. He might have killed anyone else for mocking him.
"Is that so ridiculous?"
She flinched from his touch, but turned and faced him. Her dark-painted eyes glistened. "If you summon me to your bed I will submit to you," she said. "That is your right and my obligation. But I am a slave and I cannot love."
He touched her cheek very gently, then stepped back and folded his arms. "Good night."
She bowed. "Good night, sir."
It was not until she had opened the heavy door that he spoke again. "Or will not?"
She looked back at him, and her voice was again self-contained. "As you please."
The door closed softly behind her.
Jan lay on his bed in the darkness, staring toward the ceiling. His feelings of depression were heightened by his being in this deep cave with tons of rock overhead. His reactions had little to do with fear, a great deal to do with isolation. In a detached way, he observed himself, his recently acquired ability to waste time, his indecision. He was not happy with himself. He had nothing he wanted to get up and do to use the time until he might become sleepy. The prospect of talking with Mischa was the only spark of interest he could find. She might be as awake as he, lying in the night, anxious, wondering what the next day would bring. Mischa would give Jan his first chance to talk about the city with someone who knew it. But he stayed where he was, in the oversoft bed; he did not want to disturb her if by chance she had managed to sleep. He felt for the pulse in his left wrist and began to breathe slowly to its count, twelve beats, in, twelve beats, out. Finally, fitfully, he dozed.
It was still early when he got up, washed briefly, and dressed. He had stopped suppressing his facial hair, and his red-gold mustache was beginning to show across his upper lip. Previously, he had seldom let it grow. His father had been able to reconcile himself to, or ignore, Jan's blond hair, but Jan had always felt that expecting Ichiri to accept a reddish beard would simply have been cruel.
Jan crossed the hall. He had never entered anyone's room in the Palace—that realization struck him abruptly—so he had not noticed before that there was nowhere to knock.
"Are you awake?" He kept his voice low, in case she might not be.
Mischa pulled aside the curtain. "Yes."
He looked at her more carefully this morning. Her dark pants and jacket were worn, short at wrist and ankle, and did not quite meet at the waist except when she stood still. Her feet were bare. She was only as tall as his shoulder; though she was thin, she gave no impression of frailty. She was not beautiful, but the lines of her face were cleanly sculpted and strong. Her fingernails were broken and chewed, and her wrists—her wrists looked scarred.
She regarded him with some wariness. After last night, he supposed he should not be surprised at any suspicion she showed of anyone. Her eyes were so green they fascinated him. He realized simultaneously that he was staring at her, that she did not flinch from his gaze, and that she did not like being stared at. He glanced away, self-consciously, and looked back, but without the intensity. "Would you like breakfast?"
"Sure."
Their corridor was deserted, but they saw a few other of Subtwo's people when they arrived at the dining hall. Jan took a table across the room from them. Their occasional laughter drifted to him, and their half-amused opinions of the Palace food. They only glanced up when he arrived, and afterward paid him no attention.