The Academy (49 page)

“Deserved, I think, your cockiness, and not merely for your splendid compromise,” Ninon said cheerfully. “May I join you in the water now?”

“Please do,” Chris said, shifting slightly over to one side. Leaning on the slave’s arm, Ninon slowly lowered her body into the hot water, with the slightest of hisses. She smiled briefly before settling down, and accepted a rolled towel for the back of her neck with a moan of contentment.

“I also appreciate that you no longer seek comments yourself,” she said after a few silent moments. “Years ago, you would have asked me what I meant with the phrase ‘not merely.’”

“I cultivate patience in many things,” Chris said. “It’s grown easier not to look for compliments or praise. This way, it’s always a surprise when I get them.” He opened his eyes slowly and Ninon laughed.

“Yes, you and patience,” she said. “Your first important writing was on that topic, I believe.”

“All right, I surrender,” Chris said. “I will show my terrible manners by asking what you thought of my paper. You’re probably the only one here this weekend who’s read it.”

“Oh, I do not think so,” Ninon said seriously. “Oh, no, not at all. Certainly there will be those who put it away with all the others. I do not have the time to read everything I get over the year anyway! But you, I look forward to.” She closed her own eyes and leaned back comfortably. “It is very sad, this one.”

“Sad? I suppose it could be read that way,” Chris said. “Denial and frustration are not very happy subjects to begin with. But I hope that I came up with some useful observations and suggestions.”

“Yes, I think you did. Many of them will apply to my practice; it is a shame so many owners practice erotic control in haphazard ways. I appreciate your observations a great deal, especially upon the ‘eroticism of rejection’ as you put it. I have often cautioned clients to use their periods of denial as sources of strength and serenity. I also liked very much what you said, that depression can lead to transformation. Yes, a very odd thing to hear in this age where there are pills for everything. I look forward to the responses you asked for, and will certainly advise my friends to examine your paper thoroughly.”

“Thank you,” Chris murmured. “That’s what I needed to make this morning perfect. Now, I can take a nap.”

She laughed lightly, and the water around them rippled. “Is that the way of it? You win your battle and earn your praise and go off to a well deserved rest?”

“Barring a king’s daughter to marry, I think that’s the best any knight errant can hope for,” Chris said.

Ninon puffed her lips out in a dismissive fashion. “I do not think that marriage or anyone’s daughter would be of interest to you, Mr. Parker. A handsome prince, now...?”

“I have a handsome prince.”

Ninon laughed. “This Michael? Oh, yes, he is handsome. And there is a sense of—what shall it be—a frustrated royalty about him? It is a pity the methods in your paper would not work upon him.”

Chris edged his body up a little and cocked his head to one side. “You can tell that?”

“Yes. He does not feed upon his frustration, it feeds upon him. I suppose he must be a miraculous handler.”

“You suppose incorrectly,” Chris sighed. When she looked surprised, he nodded. “Oh, he is adequate. Slaves will obey him, and he is strict enough. But he is ... haphazard in observation, and frankly unimaginative in testing and interviewing.”

Ninon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And yet, you chose him?

“Anderson chose him.”

“Anderson...” Ninon echoed. She pursed her lips thoughtfully, and Chris watched her. There was nothing false about her confusion. She shook her head after a minute. “It is a mystery, then,” she said. “How curious. And for this battle, she did not deign to show herself, either. Most curious, indeed. Well, I shall call her when I get home and share gossip, and perhaps she will tell me why this handsome prince of yours is to be a trainer. In the meantime, if you seek a prize of a king, I suggest you look no further than Sakai-san, who seems most impressed with you this week. His third year trainee, Jiro, is very handsome indeed.”

“Indeed,” Chris said. He left it at that, and Ninon gave herself over to the water, the two of them in silence.

Abe Jiro was in fact a good looking man, tall and slender and slightly feminine, and clearly was surprised by Chris’s appearance at their table the night before. But he recovered quickly and spoke a very accented and halting but obviously American-tutored English, never ignoring Chris or condescending in any way. In fact, he seemed eager for a chance to practice his language skills. And Tetsuo had seemed pleased with the attention his trainee showed to Chris, which had eased the entire table into a more comfortable mood.

What a marked difference it had been, really. To sit among them as an equal—as a peer—to be acknowledged and spoken to, answered, laughed with. As opposed to being a threat or a curiosity or a thing of revulsion.

* * * *

“None of the slaves wish to train under you, otachi,” jeered Saburo-san, Sakai-sama’s chief under-trainer. He used one of the many words that no one had actually defined for me yet but which I had surmised meant things like pervert and freak. “They have said that they would rather be kept back in training until you have gone. Do you understand me?”

Saburo often slowed down his speech to an almost ludicrous level, articulating every word sharply, exaggerating the sounds to make it “easier for me to comprehend.” I knew better than to ever suggest that I didn’t need this sort of help. If I did, then everything directed to me would be in the most obscure of phrases—idioms and slang terms would abound even more and conversation would be rapid-fire and I would be lost. So I took the disgrace of his pediatric phrasing.

“Yes, Saburo-san, thank you for speaking so clearly, forgive me for my poor Japanese.”

“Better you should leave now and save these poor slaves from having to endure any more time waiting for you, don’t you think?” He leaned closer to me, pushing into my space easily, with all the confidence of someone who knew he had the right, his teeth bared in a hostile grin.

“Thank you, Saburo-san, you are very wise, but I have not been told to go, so sorry.”

“I’ll show you sorry,” he said, the usual phrase of his before something unpleasant, and I prepared myself for a slap or a command. But he did nothing, only stood slightly back and inclined his shoulders. It was not low enough to Sakai-sama. It was too low for another trainer of his level. I turned and immediately knelt for Noriko-sama, Sakai-sama’s prodigy daughter and presumptive heir.

“Parker has not been added to the roster,” she said to Saburo, also speaking slowly, but not with that edge of ridicule that Saburo cultivated. She, like most of the people there, pronounced my name Pah-kah. She was one of the few who used it as a name instead of making it sound like a vaguely annoying piece of furniture that no one had bothered to move out of the way. I had also noticed that the various nicknames vanished when she was around.

“There are no slaves who wish to have this as their trainer,” Saburo said with a shrug. “Your honored father has said that no one shall be forced to train with it.”

“Then I will find the right slaves for Parker,” Noriko said. “Please tell my father that he will be added to the roster next week.”

Saburo almost choked—I could hear him cough back a breath, and I wished that I could grin. But I remained impassive, not showing any sign of listening to a conversation to which I had not been invited.

“Thank you, Noriko-san, I shall,” Saburo said. “I’m sure your help in this matter will be most appreciated.” Angrily, he turned and left, and Noriko gave me the command to look up. She looked concerned, perhaps a little annoyed. But not, I knew, annoyed at me. She was serious and thoughtful and very precise and the only free person at the school who was younger than I was.

In English, she said, carefully, “Do not disappoint me, Parker.” And she too, left. I struggled for almost a full minute, but I couldn’t stop the tears that formed in my eyes. I wiped them away with the sleeve of my (American) shirt and tried to compose myself before I had to face anyone else.

It had taken two months—but someone had finally suggested that I might do what I was sent here to do. And what’s more—she expected me to do it well. My heart almost broke with the first sign of kindness, and I finally understood how powerful it could be.

* * * *

“Chris?”

His eyes flew open and he started, disturbing the surface of the water. He blinked and looked at a very concerned Ninon.

“I’m so sorry, Ninon,” he said, shaking his head. “Not enough sleep, I’m so terribly sorry. My God, how embarrassing. In the bath with the single most desirable woman here and I fall asleep.”

She waved one hand at him. “Never mind more flattery, what was wrong? Your entire body became tense! I thought I would have to summon one of those marvelous massage people to pry you out!”

Chris shook his head and sighed. “A memory. You mentioned Tetsuo and a king’s daughter—and I remembered Noriko-san.”

“Oh my goodness, how thoughtless of me!” Ninon was aghast at her faux pas. “Yes, you knew her, oh, I am the one who should be sorry, Chris. Her loss was such a tragedy for Tetsuo.”

“It’s been years,” Chris said, stretching and wincing at the lapping water. “I’m just so tired I can barely think. Please forgive me, Ninon, I’m going to shower off with some cool water and take a nap. I’ll see you at dinner?”

“Yes, I will be there,” Ninon promised. “After all, I must take the first glass of champagne as we celebrate a new era for the Marketplace.”

“And I’ll take the second,” Chris promised. He pushed himself up and out of the tub, and Ninon’s slave eagerly waited on him until he gently shooed her away. Wrapped in a robe and his thoughts, he walked back to his room and didn’t bother to call for a slave to set out a futon for him. With one arm behind his head, he instantly fell into a deep sleep on the floor, not caring about comfort or—for once—proper behavior.

* * * *

Two hours later, the main meeting room had been transformed. Chairs were now grouped around tables, small couches brought in to create comfortable seating areas, and all the panels leading to the outer gardens were opened, allowing the slight afternoon breezes to waft through. William Longet’s raised table had been reduced to a simple podium for announcements, and a new table was set up for his staff to check the member rolls and register proxy votes. Trainers wandered in after lunch and naps, after swimming or light bouts of sex with slaves or each other. Alcoholic drinks were much in evidence. The mood was light and energetic, and at the chiming of the hour, Longet opened the membership book and locked the ballot box.

“Well, this is a foregone conclusion,” declared Tucker, walking in with Michael. They had found each other after lunch, watching an impromptu demonstration of various forms of hand signals from several trainers who advocated different methods. It had been lighthearted and competitive, and the slaves drafted for this use had an eager-to-please amusement that made them cheerfully attractive even when the signals invariably got crossed.

These are people who don’t like to fight about important things,
Michael thought idly.
They may love to argue or show off their skills or compete in all these silly ways—but they don’t like to disagree on fundamental beliefs. Of course not. They feel like they’re alone in the world, they have no other place to be this way, to do these things. To lose it would mean—tragedy. For anyone, on any side. No wonder Chris backing down was such a big deal.

“I’m glad it is,” Michael answered. “It wasn’t pleasant to be here when you guys were all fighting. Now, it’s one big happy family again.”

“Well, I dunno about that!” Tucker laughed heartily. “But then, I guess we are kind of family, in that sick and twisted sort of way. Thrown together by God, you could say, and makin’ the best of it.” He leaned over the table and cheerfully accepted a ballot after initialing his name in the member rolls. He excused himself to fill it out over by a shaded desk, folded it and dropped it into the box with a flourish. “There—I done my duty for the year.”

“Do you train trainers?” Michael asked as they walked over to one side, making room for two others.

“Oh, hell, no,” Tucker said with a shudder. “Every once in a while, I take on someone’ else’s student for a few weeks or months, let ’em help me out a bit, it keeps me on my toes. But it’s too iffy, taking on an apprentice. No offense, son, you’re a nice fella, very smart. But I’ve seen it a dozen times—you take on a sharp apprentice and at the end of three years, they’re either gone to the block, left the world, or, worse, they want to set up shop across the street from you and take away your business. It ain’t like slaves, see, where you lose maybe three, four months. Trainers take years, no matter what that California nutcase says. I’d say it’s only one in ten trainers that wants to take on apprentices. Me, I’d rather raise water moccasins. They’re as pretty and seductive as a good apprentice, but if they leave you, you don’t cry as much.”

“And there’s always anti-venom in the refrigerator, right?” Chris Parker came into Michael’s peripheral vision, and Michael thought that the bath had done him a world of good. He had changed into fresh clothes, and his tie was the one that Michael had given him when Rachel had whispered that his birthday was coming up. It was a rather bold design for Chris—but he had taken a liking to the colorful dancing figures on it, radiating beams of energy shooting from them.

“Yessiree, Chris, that is the truth,” Tucker laughed. “Dammit if they haven’t come up with anti-venom for human relationships though. You just can’t put years in with someone else and not be changed by them, and that’s the God’s honest truth.”

“You won’t find an argument with me in that statement, Tucker,” Chris replied. And then, remarkably, he winked at Michael, before reaching down into his inside pocket to take out a sheaf of envelopes all marked with the green stamp of the Marketplace’s official proxy ballot.