Demon King (17 page)

“I’m serious. Maybe we shouldn’t be mewed up, here, sulking as we’ve been since we got back from Kallio.”

“That’s what Yonge accused me of doing. Do you have a suggestion?”

“Well, the Time of Storms begins next week. Should we have a grand party? Invite everyone who’s anyone — including the emperor?”

I thought for a moment. “I don’t know. But that’s one way to take the battle to the enemy.”

“Let’s try it, then. Stupid soldiers,” she added. “They can’t find any other analogy besides whacking people with swords.”

“That’s not true. I’ve got other whackers around.”

“Oh?” She swam to me, and we kissed, friendly at first, then our tongues twined together. Finally I broke away, swam to a submerged rock, and sat on it, the water coming to mid-chest. Marán lazily followed, and put her head on my shoulder, the rest of her body floating.

“Sometimes we let the world be too much with us,” I said.

“I know. I love you, Damastes.”

“I love you, Marán.”

Words that had been said again and again, but always sounded new.

“Come on,” she said. “Otherwise we’ll just sit here until we melt, and never get around to serious fucking.”

I waded after her, then we slid down a narrow chute into a small lagoon, this one blood-warm with a mossy ledge, illuminated by small tapers. Marán handed me the soap, and I began lathering her, first her back, down her legs, then she turned, and I slowly soaped her stomach, her breasts. Her breathing came faster and she lay back on the moss, her legs parting.

I turned her on her side and put her right heel on my right shoulder. I soaped my cock, then slid it into her. She sighed, and I began moving, slowly, deeply inside her, as my hands caressed her soap-slippery breasts and back. She arced back and forth, her leg trying to pull me down on her.

She turned, until she was lying on her stomach, pillowed her face on her arms, and I bent over her, feeling her soft buttocks move against me, her feet on the ledge, pushing up, as we moved in a common rhythm, harder, faster, and the small tapers blossomed into twin suns.

The card read:

Marán studied it carefully.

“Well?” I finally asked.

“I’m not sure,” she said. “It’s not good that he didn’t refer to you as tribune or Damastes, but on the other hand it’s good that he didn’t call you Count, but used the title the state gave you, even though it was the Rule of Ten’s actual doing. It’s not good that it’s a printed card, but it’s good that he seems to have signed it himself.” The emperor had recently begun signing his missives with a single initial. “But it’s not good at all that he waited until two hours before the party before sending it.”

I shook my head. These elaborate dictates of etiquette were quite beyond me.

“At least he didn’t just ignore the invitation,” Marán said thoughtfully. “But then I wouldn’t expect him to ignore anything from any Agramónte. I guess we just wait, and see what comes next.”

I felt several species of a fool, standing in the great hall of the Water Palace, flanked by stone-faced retainers in the Agramónte family livery of plush dark green coats and breeches, with vests of bright red whipcord, with gold buckles and buttons. I was in full dress uniform and decorations, but without arms.

Marán wore a white lace top, V-necked, with pearls worked into the fabric in a triangular pattern. Her skirt was flaring black silk, with black pearl panels in the same pattern. Her hair was coiled atop her head, and she wore a black lace headdress over it. She wore no jewelry except a necklace of precious stones, each a slightly different shade, the whole a dazzling color wheel. She looked about the grand ballroom, frowning.

“So far,” she said, “it appears a disaster.”

“It’s early yet,” I said. “Not much more than an hour after the time on the invitation. You taught me no one but a bumpkin, an ancient, or a fool ever materializes on time.” Marán tried a smile, but it was a poor attempt. There were, so far, only a handful of people here, and those the sorts who’ll attend any event, so long as they’re given food and drink, plus the usual knot of hangers-on who judge an event by the prestige of who’s putting it on, no more.

Amiel bustled up to Marán. Not knowing anything of the dressmaker’s skills, I thought her dress was two garments in one. They both clung tightly to her dancer’s body and were cut high at the neck and ankle. But if this makes Countess Kalvedon sound modestly clad, she was anything but. The first, inner dress, was made of deep red and clear silk. Over that was a sea-green and clear second garment, the clear patches almost but not quite congruent with the other. She wore nothing underneath them, and each time she moved a flash of tanned naked flesh glimmered. Like Marán, she shaved her sex, but unlike Marán she lightly rouged her nipples. In a different mood, and if she weren’t my wife’s friend, interesting thoughts might have come.

“Who did the illusion?” she said.

“Our own Seer Sinait,” Marán said, a spark coming into her voice. “Isn’t it marvelous?” It was. Marán had held to her idea of a party celebrating the beginning of the Time of Storms. The weather was cooperating, and a tropical monsoon had swirled down from the northern sea. To match it, Sinait had created a storm within the ballroom — drifting clouds, some dark with rain, others climbing high with the threat of great winds; occasional flashes of lightning and barely audible clashes of thunder. But this storm rode across the ballroom at waist level, so it was easy to imagine oneself a godling, or perhaps a manifestation of one of the greater gods, floating through the heavens.

“I especially like — ” Amiel broke off as her husband, Pelso, came up. She smiled tightly, then excused herself for the punch bowl. It was most clear the two were here solely because of their liking for Marán and myself. If either had his preference, they would have been on the other side of the city, and perhaps the world, from each other.

Count Kalvedon bowed. “May I steal your wife, Damastes?
She
might be willing to dance with me.” Without waiting for a response, he took Marán’s hand and led her off. There were no more than half a dozen couples on the floor.

I decided anything was better than standing here, and found Seer Sinait, who wore her usual brown, but now her garb was hand-loomed lamb’s wool. I danced with her, and complimented her spell. “I wish I could do something more,” she said. “Such as cast some sort of spell that’d work on Nicias’s lords and ladies as honey does for ants. I despise seeing your lady feeling as she does.”

“So do I,” I agreed. “Any suggestions?”

“My only one would involve a certain someone who’s behaving like a spoiled brat, but I won’t chance your vows by using his name.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all.”

I danced with two other women, then with Amiel. She danced well, as if we were one, and very closely. Pelso had disappeared, having made as much of an appearance as politeness required. “Pity that bastard left,” she whispered.

“Ah?”

“If he were still here, maybe I’d try to make
him
jealous.”

“How? With whom?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe with you. Remember, there’s many in Nicias who think we had an affair anyway.” Amiel, when I’d first fallen in love with Marán, had done us a wonderful service, acting as what she called an “apron,” so everyone would think I was carrying on with her. “I could start dancing with you like … like this.” She slid her leg between mine, and moved her hips back and forth. “Sooner or later, someone would notice.”

“Stop that!”

“Why?” she said. “It feels good.”

“Maybe too good,” I said, feeling my cock stir a bit.

She laughed, a bit forcedly, but did as requested. “Poor Damastes,” she said. “Madly in love with his wife, and a man who keeps his vows. You don’t drink, you don’t use any herbs … you two will probably end up being the longest-married in all Nicias.”

“I hope so,” I said.

“How utterly dull,” Amiel said. “But I suppose we each have burdens to bear.”

I admired her for trying to improve my mood, but it wasn’t working. I was about to try some half-witted sally, when the orchestra finished a number. In the momentary hush a laugh brayed across the room. I didn’t need to look to see if a donkey had wandered into the room. The laugh could only belong to Count Mijurtin, perhaps as useless a being as Saionji had ever let return from the Wheel.

At one time, his family had been among the noblest in Nicias, even having two members on the Rule of Ten over the centuries. But that was long ago. Now the count was the only survivor of the line. He’d married a commoner — the rumor was his laundrywoman, to avoid having to pay her bill. The two lived in a few rooms of the family mansion that had once been in a fashionable part of Nicias, near the river, that was now a slum. The rest of the house was abandoned for the rats to glide among the rotting family memories.

Not that anyone ever felt pity for Mijurtin. He was arrogant enough to be an Agramónte, thought himself clever when he was merely rude, was a tale-teller and a false gossip. No one ever invited him to anything, but there he’d be, in the finery of ten years ago, from dusk until the last servant yawned him out at dawn.

His voice was as annoying as his laugh, and now it rasped across the room: “It’s like the Wheel, don’t you know. Last year, they were riding high, this year … Well, mayhap it’ll teach a bit of humility.” Mijurtin suddenly realized how his voice carried, and looked about wildly. In one of his hands, a biscuit dripped unnoticed sauce.

My temper snapped, but before I could stalk across the room Marán was there. Her face was white, set. “You. Get out. Get out now!” Mijurtin sputtered. I was halfway across the floor. He saw me coming, his eyes widened, and he squealed and ran like a terrified hog seeing a hunter.

The orchestra hastily began another melody, but Marán held up her hand and there was instant silence. “All of you. Out! The party’s over!”

Marán, blind in her rage, took the white linen tablecloth under the punch bowl in both hands and pulled. That crystal bowl took two strong serving men to carry, but it weighed nothing against her anger, and the bowl skidded across the mahogany, crashed to the floor, and exploded. Red punch like blood shot across the polished wood dance floor, and the few guests scurried for their coats. The storm beyond could never match the one here.

Marán spun to the orchestra. “That’s all! You can leave, too!” The musicians gathered their instruments.

Suddenly the thought came.

I held up my hand. “No,” I said quietly, but my voice carried across the room. “Play ‘River-Swirl, River-Turn.’ ”

That song was the one played by a luxury ferry’s band the night Marán and I first made love. It had taken some gold, more work, and a great deal of listening to discover the name of the tune, but it had been worth it when I’d had it played at our first anniversary by the same nautical musicians.

The musicians looked at me awkwardly. One, then another began playing. Marán stood motionless next to the red pool. Servants with towels hovered nearby, but were reluctant to approach.

“Countess Agramónte,” I said, “would you honor me with this dance?”

She said nothing, but slowly came into my arms. As we began to dance, I could hear the last guest hastening away; then there was nothing but the music and the scuff of our feet on the floor.

“I love you,” I said.

The dam burst then, and Marán began sobbing uncontrollably against my chest. I picked her up, and she weighed nothing, and I carried her out of the ballroom and up the stairs to our bedroom. I pulled the coverlet back on our huge bed, laid her on it, and slowly removed her clothes. She lay motionless, her eyes fixed on mine. I undressed.

“Would you wish me to make love to you?” She made no reply, but lifted her legs and parted her thighs.

I knelt over her and ran my tongue in and out of her body. Her breathing came a little faster, but there was no other response. I kissed her breasts, then her lips. They were unmoving.

Not knowing what else to do, and barely aroused myself, I slid my cock into her. I might as well have been making love to a sleeping woman. I withdrew. She still said nothing, but rolled on her side, away from me, bringing her knees up almost to her chest.

I gently placed the comforter over her, then crawled into bed. Tentatively, I put one arm around her waist. She was motionless.

After a time, I suppose I slept.

• • •

I awoke, and it was close to dawn. Rain spattered on the window, and the room was cold. Marán was at a window, staring out. She was naked, and seemed not to feel the chill. Without turning, she sensed I was awake.

“Fuck them,” she said quietly. “Fuck all of them. I — We don’t need them.”

“No.”

“I’ve had enough,” she said flatly. “I’m going back to Irrigon. Come with me or stay, whatever’s your pleasure.”

Somehow, that pronouncement seemed to calm Marán. She allowed me to lead her back to bed, and almost instantly went to sleep. But I could not. I lay awake until gray light illumined the room. Should I go with her to Irrigon, the great castle on the river that ran through the vast family estates? Anger grew at the thought. No! I’d not run from a fight or a battle yet, and wouldn’t this time. I’d stay here, by Isa, by Vachan, by Tanis! Sooner or later the emperor would come to his senses. Sooner or later, he
must.

I dressed and went down to eat. The servants must have worked the night through, for there was no sign whatever of the disastrous carouse.

Marán woke around noon, called for her servants, and ordered them to pack. She kissed me farewell hard, telling me I was a fool and I should come with her. But I didn’t feel any sincerity in her words. Perhaps it would be well for us to be separate for a brief time. Perhaps she blamed me for what had happened.