Rital of Proof (3 page)

"They say she has a housed pleasurer in town." Lymax whispered. "Lucky chum. Of course, that isn't the fate for us, is it?"

"Be glad of it. It is not a life you would welcome, Lymax." He grabbed a goblet from a passing servant's tray.

Lymax sighed. "I suppose not. Fate for the likes of us, noble as we are, is to be bartered to the highest bidder and title that our families can secure."

"Perhaps for you—not for me." Jorlan sipped his hameeri liquor, letting the rare liquid hit his tongue and slide down his throat. Cool and slow. Their she-host was generous tonight; hameeri was prohibitively expensive. Here, in this gathering of the Select Quarter, the Top Slice, as they were called by the lower sets, nothing was too good. These nobles enjoyed their station in life. Most could trace their ancestry back to the commanders of the Seed Ship. A millennium ago, the moon called Forus had greeted the settlers with the warm, loving embrace of a new father—trying desperately to comfort his infant.

The outfit had thrived under the protection of such a loving shield.

Jorlan frowned as perennial questions surfaced in his mind. Not much was remembered about Originpoint. Nothing was ever spoken aloud or handed down in their folklore regarding that time before. As a child, he had often wondered about their shrouded past, how they had come to be where they are, what life was like in that prehistoric time.

In his youthful imaginings, he had dreamt of a world where things were different for men. Where men weren't either bartered about for the pleasure of women or expected to be content in the only role open to them—that of name-bearer. He had dreamt of a place where males had an equal part in society and their name-givers respected them as true partners in all things.

He had even fantasized that men would have a say in how the society itself was run.

One night, when he had made the mistake of voicing his adolescent viewpoints in his grandmother's drawing room, he had been laughed at by the titled women present as a precocious child. Later, the Duchene had counseled him that, although his thoughts were entertaining, he would do best to keep them to himself, as such talk would alienate him from a good match.

Right then he decided that he did not want a "good match," or any match for that matter.

He wanted to be able to live his life on his own terms. Years later, he had managed to extract a promise from the Duchene that she would allow him to approve of his own choice.

Naturally, he had disapproved of every single caller.

Much to the Duchene's dismay.

Jorlan's brow furrowed with slight annoyance as the full import of Lymax's statement registered on him.
She kept a pleasurer.
He was not overly surprised; yet, it annoyed him for some strange reason. In training, he had heard fevered whispers, voices full of longing regarding Marquelle Tamryn. She was well-learned in the ways of men. Rumor had it that she was a legendary lover. Most of the men present tonight almost begged for her attention.

It had nothing to do with him.

"I'm not interested," he murmured aloud.

His friend laughed. "Oh, you're interested all right! Just like the rest of us. The silent, to-himself, outwolf Jorlan just doesn't want to admit that he is finally interested. I saw the way you looked at her."

"I can look. It doesn't mean—"

"That you're ready to forsake your secret vow of never becoming a name-bearer? Perhaps not, but in all the years I've known you, I've never seen you even glance more than a cursory moment, let alone appear speculative at the same time."

"She's... different."

"She is that. And they say she has quite an afterburn. I wouldn't care if she was a lowly She-Lord; I wouldn't refuse an offer from her house, I'll tell you." He sighed deeply. "Unfortunately my offering will probably be a very titled, very rich, and very
staid
noble, whose only interest in me will be the continuation of her line."

Jorlan glanced over at his friend. "Why do you say that?"

"My mother has five sons and no daughters. I'm the oldest. The first decent offer that comes along is sure to be accepted posthaste."

Jorlan exhaled, knowing the truth of his friend's words. "You can refuse."

"And shame my family with scandal? No. I am not like you, Jorlan. I am not one to forge my own path by breaking with society's mores, nor do I have an overly indulgent grandmother from a great house to cosset my whims."

Jorlan clenched his jaw. "It is no whim to desire the right of personal freedom."

Lymax shrugged. "It is a man's duty to fasten and produce heirs. Such is his ordained place."

"Ordained?
Ordained by whom? Do you really believe this to be spirit-law?"

Lymax blanched. "You speak sacrilege! Fortunately, I am used to your wild ways, my friend, but I caution you to hold your tongue. It would be better for all concerned if you let go of these radical ideas of yours. No good can come of it."

"Why is it considered extreme to want to choose the direction of your own life?"

"Face it, Jorlan, we are the lesser sex. That is why our name-givers take care of us. Left alone, we would fall to ruin. We are intellectually inferior. Left unmonitored, our innate male aggression would destroy this world."

Jorlan snorted. "Intellectually inferior?" He pointed to an intoxicated She-Lord who was singing and spinning with several young swaggers across the far end of the room. "I'll wager that She-Lord cannot speak the intricacies of sam'on talk, nor recite from all of the sixty-three books of the bairtin, nor draw plans for entire cysystems." Cysystems were used by Forus architects to construct everything from simple abodes to entire cities. Jorlan loved working a complicated cysystem.

"True. Your zest and aptitude for learning is well-known, Jorlan—even though the Duchene has tried to downplay that particular
attribute of
yours." Lymax smiled at him. "That swagger over there does not need such abilities, as she is fabulously wealthy and extremely well situated."

"Which is my point. She has a stand on the Septibunal floor strictly on the basis of her inherited title. Even a nog-twist gets a vote on the laws that govern us as long as she is female and titled."

Lymax expelled heavily, not wanting to verbally admit that Jorlan was right on that point.

"As far as what you say about our aggressive tendencies, Lymax, I do not subscribe to that belief, either. Do we not train our minds as well as our bodies in control? In any case, you are right about one thing. My grandmother has given me her word—she will choose no name-giver for me without my consent, and I will
not
give my consent."

Lymax looked at him, bewildered. It was obvious he could not understand his friend's rebellious attitude.

"It won't matter soon, anyway," said Jorlan.

"Why do you say that?"

"Soon I will be past the prime age for such an alliance. Then neither I nor my grandmother will have to be concerned over the matter."

Lymax scoffed. "Have you looked in a mirastone lately, Jorlan? The offers will not cease. In some strange way that none of us hopefuls can understand, your continued refusals have only increased your desirability. The Top Slice sees you as the ultimate challenge and the ultimate prize. Instead of putting them off, it has only drawn them to you more."

Jorlan frowned. That hadn't occurred to him. "In addition to your stunning appearance, my friend," Lymax went on, "it is speculated that a long-ago ancestor of yours was actually a pleasurer. The nobles have wagered bets on whether or not you have inherited the passion that is so inherent in many of them."

The sharp aqua eyes narrowed ominously. Lymax put his hands up in a defensive gesture. "Do not blame me—it is what is bandied about. It makes you all the more of the rare prize: grandson of a Duchene and, thrown in for good measure, the blood of a pleasurer in your veins. You have them wild. What woman wouldn't want such a combination in her legal bed?"

"I am no woman's prize! Nor will I ever be."

"That may be true," a melodious voice concurred from directly behind him. "Such a dour expression denotes you more penalty than gift, although it does make you look quite brooding and interesting."

Despite himself, his lips curved in wry amusement. There was no mistaking that melodious voice, nor the infamous wit behind it. He pivoted about to face Marquelle Tamryn. "May I take that as a compliment, Marquelle?"

"Absolutely not." She grinned up at him. An engaging, full-dimpled smile that literally took his breath away.

She was not simply beautiful.

She was incredibly...
lovely.

There was a certain lilt in her voice that seemed to withhold alluring secrets. There was the most beguiling curve to those luscious lips that bespoke of an uncommon knowledge. There was no doubt in his mind that this woman knew what pleased her in a man and what she expected of him. It was in her aware aspect. In her amber eyes.

And yet her name had never been linked with the Kloo Balcony set, the spoiled wealthy new breeds of the Top Slice who frequented the Neon Night part of town. Centuries ago, it had been deemed fashionable for the Select Quarter to meet at an establishment called Almacks, the Later. Despite some competition from other establishments, over the centuries, it had never lost its appeal.

Or its exclusiveness.

The name of the club had been derived from an obscure page of ancient text found in the personal belongings of one of the first settlers from Originpoint. The old text was still in dispute—as some believed it referred to a religious cult of some kind, while others postulated that it was part of an instructional manual. The words "historical" and "romantic" were repeatedly noted. No one was exactly sure in what context the terms were used, although it was known from portions of surviving personal log entries that there were many of these concealed volumes on board the all-female ship.

Some of their historians went so far as to postulate that these volumes might have had some type of a formative effect or influence on their emerging civilization. But that was strictly speculation as well. Whatever ancient pages had survived were kept in a special storage facility, open only to the head of the Septibunal and no other.

But Almacks, the Later had always been a smashing success.

The wildest, elitist band of new-breeds held court daily by the curved Kloo mirrors. Named after the native Kloo, the mirrors seemed to change color the way the Kloo variegated its plumage. And like the ever-changing Kloo, these women seemed to change opinions hourly of what was fashionable. They set style and could shift trends for months with a single disdainful glance at unacceptable garb.

The swaggers who reigned supreme over the mirrors got whatever they demanded from Almacks, the Later. They often demanded the impossible. They were wild, glinty new-breeds used to being spoiled by their wealthy families.

It was not unknown for them to hazard entire family fortunes on the turn of a disc on the beta-baize tables.

"You know who I am?" Green sipped at her drink, glancing up at him over the rim of the filigreed chalice. She had always heard he was magnificent. He was
more. A.
spicy blend of insolent dignity and untutored vulnerability. Yes, his stares contained a brash challenge, but the glitter in his eyes did not completely hide the unprotected heart within.
And the arresting color of those eyes... !

Except on him. Green had never seen such a mesmerizing shade before. They were a perfect green with a translucent overwash of blue. Aqua eyes. The color was so like the
Great
Fathomless
Sea
, which covered over half of Forus's surface. Unforgettable.

And so very penetrating.
There was a remarkable faculty behind that contemplative gaze.

An indented slash of amusement slowly curved his cheeks. Green observed the contained reaction. This was no simple, pampered son of the aristocracy. Jorlan Reynard, she was sure, was an enticing receptacle of trouble.

She liked him already.

Unlike most of her peers, she preferred her men to be less biddable than was widely held to be the accepted notion of the epitome of male perfection. There was a blaze-dragon in this one.

And that blaze-dragon wanted to be set free.

She knew how to set him free. Her pulse pounded.

She inhaled slowly to steady her beating pulse as she gazed once again up the tall length of him. His features were utterly beautiful. Firm lips—the lower one slightly fuller than the top—were smooth and sensual. They were shaped and sculpted by the finest hand. Tiny grooves at the corners of his mouth seemed to indicate a teasing sense of humor. His nose was straight and perfectly molded.

Like his lashes, his hair was jet-black, thick, and trimmed to just above his shoulders. The silken ebony strands caught the glimmer of flamelight and played riotously with it. Only the slightest of waves saved his hair from being altogether straight. Those subtle ripples added incredible interest. Not enough wave to give any real curl, they created a resplendent texture to his hair. She observed that the jet strands slid languorously when he moved.