The Praxis (13 page)

After a brief exposure to Cadet Silva, Sula was beginning to think they had a point.

“So is there anything
wrong
with Martinez?” she asked.

“Nothing, if you're attractive, female, and a shop girl,” Foote said. “He's got money and a degree of charm and a limited sense of style, and I'm sure he gives his usual sort of companion no reason to complain. But those from a higher station in life can't be so very impressed.” He gave Sula a significant look. “
You
could do much better, I'm sure.”

“Troglodyte!” Silva called. “That's what
we
call him!” His voice grew excited. “
Goal!
Did you see that? Point for
Corona
! A header off the goalie's hand!”

“Troglodyte?” Sula asked.

Foote smiled thinly and swiped at the cowlick on his blond head. “It's those short legs of his. And the long arms. Have you noticed? He must be a throwback to some primitive form of human.”

“But he's tall,” Sula protested.

“It's all in his back. The legs are short.” He nodded. “Mind you, he's got a good tailor. The cut of the jacket hides it, except it can't hide the hands that hang almost to his knees.”

The comm unit on the wall chimed. Foote told the video walls to be quiet, rose from his chair and answered. He turned to Silva. “Package at the Fleet Office, Silva,” he said. “Needs hand delivery. Take it, will you?”

“You're first in the queue,” Silva said.

Irritation crossed Foote's face. “Just go, will you, Silva?”

“The score's tied two-all,” Silva complained, but he rose, buttoned his tunic, and headed for the door.

“Breath, Silva,” reminded Foote. He tossed Silva a small silver aerosol flask, and Silva gave his palate a shot of mint. Silva tossed the flask back to Foote, who pocketed it, and Silva departed.

“Do you make a point of easing life for your drunken friends?” Sula asked as Foote resumed his seat.

Foote was surprised. “Friends help each other out,” he said. “And as for drinking, you have to do something here to keep away the boredom. For myself, I'm thinking of taking up yachting.” A thought struck him. “Why don't we
both
take it up?” he asked. “You showed real skill capturing the
Midnight Runner.
I'm sure you'd do well.”

Sula shook her head. “I'm not interested.”

“But why not?” Foote urged. “You've won the silver flashes—surely you must have considered yachting. And the Fleet will encourage you, because it'll improve your piloting.”

Sula felt a certain comfort in the fact that Foote hadn't checked her family history. Her membership in the Peerage was genuine enough, for all that the Sula clan had no members other than herself. Her trust fund might support a modest apartment in the High City, but would hardly extend to a yacht.

She could simply tell Foote that she hadn't got her inheritance yet, but for some reason, she didn't want to. The less Jeremy Foote knew about her, the better.

“I spend too much time in small boats as it is,” Sula said. “Why ask for more?”

A red-haired cadet entered then and looked at Sula in surprise. “I saw you on vid this morning,” she said. “You salvaged the
Runner.
”

Foote introduced Ruth Chatterji, who wanted to know if Lord Commander Enderby was as ferocious as rumor made out. Sula said he
looked
ferocious enough, but hadn't behaved with any noticeable brutality when hanging the medal around her neck.

“So tell me what it was like on
Midnight Runner,”
Chatterji said. “Is it true that Blitsharts got an embolism and vomited up his lungs?”

Sula rose to her feet. “I'd better go. Thanks for the chat.”

“Time for your date with the trog?” Foote said. He slouched in his chair and tossed his head back, looking at Sula under half-lowered lids as she passed. “Tell you what,” he said. “Why don't I show you a proper evening? I'm having dinner with my uncle tomorrow night—he's captain of the
Bombardment of Delhi.
He's always keen to meet a promising officer—maybe he could do you some good.”

Sula looked down at Foote and smiled sweetly. “Captain Foote of the
Delhi?
” she asked. She wrinkled her brow as if trying on a memory for size. “He's the yachtsman?”

“Yes. That's the fellow.”

Sula let her smile twist into an expression of distaste. “I don't know,” she said doubtfully. “I've always thought yachtsmen were the most boring people in the whole fucking world.”

Mean pleasure sang in Sula's heart as she left Foote blinking in slow surprise and Chatterji staring.

Though the afternoon in the cadet lounge wasn't without its effect. When Martinez arrived for her, she found herself looking at his legs as she walked beside him through the Commandery.

They
were
perhaps a little short, she decided.

 

V
ipsania raised her glass. “Before we go in to supper,” she said, “I would like to salute our special guest. To Lady Sula, who so bravely and skillfully retrieved the
Midnight Runner
and the bodies of Captain Blitsharts and Orange.”

Martinez repressed a stab of jealousy as he raised his glass and murmured Sula's name along with everyone else. Really, he thought, it
was his
plan.

He imagined it was too much to suppose that Vipsania would ever bother to offer a toast to him. He was just her brother, after all.

But envy faded into admiration as he contemplated Sula, who stood slim and straight as a lance in the parlor of the Shelley Palace, her porcelain complexion lightly flushing at being the center of attention. Her dark green dress tunic served to heighten the intrigue of her emerald eyes. Martinez's tailor had done a superb job with fitting the uniform, and a bath, a haircut, and modest use of cosmetic had done wonders to repair the pallor and poor skin tone that were consequences of her long, cramped journey.

Martinez touched his glass to his lips and drank to Sula with complete sincerity.

Sula raised the glass of sparkling water she'd been nursing since the start of the evening. “I would like to thank Lady Vipsania, Lord Gareth”—with a look at Martinez—“and to the entire Martinez clan for their gracious hospitality.”

Martinez modestly refrained from lifting his glass as the guests saluted him. He cast a glance about the room and saw PJ Ngeni, a few paces away, looking at Sula with glowing eyes. “Superb!” Martinez heard beneath the crowd's murmur. “Wonderful girl!”

Martinez smiled privately.
You'll have no luck with this one, my man,
he thought,
unless you know the works of Kwa-Zo.

The Martinez sisters' party seemed to be a success. Martinez saw several faces he'd first seen at Lord Pierre's dinner party, and PJ had arrived with a couple of his male friends who were less successful than he at concealing their fundamentally decorative nature. Walpurga was in a corner of the room, laughing and smiling with an advocate she had first met at the Ngeni Palace, a man who represented the interests of the Qian clan. Sempronia was speaking near the garden door to a young brown-haired man in the viridian uniform of a Fleet lieutenant.

And Sula, Martinez saw, had become the center of a number of young men, including PJ's two glit friends. Martinez was thinking about rescuing her when the dinner gong boomed and saved him the trouble.

He wasn't seated near Sula, who was placed between two of the guests his sisters had poached from the Ngeni Palace, but he had a clear view of her. She was framed perfectly by the chair back, which was made of carved, ancient, darkened Esker ivory that admirably set off her pale complexion. Despite the other guests and the elaborate floral arrangements that had perfumed the air with their scent, Caroline Sula was clearly the object in the room most worth looking at.

Martinez was shifting from the dining room to the drawing room when Sempronia briefly touched him on the left arm. “This is
your
fault!” she hissed. “He's at me to join him for a walk in the garden!”

“It's a pleasant garden,” Martinez said.

“Not with PJ in it.”

“Besides,” Martinez said, “it's your sisters' fault and you know it.”

She glared at him. “You should stand up to them for me!” she said. “What are brothers for?” She strode off.

Martinez mingled for a while, and was on the verge of seeking out Sula when PJ Ngeni touched him on the right arm. Symmetry, he thought.

“May we speak?” PJ said, and touched his narrow little mustache.

“Certainly.”

“I have asked, um, your sister Sempronia if she would join me for a walk in the garden,” he said.

Martinez drew a smile onto his face. “That will be pleasant,” he said.

“Well…” PJ hesitated. “The fact is, I've become quite fond of Sempronia in a very short time.”

Martinez nodded. “That's not unusual. She's a popular girl.”

“I thought—if I could get her in the garden—I might ask for her hand.” His voice trailed off. “In marriage,” he clarified.

“I never thought otherwise.”

“So I thought I'd ask your advice,” PJ finished, and looked brightly up at Martinez.

Martinez gazed down at the man. For someone who was supposed to have led some kind of debauched life, PJ seemed remarkably short of social confidence.

“What's the problem?” Martinez asked. “Haven't you propositioned a woman before?”

PJ flushed. “Well, yes,” he said, “purely in a sporting way, of course. But I have never proposed marriage, with all its,” he gave a little cough, “responsibilities and duties, and—” He looked bleak. “—so forth.” His voice trailed away, and he looked up at Martinez again. “Do you have any objection to my asking for your sister's hand?”

“No.”
Not for asking,
Martinez thought.
Actually marrying, I'd have to shoot you
.

This answer didn't relieve PJ's anxiety. “Do you think she…do you think darling Sempronia will accept me?” He licked his lips. “She seems to be rather avoiding me, actually.” He cast a glance to a corner of the room, where Sempronia was still talking to the brown-haired young officer.

“She's one of the hostesses, she's got a lot to do,” Martinez said. “I think if you ask her, the answer would please you.” It was time to get PJ on his errand. He clapped the man on his shoulder. “Go to it,” he said. “Courage!”

PJ's eyes seemed to be looking not at Sempronia but the abyss. “Very good of you,” he murmured. “Thanks.”

He marched toward Sempronia as if to his execution. Martinez smiled at the thought of the two people, neither of whom wanted a life with the other, stumbling their way toward the engagement that would satisfy their families. He decided he would prefer not to witness the painful outcome, whatever it was, but instead looked for Sula and found her sipping a cup of coffee, miraculously free of admirers.

“We don't have to stay all night,” he said. “I know a place in the Lower Town that's fun.”

Sula tasted her coffee and returned the cup to its matching saucer of hard-paste porcelain. “Is this the new Spenceware Flora pattern?” she asked.

Martinez looked at the cup as if seeing it for the first time. There was a pattern of violets and a faint, matching purple stripe. “I don't know,” he said. “To me it looks like, well, a cup.”

Sula looked up from the saucer. “I can ask your sisters when we say good night.”

They bade farewell to Vipsania and Walpurga, who told Sula that the cup was in fact the new Flora and thanked her effusively for coming. The presence of the recently decorated Sula, Martinez knew, was enough to assure a mention of the party in tomorrow's society reports, and that had been his sisters' object in inviting her in the first place. They wanted to get certified as fashionable hostesses before the official period of mourning for the last Shaa brought large society functions to a close for a full year.

Martinez took Sula down the funicular railway to the Lower Town, and they gazed through the rail car's transparent roof at the great expanse of the huge metropolis rising to embrace them like a wide, golden sea. Gusts of wind made little excited screams against the car's hard edges. Martinez turned to one side and saw the old Sula Palace towering on the edge of the High City, its distinctive stained-glass dome glowing blue, and with a start he turned to Sula, remembering the way her parents had died and lost their property. She was looking toward the palace as well, but her face was relaxed. Maybe, after all these years, she didn't recognize the place.

Martinez took Sula to a cabaret off the city's main canal, sat her in a quiet corner, and ordered a bottle of wine. He was surprised when she put a hand over the mouth of her glass and asked for sparkling water instead.

“Don't you drink at all?” he asked.

“No. I—” She hesitated. “I used to have a problem with alcohol.”

“Oh.” There was a moment of surprised silence. Then he looked at the wine bottle in his hand. “Does it bother you if I drink? Because if it does, I'll—”

“I don't mind. Have all you like.” She smiled thinly. “Just don't expect me to carry you home.”

“I haven't had to be carried yet,” he said, an attempt to carry off the awkward moment with a little bravado.

He sipped his wine but decided to strictly limit his intake. The idea of being inebriated in Sula's presence was suddenly distasteful.

“So,” he said, “you're an expert on porcelains? I remember sending you that book.”

“I'm hardly an expert,” Sula said, “I'm just very interested.” Her eyes brightened and she seemed as relieved as he to leave the awkward subject of alcohol behind. “Did you know that fine porcelains were invented on Earth? That porcelain was one of the few things, along with tempered tuning, the Shaa thought a worthy contribution to interstellar civilization?”