Bourbon Mountains, High North Country

The University in Bourbon had guesthouses for visiting scholars; also the manciple had promised Deja staff and a manager, which this last made Martin edgy. What if this University boss reckoned he was under his authority? He knew it would be impossible to argue – if the boss decided Martin was under his stick, Martin was under his stick.

Well, it was only three weeks, Martin consoled himself, going through the guesthouse checking linens, shaking out window coverings and bed curtains gingerly, inspecting for insect infestation, making sure tea kits were stocked: all the things he’d been taught to do on taking residence. The suite to the second floor rear covered the entire back of the house. Martin gave that suite the most attention, since it would be Deja’s. It had a veranda along its northern wall, enclosed with storm glass now, at the pit of the winter, which here in the Bourbon Mountains was winter indeed. Even through the triple shield of glass, Martin could see the view was impressive: the huge mountains etched against the storm-gray sky, snow heavy on their flanks, the towns tiny as insects in the valleys. He stepped closer, wondering if, maybe, over the End…

They were here to work. For three years now Deja had wanted a Lectureship at the University in Durbin. His scholarship was solid but, from what Martin could understand of holder notions on the matter, not brilliant; further, he was a middle-weight, politically. In the West Country, Lord Holders were common as beetles. Courting Deja Lord Strauss made little sense. Also, from what Martin had seen, Deja made it clear his honor was not to be bought.

Which that was fine, Martin reckoned, except when it came time to court up an appointment at a University. Scholars, the post Deja currently held, did only scholarship: they taught no classes, did no executive work, designed no programs, made no decisions. Lecturer was the lowest level that had real influence. To get a lectureship, Deja needed the bid of at least three of those already on the faculty at Durbin. Producing some brilliant posts would advance that cause.

Turning from the view, Martin went down the service stairs past the main floor to the basement. Halfway down the stairs, he heard sounds from the kitchen: thinking it was the borrowed staff, he increased his speed.

It wasn’t: it was holder children. Martin felt surprise and dismay, his stomach sinking. They had pushed a step-stair over to the pantry. Both gazed imperiously at Martin, their light eyes clear.

Martin kept his face impassive. “Lord Akin. When did you arrive?”

“We’re hungry,” Akin said. “Get us some biscuits.”

Martin crossed to open the bread safe. The kitchen was stocked with basic supplies; biscuits did not seem to be among them. “What about tea cake?” he offered. “It’s got raisins.”

Akin scowled, looking at his brother. Like their mother, both boys were pale-skinned, with dark hair straight as cut silk, and soft slender limbs. “Ebbets hates raisins.”

Martin sorted through the other tins and boxes. “Crackers? Or we’ve got buskers.”

Ebbets bounced. “Sausage?”

Martin checked the box. One sleeve was sausage. He handed it to the boys, who rushed away. Having shut up the safe again, Martin glanced at the service stairs, considering retreating to hide until Deja returned. Instead, he drew a deep breath and followed the children.

As he had expected, Sudi was in the tearoom, looking about herself with disfavor. She had brought only two personal contracts, apparently: a nanny and her physician. A railway bootboy was unloading baggage in the foyer. Martin went to help.

“Where is your staff?” Sudi demanded. “No one opened the door!”

“Not here yet, miss.” Martin and the bootboy got the last trunk unloaded; he exchanged a covert glance with the kid before pulling the door shut as the boy trundled his cart away. Then he turned. They were crowded in the small room, in among the armchairs, the sofa, and the tea kit against the wall. “Lord Strauss didn’t mention you were arriving,” Martin said, speaking as civilly as he could manage. “I would have met you at the station.”

Sudi had been twitching at the cover on the sofa. She shot Martin a glare.

“It’s cold in here,” said the middle child, a girl whose name Martin did not remember. “It’s tiny. It’s ugly. Why did we come here, Mama?”

“Be quiet,” Sudi snapped. “Where is Lord Strauss?” she demanded of Martin.

“Over to the university, seeing to his study. This is a working visit,” he added. “We’re not on holiday.”

She wasn’t close enough to hit him, and a good thing. Sudi had always been a deal freer with her hands than Deja. He took a step backwards. Color high on the high bones of her face, she told him, words cracking with temper, “You can save your insolence for Lord Strauss. Don’t try it on me.”

Martin said nothing.

“What did I hear?” Sudi demanded.

“Yes, miss.”

She stood glaring. He kept his head down. “Once more,” she said. “One more time.”

“No, miss,” he said. “I’m sorry, miss.”

“Get this baggage to our rooms. Sync my husband, tell him we’ve arrived. Get the staff over here. Get this place in shape. What have you been doing all morning, do I need to ask?”

The contracts Sudi had brought along were not much help, so Martin did most of the work. He wanted to put Sudi in the third floor suite, as far as possible from Deja; he knew better than to try such an obvious tactic. Reluctantly, he put her in front, in the second best suite, with the nanny Victoria and the children one floor up.

Chloris followed him from room to room as he distributed the baggage. Like all of Deja and Sudi’s children except for Tsilla, Chloris had Sudi’s coloring, Sudi’s crystal eyes. She did not have Sudi’s build, though, being square and stocky. “Why is it so cold here?” she asked, watching while he stowed her brothers’ trunks in the corner near the wardrobe.

“We’re very far north, miss. Also this is an old house. The climate control takes a time to work up. I’ll get the fire going in a bit, is it?”

“I don’t like it here,” she said moodily. “We were supposed to go to Uncle Fen’s in Port City for Winter Holiday. Why did we come here?”

Martin made a noise, like that was an interesting question.

She hunched her square shoulders, cocking her small head with its elaborate bows. “Mother said we had to come because our father misses us.” She shot a look at Martin. “If he misses us, why isn’t he here?”

A pang of dismay stung him. The main reason Martin didn’t remember the names of these children was that Deja didn’t mention them from one end of the month to the next. “I don’t think he knew when you were arriving.”

She watched him, those clear eyes intent.

“We’ll start a fire,” he said, “is it?”

In the sitting room, he hunted out dry wood to get a hot quick fire going, putting aside some seasoned chunks of apple to add later. He showed Chloris how to stack the wood, how to place the starter. She watched with the corners of her mouth tucked down, obviously wondering why he was telling her this. Why would she need to know how to build a fire? He remembered her older sister, Tsilla, sitting on her heels through the same lesson, amber eyes bright, asking six questions a minute.

Akin and Ebbets came running in, howling, knocked each other down, rolled across the rug. Victoria, drawing back curtains, called their names, hesitantly. Martin used the fireplace shovel to move the burning wood into a tighter heap, and reached for the screen.

“Lord Akin,” Victoria coaxed. “Lord Ebbets! Please!”

Akin kicked his brother in the side. Ebbets shrieked, lunging. They both hit the ground and nearly rolled into the fire. Martin shifted, deflecting them. “Oi!”

The deep bark of noise startled them. Knocked apart, they sat staring.

“This is a fire,” he said, keeping his tone level, his accent West Coast University. “There are better places for wrestling.”

They kept staring.

“Also,” he added, “you should listen to Victoria. She’s your nanny.”

Akin scrambled up, his face scarlet. “She’s a cot! So are you! Don’t tell us what to do!”

Martin stood up, using his height on the child. “Perhaps you might listen,” he said, “because it’s the proper thing to do?”

Akin’s face got redder. His brother sat still on the floor. After a moment, Akin gave a noise like a cough or a sob, and ran from the room.

Chloris shook her head. “My mother won’t like that,” she predicted.

***

Though the University at Bourbon was high in the North Country, so distant from the rest of Julian’s cities that only a single railway line penetrated its high reaches, it had one of the best archives of hard historical documents on the planet, reaching back to pre-settlement years. The archive was housed in a granite building near the northeast corner of the campus, coated today with a thick crust of ice and snow. More snow on the way, too, by the heft of the clouds coming down the mountains. Martin had been glad to get inside.

Winter Holiday was the important holiday on Julian, the one everyone went home for, and the archive worktables stood empty. The junior curator on duty had not been pleased to see him. He had inspected the authorization Deja had put on Martin’s clip word by word, and linked over to Deja’s own credentials as well, scowling, before he let Martin through his gate. Now he was being as sullen and slow about bringing Martin documents.

“Lord Strauss did post ahead for confirmation,” Martin said.

“We understood Lord Strauss would be doing the research.” The curator stared thinly, as though Martin were before him with filth on his shirt, not impeccable in dark trousers and a darker vest over a silk and linen jersey.

“I’m Lord Strauss’s secretary,” Martin said. “I work for him.”

Sniffing, the curator returned to work.

None of these junior curators would allow him more than one document at a time: these were original documents, some of them seven and eight centuries old. It made slow going. Also, the curators kept giving Martin lectures on the proper treatment of documents. “Priceless. Irreplaceable! If you mar – or tear – or alter – or smudge – the damage to the historical value—”

Martin held his hands up, finally, palm first, fingers spread. “I washed twice this morning. D’you want me to come back there and scrub up again?”

The curator scowled, scooped up the empty document case and left.

Martin watched him sweep down the long room between the worktables into his glass-walled office. Then he tried to settle to the work at hand: the log of a ship’s captain who had transported cargo out from Venkat, the original home of most of Julian’s first settlers.

Still in its original leather binding, the log was fragile. He had a special cloth to lay it on, a special glove with which to turn pages. Moving through the text, he checked sections against the reference list Deja had given him, finding the bits they were interested in. This captain had transported contract labor to help ‘trope Julian, as well as to work the in-system asteroid mines. Along with logging the numbers of the contracts he had transported, the captain had made occasional comments on their condition – health, education, intelligence. These were the data Deja wanted.

Most of the log concerned ship’s issues, jumps and supplies, crew, gear, upkeep. Only now and again did the captain comment on matters beyond his ship and its corridors. The most unsettling aspect of the research Martin had been doing for Deja had been learning how little any of these ship’s captains and Lord Holders, orphanages bosses and warehouse wardens – how little of their attention was given to the contract labor in their charge. This captain transported human cargo out from the Core to various Republic planets, mining corporations, stations, to any place in the Republic where labor was in short supply. Like most of the other sources Martin had read, the captain had no issue with the fact of transportation. His complaints concerned the contracts: how they wrote obscenities on his bulkheads, thieved anything not bolted down, and left their litter in his mess. One entry said that, were it up to him, he would open the airlock on them all. Waste of genetic material, his log entry said: Piss poor protoplasm, he said. Martin extracted that entry, though he didn’t supposed Deja would read it the same way he did.

But even these comments were few. In fact, it was seldom that the captain mentioned his human cargo, though that cargo had made up nearly forty percent of his profit in the settlement years. Over the course of forty-five years, this captain had transported, according to the records someone had already run, nearly a quarter million contract laborers between the ages of twelve and forty, and he had mentioned them in his famous log perhaps thirty times.

Later, as he was thinking what he wanted to do about dinner, he caught someone waving from the gate: Dallas. Martin felt his mood lighten. He waved back, and went to stow the captain’s log. As he had expected, the curator had to give him a bucket of trouble first; but he eventually made it out the gate. Dallas waited down the corridor, leaning in an embrasure.

“I was hoping I’d run into you,” Martin told him. “I’d have posted, but I ain’t know your call-sign.”

“I’ll give it to you,” Dallas said. “What are you doing here?”

Martin explained as they made their way down the corridor, adding, “You’re taking me to eat, is it? I’m starving.”

Dallas grinned. “I remember. The good mess is shut, but we can go to Todor’s.”

“As long as it’s plenty of it, I ain’t care.” He told Dallas how Sudi had descended. “Which how this is my fault, I ain’t know, but he’s taking it out on my neck. Cut my suppers for the rest of my week already.”

“Because his wife came for Winter Holiday?”

Martin shrugged, his shoulders tight. “She told him I got mouthy.”

Dallas was silent. Martin’s shoulders got tighter. Never talk back. Specifically, he knew better than to talk back to Sudi. He had lived half a year on Strauss Estate before he and Deja went up to Durbin. At least twice a month, Sudi had sent him for the stick, usually for some stupid reason – once because she hadn’t liked the look on his face. He supposed Deja’s relatively sane treatment had made him forget the rules.

“Well,” Dallas said, “meanwhile, which day do you get, at the End?”

It was customary on Julian to give contracts one of the three days of Julian’s Week’s End for their own use, except during harvest or other times of pressing need. Deja never gave Martin a day, though. He supposed he thought the work was so soft, why did he need time off?

He told Dallas this – not the bit about his work being soft, but the rest. Dallas said that complicated it, but maybe they could work around it. Complicated what? Martin asked. This way, Dallas said, taking Martin down a set of service stairs into a contract labor mess. The food was rotten: for dinner, they were given fried rice cakes with white gravy and hot tea, not very sweet.

Dallas introduced him around to the cots in the mess – all general contracts, keeping the university running over the break. They swapped gossip – Martin commiserated over the appalling weather, described how when he left the West Country everyone had been going about in shirtsleeves. They told about a contract who had run off over the summer. Speaking in the contract undertone, the voice used when contracts didn’t want to be overhead, glancing frequently at the door, they told how the Redbacks said the cot went into the Bourbon River, drowned and died. But everyone knew that kid made it to the hills. Everyone knew he was in the Revolution now.

Later, while Dallas took him across a courtyard brisk with wind, Martin asked what he thought of that story. Dallas shrugged. “Someone has to make it,” Martin insisted. “If them in the hills are real. Is it? Why ain’t this one of them?”

“In here now. Not as nice as those gardens you showed me, but it’s what we have.”

Dallas introduced him to the contract running the greenhouse gardens, who asked Martin about the gardens at the University in Durbin, and about the University, seemingly idle questions, except in how thorough they were. On the way back to the archives, Martin watched Dallas covertly, wondering if something was up. Dallas said he’d come by for lunch again the next day, and advised him to keep warm.

He spent the afternoon getting through another two sources. The archive was open until seven during the holiday, and he was in no hurry to get back to the house.

It was full dark before he left. His shoulders braced against the knife of the wind, he made his way through the steep mountain streets, the high stone buildings looming above him. Ice glazed the paving stones. Reaching the guesthouse, he cut down the alley to the yard, climbed the steps, gritty with salt against the ice, and came in through the scullery, shutting the door behind him with relief. The house still wasn’t warm; but it was a deal warmer than outside.

Tsilla sat drinking tea at the scullery table, Chloris with her. Martin pulled off his coat, slowly, trying to sort out his reaction. “Lord Tsilla,” he said finally. “How nice.”

She gave him a wicked smirk.

Beyond the pair of them, in the kitchen, the cook sent by the university, Annie, scowled.

Martin settled on the bench by the door to pull off his boots. Why was Tsilla here? And why was she here, in the scullery, and not having supper with her parents? Then he heard, dull but unmistakable, shouting from upstairs: Deja and Sudi, fighting again. Working loose the buttons of his topcoat, he ventured nearer to the table, trying to pretend he didn’t hear the racket. Tsilla and Chloris were sharing a plate of cakes and a pot of tea. Chloris, Martin thought, had been crying. She held her usual posture, hunched and crooked, her shoulders around her ears, but he could hear the rough catch in her breathing.

Tsilla nudged the tea tray toward him. “Have a cup,”

He slid onto the bench furthest from Chloris.

“He doesn’t get supper,” Annie spat from the kitchen. “Lord Strauss’s orders.”

“It’s a cup of tea,” Martin said, not turning to face her.

“Lord Strauss said not one bite.”

“How if you wait until I put something in my mouth,” Martin said, still not looking at her, “and then start howling? How would that be?”

Annie slammed something onto a tray and banged from the kitchen.

“Bint,” Martin muttered. He stirred cream into his tea, and sugar as well.

“Why isn’t Papa letting you have supper?” Tsilla asked.

Martin glanced at Chloris, who swiped at a tear and hunched her shoulders tighter.

Tsilla’s eyebrows knotted. “What did you do, though?”

He drank tea. “I thought you were in Port City with Suley? Uphill shopping and that?”

Tsilla put a cake on her plate and cut into it neatly: a spice cake, with cream filling. Martin felt his stomach twist with hunger. He looked away. “It was the plan,” Tsilla agreed. “Mother as well. A nice Winter Holiday, with a side visit to Uncle Fen up on the station. Everyone together, and Aunt Suley introducing me to some lovely boys, very nice prospects.”

“But the weather here was just so much better?”

Tsilla grinned at him, her golden eyes sparking. “Have you been to Port City?”

“I have.” His second holder had taken him frequently, as had Deja, though he didn’t tell her so. On the estuary of the Siq River, close to Julian’s equator, Port City had fine weather: breezy, low humidity, never far from twenty degrees. Particularly in contrast to the Bourbon Mountains, Port City was paradise.

Tsilla ate more cake. “Mother…well, she’s been plotting to descend on Papa for months now. A full-scale offensive to win him back again. I suppose this is her first attack. Why Suley and Uncle Fen would join her—”

“Wait. What now?”

Tsilla tipped up her eyebrows.

He felt like he’d been hit hard. “Are – Suley and – are they with you?”

Tsilla shook her head, swallowing cake, and he felt absurd hope, which she at once destroyed. “I came with them. When Suley told me the plan, I came along for damage control. Attempted damage control,” she added. “We’ll see what good I actually am.”

He bit on a curse. He’d never seen much of Fen; Suley’s husband had a position uphill, as a maintenance engineer on Julian’s civilian orbital station, and had not, in the time Martin had lived on Strauss Estate, often come down. Suley Lord Ixton, on the other hand, Sudi’s older, sharper, meaner sister, he had gotten to know far too well.

“They brought the children, too. Not Parish, he wouldn’t come, but the little ones.”

“Oh, good shit.” Martin rubbed his ears.

“You swear too much,” Chloris reproved him.

Martin gave her a look, thinking of words he would like to use. Upstairs, Deja thundered, and his stomach flinched. He knew who would bear that temper.

“Mother and Suley,” Tsilla said, “were syncing. I didn’t hear…but I did hear what Aunt Suley said to Uncle Fen, after. I think my mother’s plan isn’t going well. Papa isn’t spending much time with her or the children. Is that right?”

Martin swore again. “She’s been here three days,” he protested. “It’s not even the End yet. We’re here on appointment, this is a working visit, I told her that.”

Tsilla’s eyes tucked up at the corners. “Are you telling Mother things again? No wonder Papa’s cutting your meals.”

He growled. “It’s not a shitting holiday. That’s all. We’ve got thirty-two days to get through the research, that’s if he doesn’t take Ends off.”

He had been going to continue, to explain their research plan, except Chloris interrupted: “We matter, you know! You and your research, you’re not that important! We count too!”

Martin gazed at her: her square, contorted face, flushed and splotchy, her wet eyes.

“That’s not what he meant, Chlorie,” Tsilla said, gently. “Is it, Martin?”

Although that had been exactly what Martin meant, he said, “Of course not, love. Your da’s going up for lecturer soon. It’s important that he finish this research. That’s all I meant. Not that it’s more important than you.”

A tear dropped between Chloris’s bunched fists.

Hunting for something to discuss which wasn’t their parents, Martin asked Tsilla, “How’s the new school? Better than the old?”

This turned out to be an excellent move – Tsilla had plenty to say about the new school. It was so much better than the school in the east, she could not believe they were even both called schools, she loved it, and she loved Martin for getting Deja to let her shift.

“It wasn’t me,” Martin protested. “I just told him you weren’t happy. The rest was your da. Well, I think Lord Harper helped – he’s got links at this new school. But it was mostly your da.”

“That East Country school – they would get up three hours early to get their hair and eyes and jewelry just right, and then in class, they give the lecturer this wide look, ooo, I didn’t have time to do the reading. All that mattered was who said what snappy thing behind whose back, who cut whose prospect. At Al-Tayib, well, it’s not that no one cares about dress or prospects, but scholarship matters most. What?” she demanded, of Martin, who was smiling.

“Nothing. It’s nice to see you happy.”

She laughed and poured him more tea. “What about you and Da? How’s this plan where he rents you out?”

Martin made a face. “He hates it. I hate it more. I think he’s got me rented by the term, though he won’t tell me. I was hoping…”

He had been hoping, here in Bourbon, to sweeten Deja up, to coax him around; but so far, whenever Martin edged near the point, Deja shut him down. Martin chewed at the problem once more, trying to think why Deja would rent him out when he clearly didn’t like having him rented – could Deja need the money, maybe?

The kitchen door knocked open. Thinking it was Annie, Martin barely glanced up; then he saw it was Suley Lord Ixton. He twitched, straightening on his bench.

“There you are,” Suley was saying to Tsilla and Chloris. “Why didn’t you come back—” She stopped. Martin lowered his eyes. “What’s this?”

“Just catching up on family news, Aunt Suley,” Tsilla said.

“I wasn’t speaking to you, Lord Tsilla. You. What are you doing?”

Martin kept his eyes down. “Miss.”

“Stand up when you speak to me!”

He got to his feet, put his hands behind his back, did everything right.

“Do you think it’s appropriate for a contract to be alone with two young girls?” she demanded. “A contract like you, especially?”

He kept his head down.

“Why him especially?” Chloris asked.

“Aunt Suley,” Tsilla said. “Really.”

Shut up, he told himself. Keep your idiot teeth together. He stared at the floor.

She came around the table at him, her tiny boots clicking. “Don’t ignore me!” She seized him, her wrist no bigger than a child’s wrist. He wanted to grab that wrist and twist it. The violence shivered through his muscles, the desire to hurt her hot in his mouth. She clenched her fist in his collar. “You answer me!”

“I’m that sweet?” he asked, not bothering to keep the contempt from his voice. “Is it? None of you holder bits can keep your pretty hands off?”

Her eyes went wide, her face blank. Martin shut his teeth, wishing to pull the words back behind them. Color flushed dark under her skin. She let go of his shirt and slapped him across the ear. “You – you filth!”

He held still.

Trembling with rage, she sucked in another ragged breath. “You go find Mr. Davis, do you hear me?”

His stomach flinched.

“Tell him what you did here. Tell him I want you whipped.” She breathed through her teeth. “Did you hear me!”

“Miss.”

“Why are you standing there?” she shouted.

He made himself move, made himself walk past Tsilla, frozen at the table, out to the corridor. He stood, once the scullery door had shut behind him, trying to think. Davis was the boss sent over by the manciple to manage the University contracts. Martin didn’t know him well. What sort of stick he used, for instance, an actual switch, cut from a tree, or a plastic one, or one of the metal sort field boss favored, the kind that tore the shit out of flesh and muscle – Martin swallowed, the skin on his back gone tight. He looked upstairs, thinking of finding Deja, trying to get him to intervene.

Except that first, Deja wouldn’t, since it was no question he had this one coming; and second, if he did that, he would be disobeying a direct order from Suley Lord Ixton. You did what you were told. It was the first thing you got taught. He was shivering. He tried to think where Davis would be at this hour. He set off up the corridor, feeling sick.

Annie was coming from the dining hall, a tray of dirty dishes under her arm. He asked her where Davis was. Impatient at the interruption, she gestured upstairs: supervising the unpacking. Martin thanked her and climbed the stairs. He noted that the shouting from Deja’s suite had stopped. One good thing.

He found Davis in the east suite on the second floor, directing the upstairs girl. Martin hovered in the doorway until Davis came to see what he wanted, and then explained, as briefly as possible. A spasm of annoyance crossed Davis’s face. “You idiot.”

“Sir,” Martin agreed.

Davis hesitated, glancing down the corridor toward Deja’s suite. “Lord Strauss knows about this?” Martin shook his head. Davis cursed. “This is not what I need tonight.”

Martin hugged his ribs. Davis rubbed the back of his wrist against his forehead. Then he pointed at Martin. “You stay right here. Understand?”

“Sir.”

Davis started toward Deja’s suite. Martin stepped back, out of the direct light of the corridor. He was under no illusions about what came next. Davis was only covering his neck. Davis was working for Deja, not Suley. If he took a stick to Strauss’s personal contract without leave, he might well find himself out of work. For a Service-class jack, which Davis was, that could mean disaster. Specifically, it meant he might find himself in the system himself within a quarter or two. That would not be a chance he would care to take, not just to please some West Country holder.

He heard Davis tap at Deja’s door, and, a moment later, the murmur of their voices. He shut his eyes, waiting for Davis to return. He had crossed a line, true. It had been stupid. But Davis had nothing against him. Davis didn’t even know him. Davis had nothing invested in making him bleed. It wasn’t going to be bad. He hugged at his ribs and tried to believe this. He had been all over this house, so he knew it wasn’t a stick anywhere around here. Maybe Davis had brought one with him. If so, it would be plastic, probably. Not metal. He hoped to shit it wasn’t metal. The inside of his stomach prickled with hot nerves. He was having trouble getting his breath.

“What are you doing?” Suley demanded.

He jumped, his eyes coming open. She stood at the top of the stairs, her expression outraged. “I told you to find Mr. Davis. Why haven’t you done that?”

He swallowed. “I did, miss. I—” He looked down the corridor.

“Don’t lie to me!” She came at him, her words scaling louder. He tried to scramble away, but the corridor was too narrow; she hit him, not hard, she didn’t have the muscle to hit hard, shrieked another threat, hit again.

Then Deja and Davis and what seemed like half the household filled the corridor: Suley shouting at Deja; Sudi wailing in flute-like tones; Fen; Tsilla objecting to Suley’s description of the events; Chloris weeping; the younger children milling about, adding their piping chaos. Deja filled his lungs and said, not loudly, but with force, “Quiet, please!”

Oddly, this worked.

“Victoria,” he said to the nanny, “please take these children away. Chloris, perhaps you might help with that. And Tsilla.”

“Papa!”

“Please, Tsilla.”

She glowered, but gathered up fistfuls of children and helped haul them to their suite.

“Sudi,” Deja said. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“If it’s about my sister—”

“It’s not about you,” he said. She whirled and banged the door to her suite behind her. “Or you,” Deja told Fen, “but feel free to stay. Martin. Is what Mr. Davis tells me accurate?”

“Yes, sir.”

Deja made a tsking sound, and looked at Suley. “Why would my secretary say something so rude, Lord Ixton? What compelled him?”

“Are you implying he was justified?” Suley demanded. “If one of my contracts spoke to me like that, he’d find himself in the Islands before he could catch his breath.”

“You have this problem often? You frequently drive your contract labor into fits of fury so intense you have to sell them to the Islands lest their rebelliousness corrupt your workforce?”

Suley colored up. “That is not what I said.”

“No. Well. Perhaps you should not have provoked my secretary. I agree he ought not to have spoken as he did – I quite agree to that – but I don’t think anyone needs whipping. Apologize to Lord Ixton, Martin.”

Martin, frozen with shock and surprise, took a moment to react. He choked, got his breath, and said, “I’m sorry, Lord Ixton. It won’t happen again.”

“I’m sure it won’t,” Deja said. “Come along, Martin.”

Deja started for his suite. Martin, sticking close to the corridor wall, as far from Suley and Fen as he could manage, followed. Fen, recovering from his own shock, snapped after Deja: “Hold on, now. Hold on!”

Deja turned, his expression wide with elaborate surprise.

“That’s all you plan to do?”

Deja glanced at him, and past him at Suley. “Well. I do think…others need some discipline. But that is outside my purview.” He paused, briefly, delicately, and, before Fen quite had time to speak, or explode, said, “Good night, Lord Fen. Lord Ixton.”

***

Inside the suite, Martin tread carefully. He knew whose benefit that had been for. He knew he was still in a bucket of trouble here. He undressed down to his undershirt and trousers; he sorted the day’s work, putting the clips and hardcopies on their racks on the worktable; he built up the fire; he fetched Deja a whiskey and ginger, and mixed rum and limon for himself; he settled on the rug by the fire, leaning against Deja’s leg. Deja ran his fingers through Martin’s hair, lightly at first, and then tangled his fist tight. Martin tipped his head back against the pain.

“What sort of fool move was that?” Deja asked.

“I know.”

“I should have let them do it to you.”

“I know. Thank you.” Martin reached to close his hand around Deja’s wrist, easing the tension. “I was scared.”

Deja grunted. “You should have been.”

Martin set his glass aside, and rested his face on Deja’s thigh. Deja petted his hair, running his fingers through it. The fire popped over the fat sticks of blackwood, its heat warm on Martin’s back. He loved being warm. He loved being touched, Deja’s gentleness, Deja being kind. When Deja stopped petting him, he pushed his head at his palm to make him start again. Deja laughed and did. “Did you get through those sources?” Deja asked, reaching into his shirt.

“All but the last. This night curator, he won’t give me new texts after six. Says it’s archive policy.” Martin yawned. “I’ll keep an eye on the time tomorrow. He’s mean as the rest about me using the archives, me and my grotty cot ways.”

“Should I come raise a fuss?”

“They’re not causing real trouble. Mean’s no deal.”

Deja slid his shirt off his shoulder. “I love your skin. It’s such a pretty color.”

Martin smiled, nudging at him again. “Rub my back some more.”

“Come here.” Deja pulled off his shirt, began working at his neck and shoulders in earnest. This felt so good Martin made moans of pleasure. Deja slipped down onto the rug with him. “Make that noise some more.”

Martin pushed Deja flat on the rug and kissed him, taking his time about it. The heat of the fire played across them. He was hot, and Deja was hotter. Pinning him to the floor with his knees, he undressed him slowly, his loop-tie, his vest, his linen shirt, unwrapping him like a multi-layered package. Deja kept trying to rush, to yank off the clothing, and Martin kept slowing him down, playing him, keeping him still. Deja whined in his throat. Martin laughed at him, moved to the slender chips of bone button that closed his fly, and the huge erection swelling against his trousers.

“You can’t just tell them leave?” Martin wondered aloud later, lying warm and easy, Deja in as fine a mood as he was likely to be, the light of the fire playing over both of them. Deja, always handsome, was beautiful in this light, his lean length burnished, the angular cut of his face light and shadow, his eyes and hair lit golden.

Deja stroked Martin’s ribs, cupped the muscle of his shoulder, watching that and not his face. “Sudi and my children? I can’t send away my children.”

“I didn’t mean them,” Martin said, though in fact he had. “But Lord Ixton? Fen? They’ll kick up the most dust. Send them off. Why not?”

“They’re Sudi’s family,” Deja said with a tinge of impatience. “I know your type doesn’t understand family, I know you don’t have family in any real sense. You’ll have to accept my judgment.”

Martin locked his teeth over hard words and turned his face to the fire.

Deja brushed at his hair, and made him turn his face back. “It’s not your fault.”

Martin smiled his best pretty little cot smile, the one that said, I’m sure you’re right, sir, if I was only smart enough to understand the big words.

Deja pulled him closer. “It’s three weeks. Stay clear of Sudi and Suley. Get your work done. Sudi wants me to spend time with the children, well, I want that, too, so.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I’ll tell Davis nothing gets done to you that I don’t clear, no matter who gives the order. I’ll make that clear to Sudi and Suley and Fen as well. Now listen.” Deja tipped up his chin. “You don’t take that as some free pass. You cross any lines, I’ll have Davis take you downstairs. Don’t think I won’t.”

Martin lowered his eyes. “Sir.”

“I want that understood.”

“It is.”

Deja kissed his temple, where Suley had hit him. “It will be fine.”

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