The Domination, page 78
Johanna nodded in the direction of the pool. “They two seem to get on very well,” she said. Mandy nodded. “Are they sleepin’ together yet?” she continued casually.
Mandy blinked and coughed, would have squirmed if etiquette permitted. “Ah, Miz Ingolfsson, they, ah, that is—”
Johanna’s cousin spoke without raising her eyes from the book in her lap. “Gods, Jo, y’always were as subtle as a steam truck. Spare the girl’s feelin’s, hey?”
Johanna chuckled; adolescent affairs were a long-standing tradition for Citizen-class women, but there was an ancient convention of not mentioning them before adults. Probably a survival from times when such things were strongly frowned upon, but it had been silly even in her youth. “Younger generation’s less discreet than we was, Alicia,” she said. To Mandy: “Hard though it is to imagine, girl, I went to school, too. Jus’ inquirin’.”
“Ah, no. I don’t think so,” Mandy said. Under her breath: “Moo.”
“Well, as they please,” Johanna said contentedly.
Yolande had never been very popular at school in her younger years: too much the loner and dreamer. It was reassuring to see her fitting in so well and making friends. A lover was only to be expected given her age, although Johanna had never thought much of the hothouse-romance atmosphere of Senior School herself. In theory it was supposed to be emotional training for adulthood, but she had never seen the point in falling in love with someone you couldn’t marry. Not that school sweethearts necessarily drifted out of touch; ex-lovers who were godmothers and unofficial aunts to each other’s children were a staple of Draka life . . . But it was all no preparation for how different men were.
Well, I was always eccentric, she mused comfortably. Deciding who you were going to marry at sixteen was decidedly unusual, even if he was a neighbor’s son. She smiled down at Rahksan; that was an entirely different matter, of course. As the Roman poet had said, it was pleasant to have it friendly, easy, and close at hand . . . friendly especially, otherwise it just wasn’t worth the trouble, usually.
Rahksan smiled back, laying aside her embroidery. “You got anythin’ fo’ me to do, next hour or two, Mistis?” she asked.
“No, not particular, Rahksi. Why?”
“That boy of mine,” she said. “Wants particulah to have a talk with me, says it impo’tant. Allah, most of the time he don’ give me the time of day, an’ now he jus’ has to have a chat.”
Johanna pursed her lips; Rahksan’s son was a classic pain in the fundament. Spoiled from house-rearing, restless as a cat on hot tiles, and sullen; a lot of young serfs went through a stage like that, particularly the males, but he was considerably worse than average. It was no help that Ali had been sired by Tom. Contraception had been more difficult then, and Rahksan careless about it; the three of them had been play-pleasuring, and the Afghan had decided to keep it on impulse. Not that half-Draka bastards were uncommon, but mostly they grew up in Quarters and it made no particular difference. Ali had run tame in the manor; looking at it from his point of view, she supposed it was natural enough for him to be more discontented than most. To make it worse, he was completely besotted with Colette, her son John’s new French concubine.
Who is a gorgeous mantrap and a teasing bitch of the first water, Johanna thought sourly. The wench had been a present from her cousins Tanya and Edward, who had a plantation west of Tours in the Loire valley; John certainly hadn’t complained—he indulged the wench—but his mother was beginning to think her kin had unloaded a troublemaker. Tanya’s bloody sense of humor, she mused.
“Rahksi, that boy needs some serious talkin’-to,” she said. “Half a dozen times I’ve talked Tom out of kickin’ his butt good an’ proper. Fightin’, drinkin’; he’s first-rate with the horses, but he’s back-talked the head groom enough to get anyone else triced up to the frame fo’ ten-strokes-an’-one. Freya, honeybunch, I cain’t let him ruin discipline.” Bending the rules too far for a favorite was an invitation to trouble.
“Ah knows, Mistis.” A deep sigh, and the serf’s brows drew together. “Blames myself, really do. Too easy on that chile; I get set to rake him down, an’ then remembers him so little an’ sweet. He too kind treated, never reminded strong of his place; it better if’n y’learns that young.”
Rahksan looked suddenly older, Johanna sat up and gave her a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. “Isn’t easy bein’ a mother, Rahksi. Don’t worry, we’ll straighten him out.”
The Afghan shrugged and smiled ruefully. “I’ll tells him you threatenin’ to sell him to the mines,” she said.
Johanna snorted. “Bettah use somethin’ he’ll believe,” she replied.
The Ingolfssons and her own von Shrakenberg clan had definite ideas about managing their serfs; they did not sell them to strangers, except as punishment for some gross crime like child abuse. Such extreme measures had not been necessary on Claestum since the brutal days of the settlement, right after the War. Besides which it would break Rahksan’s heart, which was not to be contemplated.
“Say we might send him down to the boats fo’ a year,” she continued. Claestum had a part-share in a tuna-fishing business on the coast, run in cooperation with a half-dozen neighboring estates. The Landholders oversaw their hired managers carefully, but it was rough work.
Rahksan winced slightly and made a palms-up gesture. “Tell you true, Mistis, I’ve thought on that. Might do him good t’see how soft he’s had it, an’ get him away from his momma’s skirts. But—”
“I know, he’s you own and you’d miss him.” Johanna rested one of her own hands on the serf’s. “Look, Rahksi, this just an idea. Tom was sayin’ Ali makes a terrible house boy but might do well as a soldier; we could get him a Janissary postin’ if he volunteered.”
And it would be just what he needs to make something of himself, she thought. The boy’s strong an’ smart enough, it’s the attitude’s the problem. An induction camp’s hard-bitten master sergeants had no interest in the anguished sensitivities of the adolescent soul, or anything else beside results.
Rahksan bit her lip. “That generous, but they mighty rough an’ he ain’t no how used to it.” A talented serf could rise far in the military. Not just to noncommissioned rank in the subject-race legions; Janissaries had opportunities for education, training of every sort. There were ex-Janissaries throughout the serf-manned bureaucracies that ran the Domination, below the level of the Citizen aristocracy. “Though . . . I wouldn’t see him much that way,” she finished softly.
“Rahksi,” Johanna said seriously. “He’s not you little boy no’ mo’. Ali’s a grown buck, an’ he has to learn to look his fate in the eye. He cain’t hide behind you fo’ever. Else he’ll do somethin’ we can’t overlook, an’ . . . ” She shrugged. “Ahh, well, run along an’ try reasonin’ with him. But think about it. We’ll talk it ovah mo’ tonight.”
Johanna put the matter out of her mind as Rahksan left; time enough later. She could hear Olietta directing the wenches setting the table behind her, and glanced at her watch—1258 hours, Tom would be in from the fields any time now. It was a house rule that the family ate together; otherwise you might as well be living in a hotel.
“C’mon, you two!” she called to the girls in the pool.
“That was fun,” Yolande said, as they slid out of the water. The verge was covered in the same blue-and-green New Carthage tiles as the pool; they felt warm and slick under her feet, and the dry air cooling on her wet skin. It had turned out to be a not-quite-hot day, just right for outdoors.
“ ’Twas,” Myfwany agreed. “I’m nevah goin’ be able do that circle-flip like you can, ’Landa.”
Yolande grinned with pride as the servants came forward with towels; Bianca and Lele, her own. The deep pile of the cotton was a pleasure in itself, smelling crisply fresh and slightly of the cherry blossoms they had been laid on in the warming cupboard. She had always rather enjoyed being dried; there was less distraction than when you had to do it yourself, and after a swim it made you feel tingly and extra clean. Like wearing new-laundered underwear, only it was your own skin. She reached down and absently patted Lele’s head as the Eurasian serf worked over her feet.
“How’s Deng?” she said.
“Still poorly, Mistis. Gives many tanks fo’ the crystallized ginger you sent up last month.” Lele looked up and grimaced. “Says he hasn’t seen any since China. I tried it. I kin see why.” Yolande laughed and held up her arms for the serf to slide the Moorish-style striped djellaba over her head. The fine-textured wool settled against her skin like a caress, and she ran her fingers through the damp mass of her hair to spread it over her shoulders.
The serfs gathered up their towels and left; Myfwany looked up, adjusting her belt-tie. “You’ve got wonderful servants,” she said sincerely, shaking back the wide sleeves. Disciplined obedience could be bought from any good labor agent, but enthusiasm was not as common. “Spirited but not spoiled.”
“My parents’ doin’,” Yolande said in disclaimer. “They had problems, back right after the War. Had to kill a few, even; but now we go six months without so much as a floggin’. Pa doesn’t hold with whippin’ much, says it’s the last resort of stupidity an’ failure.”
“Good teacher still needs a good pupil,” the other girl replied with a slow smile. “You’ve got the nature, like Marsala wine: strong but sweet.”
Yolande smiled back, and then the expression faded. There was a feeling of cold under her breastbone, yet it was hot as well, cramping her breathing. She could feel her lips paling, and her arms and legs wanted to tremble; her vision grayed at the edges until Myfwany’s face loomed in a tunnel of darkness. There was a moment when the whole surface of her skin seemed to prickle, drum-tight, then the world snapped back to normal. Or almost—the hot-chill sensation in her stomach settled lower and faded to warmth, and she put her hand to the side of her head, gasping for breath.
“You all right? ’Landa?” Myfwany’s voice was sharp with concern, as she gripped her friend by the shoulders.
“I—yes, just felt funny fo’ a second.” She shook her head. “Little scary . . . must’ve held my breath too long underwatah. Anyways, let’s go eat; I’m starvin’.” She had suddenly a bottomless hollow feeling almost like nausea. It was worrying, even if they had only had rolls and fruit with their coffee that morning. No run, after all, and only a couple of hours in the water . . .
A serf struck with quiet precision at a tiny bronze gong by the table. Another seated herself at a harp nearby and began to play softly as the Draka assembled. The table was near the house wall, the usual rectangular slab of polished stone on curved wrought-iron supports, shaded by oleanders. Yolande dropped into her wicker chair and grabbed at a roll from a basket, breaking the soft fresh bread and eating it without benefit of butter. The taste was intoxicating and she finished it off and took another, more slowly. Muriel and Veronica had arrived, looking sleekly content; they nodded around the table as they drew their chairs closer.
“Where is you father?” Johanna asked, as the serfs handed around the first course; it was iced beet-and-cucumber soup, for a warm day. “And are they starvin’ you down at school, child?”
“Mmph,” Yolande said, then swallowed to clear her mouth. “No, I just had a . . . really strange sensation. It’s funny, I was lookin’ at Myfwany an’ thinkin’ on how nice she is, then all of a sudden my head was swimming and my knees felt watery and my skin went cold an’ I broke out in a sweat, and then my stomach felt strange. Figured I must’ve not noticed how hungry I was . . . What are y’all laughing at?” she concluded with bewildered resentment.
Her mother had put fingertips to brow and her shoulders shook. Aunt Alicia was coughing into a napkin; Myfwany looked back and forth between them, blinked in understanding, and then focused on carefully pouring herself a glass of white Procanico wine.
Mandy looked at her owl-eyed. “Y’are joshing ’Landa?” she asked, and turned to Veronica and Muriel. “She is joshing isn’t she? Please, tell me, nobody could be that ignor—”
“Johanna!”
It was her father’s voice, from the French doors that gave onto the terrace from the main house.
“Look-see who I’ve brought to lunch!”
“ . . . so it turned out they were just Keren tribesfolk who wandered across the border,” her brother was saying. “It’s pretty wild there in south Yunnan, mountain jungle. Of course, they could have been Alliance operatives pretending to be tribesfolk, so we turned them over to the headhunters.” He grinned and buffed his fingernails. “And my tetrarchy got extra leave fo’ stumblin’ across them. Scramjet shuttle to Vienna, overnight dirigible to Milan, caught the train to Florence an’ so forth.”
The soup was removed and the next course arrived: seared sea-scallions with asparagus, stuffed Roman artichokes and truffled walnut oil, insalata in cumin vinaigrette and a paella salad on the side. Plain country food. Her parents disapproved of the modern Orientalizing fashion of bits and pieces of this and that, saying it was bad for digestion and distracted the attention from the real pleasures of dining and conversation. Hunger satisfied, she touched a finger to her wine glass for a refill and watched the others. John was getting respectful attention in his description of an impromptu tiger hunt in the rhododendron thickets of the Yunnan mountains, up on the Nepalese border. Mandy was drinking it in, with her chin resting on her hands.
Well, he is pretty dashin’, Yolande thought critically, glancing at her brother. Tall and long-limbed, which showed to advantage in garrison blacks. Russet-colored hair and close-cropped beard, straight high-cheeked features and gray eyes against brown-tanned skin, set off by tasteful ruby ear studs and the silver-niello First Airborne Legion thumb ring.
“ . . . so I ought to be able to squeeze in a week here to home,” he finished.
Johanna signed for the serf to remove her plate and lit a cigarette. “We’ll be havin’ some people over next Tuesday, if you haven’t lost the taste fo’ countryside jollifications . . . I’m goin’ over the orchards this afternoon. They’re in bloom; why don’t you come along and help show Yolande’s friends about?”
“Hmmm.” The serfs were bringing coffee and desserts, blueberry lemonade sorbets and almond flan with fruits and cheeses. “Actually, Mother, I had somethin’ else planned fo’ this afternoon. Glad to, tomorrow. Sorry.” He grinned unrepentantly.
Yolande looked up at the harpist. Colette, her name was. A gift to John on his twenty-first birthday from the von Shrakenbergs of Chateau Retour, over in what had been France; they were kin, first cousins on her mother’s side and more remotely on her father’s, as well. The wench’s mother was a serf artist of note, a singer trained pre-War at the Paris Conservatoire. Colette had inherited some of the talent, and her looks as well. Tall, slender, dancer-graceful; softly curled hair the color of dark honey to her waist, and huge eyes of an almost purple violet. Priceless, and faultlessly trained, but Yolande had never liked her; conceited, given to dumb insolence, and unpopular with the other servants, which was always a bad sign. Except for a few of the bucks hopelessly infatuated with her, of course.
The serf met the Draka girl’s eyes for a moment, smiled with an almost imperceptible curve of the lips, then dropped her gaze to the instrument. Sunlight worked in flecks through the flowers overhead and patterned the white of her gown.
Yolande’s father laughed. “Give the boy a few hours to . . . settle in, darlin’,” he said. Johanna smiled and slapped her son on the shoulder.
“Don’ wear youself out. See you at dinner then,” she said as he rose.
“If there’s anythin’ left of you tomorrow, you might help with a problem, son.” Thomas Ingolfsson said. “We’ve been losin’ sheep, over to Castelvecchi.”
“Ah.” His son turned back, alert. “Wolves? Wildcats?”
“Leopard, from the sign.” Yolande saw her father’s eyes narrow in amusement at the sudden prickle of interest around the table. “Yes, they must finally be breedin’ enough that they’re spreading out of the Apennines.”
The upper hill country had been stripped bare of population after the War; that was standard practice, for security reasons and because such areas were seldom worth the trouble of cultivation by Draka standards. The Conservancy Directorate had reforested most of the abandoned lands and introduced appropriate wildlife. The Italian reserves were still not as rich as North Africa’s, where a hundred and fifty years of care had left the mountains green and teeming with game, but there was enough to allow limited culling. Draka loved hunting with a savage passion, and were preservationists accordingly, but letting the big cats into densely populated farming country was excessive even by their standards.
“In fact, the Conservancy people said go ahead an’ take them, not worth the trouble of trappin’.”
John sat down again; behind him, Yolande noticed Colette playing with an irritated vehemence.
“I could ride over tomorrow morning with the dogs; take Menchino and Alfredo . . . Join me, Pa?” he said eagerly. “Ma?”
His parents shook their heads reluctantly. “Winnifred went and broke her arm, can’t spare myself,” Thomas Ingolfsson said.
At John’s frown, Johanna added: “Can’t come myself either; we’re sortin’ the yearling colts fo’ the Siena show. Tell yo what, though, Johnny, why don’t you take Yolande and her friend Myfwany?”
“Thanks—” Myfwany and Yolande began in chorus, then broke off with a giggle. John opened his mouth to say what he thought of taking his baby sister and an unknown teenager along on a leopard hunt, caught his mother’s eye, and nodded.
“Glad to, sprout. An’ you too, Miz Venders,” he added.
“Thanks awfully,” Myfwany said. “No leopards on Sicily yet, an’ my elder sister got one down in Kenya last year an’ she’s always on about it.”
Johanna turned smoothly to the other girls. “Best not to cluttah up a huntin’ party too much; I’d be honored if y’all would come with me and assist at selectin’ the yearlings—we’re rather proud of our ridin’ stock here at Claestum—an’ to be sure, pickin’ out one each fo’ youselfs, as well.”
