“Let them.”
“No,” he said, “that won’t help, making enemies. Your good name is priceless, even though our society is reduced to one mad ship, hung out to dry in an alien port.”
“You say all that because you think you have to.” Thasha touched a hole in her trouser knee. “But I know what you’re feeling.”
“Do you really think so?”
Thasha nodded. “I know you’re… impatient.” She laughed, trying to make a joke of it, then blushed and had to look away. He smiled too, generously.
“Are you afraid of something, Thasha?” he asked.
She looked at him shyly, then glanced at the Polylex. “In Etherhorde, in Dr. Chadfallow’s house-you know he was a family friend-there was a book about Mzithrini art. Did you know that the Old Faith has nothing against showing… men and women?”
“Lovers, you mean?” Fulbreech squirmed a little. “I may have heard something about that.”
Thasha paused as if to steady her nerves. “I used to take out that book whenever we visited. There was a painting of a sculpture in a Babqri square. Three women on their knees, reaching desperately for a man being lifted away by angels. He’s beautiful, naked of course… and he’s forgotten the women; his eyes are on the place the angels are taking him, some other world, I suppose. But when you look closer you see that the three women are really just one, at three moments in life. Young, and older, and very old, shriveled. And the name of the sculpture is If You Wait He Will Escape You.”
Thasha looked at him, blinking nervously. “I’ve been dreaming of their faces. Greysan, you must think I’m crazy-”
“Nonsense.”
“I’m afraid you’ll escape me.”
She sat there, trembling, and then his hand closed over hers. Neither of them speaking. His fingers rough and warm between her own.
“Impatient.” Fulbreech gave her an awkward smile. “Perhaps that is your delicate way of saying vulgar. Listen, darling: I would sooner die than insult you. Only it seems I can hide nothing in your presence. Not my dreams for our future, certainly. And not even”-he took a deep breath-“dreams of another kind.”
He flinched; surely he had gone too far. But Thasha’s gaze only softened, as though she had known this was coming and was glad the wait was over. She reached out and gently touched his face.
In the torchlight from the quay she saw struggle in his eyes. They were traveling her body, but now and then they stopped, uncertain. Some idea, some duty maybe, giving him pause.
“Later the others will be here,” he said.
Thasha stood in one smooth motion. She raised the water glass and drank it dry. Then she set the glass beside the Polylex and blew out the lantern.
“Later we’ll have to be quiet,” she said, and sat astride him.
She used her mouth as she never had in any previous kiss. She heard him gasping, felt his hands on her thighs, his legs moving beneath her. She sat back trembling. The struggle was almost over.
“You don’t know who you’re dealing with,” she said.
“No?”
“I was raised by Syrarys as much as my father. She came out of the slave-school on Nurth. She was trained in love. I spied on them for years. How she moved, what she said. I saw how she… made him happy.”
“You can’t have known what you were seeing.”
“I was at the Lorg School, too.”
“Learning to be a wife?”
Thasha didn’t answer. Slowly, watching him, she unbuttoned her shirt.
Fulbreech was motionless. Thasha’s lips were parted, her face almost stern. When his own hands moved at last she put her head back and closed her eyes. Do not think. That is crucial. Do not let it be real.
He was atop her; she lay back and put a hand in his hair. When his kisses became more urgent she squeezed her left hand into a fist. The wolf-scar on her palm, self-inflicted years ago, felt suddenly raw and unhealed.
Voices in the outer stateroom. Greysan froze, cat-like, his chin an inch above her breast. “It’s Hercol,” she whispered. “Damn him, damn him. Why can’t he just stay away?”
“Bolutu as well,” he said, frustration in his voice. “Thasha darling, we can be careful-”
“No!” she whispered. “I can’t, I’m sorry, if they heard me, I’d-”
Fulbreech could not catch his breath. He began again, and she stopped him instantly, her hand tight on his wrist.
“They don’t know you’re in here,” she said. “Just stay with me, Greysan, stay right here and hold me. And later, when they’re asleep-”
He looked at her. For a moment she thought he’d gone beyond the reach of words. Then a sigh of anticipation passed through him, and he settled by her side.
In the bread room, Neeps was pounding on the door. “Fiffengurt! You’ve blown your gaskets! Open this blary door!”
“Not possible, Undrabust,” came Fiffengurt’s voice. From the sound of it he was seated with his back to the sturdy, tin-plated door. They had already heard him telling puzzled sailors to mind their own business.
“What in Pitfire did we do?” shouted Neeps.
“You didn’t do anything. Just calm down, now, save your breath. And speaking of breath, you’d better snuff those lanterns. That’s an airtight room.”
Neeps turned his back and began mule-kicking the door. “Why-why-why-why?”
“Ouch! Stop that! Screaming will do you no good.”
Pazel sat in the center of the chamber, in the flour and the dust. The entire room-walls, floor, door, ceiling- was lined with tin, as a protection against nibbling mice. Their lanternlight reflected dimly from the walls.
Fiffengurt had caught them easily: told them to clear away the stacked and empty bread-racks, since “that red monster’s got to be lurking in one of the corners,” then slipped out as soon as the work began to throw the deadbolts. Neeps had exploded, but Pazel had not said a word. Everything that had happened since Thasha stalked away from the tonnage hatch was suspicious. But he could not for an instant believe that Fiffengurt would betray them. Nor would Thasha, for that matter. Something else was going on.
“Liar!” spat Neeps at the door. “You made all that up, about Sniraga!”
“ ’Course I did,” said Fiffengurt. “Now just sit tight like Pazel’s doing, there’s a good lad. I’m not doing this for fun, you know.”
Neeps was working himself into a lather. “You’re a lunatic! Let us out! Pazel, why don’t you mucking do something?”
“I am doing something,” said Pazel. “Be quiet. Let me think.”
“You’re a daft white-whiskered fat old pig, Fiffengurt!” bellowed Neeps. “What have you done with Marila?”
“Oh come off it, Undrabust,” said Fiffengurt. “How should I know where Marila went? Back to the stateroom, I imagine. Ah no-fancy that! — here she is in the flesh.”
“Hello, Mr. Fiffengurt. Hello, Neeps.”
Marila’s voice was oddly circumspect, but Neeps paid no heed to her tone. “About time!” he shouted. “Get around that old pig, Marila, and slide those bolts!”
“I can’t, Neeps.”
“Then run and tell Hercol that Fiffengurt’s a lying, sneaky, sell-’im-cheap-to-the-sausage-grinder fat old pig.”
“Neeps,” said Marila, “try to be like Pazel for once.”
“Listen to your lady, Undrabust,” said Fiffengurt. “Sit down and relax.”
Neeps threw his body against the door. He staggered, bruised, and backed up for another run. Pazel shook his head. It was never a good idea to tell Neeps to relax.
Thasha, for her part, was already unconscious. She lay holding Fulbreech, her long hair pooled around them, her breath deep and even. Fulbreech touched her with his fingertips. He, of course, remained wide awake. Sandor Ott would murder him if he fell asleep on the job.
