Princess of the Void

2.25. Friends

“This amrita is just gorgeous.” Wenzai takes a deep sniff of her glass. “Is this a Pakkar 60?”

Paxea beams. “You know your spirits.” The Marquess has arrived late to join them for dinner.

“I do hope Thror’s on the road to recovery.” Tikani holds a hand up. “Kroie, could you pour me one?”

Their servant, a mustard-suited young man, gives a low bow and fills Tikani’s glass with viscous blue amrita. This is the first male servant Grant’s seen who’s wearing a pair of anticomps.

“Thror sends his regards and his love,” Paxea says. “He’s not ready to be out and about yet, but he hopes to make the next one.”

Wenzai clicks her tongue. “Poor guy.”

“Grantyde was such a warrior in that box,” Tikani says. “Were you some kind of soldier on Maekyon?”

“I was a night watchman,” Grant says. “But I wasn’t much of one. Pretty terrible at the job, to be honest.”

“Why’s that?” Paxea asks.

“Well, a funny thing happened where I ended up getting kidnapped by and married to the lady I was supposed to be guarding.” Grant’s hand finds Sykora’s knee under the dinner table. “I’d call that a failing grade.”

Ana gapes. “You got kidnapped?”

“I sure did, kiddo. By this lady right here. Best thing that ever happened to me.” He squeezes his wife’s thigh. “Not, uh. Not that I recommend it.”

“That’s right, children,” Wenzai says. “No getting kidnapped. Or kidnapping.”

“We’re the exception that proves the rule.” Sykora takes a nibble of sausage.

They fall into eating, then, and listen to Ana and Mava tell them about their learning pod, the tutors and the fellow kids. “The first prefect in phys-ed is this total rotbreath named Oxoi,” Mava says. “And he’s the tallest one. And he’s already got his horns in.”

“Already?” Wenzai whistles. “God. What are they feeding that kid?”

“I bet poop,” Mava says. “Cause he’s a rotbreath.”

“Hey, now.” Wenzai tries to muffle the laugh she wants to let out. “Let’s not talk poop at the dinner table, Mavvy.”

"Are we going to host you, folks?" Tikani asks. "We’ve put a ton of effort into the guest room. I know Wen would love to show it off."

"Oh, I don’t know." Sykora glances at the Marquess. "Would that be all right, Pax? I know the plan was to come back tonight."

Paxea gives Sykora’s meaningful look an acknowledging return. “Of course, Majesty. I’ll pick you up in the morning. It is a lovely guest room.”

“The real reason to spend the night,” Wenzai says, “is you have to taste Tikky’s coffee. It’s a galactic revelation. That’s why I abducted him.”

“Does every Taiikari girl abduct her husband,” Grant says, “or am I just in unorthodox company?”

Wenzai shakes her head as she takes another forkful of steak. “Paxea and Thror were childhood sweethearts, actually. She grew up on Amadar. It’s a nauseatingly sweet story.”

“Not ours to tell, I’m sure.” Tikani adjusts his son in his lap. “You’re squirming, buddy. You want to be let down?”

Orlo shakes his head and makes grabby hands at his mother. Tikani deposits him on the floor and his tail disappears snakelike under the tablecloth. He climbs back out on the other side of the table. Wenzai giggles as he scampers up her legs.

“I have to take every chance to hold this one.” She adjusts him onto her knee. “He’s shooting up like a fricking weed. Another decacycle and he’ll be taller than me.”

A pang in Grant’s stomach as he sees Orlo’s eyes are as emerald-green as his father’s.

Wenzai holds one of the veggies up to her son’s mouth. “Are we ready to give stekkai another chance, Orli Worli?”

Orlo shakes his head and takes a dinner bun off his mother’s plate.

“More for meeee,” Wenzai sings, and reroutes her fork. “God. Pax. It’s so good, this season.”

Paxea nods. “We got extremely lucky with the sandstorms.”

Ana is leaning across the table, staring at Sykora.

Sykora glances over. “Hi,” she says.

“Can you really shoot anyone you want?” Ana asks. “My podmate says you can shoot anyone you want.”

“Ana.” Tikani taps the table. “Not appropriate, buddy.”

Sykora laughs. “It’s all right, Count.” She scrunches down to Ana’s level. “I wish I could, sometimes. I really do.” She rolls her eyes. “But every time I shoot anyone, I need to spend soooo much time explaining myself, and filling out allll this paperwork. Or I get in trouble.”

“You get in trouble?”

“Uh huh. With the Empress. And that’s someone you don’t want to get in trouble with.”

“Grown-ups can get in trouble too?” Orlo glances up at Wenzai with concern. “Mom, did you know that?”

“Some do,” Wenzai says. “Not your mama.”

“What’s paperwork?” Ana asks.

“It’s like homework,” Sykora says, “only nobody says good job when you do it.”

Ana sticks her tongue out. Sykora copies her. “I know. That’s why we have to use our words.”

“Is it true you can compel someone so hard their head blows up? She also says that.”

Sykora shakes her head. “This friend of yours thinks I am far cooler than I really am.”

***

Wenzai sits cross-legged on an amorphously cushioned chair that hangs like a birdcage from the awning above them.

“So we’ve had a lovely day,” she says, as the cool breeze rustles the balcony’s beaded curtains. “We’ve done some flying. Your husband nearly passed out doing barrel rolls—”

“It’s the gravity,” Grant says

“Whatever you say, sire.” Wenzai stands up and lights her cigarette off Tikani’s glowing cherry. She takes a drag and blows champak-scented smoke into Ptolek’s umber evening. “Where was I? The kids are in bed, the eating’s been eaten, we’re all a little buzzed. Except the Prince Consort, but I don't know if we have enough liquor in the house for a guy his size. What I’m wondering is whether it’s socially acceptable to bribe you at this point.”

“You’re truly a mistress of subtlety, Countess,” Paxea says.

“I’ve been so excited to bribe her,” Wenzai protests. “I don’t get to bribe that often.”

“I’m listening.” Sykora folds her arms. “I expect you to be careful, but I’m listening.”

Wenzai holds her hands up. “What I want is a chance—just a chance. To give you a tour of our aerostat condenser fleet, let you see how we operate. And if you’re impressed, I want to be in the conversation for the contracts on Tavelei whenever those open up.”

Sykora quirks a brow. “You seem confident they will. The surveyors don’t know whether the concentrations are high enough for a full operation.”

“Of course they will,” Wenzai says. "It’s right on the spinward tributary lane that already goes by Ramex, and you want to diversify your gas harvests, because you’re seeing all the bullshit going down on Ptolek with the threatened work stoppages, and you’re tired of accommodating their monopoly. Am I right?”

Sykora folds her arms. She’s trying not to grin, Grant can tell.

“And you can just let me worry about the concentrations,” Wenzai says. “I may have gotten my eye on some early numbers. Tavelei isn’t any great shakes now, but with the protocols my gals are developing, it’s going to be. And I have no intention of throwing any union organizers in the brig to get those margins up. The more they hate Garuna, the more they’ll look for alternatives who’re willing to negotiate, and I’m hiring. I wanna be in line. First in line, as a matter of fact. Tell me how to make it happen, and I will.”

Paxea’s by Sykora’s elbow. “I believe her, Majesty. Wenzai has an eye for these things.”

Wenzai grins. “Hell, I have two of them. What earns me my chance, Majesty?”

Sykora hums pensively. She sits in the egg chair Wenzai abandoned. “My senses tell me there’s a reckoning in the wind. Garuna’s security measures have been getting more and more brazen. The unions are close to boiling over. Narika’s going to make her move on this planet soon. When that happens, I need allies. Voices willing to vouch for me.”

“Surely the clerks won’t be expecting many,” Paxea says. “You’re the spoiler of magnate dreams. If you have many defenders in the Ptolek court, you’re not doing your job properly.”

“My thoughts, exactly,” Sykora says. “But Narika’s got silver on her tongue. I could use gentlewomen of quality in my corner. Give me assurances, and I’ll put you on my schedule.”

“You have it.” Wenzai’s tail flicks out. “Hell, you’d have it, regardless. I’ve got no qualms with how you run your sector. It’s been good to me.”

Sykora’s tail loops once around Wenzai’s and grasps it. “Throw in the recipe for that stuffed roiza and you have a deal.”

Wenzai giggles. "Good, right? Tik taught our chef this excellent cheat for caramelizing onions. I'll send it to your quartermaster as long as he prepares me something sometime. I've heard rapturous things about Kymai."

“His reputation is well-earned." Sykora releases Wenzai's tail and rests her drink on the side table near the egg chair. "I hope you’ll forgive me if I don't finish this—we’ve got an early morning tomorrow. The Marquess here is my ride, and she’s moving rapid.”

“That’s fine, of course, Majesty,” Wenzai says. “The husband and I have some lunchtime plans, anyway.”

Paxea smirks. “Let me guess. Barter.”

“Pax. You talk like I’m a lech.”

“Is it not?”

“Yes, it is. But you didn’t need to guess so quick.” Wenzai blows smoke at the Marquess. “Give us a break. We’ve been on hiatus while the kids have been growing.”

Pax nudges Sykora, who’s trying not to blush. “By hiatus, she means only weekends.”

Wenzai flicks the horns at Paxea. “You’ve fucked Tik. It would be a crime to deny the firmament its helping of the man.”

“It was a lovely time,” Paxea admits.

“The youngsters aren’t yanking our tendrils all the time now. Or our hair, in Wen’s case.” Tikani indicates his wife’s space buns. “We’re finally getting back into the swing of things.”

Grant chuckles.

Tikani stubs his smoke out on the balustrade. “What’s that, Prince Consort?”

“Oh. Swing. It’s the Maekyon word for bartering. I thought you were making a pun.”

“I’ll gladly take the credit,” Tikani says. “Swinging, eh? Interesting.”

Wenzai hops her butt up onto the lip of the balcony. “Makes us sound very acrobatic.”

“We’ve got our eye on Lady and Lord Trosst,” Tikani says.

“He’s a peach. Total sweetheart. She’s a bit of an airhead, but—” Wenzai forms a curve in the air in front of her own rather significant chest. “Wow, the twins. I hope she duels now and then.”

“I hope at least one of us can score some preserves when we’re over,” Tikani says. “Their berry fields are the envy of Ptolek II.”

“What about Lakai?” Grant asks.

Wenzai hums. “She doesn’t have a man, so we can’t exactly trade. What do you think, Tik? Do we share her?”

Tikani leans on the balustrade next to her. “Probably a question for her, dear.”

Wenzai crosses her ankles around his arm. “She’ll say yes. We’re hotties.”

The air’s chilled at this point. Sykora and Paxea move their quiet conference about Trimond West to the fireplace. Tikani, in short order, is press-ganged into reading stories to the half-asleep kids. Grant ends up in the kitchen, surrounded by obsidian countertops and food-soiled gold, washing dishes.

“You really needn’t, Prince Consort,” Kroie the manservant protests.

“It’s meditative.” Grant daubs sabsum-scented soap onto his scratchy orange sponge. “I’ve missed it. Honestly.”

“It’s all right, Kroie.” The Countess is in the kitchen doorway. “In fact, I might join you, Prince Consort. If that’s all right by you.”

“Sure.” Grant scoots to one side. “I wash, you dry?”

Kroie paces fretfully away down a gallery hallway. Wenzai hops up onto the countertop with a dishrag and starts in on the flatware on the wire rack.

Wenzai runs the sponge under the sink. They work together in a silence that Grant hopes the Countess considers companionable.

He has no reason to distrust Wenzai. Surely he doesn’t. But the forwardness at the cloudsprint is on his mind, still, and he finds himself checking the exits and making sure he has one that she isn’t in front of. Just in case.

Wenzai breaks the silence as she wipes off a swooping organic pitcher. “I used to think your wife was a very lucky woman, y’know.”

“Did that change?”

“I no longer think luck has anything to do with it.” Wenzai tosses her towel onto the thick wooden table and plucks a drier one from the stack. “She’s got fabulous hair, fast wits, and a fat ass. Now I’m more inclined to think you’re a lucky man.”

Grant laughs.

“I hope you’ve had a good day with me and Tik, Prince Consort,” Wenzai says. “And that you aren’t still thinking about the little flirting I did at the cloudsprint. I didn’t know you were nme’zkai. I’d like to be friends with you both.”

She breathes on a spoon and polishes it.

“I haven’t been in charge of my family’s holdings for very long,” she says. “When you enter the coterie, everyone wants something from you. Everyone. You and Sykora aren’t interested in my holdings or my money or my husband or my body. And I hope you forgive any interest I have in the same from either of you. You’ve seemed… uncomfortable at points. I want to make amends, if I can.”

“No. It’s not that. It, uh—” Grant hesitates. Should he take Wenzai at her word? Has he made a friend today? He decides that this is a harmless enough thing to say. “You have such a lovely family. And Sykora and I… she’s a Void Princess.”

Wenzai’s face falls. She reaches up and pats his arm. “It’s unfair, Grantyde. I know it is. And I think your wife does, too.” She winks. “But don’t tell her I said it. I don’t need the Void Princess thinking I’m a malcontent.”

He laughs. “She doesn’t mind malcontents so much. She married one.”

Wenzai joins in. “It’s an unorthodox feeling, dinner with a woman who could execute you.”

“You get used to it.”

They finish the dishes and Grant excuses himself to bed. His invisible wife ambushes him as he enters their room and makes a valiant effort to find out whether Maekyonites are ticklish, questing her little fingers into his armpits.

He tackles her to the floor with her wrists pinned above her head, which was presumably her intention the entire time.

He falls asleep still inside Sykora of the Black Pike, and dreams of her. They’re on Maekyon again, at the Cheyenne Mountain Zoo. His alien wife’s in a Browns hat, wearing little jean shorts like his first girlfriend used to have. The kind with the pockets showing at the hem.

He holds their daughter up to show her the penguins.

They awaken to a distant band of dark smoke on the horizon and the report, playing loud from the sitting room, of the attack on the Trimond West refinery.