"Friedman,.C.S.-.In.Conquest.Born" - читать интересную книгу автора (Friedman C. S)

IN CONQUEST BORN
C.S. FRIEDMAN

Copyright (c) 1986 by C.S. Friedman.
ISBN: 0-88677-198-6
e-book ver 1.0


To my parents and my brother, whose pride makes it all worth doing.

For ease of comprehension in the English text, all Braxin words have been rendered in the Basic Mode regardless of context.



One
BEGINNING:
1


He stands like a statue, perfect in arrogance. Because his people love bright colors he wears only gray and black; because they revere comfort, he is dressed uncomfortably. His people are flamboyant, and display their bodies with aggressive sexuality; he is entirely concealed by his costume. Tight-fitting gloves and boots cover his extremities and a high collar conceals his neck. His skin is as pale as human skin can be, but even that is not enough-cosmetics have been layered over his natural complexion until a mask of white conceals his skin from the prying eyes of commoners. Only his hair is uncovered, a rich mass of true black, as eloquent as a crown in proclaiming his right to power. It is moderate in length because another people, enemy to his own, wear their hair long; his beard and mustache are likewise traditional- the men of that other race do not have facial hair.
He is very tired. And he will not show it.
The tiny shuttle spirals downward, from the orbiting Citadel to the center of Braxi's largest continent. Inside there is only one compartment; Vinir shares it with his servant, who operates the vehicle. For the lesser man's benefit he maintains the image of racial superiority which is as much a part of him as the black and gray he always wears and the ancestral sword at his side. Let the servant observe that he is not tired-he is never tired-the situation does not exist which can tire him. Now and then he catches the man glancing at him, when he thinks he is not being observed. What is he wondering now? Vinir muses. Is the man human after all? Or perhaps: Can it be true that we are members of the same race? The answer to either question will, hopefully, be negative.
"If you desire to sit. Lord. . . ."
"I am content."
In truth, he is exhausted. His nation, embracing war at every opportunity, is less than efficient during peacetime, and in such periods the government is the most crippled of all. This day was bad enough, trying to sort out domestic problems without the excuse of military priority to use when it was convenient. Then, just as the Kaim'eri were about to leave, Miyar chose to introduce the current Peace for review. That meant at least a tenth of dreary emotional confrontations and a thorough rehashing of historic precedent before they could even begin to discuss the real issue: when-and how- the current treaty with Azea should be broken.
Fools! Vinir thinks. Someday the moment will be right, so unexpected or so profitable that we will know, simply know, the time has come. That's how we've always functioned-why-pretend that it's different?
It is very late. Vinir is grateful when the shuttle slows to a perfect landing outside his house. He nods his approval to the pilot and steps with false vitality down from the shuttle. Not long now, and then he can rest.
The Mistress of his House is waiting, as is her custom, to greet him as he passes through the forehouse and into the great entrance foyer which separates public edifice from private domain. She has a cut-gold vial in one hand and a cord of rings in the other, and hands him the former without word. He removes the stopper from the vial and drinks its contents. Immediately the mild restorative begins to take effect; he feels the exhaustion of the day loosen its hold on him.
"Records?" she asks.
He nods. "I'll go over them."
She spills the handful of golden rings into his upturned palm. In the old days it was his custom to review the state of his household each night when he returned to its confines; now, with peace slowing his work to a painful crawl, there are nights when he lacks the energy to give it the attention it deserves.
It isn't necessary, really. Sen'ti is both loyal and capable and has proven her worth a thousand times over. But trust doesn't come easily to a Braxana, not even between the sexes, ,and he feels more comfortable knowing he has confirmed her work. With everything in her hands, from the finances of his House to his most tenuous political ties, he cannot be overcautious.
He motions for her to follow him as he strides through the foyer, to the massive staircase which dominates the building's center. Made of the finest natural woods, adorned with works of polished stone, it is a monument to the more barbaric side of the Braxana. Momentarily he regrets the law which forbids the presence of a lift or transport in any Braxana house. A pointless complaint. That law and others like it guarantee physical activity and Vinir has often supported them; nevertheless, at times like this he would prefer that something else did the work of getting him to the top floor of his home, where the private rooms of the Master of the House are traditionally located.
They pass servants. These are common Braxins, brown-haired and light-skinned in limitless variety but without the harsh contrast of the Braxana that sets that tribe apart from all others. They stand back in awe as Vinir passes, overwhelmed by the image he projects.
The Lord and Kaim'era is a beautiful man; all of his tribe are. They bred for strength and beauty once and the results are breathtaking. If common Braxins worshipped gods they might try to apply a supernatural label to Vinir and his kind, in the hope of understanding them. The Braxana are flawless in beauty, unequaled in arrogance, tireless and without emotional weakness. What more could a nation ask of its rulers-or its gods?
"I'll be glad to reach my own rooms," he says softly, and the Mistress of his House nods her understanding.
Two large doors separate his private wing from the rest of the building. Uniformed guards open them at his approach and seal them securely behind him; in the privacy of his own wing he prefers the human anachronism to more efficient but unpleasantly modern portal mechanisms.
"Well, we are alone," he says, by which he means that only members of his tribe are permitted beyond this boundary. He feels more comfortable among them, and certainly is freer to relax. They must never see beneath his mask of competence to discover within him any human weakness, but as for the image of racial superiority they are as much dependent upon it as he is, and unlikely to betray him on that point.
"We debated the treaty for two tenths," he says with scorn. "And we'll debate it again tomorrow-and the day after, too, most likely." He slips into the Basic speech mode, which is the language of the lower classes and does not contain the tiring complexity of the Braxana dialect. "Personally, I think it's time to accept that Azea anticipates our action and therefore we need to move not when it's most viable militarily, but when it would be most unexpected."
"You have something in mind, I gather."
He pulls a ringreader out from the wall and adjusts it. "There's a colony on Lees-Red'resh Three, if you will- which I believe could be ours for the asking. A fair bit of mineral wealth, a decent position for a Braxin outpost, but not so desirable in either category that Azea would anticipate a move there."
"You suggested this?"
He shrugged. "What's the point? We have to put in our time arguing the basics, first. We always do. There's more emotion than reason evident when a treaty first starts to wear thin . . . what's this?"
One by one he has been dropping the golden rings on the reader and surveying their information on a small screen. Now his gloved finger rests against that screen, pointing to a particular figure among the population statistics of his House.
"I don't have that many Braxana," he tells her sternly. "Not purebred."
"You do now, Kaim'era." She is smiling. "K'siva gave birth today. You have a son, my Lord."
He is astonished. The Braxana are nearly sterile-the price paid for that inbreeding which guaranteed their beauty. True, he had known that K'siva was pregnant; how could he fail to, when they had gone through an involved ritual of Seclusion to assure the child's paternity? But too many children conceived by his people are lost before or during childlbirth, and so pregnancy is more a cruel deception than a hope or promise, never discussed, rarely acknowledged, and sometimes genuinely forgotten.
"Alive . . ." he whispers.
"And healthy. They're waiting for you."
The rings are forgotten as he nods for her to lead him. He never dared hope for this moment. The men of his bloodline more often sire daughters than sons, to which rule he has been no exception. But a son-his to raise, his to influence in that strange mixture of genetic tendency and parental conditioning which results in adulthood. Quite different, he thinks, from being informed third-person of the birth of a daughter, and long overdue.