The Merchant Emperor (21 page)

Anborn smiled.

“Passing on it—asking you to let me out of the arrangement—is perhaps the only selfless, altruistic thing I have ever done,” he said.

“I don’t believe that.”

The Lord Marshal shrugged. “Believe what you like; it’s my assessment that matters, and as far as I am concerned, having taken stock of my memories, at least the ones I have chosen to keep, that’s it; that’s the only one.”

“And it’s something for which I have never thanked you properly,” Rhapsody said quietly, her face reddening. “You were more aware of my feelings than I was at the time; you knew I was in love with Ashe, even when I couldn’t admit it. It was such a confusing time, full of lies and misinformation. Had you not asked for release from our bargain, I would never have built a life with the other half of my soul. I wouldn’t have Meridion. You once pledged your life to me, Anborn—truly, we need to reverse that pledge, for I owe everything I have found in this world to you.”

“Stop that,” the Lord Marshal commanded. “The value of altruism, of selflessness, dims when one seeks or accepts such thanks. You’re welcome. Thank you for returning to me the use of my legs. There; we’re even. Now, can you put aside what you have gained from my decision for a moment and explore some other possibilities with me, just for discussion’s sake?”

Rhapsody blinked. “I—I guess so. I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Let us both acknowledge that we are happy in the way things turned out for you in your marriage, your choice of spouses.” Rhapsody nodded. “I wonder what you think life would have been like for us if I, in fact, had
not
given in to altruism, and had acted on the impulse of my baser nature, which has always been my default. I will make the question simple for you, Rhapsody: do you think you would even have gone through with it at all, or would good sense have held sway?”

“If I had not married Ashe, would I still have married you?”

“That’s a start, yes.”

“Of course,” Rhapsody said haltingly. “I would not have broken our bargain.”

“Well, that’s a
good
start then,” Anborn said. “And, had this come to pass, do you think we would have achieved the companionable, though loveless, marriage that we planned for, with my freedom unhampered and your suitors frightened off by the reputation of your husband, or, because it is clearly not what the All-God, or the Fates, or the Universe, or whatever other bloody thing is controlling our destiny wanted for us, would it have ended up as most of these marriages of convenience do—like Tristan Steward and his Lady Nightmare, or Anwyn and Gwylliam, or even Estelle and me?”

“Why are you asking me something I can’t possibly have any knowledge of?”

The Lord Marshal smiled again, but this time it was rueful.

“Perhaps I am just torturing myself in preparation for war,” he said. “When one contemplates something as impossible as saving a continent, it’s good to know that there is something worth saving. Or maybe I need to clean out the closets that once held unrealistic dreams, because I have no excuse to have such things or the space in which they are stored anymore. Or perhaps because you are the only Lirin Namer I know, and I want a knowledgeable observation, an opinion, rather than a prophecy from a mad Seer which would ruin my life in trying to figure it out. Or—maybe I just want to know if what I sacrificed mattered anyway; if it were to turn out to be a horror, I didn’t really miss out on much. Humor me—tell me what you think. It’s just a harmless question—what if?”

Rhapsody sat back in her chair and watched him as he stood, then delivered Meridion to the cradle, covering him carefully with a blanket and patting him affectionately, to return a moment later to his chair. For the first time since he had come into the room, he gave her his complete attention.

“‘What if?’ is usually
not
a harmless question,” she said. “It’s an impossible question, because the true answer can never be known.”

“There is no true answer; I’m just wondering what you think. I promise to hold you to nothing, because I understand the strictures of being a Namer. I can also promise I will not reveal anything you say to anyone else, nor will I torment you with its repetition. I just want to know what you think.”

Rhapsody closed her eyes. She pushed aside the tension of the feelings that had been mounting, recognizing Anborn’s hypothetical query as being something antithetical to the attitude of a Namer, but reasonable from his perspective as an answer to whatever was clearly plaguing his mind. She considered his question, taking her time to sort through the layers of it, then opened her eyes. When she did, they were gleaming calmly.

“Very well,” she said, “here’s my opinion.”

Anborn sat forward in his chair.

“First, all those forces you named that are supposedly controlling our lives don’t give a roasted rat’s damn about who we marry and what we do,” she said. “At least not the way you specified. We control our own destiny. If the alternative of our marriage would not have been as favorable as the one I actually have, it doesn’t mean we would have been made to suffer by some faceless entity for not getting it ‘right.’”

Anborn nodded, pleased.

“Second, you and I could never—let me repeat this for emphasis—
never
—be Gwylliam and Anwyn, or Tristan Steward and his hateful spouse. We would only be ourselves, as we are. And while you rode away with a faceful of mud from our first encounter, and I was called a ‘freak of nature’ and threatened with the prospect of seeing your horse’s new shoes close up if I didn’t get out of your way, I actually do not believe the interaction within our marriage would have been even the slightest bit unpleasant.”

Anborn chuckled, amused by the reminder of their first meeting. “Not even the slightest? If I recall, you accused me loudly of being buggered by my own
horse
. Come now, my dear—”

“Do you want my opinion or not?”

The Lord Marshal bowed his head humorously and yielded the floor back to her.

“I am so glad that I have come to know you now, at this point in your life, not in your youth, or during the Cymrian War, or in its aftermath. I have come to like the experienced you very much, and I’m not sure I would have liked you at all when you were younger. I am also especially glad that you did not know me in an earlier time, either; I expect you would have had nothing to do with me had you met me then.”

“I doubt that, Rhapsody.”

“Doubt it, or doubt it not. It doesn’t matter. You and I are no longer works in progress, but adults now. Had things been different, had we gone ahead with our alliance marriage, I believe at least most of the conditions we laid out in that lunch meeting would have been fairly easily upheld. You would have had your freedom, and so I imagine the arguments or conflicts that might arise when two people who aren’t in love marry would be nullified just because if things got to the edge of unpleasant, you would have saddled up and ridden away. It’s hard to maintain anger when someone is gone, at least for me. I would have found myself missing you, and glad to see you once you came home again.”

A small smile took up residence on his face. “Well, you have just proven yourself correct about not being like Estelle.”

“We agreed not to have children—” Rhapsody’s voice caught in her throat; she coughed. “Now that I have Meridion, I cannot imagine life without him. But, pragmatically, if I vowed that to you, I would not have tried to change your mind. All the things about not embarrassing each other or harming the people of Tyrian, I can’t imagine that would have been a problem.”

“No,” Anborn agreed.

“So that only leaves one thing that I don’t think I could have lived up to.”

The Lord Marshal nodded. “Ah, yes. The wifely duties.”

Rhapsody’s brow furrowed. “Wifely duties? Feeding you, keeping your house clean? I certainly could provide those services, though I have been told I make a terrible pot of tea.”

“You know very well that’s not what I mean.”

“I don’t. I—wait. Wait a moment—do you mean the physical relationship?”

“Of course.”

“Oh.” Rhapsody settled back in her chair, not a whisper of embarrassment on her face. “I hardly consider those ‘duties,’ Anborn,” she said. “Opportunities for mutual pleasure, rather, and perhaps good exercise. That certainly would not have been a problem, I assume—I can only speak for myself, of course.”

The Lord Marshal let out a long breath. “You would have expected that pleasure to be mutual?”

“Of course. Why—didn’t you?”

“I could only hope. Though it was not what I expected.” He looked down at his hands, broken-knuckled and callused from a millennia of wielding a sword. “In a thousand years of being with women, all but the paltry few during which I was married have involved splendid commerce that was blissfully one-sided. Bedwenches and camp followers have no expectations of mutual pleasure. Wives in marriages of convenience are, forgive me, very much the same—at least in my experience. So even though I would have secretly hoped to be able to bring you pleasure, I had no real expectation that I would even know how. Your intimidating beauty would most likely have rendered me more pathetic than a lad of thirteen. But if what we were to have was a commerce of another kind, trading marital joys for me with protection for you—I could live up to that.”

Rhapsody laughed. “You insult yourself greatly, and apparently don’t know me as well as I thought,” she said. “I could never sell myself in marriage to someone to whom I did not feel an attraction, or with whom that part of the marriage contract was a duty or an unwanted but required act.” Her eyes gleamed as her smile faded. “My life has been difficult in that area, Anborn. You once commented that I had the male world prostrate at my feet, which of course I do not, but there is a lot of ugliness that comes with that assumption. Whoring for reasons other than the usual ones is still whoring.”

The Lord Marshal’s smile dimmed as well, and he nodded silently.

“Please remember, I’m the one that proposed to you,” Rhapsody said, crossing her arms. “I did not presume at the time that you would want me in that way—” An explosion of laughter interrupted her. “What’s so funny about that?”

“Nothing, my dear. Pray continue.”

“But I’m a Namer. I cannot play fiddlesticks or three-in-hand because those are betting games, and I am unable, by profession and inclination both, to bluff. I thought you had already made this assessment of me by the time I asked you.”

“But yet you considered Achmed?”

“Only reluctantly. But yes. And not if you had agreed.”

Anborn’s expression became complicated.

“You consider Achmed attractive?”

Rhapsody shifted uncomfortably in her chair. “Not all attraction is visible to the eye, Anborn. But again, please note who I asked, and who I did not.”

The Lord Marshal nodded again. “So what, then, did you think would not have held in the agreement?”

Rhapsody smiled. “You told me it yourself when you asked to be set free.”

Realization dawned on the Lord Marshal. “That—that I wasn’t able to live up to the requirement of not loving you?”

“Yes, and I admitted I couldn’t live up to that requirement either. I have told you a number of times since then, but I never want to let an opportunity to do so pass—I love you. It is very different from what I have with Ashe—I am in love with him in a way I could never be with anyone else. But our theoretical marriage would not have been loveless, at least as far as I was concerned. I was disappointed, crushed, even, when you asked to be set free of the promise, because I had come to believe we would have had a happy, easy union, one blessed with laughter, and crude humor, an exchange of ideas and the teaching of each other, mutual respect, and loving friendship. And so yes, I expected that pleasure to be mutual. You’re a handsome man; your arms are strong, your body is youthful, and you kiss
very
well, if I recall correctly.” She chuckled as his grin widened, then her expression became sober. “I feel safe with you, and there are very few people about whom I can say that. I imagined traveling together, sharing a horse, riding in front of you as we did when you rescued me in the forest, wrapped in your cloak, me sleeping as we rode, but only if you kept your knuckles from digging into my ribs—”

“That was necessary,” he interrupted. “You were freezing to death.”

“Shhh. If I had been your wife you would have spent less time lame, as I would have been after you intently to heal yourself, maybe even to the point where you would have gotten annoyed and left for a while. I would have tried very hard to be pleasant company and a good companion to you, and to have made your fondness for bedwenches unnecessary, at least as best as I could, without denying you their company if I could not hold your interest.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“It’s not ridiculous—I assumed nothing.
Nothing
, Anborn. At that time I was trying to be as practical as I could, because romantic love was elusive and painful. The deception of the F’dor, and Llauron, and practically everyone I met, even Ashe, had me completely confused, and unable to listen to my own heart. It is not so now; I am grateful to the One-God and to you for setting me straight.” She averted her gaze from his eyes, which were gleaming in azure fire. “But if you are asking me if you and I would have been like any of the other hateful unions you mentioned, then no, we would not have been. I believe our marriage would have been happy, and easy, and loving, at least in a friendly way, and that it would have provided me the safety and security I was seeking, and you with whatever comforts you would take from me, gratefully given. But, of course, as you requested, this is just my opinion. We will never know, will we?”

Anborn watched her for a long moment.

“No, of course, we will never know. But it has been fascinating hearing what you thought might have been.”

From deep within the cradle came the sounds of an infant waking.

Rhapsody’s head dropped back and she stared at the ceiling above her.

“Again? Already, Meridion? Arrrgh.”