65 - in which I find a couple

As I sat down to plan my actions, I saw my dilemma. The more private I kept it, putting out the notice through town halls and bureaucracies and so forth, person to person, the less embarrassing talk there’d be. But the fewer people knew about it, the harder it would be to find people who were interested. I decided to try different ways in different places; that way I would learn.

The speaking tour itself went well, except for bouts of the kind of weather one must bless, since it helps the crops, but is a curse to travelers. It was on this trip that I began to have to truly shave my chin every day.

People near the Lakan border were happy that the war was over, no one was much worried about war from anyone else, and everyone was content to see a good harvest about to come in. Jinai’s reading seemed a thousand day’s journey away; with the sun golden on the wheat and the trees all bursting green, the idea that the Arkan sword hung over us, waiting to fall, seemed impossible. Since I was concealing it anyway, it was best not to think about it.

I got the usual hard questions about what sort of person I was, lots of unrequested advice, and all the standard complaints about bad roads, skinflint workfasts, belligerent neighbours and young people these days. But I did well enough that Esora-e, who had insisted on coming along, said, “You could charm an Arkan out of his boy, boy; better not learn to depend on it.” The war signs were enough that it was Arkans he’d turned his hate to now.

In Selina I tried just to put out word to the political people, and not a single couple came forward. In Erealanai, I did that but also posted notices on the paper-walls of the town square and market-places. Three couples came, but they all said that they weren’t in truth interested but had come to call someone’s bluff, assuming that the notice had been a prank, which of course meant who knew many more had stayed away for the same reason.

In Koresanai, I made quick mention of it toward the end of my speech. Little did I know that, once I’d started taking questions, virtually every question would be about this. However, two couples wanted to meet me. This was the way, apparently, so I decided to do it for every other town, though I’d leave the marriage mention to the end of the question-time.

Thus I fell into a routine. By day I spoke and traveled; by evening I talked with prospective spouses. We would meet after sunset in some private place, like conspirators. I would set out exactly what I wanted of them—the first few times I was awkward as a teenager, but I got better with practice—and then we’d talk until I, or they, saw it wouldn’t work.

They’d say they didn’t quite see what I had been asking and weren’t interested after all; or they’d be too crassly ambitious, looking at me with ankaryel clear in their eyes; or they’d be too old, or too young, or too unintelligent, or seem too selfish to be good parents, or too unpleasant to get along with, or too timid, or unlikely to adhere to what they promised. Or else they’d say I was somehow wanting.

Asinanai is a big city, of course, no smaller than Tinga-e, and when I spoke there it was to a good twenty-thousand people in the town square. As usual I said that I was looking for a couple to make with me a marriage of agreement at the end of the time set for questioning, but so many hands went up that the mayor allowed more time. “Don’t tell me you’re tired, you young muscle-bound buck, you,” she said. “You can’t throw them something like that and not expect them to want to know more.”

I should have known I was in trouble when I noticed a woman near the front scrawling fast notes on a noteboard, and smoothly finding another way to ask why I was seeking such a marriage when I’d already non-answered the question. It turned out she was from the Workfast Disseminatory, which is tied to the Workfast Proclamatory, and conveys across Yeola-e notices of matters unofficial as well as official.

My proposal was all over Yeola-e as fast as runners could carry it. From then on, in every town, I’d mention not a word in my speech, and the first question would almost invariably be, “So is it true, Chevenga, that you are looking to marry in a three by agreement?” and the second would be either “But that’s so odd—why?” or “Will we do?”

That was when I had to start having them turn in resumes first, as if they were seeking workfast shares or government positions. (Of course many were seeking government positions, and would start singing the praises of their own skills and knowledge until I reminded them this wasn’t that kind of meeting.)

But still, there’d be something amiss each time, that would keep either them or me from feeling it would go well. A pair of women from Tinga-e, one of whom was thinking of applying to the School of the Sword, came close; it occurred to me that having two women-for-women made it far less likely a wife might fall in love with me, and having two women also made it no matter if one was infertile. But they were both only eighteen, and seemed like half-children to me. It was soon after that I realized that virtually everyone under about twenty-five seemed too immature to me (when had I gotten so old in spirit?) and so began leaving their papers off the small stack.

In Thara-e my luck turned, with a woman who worked in the town hall, the daughter of a long line of bureaucrats, and a man of the same profession. They already had their names in as associates of the Assembly Palace Workfast. Her name was Shainano-e Anataeya, and his, Etana Shae-Sai. They’d been together for four years or so, and had held off having children to save up for a place of their own.

I met her alone at the cenotaph, and in the moon-shadow of its standing-stone, I could not even see what color her hair was. She was twenty-seven, old enough to have mastered silken bureaucratic polish and to call me “lad.” After talking for a while we decided that at least two of us were leaning chalk enough to have dinner, all three of us, the next day at Tyara’s. I hadn’t got this far with anyone before.

As usual with me with meetings, I got there first. I made sure Tyara tucked the table well away, under the weeping willow in the courtyard. Finding my nerve stripped as I waited, I begged a jar of wine (I was close enough to being semanakraseye that I was getting many things free already). I had thoroughly wet my lips when they came in, brushing open the hanging branches.

In the candlelight I finally saw her face well: open and practical, pleasant to look on but not breathtaking, framed in two long clouds of frizzed brown hair. Now I regretted my maturity requirement, hoping Etana would be at least close to my age, so we could joke like two boys, but no, he was at least twenty-five, lion-jawed and serious-looking. They were both in Thara-e ponchos, but with their office kerchiefs; this was business after all.

Once the introductions were done, I poured them each a deep cup, and kept them topped up as we chose meals. That done, we must make small talk; it was too early to get to the point. I had not had enough wine to soothe my nerves, just to bring that first state of mental clarity, like a pool of still water, showing in all its sharp edges the perversity of my intentions and making me feel as conscious of my skin as if I’d suddenly put on someone else’s. This didn’t help in making talk.

Matters of government were out; we’d all spent all day at that. The war was out; neither of them was trained. I ended up pouring more wine, and saying, “This willow is so beautiful; look how the leaves shimmer in the breeze.”

“Yes, very beautiful,” Etana said earnestly. “But that breeze… I note how the weather has become a little chill in the past day or so, hasn’t it.”

“Indeed, indeed,” said Shainano-e, equally earnestly. “And you know, I find this table we’re sitting at very smooth, and isn’t it interesting that it has four legs?”

I stared at her, feeling the flush of wine sharp on my cheeks. Etana did likewise, face confounded. Silence stretched like an overtightened harp-string; then a tiny smirk tugged her lip. We all burst out laughing so hard the cups danced on the table; I buried my face in my hands, and she patted my shoulder. From then on I was in my own skin again, and we were friends.

They were agreeable in spirit, and going over the details they found them satisfactory too. I gave them a promise that if I found no one I thought more suitable, it would be them, and they were agreeable to that.

We would marry as a three, and on my ascent move together into the semanakraseye’s chambers. The wedding would be a three-quarter-moon before, the soonest it could be arranged. Our lovemaking we would time so that the first two living out of the stream were mine, the third (who would not go into the stream) Etana’s, the fourth mine, and the rest Etana’s unless one of mine died.

Negotiations need not be done, nor dinner eaten, with parched tongues; we kept the wine flowing. Another jar seemed to appear, and the contents shrink like a rain-puddle in sun, and then somehow we were out in the bushes of the river park with more wine and no light but a moon laced across with clouds. I recall some words, about trying a taste of married life now, and then feeling grass fronds tickling my bare side, by which I knew my shirt had been removed. Then it was all warm limbs and hands and tongues and ecstasy.

At one point as we lay mostly sated but still giggling, the night-guard came with his torch-hook, saying “Wastrel striplings—get home before you catch a chill!” He was one-third right that we were youngsters, at any rate. We clapped hands over mouths, sides splitting, as he cast about yelling, “I know you’re here! Answer me honestly, are you here?”

Finally I decided such a forthright question deserved a clear and civil answer: “No.” As that didn’t get rid of him, I stood up in plain sight and said to his face again, “No!” Being of the Hall Workfast, he had seen me speak in the square this morning. His jaw dropped, three times. Muttering, “No, no, there’s no one here, absolutely no one,” he scurried away.

It was hard, in truth, to leave Shaina and Etana, but I must finish the tour, which was taking much longer than it should for me meeting with prospective spouses. Though we’d agreed to be discrete about it, albeit not swearing silence, the news that I’d found someone local to marry was all over the city like fire in a gale. “Congratulations,”my friends, who were serving as my entourage, said, “but, Cheng, they’re so old!” If I heard that word once more, I promised them, there’d be teeth on the ground.