The apartment was larger than the house had been. There were four bedrooms, the kitchen, a sitting room, dining hall, office, bath, gymnasium, sunroom (a lie); there was a library; a viewing-room; a sauna; a robing-room; a pantry; a laundry; a servant’s quarters, but that was vacant. A security post. That was not. But Thorn knew nothing about guards and monitors and the hall outside. There were several rooms that feigned sunlight well enough to have growing plants, if one bothered. The bath and master bedroom had a wraparound tridee screen that doubled as windows-gods knew, it was not all nature scenes the builders meant with that. And a man grew tempted. There were recourses in the city. There were places a man or woman could go, amusements to be had. A hatani would be discreet. But even a hatani might-with a woman of discretion-find some out-of-season comforts. Duun laid his ears back. Hours in this place and it was as if sixteen years had not happened. Except for the presence which turned up at his shoulder.
He turned and handed Thorn the cup. “This is yours. Drink it. Go lie down.”
Thorn took it. Perhaps Thorn was not quite that scent-blind. His eyes acquired wariness. And weary puzzlement.
“Sedative,” Duun said. “Drink it. Go lie down. You’ll sleep.”
“Duun.” Thorn set the milk on the counter. His face was white again. He leaned against the wall, not so strong as he pretended; he had been limping when he came in. “Have you been here before?”
“I lived here.” Duun picked up the milk and picked up Thorn’s hand and joined one firmly to the other. “Drink that. Shall I convince you, Thorn?”
Thorn drank it. All. He set the cup down again.
“So you’ve found out what you don’t know,” Duun said. “Does the world scare you, Thorn? You have to pick out the illusions here, that’s all. You have to know what’s real and what’s not.”
“You’ll be with me.”
“Haras-hatani. Thorn. What do I hear? Is that need? Is that something I have and you don’t? What is that thing?”
“Courage.” Thorn’s voice was hoarse and hollow.
“Do I hear can’t?”
“No, Duun-hatani.”
“The meds want you. They want to take you and take that arm apart again; they want to put their machines on you and get pieces of your hide and measure you up and down. I told them to wait a day or so.”
Silence. Thorn’s eyes were dilated. It was not all the sedative. “Thank you, Duun-hatani.”
“Get to bed.”
Thorn went. Limping.
So. So. There was no rebellion. Thorn might have. Duun stared out the vacant kitchen door. The place smelled of remodeling, beneath the wood-scent. Beneath the false wind and the false images. And the sand under his stone-callused feet felt too light, like powder.
He walked into the bedroom and found Thorn in bed. It was night. Duun’s senses knew that, though the wall-images were out of synch and showed mid-afternoon. Thorn slept, the pale blue sheets clutched in a brown, smooth hand. The face had taken on a hollowed look, the jaw lengthened, the cheekbones more prominent. Final changes. Almost-manhood. Duun selected for night-image. The lights went out and a dust of stars shone on the walls, about the sleeper. The air-conditioning breathed a noncommittal scent, something synthetic and vaguely like the sea.
“Well, Duun?”
Duun tucked up his feet cross-legged on the riser (city manners came hard after sixteen years), rested his arms on his thighs and let his hands fall limp into his lap. (Well?) He looked up at Ellud, who sat on his desk, surrounded by the appurtenances of office, monitor, communications. Worm-in-web. Lines went everywhere from here, all over the world. “He’s well,” Duun said. “I don’t think there was damage. A scar or two-what’s that?”
Ellud looked at him; Duun looked back with a forever-twisted smile. It was humor and Ellud seemed finally to decide it was and not to like it. “The deed’s been settled. The countryfolk are abjectly grateful. The matter is closed.”
“Good.”
“I’m fending queries off your neck, Duun. You know that.”
“I know. They’ll keep their hands off him. Tell them all that. He’d never seen a copter. He can run all the household things, well, the dishwasher he’d not seen. He’s what I am. I told you that. The meds will respect him. Or I’ll deal with them. No. He will. I’ll give him leave.”