“I’m sorry,” she said smoothly, shielding her own thoughts with an expertise his most concentrated effort could not penetrate. She gestured toward the other chair and wished him seated.
“These are my quarters,” he said, still standing. “Or do they move you in with me? Do they assume that too?”
Her mind closed utterly when she felt that, and he could not reach her. He had thought her beautiful when he first saw her asleep; but now that her body moved, now that those blue eyes met his, it was with an arrogance that disturbed him even through the turmoil of his other thoughts. There was a mind behind that pretty facade, strong-willed and powerful, and that was not an impression beautiful women usually chose to send him. He was not sure he liked it.
He was less sure he liked her, despite her physical attractions.
“I have my own quarters,” she said aloud. “And don’t be self-centered. Your choices are limited, and I am not one of them.”
She ruffled through his thoughts with skill against which he had no defense, and met his temper with contempt. He thrust her out, but the least wavering of his determination let her slip through again; it was a continuing battle. He took the other chair, exhausted, beginning to panic, feeling that he was going to lose everything. He would even have struck her—he would have been shamed by that.
And she received that, and mentally backed off in great haste. “Well,” she conceded then, “I am sorry. I am rude. I admit that.”
“You resent me.” He spoke aloud. He was not comfortable with the chiabres. And what she radiated confirmed his impression: she tried to suppress it, succeeded after a moment.
“I wanted what you are assigned to do,” she said, “very badly.”
“I’ll yield you the honor.”
Her mind slammed shut, her lips set. But something escaped her barriers, some deep and private grief that touched him and damped his anger.
“Neither you nor I have that choice,” she said. “Chimele decides. There is no appeal.”
Chimele. He recalled the Orithain’s image with hate in his mind, expected sympathy from Isande’s, and did not receive it. Other images took shape, sendings from Isande, different feelings: he flinched from them.
For nine thousand years Isande’s ancestors had served the Orithain. She took pride in that.
Iduve, she sent, correcting him. Chimele is the Orithain; the people are iduve.
The words were toneless this time, but different from his own knowledge. He tried to push them out
The ship is Ashanome, she continued, ignoring his awkward attempt to cast her back. WE are Ashanome: five thousand iduve, seven thousand noi kame, and fifteen hundred amaut. The iduve call it a nasul, a clan. The nasul Ashanome is above twelve thousand years old; the ship Ashanome is nine thousand years from her launching, seven thousand years old in this present form. Chimele rules here. That is the law in this world of ours.
He flung himself to his feet, finding in movement, in any distraction, the power to push back Isande’s insistent thoughts. He began to panic: Isande retreated.
“You do not believe,” she said aloud, “that you can stop me. You could, if you believed you could.”
She pitied him. It was a mortification as great as any the iduve had set upon him. He rounded on her with anger ready to pour forth, met a frightened, defensive flutter of her hand, a sealing of her mind he could not penetrate.
“No,” she said. “Aiela—no. You will hurt us both.”
“I have had enough,” he said, “from the iduve—from noi kame in general. They are doing this to me—”
“-to us.”
“Why?”
“Sit down. Please.”
He leaned a moment against the bureau, stubborn and intractable; but she was prepared to wait. Eventually he yielded and settled on the arm of his chair, knowing well enough that she could perceive the distress that burned along his nerves, that threatened the remnant of his self control.
You fear the iduve, she observed. Sensible. But they do not hate; they do not love. I am Chimele’s friend. But Chimele’s language hasn’t a single word for any of those things. Don’t attribute to them motives they can’t have. There is something you must do in Chimele’s service: when you have done it, you will be let alone. Not thanked: let alone. That is the way of things.