A Real Husband

"I do."

"Carvadan is just like Alken. Not just like it, but close. Like, say something in Alken. Why don't you tell me where you're from? That would be a good place to start."

In Alken, he said, "I was born to wanderers like you. We herded cattle from grassland to grassland. I had a brother and two sisters, but none of them liked me."

Vika took no offense at the word 'wanderer.' The Traders certainly did not wander, for they knew exactly where they were going, but clearly Mustafa suffered from a limited vocabulary. His choice of words was no insult. "Good job," she said. "Now, in Alken, tell me about your first love."

"My first love?" In halting Alken, he said, "There was one girl, the daughter of the medicine man. I took a liking to her. I said so, but I don't think she felt the same way. I think she didn't want to turn me down either, so she only said nothing. That was as far as it went."

"Good. But remember, the nouns change with the time, not with gender. So tell me about..." she thought for a moment. "The first time you made love."

He looked around worriedly. His right-hand fingers opened, hovering over the butt of his pistol. It looked like an involuntary tic; he probably didn't know he was doing it. "That would be... a dangerous thing for me to say to you. Is your father in earshot?"

"Oh, no, it's fine."

"Your husband will be jealous. That cat boy. I saw you with him earlier."

"He's not a husband. I'm a Trader. If we don't find husbands while we're young, we pick up consorts instead. And there's still room for a husband to go with him." Vika was surprised at herself. She hadn't meant for him to know about Fesri at all, and those words had simply flown out of her mouth. What was she doing? She wasn't trying to court this man, to catch him as a husband! She was just having fun flirting with him. Fesri was all she needed. But she did not allow any of these thoughts to show on her face. "So? Tell me. I want to hear it."

"She was a trader. Not a Trader, like you. She used a scale to weigh gold, and she tested jewels and coins to make sure they were not fake. She flirted with me." Mustafa itched the back of his head. "Back then, I didn't know what I was doing. I froze. She just thought that was funny, so she kept doing it. Then she told me to meet her at sundown and said where. I did. And..." he groped for words. "That was my last day as a virgin."

"Nice. Was she on top?"

He looked up at her, one eyebrow up, one low. "I'm not stupid, Vika, I only used to be. I know what you're trying to do." But he did not object.

"Oh, is that too intimate for you to tell?"

"It's a little too intimate to say in broad daylight, in front of everyone."

That left the window of opportunity tantalizingly open. Vika looked over her shoulder. Vanya seemed to be listening with half an ear, completely undisturbed. Vika looked back to Mustafa. "You're with the Traders," she reminded him. "We're not embarrassed to talk about such things, so come on, don't be coy. Were you the horse or the archer?"

He gave her a brazen smile. "I was the man who keeps his private things private. If you want to know, you'll just have to find out for yourself."

Inwardly, Vika grinned, but she feigned frustration. "Fine, you prude. Do you know the traditional Alken marriage proposal? Say that to me." She quickly added, "and remember, the emphasis goes on the second-to-last syllable."

"Okay, then," he said, and he pronounced in smooth, guttural-accented Alken, "Vika, my love, will you marry me? Will you be my wife, my love and my helper, and will you accept me as your bulwark and your servant?" He put feeling into it, like an actor. It was deliciously easy to imagine he really meant them.

She took a moment to regain herself. "Good," she said. "Now, in Carvadan, you don't change the verb as you say it. You simply add a suffix for its timing. Like this..." she switched to Carvadan. "...Mustafa, if you will be mine, then I'll keep you to the end of your days or mine, whichever comes first." She tilted her head. "You see? Now... propose to me again in Carvadan."

And Mustafa eagerly began to learn.

Later that day, as the caravan rested in a flat spot, the guards fanned out to survey the area, forage, drill and whatever else those foreigners did. The horse archers patrolled half-heartedly but mostly stayed near the fire to get dinner.

Vika thought dinner could wait. In the shade of a tree, a little out of the way, she sat in Fesri's lap, her rear seated comfortably on his legs. His hands traveled slowly around her body, massaging her sides, easing up and down her legs, even teasing her feet. Every so often, he would kiss her on the neck, on the cheek or somewhere else. Wherever his lips went, it was someplace sensitive, someplace she could feel the kiss coming before it came. It was the most supremely relaxing treatment in the world.

Until Mrs. Hetevan sat across from her.

"Hi?" said Vika nervously. It was not improper for her to be seen getting this treatment from her male, but to do it in the early evening and not late at night was gauche. Vika had hoped everyone would ignore her.

Hetevan did not make a spectacle of it. "It was good to see you talking to the guards," she said. "The better they know us, the closer they'll be to us, which is always a good thing. Edifying the troops, as my husband would say."

"Yeah," said Vika. "It was fun."

"It sounded like it was especially fun talking to Mustafa. I promise I wasn't spying, but you know any healthy woman would love spending time with him."

"I guess I did."

"I know he was alone when you found him. Men who travel alone don't have any roots, do you realize that? He has nothing stopping him from staying with us."

"Stop that! Stop trying to play matchmaker!" Vika snapped. The rush of anger passed. "Uh, I mean, please stop." She patted Fesri's chin as he ran his tongue up her neck. "I've got all I need right here. And I don't want anyone to distract me from him."

"Vika, I don't think less of you for keeping him around, but you know he's not the same as Mustafa would be. All he does is fondle you and purr for his food."

"Isn't it great?"

Hetevan looked disappointed, but not daunted. She fell silent, casting around for something to say, and finally got up and sat down next to Vika. Then she lay on her back. "Look up for a spell."

With a naughty smile, Vika tipped herself back, and Fesri yelped with surprise. But his cat reflexes didn't fail him. He slipped out from under her, caught her with his hands and eased her to the ground. Then he curled up next to her and snuggled with her, letting out an impossibly comfortable sigh.

Vika looked at the heavens. The glittering lights of the stars spilled across the blackness, sugary white dots in the blue Milky Way. It was the infinite size of the universe writ large without words.

"Think about our lives," said Hetevan. "You walk or ride hundreds of miles, your band earns a little gold and feeds everybody. And every few nights, Fesri pleases you." She paused. "That's it. Is that really all you want out of life?"

"You're jealous." Why hadn't it occurred to her before? "Ketevan, you're still jealous, aren't you? That's why you want to get him away from me. Why didn't you say so? I had no idea!"

"I used to be insanely jealous. Sometimes I still am."

Vika patted Fesri's furry tummy. "Come and share him. I don't mind."

"Vika, something's wrong with that, don't you see? He can pet you and fondle you. But what about when you're old? When it hurts just to get up and walk? When your eyes can barely see anything? When things are hard, is pleasure really all you want out of life? No family? No legacy?"

"No family? But I'll have you!"

"What else will you have? You'll still be an old spinster aunt, playing with her catboy." She laid special emphasis on those last four words, and Vika took her meaning. She would not, in fact, be an old spinster still playing with Fesri, and they both knew it, as Catboys did not live as long as humans. By the time Vika was old, Fesri would no longer be among the living. She looked up at the stars again, and suddenly that day did not seem so far away. Compared to eternity, life was not a long time to be alive, and the stars would not let her forget it. They were merciless that way. "I don't want to give up Fesri," she said plaintively.

"It's not as though you'll be just leaving him behind tomorrow."

"But he'll miss being my only man."

As she said this, Fesri's ears twitched. He was following this conversation and understanding most of it.

Hetevan sighed, and not with frustration. "I did admit I used to be jealous, didn't I? Believe me, it hurts my heart too. But if you don't make that sacrifice and get a man—a husband—where is your life going to go?"

Vika clutched Fesri close to her, and for the first time it did not make her feel better. She had to admit that she had no good answer.

*

This dress would surely do. It wasn't even hers—it was a loan from another girl, Netelya, and Vika had promised on her honor to repay her debt tenfold when the time came—but it was a perfect fit. It dipped low over breasts, barely covering her areolae, and when adjusted right, it hugged her rear, showing Mustafa what he would be getting. It was black, too—intense and smoldering, as smooth and clean as her black hair. It was seductive, dominant, a dress that unmistakably said, 'Be my slave and you'll know pleasure beyond your wildest dreams.' Mustafa didn't stand a chance.

Vika was going to do it. She would seduce Mustafa, claim him as a husband and be set for the rest of her life.

Dawn was breaking. Most of the caravan had been awake for a short time, and breakfast was ready. The guards, who had been awake for half the night, at least, would by now be ravenous. Normally, the head cook sent her youngest out to gather the warriors for mealtime, but Vika had arranged to take that role instead. She made the rounds and told everyone, and Mustafa came last.

"Vika, good morning," he said warmly. His eyes were baggy and underlined with darker skin, but still he dredged up a smile for her. "Time to saddle up?"

Vika straightened her back, squeezing her shoulder blades together to emphasize her bust, and put on her sultriest voice. "Oh, yes, soon it will be. But why rush?"

"These legs need all the rest they can get. I'm heading back." He turned to the encampment.

Vika blanched. He didn't even seem to notice what she was wearing. "But wait!" she cut in.

He stopped, looked at her, and his eyes finally began to wander over her ripe body. "Yes?" he said guardedly.

"You don't need to worry about resting your feet. I'll get you a whole day's break if need be. It's important to slow down sometimes—isn't it?—and just see the sights." She cocked her hips and leaned forward, displaying as much as propriety allowed.

His eyes finished taking her in, and Vika could not believe what he did next. He had the audacity to look away to the horizon! "I've been seeing the sights for hours," he said, and kept walking.

'Is he mocking me?' The horrible thought took root in her head and would not let go. She tried again: "Fine, Sir Footsore, we'll get you rest, but I have an idea..." she watched him walk, and it was a hobbled, uneven gait. Her line of thought broke. "Are you... are you alright?"

"It's nothing," he said.

"What is nothing?"

"I'm fine."

"Mustafa, you idiot, stop a minute!" She took the drastic measure of grabbing his shoulder. "Sit down. Something's wrong with you."

He looked at her, hurt but not offended. And he sat down with the care of an old man.

He was certainly not alright. His shoe, a leather moccasin meant for riding rather than walking, was punctured under the heel, and dried blood surrounded the break. "What have you done, Mustafa, you liar? You've hurt yourself!"

"Thorns," he admitted. "Didn't want people to think I couldn't keep up."

"Did you think we would leave you here to die in the sun? How could you think that about us? About me?"

He gave a guilty shrug.

"Mustafa," she massaged his foot as she looked him in the eye, "have you never had a girl act this way around you? Surely, you know what it means?"

He looked at the ground, at the camp, anywhere, but at her. "I... don't really."

"It means I'm not going to leave you like a broken-legged horse."

"Oh. Thank you."

Vika had expected more than a 'thank you.' But it wasn't coming. This, she decided, was what rejection looked like, and it tasted like bile. She smeared a smile on her face and said, "come to breakfast when you are ready, alright?"

"I will."

She left. She walked casually away from him. Then she jogged. Then she broke into a run. By the time she reached Hetevan, she was in tears.

"Sister?" said Hetevan.

"I told you!" Vika burst out. "He's not like Fesri! He's too hard! Too... too brute!"

"You mean too brutish?"

"He's so clueless, he doesn't know when a woman wants him!"

"What did you say?"

"What did I say?" She gestured all over herself. "Look at this dress! I did everything I could! He should have been spellbound, but he just ignored me! He did nothing! And it's worse... he had a wound, a wound in his foot. And he tried to ignore it and make me believe it was nothing. If I were to marry him. He would deny the wounds in his heart. In mine. He would become like a pack animal."

"Did he know you wanted to court him?"

"How could he possibly not know?"

Hetevan put both of her hands on Vika's shoulders. "Sister, did you say it to him? Straight to his face?"

"No... of course not!"

"Tell him that. Tell him that if he can be both soft and hard, then you want him as a husband."

"That would be cheap!"

"No, it would be good communication. By all means dress up, be subtle at first... but for the love of all that is sane, sister, be clear to him, because men can't read us as well as we can read them."

Vika calmed down a little. "But he was ignoring me. He looked at everything except me."

Hetevan frowned. "Maybe your fears are true. Maybe he is not interested in you. But if he isn't, then where is the harm in telling him you like him?"

"I don't want him to reject me."

Hetevan hugged Vika. "It's the pain of growing up, sister. We have to risk it."

Eventually, Vika calmed the storm inside her. She dried her tears, stood up and went to the breakfast circle, where most of the band was already seated, cross-legged, and buried in their meals.

Vika collected her share of the meal, then nervously shuffled up to where Mustafa sat, alone. "Hey, Mustafa, is it alright if I sit here?"

He gestured to the ground by him. "Don't need my permission," he said amiably.

She eased herself down. She and Mustafa were certainly not alone anymore. Now they sat in a crowd of dozens and dozens. But even here, there was a measure of privacy. In a gathering where most of the diners sat elbow-to-elbow, she and Mustafa had an arm's-length of space separating them from anyone else. In a crowd where everyone ate and talked at once, they were an island, just separate enough from the others that nothing they said would be picked up. She cleared her throat softly and tried to make her voice less hollow.

"Will your foot be alright?" she asked.

"It will get better. It was more blood than breaking." He paused. "If the offer still stands to take a break on the carts today, it should heal faster."

She put a hand on his foot, not a probing, demanding hand like before, but reassuring. "Of course it is."

He filled the silence with another spoonful of stew.

With a deep breath, she gathered the courage to speak. "I want to apologize for being unclear earlier..."

He looked at her, rapt.

"...I did not mean to push you, and... well, I should have explained what I was feeling. My feelings drive me to do things, the same as everyone else is driven by theirs, and... well... I expected you to see what I was thinking. It was unfair of me."

He kept staring at her. She could see questions roiling behind his eyes, questions he didn't know how to ask.

"I like you, Mustafa. I think you're a strong, pretty man, and I want to draw you closer. I wore the dress because I wanted you to make an advance. But... you ignored it." That last part sounded accusatory, not like she had intended. Inwardly, Vika kicked herself, but there was no taking it back.

"So that was it," said Mustafa. He looked pleased, but more than that, relieved. "I didn't know what came over you. You talked like you wanted me, but I didn't want to insult your honor by staring."

"Insult my honor?" She laughed. "Mustafa, whatever nonsense your father taught you, I promise you..." she ran a hand down from her bare shoulder to her bust, then her hips, then her legs. "...if a Trader girl dresses like this, it's because she wants you to stare."

"Oh..." his padded shoulders jerked with a mild, masculine laugh. "Now I know."

She turned to face him. "So tell me, Mustafa. Don't leave me in suspense like this, because I have to know. I want you. As a boyfriend. And maybe someday as a husband. That's a path I can't make you walk down, but if you do it, I'll..." she almost said that she would always be with him, but she realized that was a promise she could not make yet. The whole purpose of courtship, after all, was to see if a man was suitable. "I'll make it as easy for you as I can."

He looked at her. Then he looked at the sky. This time, she could sense, he was not ignoring him, but thinking hard.

He thought for a heart-wrenchingly long pause.

"I'll do it," he said. "I'll walk that path. I never thought about it before. But it's time." He looked down at his hands. "I'm a man now. Have been for years. It's time I settled down, even if it's with a people I don't know." He looked at her. "Or should I say, a people I'm just starting to know."

He took her hand, and she felt his male touch like sweet fire on her skin.

*

Waiting all day long had been delightful torture. But now the days' march was over, night had fallen, camp was set up and most of the band was in bed. "Come with me," Vika told Mustafa. "I am going to put you to the test."

He followed her carefully. He resisted the urge to tamper with the blindfold she had put on him and walked steadily, trusting her. When they reached a clearing where they would have privacy, she stopped him with a hand on his chest.

"Take off your shirt," she said. "But don't let that blindfold come off."

He obeyed. Those awful leather pads came off first, and underneath was nothing but a loose, light-colored shirt. Vika was shocked, even though she had expected nothing else. Underneath his armor, Mustafa the warrior, Mustafa the stranger, was just a man after all.

The shirt came off next, and she eagerly watched as he the moonglow revealed hard muscles on dark skin, highlights and shadows showing ridges that she longed to run her hands over.

So she did. She put her hands on his stomach. On his chest. On his sides. She felt all over him, got accustomed to him. She imagined the prospect of having this body as hers to bed whenever she pleased, and that future tantalized her.

"Now," she said, "The blindfold. Take it off."

He removed his blindfold and gasped.

In front of him was Fesri. He knelt, his body clean and bare. His legs were crossed, at the ankles where Vika had bound them together, and she had folded his hands and tied them strictly behind his back. A cloth gag kept his mouth full and silent, and he wore a blindfold to match the one Mustafa had just removed. Theatrically, Vika strutted over to Fesri and removed the blindfold. She let the two males eye each other.

Finally, Mustafa found his voice. "What are we doing?" He said each word like its own sentence. "Vika? I don't understand."