Polystom by Adam Roberts Page A

ahead.
    Stom moved into her line of sight. ‘Hello,’ he said, forcing a goofy smile. ‘How you feeling, my dear?’
    She breathed in, and released the air in one short sentence: ‘You locked me in.’
    A hissy voice, snake-like. Stom almost stepped back, alarmed at the malicious power this tiny woman appeared to possess, almost scared by his own wife. Why should
he
feel bad? She was the one who’d surrendered herself to insanity.
    ‘You went a little crazy, I think,’ he said, forcing the smile again. ‘Why would you do such a thing, my darling? We were just on the other side of the door.’
    Another indrawn breath. ‘Don’t lock me up.’
    ‘It was a simple misunderstanding,’ said Stom. ‘You didn’t need to act the way you did! That wasn’t normal.’
    Beeswing’s expression was enough, without words, to convey her contempt.
    ‘Don’t look at me that way!’ Stom barked. ‘You’re the mad thing. Bashing your head half in – it’s crazy.’
    The serving girl was looking extremely uncomfortable, blushing. She couldn’t leave because Stom hadn’t dismissed her. He stood up, ready to go himself. ‘I’m going away for a few days,’ he said, pulling down the front of his waistcoat with dignity. ‘Think about what you did,’ he said to her, as to a child. The words sounded hollow and bizarre in his voice, but they were the right sort of thing to say, surely. That
was
the point, wasn’t it? He almost added
and I hope you’re sorry for everything
, but decided against it.
    He paused. Beeswing was looking straight ahead, looking now at the level of his midriff. She didn’t say anything else.
    He flew to the moon, arriving at Cleonicles’ in time for supper, and greeted his uncle heartily. It felt so good to feel the wind over his face, to cruise the enormity of space, to be able to reach his arm out of the cockpit and feel the interplanetary ether slipping through his fingers. For an hour or so this mood buoyed him up, and he joined hisuncle for wine and metaphysical discussion. Then he found himself crying. It was the sort of thing that, had anybody else seen his weakness, would have been unbearable; but his uncle had seen him cry before, and wasn’t fazed by it. He didn’t rush to offer pointless condolence, but sat and allowed his nephew to cry out the worst of it. Once the initial pressure was voided, and Stom could speak, only then did Cleonicles offer tactful questions, as another man might offer a handkerchief. Under this loving application of wine and sympathy, Polystom unspooled the whole story. Beeswing’s flight, her recapture, his decision to lock her up until she saw sense. Her running headlong at the closed door, not once but several times, until she had all but brained herself.
    ‘What shall I do, Uncle?’ Stom asked. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
    Cleonicles didn’t hurry his advice. He sat and swilled the last mouthful of wine around the bottom of his wineglass. The sky outside was purple-black now, stained by the blue and green earthlight; the night calls of the stork-boars made mournful glupping whistles in the darkness.
    ‘You are Steward,’ he said eventually. ‘There’s no point in disputing the fact, it’s a feature of the natural world, as solid as a mountain. If an underling disputes it we think that disgraceful. But just because a person is married to a Steward – that doesn’t give them the right to dispute that fact either. All are bound by the great structure, high and low. Or else,’ he said, with an almost tripping gloominess in his voice, ‘or else everything crumbles.’ He downed his wine. ‘Being of a proper family, being close to the power, makes insurrection worse, not more creditable. At least some pitiable servant may excuse himself on the grounds of ignorance. A Steward’s wife has no such defence.’
    Stom had never seen his uncle like this before. ‘Insurrection, uncle?’ he said. ‘That’s a strong word.’
    ‘Oh I dare say, I dare