Polystom by Adam Roberts Page B

say. Yes, it overstates it a little to callit insurrection. But, then again, what
else
can you call a struggle against proper authority?’
    He refilled his glass.
    ‘You’re at a crucial point, my boy,’ he said, his lips glistening in the lamplight as he took a long draught. ‘She’s struggling against authority, which is as stupid as banging her head against a wall, if you see what I mean. She’ll either learn this, and her life will settle into a better course; or else she’ll deny herself the chance to grow up.’
    Stom nodded. ‘You’re saying,’ he said, ‘that I should stand firm with her.’
    ‘Yes,’ said Cleonicles. ‘Yes! You
must
stand firm. This womanly trick of knocking her head against a wooden panel and falling down, this is calculated to prey on a man’s sense of pity and wife-protection. But don’t be taken in! She’s trying to manipulate you, and you – a Steward – must not be manipulated! If I were you, boy, I’d fly home tomorrow. Not that I’m trying to get rid of you; it’s delightful to see you, as ever. But it’s more important that you establish the proper authority at home.’
    His uncle’s words sounded very wise to Polystom. They struck a chord of rightness inside him. He flew back the next day, his head muggy with old booze and his headache worse than it might otherwise have been.
    He arrived late in the afternoon, with the shadows of the mountains starting to lay great wedges of dark over the forest. As the engine cooled, and he unbuckled his helmet, a servant appeared with a wooden ladder to help him from the cockpit. ‘How is she?’ Polystom asked the man, who blushed and stuttered, lowering his eyes and muttering that he believed the Lady to be taking some supper.
    Stom walked round to the conservatory at the back of the south wing, and saw a table laid out in the lawn, just past the shadow cast by the house. There, Beeswing, her head still bandaged, was sitting, attended by a servant. He madehis way over, trying consciously to put command and authority into his stride.
    ‘Hello my dear,’ he said, or announced rather, sitting himself and reaching for one of the little roast zulu-birds. ‘I’m back from Uncle’s. How are you feeling?’
    There was no answer to this question, and there seemed to be a certain hardness in her eyes as she looked at him. But at least she was feeding herself, at least she was eating something. The servant hovered uneasily behind.
    ‘You look better,’ he offered.
    ‘My head hurts,’ she said, in a quiet voice, with that infuriating way she had of suggesting a metaphorical as well as a literal freight for her words – your hurt, Stom wanted to say, is the result of your own ridiculous attitudes. Your problems inside your head are the result of your own wilfulness. But he held his tongue.
    Instead he stood up. ‘I’d like a chat,’ he said. ‘I want the two of us to talk. Later. In the Library if you like. You do like the Library, don’t you?’ He left a pause, in case she wanted to drop in a meek ‘yes’, but she said nothing. ‘After you’ve finished eating, of course.’ He was still holding the little spitted zulu-bird, and he took a bite out of its flank, before dropping the remains to the lawn and going inside.
    He had a bath, and took some food. He had a fire made up in the library; although it was late in the Spring Year, with Summer Year only months away, nevertheless the nights were surprisingly chilly. He had a bottle of black wine carried in to him, and then he gave instructions that Beeswing’s nurse was to bring her into the Library. He expected her to be wheeled through in a bath-chair, but when she did come she was walking, supported by an arm from her servant. Stom stood up until Beeswing had been settled into one of the mauve chairs.
    Stom waved away the nurse-servant. There were several minutes of silence, during which Polystom put his head a little to one side and listened to the snapping noises of