Mirror Space - Marianne de Pierres [4]
‘I have many things to contemplate, madre. They do not include entertaining you with conversation,’ he said flatly.
She sat down next to him and trickled a handful of sand through her fingers, her expression unhappy. The salt had been unkind to her thin hair and ageing skin and she looked more unkempt than the rest of them despite her servant’s ministrations.
‘It is . . . simply . . . that I’m grateful to the Mioloaquan girl who saved me. She is . . . resourceful,’ she said.
Jilda Pellegrini’s artless praise of Djeserit infuriated him, in part because he agreed with her, even though he did not wish to.
‘Then you should speak with her,’ he said.
‘I have tried, Trinder, but she dismisses me. She insists that you are the reason they have survived. She is most. . . devoted ... to you.’ She said the words carefully, as if fearful of his reaction, and yet he knew his mother. She was probing him.
‘I am the Principe. Of course I have led them, as my father would have,’ he said.
Jilda’s face crumpled at the mention of Franco Pellegrini and she put her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry.
Trin felt irritation well in him, rather than sympathy. ‘Madre!’
‘Our world, Trinder. What has happened to it? We will all perish in this harsh landscape. Caro Franco—’
‘Caro Franco! He was not your caro Franco, madre. He cared as little for you as he did for me.’
‘No! It was not that way.’
He grasped one thin, frail shoulder. ‘It was that way. Only you refuse to see it.’
‘Si. And will continue to.’
For the first time Trin saw a flicker of the stubbornness that matched his own. Her tragic denial filled him with guilt.
He stood and stalked away along the beach, trying to banish the anguish that she’d seeded within him.
By the next evening the rafts were assembled and the shells filled with water. The men had brought back bundles of spine bush to shade their crossing and the women had worked the tough seaweed into ropes that would tie them to the yachts if the waters became rough.
Cass Mulravey stood in the water, shepherding her women and bambini aboard their yacht while Trin watched from the beach. Her brother and the few men who had escaped from Ipo with her helped the women board. Trin couldn’t remember their names, only their surliness and inclination to keep separate from the Carabinere. They talked more freely though with those from the Pablo mine.
Djes came to stand alongside him. He noticed her swaying with the effort of standing upright, her muscles more accustomed to the action of swimming now. He knew if he looked closely he would see how thick the webbing had grown between her fingers and toes.
‘Stay close to my yacht,’ he told her.
She inclined her head. Her hair lay slick-wet against her scalp. He had not seen it dry for days. ‘I will scout and return.’
‘But Djes, the xoc—’
‘I will take care, my Principe, I promise.’
Her simple and endearing way released a flood of emotion in him. He reached for her and held her tight, uncaring that the Carabinere, the women and Jilda all watched them. ‘We need you, Djes,’ he whispered. ‘I need you.’
She rested her cool cheek against his, and then pulled away gently. ‘We must get them as far as we can this night. The sun will be cruel on them tomorrow.’
He let her go. ‘Si.’ He raised his voice. ‘We go now. Keep the yachts as close together as possible. Mulravey, do you have your flags?’
The woman waved two pieces of ragged material in her hand. ‘The plain colour means all is well. The bright colour means we need help. Or you need ours.’
An insult lurked in her reply as it did in all her conversations with him; it was as though she could barely contain her contempt.
He ignored it. ‘You have space on your yacht. You will take some of the Pablo men.’
She shook her head. ‘We travel in the group that has always been.’
Her stubborn parochialism invoked a flare of anger in him. It made no sense to adopt this line of thinking. The other two yachts were weighed down with heavier, larger men.
Djes stepped forward to intercede, but before she could speak, one of