by Gregory Ashe
Chapter 33
Vas trilled another series of notes on the flute; he played simply, but well. A few of the closest eses shouted out competing verses to the same tune, and after a few moments the singing broke down into playful argument. Meanwhile, the mockery, the jests, continued to pepper the conversation, tossed almost negligently toward the people of the Garden as though more from force of habit than out of any real interest.
Heart thrumming, Siniq-elb ran his hands along the strings of the harp; he could not play any songs, not yet, but he knew enough to pick out a semblance of consonance. While he plucked at the harp, though, he could feel nothing but the edges of the blade strapped to his thigh; pressed against him, the metal had warmed to match the heat of his body, but it seemed heavier than ever. In his ears, all he could hear was Khylar’s voice, laughing at a joke by another su-esis, calling for another round of drinks.
Dakel stepped onto the platform, and a jangle of chords escaped Siniq-elb’s harp. He stared Dakel in the face, searching for something, anything, but the dark-haired su-esis looked right past Siniq-elb, as though he were part of the furniture. Chocolate eyes met each of the other su-eses, quiet words exchanged, even with Khylar. And then Dakel took his seat at the table, back to Siniq-elb.
A moment later, Mece was there, and Siniq-elb’s heart hammered for a different reason. Even though they had only been parted for a little while, he was struck again by her beauty; lavender eyes, skin as pale and soft as moonlight, her hair like white gold. She carried a tray of drinks to the su-eses, her face turned low to the ground, and Siniq-elb could not tear his eyes from her, from the way the lines of her body shifted with each step, the curve of her hips through the thin brown tunic, the faint blush against her collarbone.
With a start, Siniq-elb realized that Khylar was staring at him. A faded, yellow bruise ran along his jaw; the bone should have been broken, the flesh black and blue still, but this was the Garden, where healing was too fast. On top of that, Khylar was a su-esis, endowed with the power of the tair. Or with ancient magic. The reason did not matter to Siniq-elb; what mattered, he realized, was that the bastard was practically recovered. Siniq-elb wanted to do nothing more than march over and smash in the man’s face again. And again. And again.
Khylar’s lips parted in what might have been a grin, and the su-esis motioned for Mece to approach him. As she stepped around the table, Khylar rose, staring Siniq-elb in the face over Mece’s shoulder. One of Khylar’s hands reached out, resting on Mece’s hip. She jerked away, almost upsetting the drinks, and fumbled with the tray.
Face still set in a smirk, Khylar gripped her waist again, hard, and Mece let out a cry. Some of the other su-eses let out laughs or ribald suggestions; others ignored their companion and continued eating. Dakel was among the latter, his attention focused completely on the roast lamb in front of him.
Mece stumbled closer, colliding with the su-esis, and a surprised look flitted over his face. Then his hand ran up her side, tracing the edge of her breast with one thumb, and he grinned at Siniq-elb.
That look set fire to Siniq-elb’s blood. He set down the harp before he had realized it and reached for his crutches. He would kill the bastard, this time. No matter what happened. He would break his neck, and let him try to recover from that. Siniq-elb’s heart pounded so that he could barely breathe; the air seemed to stick in his throat, too tight for words, even for a shout. To see that bastard touch Mece that way, it made nothing else matter.
Vas said something, and he grabbed at Siniq-elb’s arm. Siniq-elb tried to shake him off, his eyes locked with Khylar, his heart on fire. And then he saw Dakel’s face. Pale, composed, but there was fear behind the chocolate eyes. The su-esis gave a slight shake of his head and mouthed ‘no,’ before turning back to his meal.
The look was like a cup of cold water thrown in Siniq-elb’s face. He sank back down, face burning with prickles of shame, and felt sick to his stomach. Siniq-elb couldn’t intervene, not now; he had more important things to do, and he couldn’t risk stopping the seiri to save Mece. That was part of being a soldier: knowing to pick your battles. Attacking Khylar now would get him injured or worse, and whether or not Khylar really did have something to do with the seiri, Siniq-elb did not have time to spend recuperating. When he saw Siniq-elb sit down, Khylar let out a low laugh and pawed at Mece for a few more moments. With a grin, he shoved her away and returned to his seat, rejoining the conversation as though nothing had happened.
Mece stumbled from the platform, gaze to the floor. She would not meet Siniq-elb’s gaze, but the heat in her cheeks told him everything. She hated him, despised him. He had failed her, failed to protect her. And he had decided to do so, decided that something else was worth more than her dignity in front of these men. The thought was bitter and dark as gall.
The rest of the evening passed in a haze. Siniq-elb strummed the harp, Vas’s flute a distant counterpoint, but he heard and saw very little. Only Dakel’s face and shake of his head; Khylar’s smile; the red in Mece’s cheeks, and the moment of weakness when Siniq-elb allowed practicality to overcome principal. What were the seiri compared to Mece, compared to Siniq-elb’s own honor? What evidence did Siniq-elb even have that they were a threat? Dakel’s half-formed questions and the command to observe Khylar. Il’s mad ramblings. Siniq-elb hardly noticed when Vas tugged on his sleeve and led him from the dining hall.
In the kitchen, the mood was tense. Jela snapped at Zeyn twice about a half-formed pastry crust, but the blond man did not break his customary silence, and after Shehr’s third bout of repressed laughter, her gaze sliding over to take in Siniq-elb and Vas, Jela dragged her out of the room by her dark hair. When Jela returned, her pale cheeks flushed and her thinning hair in disarray, she made her way over to Siniq-elb and Vas.
Siniq-elb could feel her gaze on him, but he kept his head down, scrubbing at the worn copper fry-pan in his hands. The metal felt thin as paper, thin enough that he could tear it, and he ran the stiff brush across it all the more vigorously for that. He wanted to break something, shout, rage. Jela’s eyes felt hot as coals against him, and Siniq-elb knew she would throw him from the kitchens. He had caused trouble for Mece, gotten her in trouble by stepping in to defend her the last time. If he stepped in this time, it would have made things bad for Mece, but having done nothing, and at Dakel’s request—that was even worse.
“Father take those heartless bastards,” Jela said, her voice sharper than any kitchen knife. “It’s not your fault, boy.”
When Siniq-elb looked up, she was gone, sweeping down the row of tables.
“She’s right,” Vas said. “You couldn’t have done anything.”
“It is my fault,” Siniq-elb said. “And I could have done something. But I didn’t, I—”
Mece stood in the doorway, her autumn-light hair like sunset in the glow of the fires. She gave Jela a nod and a smile, and the balding woman beamed back. Distantly, Siniq-elb heard Jela, her voice now calm and even, walk Zeyn through the proper steps of crimping a crust. The words clattered worse than copper and tin. He could only stare at Mece, his heart pounding like a drum, the back of his throat tight and hot. Tair and Father, he had been a fool to listen to Dakel. Siniq-elb turned his gaze back to the pots.
From the corner of one eye, he saw Mece settle next to him. Vas made an inarticulate noise, splashed a great deal of water, and then was gone in a sudden scurry. Siniq-elb felt like he had sand in his mouth, rubbing away his words. Worse was the sinking sense in his stomach that he had failed her.
Her hand found his wrist, pulled it from the pot. Greasy water dripped to the boards below. Siniq-elb looked into Mece’s eyes.
With a hard smile, Mece met his glance and set something in his palm, closing his fingers around it.
“Thank the tair you didn’t do anything this time,” she said. “I had it half-untied when I heard your harp hit the floor. Sikkim of Evirin isn’t the only one who knows how to pick a purse.”
Siniq-elb gla
nced down. Clutched in his hand was a leather pouch, the size a child might use to carry marbles or sling stones. Its contents were soft, compressed in his grip. His heart beat faster.
“What is this?”
“I don’t know,” Mece said. “But they all had them. All the su-eses, anyway. A single black pouch tied to the front of their robes. And none of the eses had them. I was watching, you see. Trying to figure out where they would keep it.”
“The dew?”
Her smile broadened, nervous and excited at the same time. “Open it.”
Siniq-elb put his back to the kitchen. Few of the staff paid him any attention, but he did not trust Zeyn. Heartbeat rising, Siniq-elb undid the ties and dumped the pouch out into his hand. Brown, translucent cubes, firm as good beeswax, tumbled into his palm. He pushed them around, held one up to the light. It gave slightly, as though the heat of his body would melt it. After a moment, he scooped them back into the pouch.
“Is that it?” Mece asked.
“It has to be,” Siniq-elb said. “They all had it?”
She nodded.
“I didn’t even notice.”
“That’s why you need a woman,” Mece said. “Little things, like this. Details.”
Siniq-elb laughed. “Tair help me, I guess we do. Where have you been all this time, letting us fumble around?”
“That’s a woman’s mystery,” Mece said, her voice teasing. It had been a long time since Siniq-elb had heard a woman speak like that; it was more intoxicating than wine, sweeter than Setin perfume, and he laughed again, his pulse racing. The laughter died slowly, but it left behind a deep-burning warmth that Siniq-elb had almost forgotten. Without realizing it, he reached out and took her hand, his fingers sliding through hers.
Mece stiffened for a moment, and Siniq-elb realized what he had done. Before he could move, though, she relaxed, squeezing back in silent approval, her thumb coming to rest against the ridge of his palm. Siniq-elb let out a breath he didn’t realize had been holding.
“Now the hard part,” Siniq-elb said. He caught her eye and glanced first at the dew, then at their twined hands.
“What’s that?”
“How in the world are you going to pry Vas away from the plum pudding that Jela just pulled from the oven?”
This time Mece laughed, spring rain to Siniq-elb’s soul.