by Jean Johnson
“Falkon’s donkeys are fairly good that way,” one of the two men stated. He ignored Chanson’s presence as he removed his rain-damp orange-and-brown thawa, then stripped off the matching brown loincloth underneath. “They might stay out overnight if enough rain puddled in the ditches to drink, but that’s the meltimi wind out there.”
“Everything will dry up over the next few days, and they’re smart enough to know where their watering trough is—please do send dyarina Jimeyon in,” said the other man, acknowledging Chanson with a dip of his head. “My wife insists I suffer the sin of nightly flatulence, and must therefore confess and cleanse myself before coming to bed tonight. If farting’s a sin, I figure I’ll get more sympathy and a lighter penance from a fellow boy than from a girl.”
Caught off guard by his quip, Chanson threw back her head and laughed. Waving her hand at the men, she took herself out of the bathing hall.
FOUR
“You,” Eduor said, enunciating his words carefully, “know how to hold a party.”
Chanson’s nut brown eyes, slightly glazed from the date wine they had been drinking, followed his every word. Chin already propped on her hand, she leaned over a little more and sighed. “Yes ... A party.”
She wasn’t actually watching his lips. He was sure of it.
“A lovely party,” Eduor added, flicking his tongue on each L.
“Lovely ...” She sighed.
Lovely, indeed. I see my tongue is getting me into trouble again. If the wine hadn’t dulled some of the pain at that thought, if her beautiful but very, very different face hadn’t thwarted thoughts of anything a paler golden shade, if it hadn’t been far from either wrinkled or petulant, he might have shuddered at that thought. As it was, the village vintner, or whatever it was they called the person who made the local wine, knew how to craft a very potent brew from the fruit of all those date palm trees. Eduor was drunk enough that such considerations were few and mild and faded quickly from his thoughts.
In fact, if he hadn’t been so comfortably drunk, the tiny remaining sober corner of his mind knew he would never have done what he did next. Picking up his glazed cup, Eduor drank some more of the sweet-spicy wine, then licked the near edge of the rim with his tongue, catching the stray droplet that tried to slither down. Her eyes glazed over a little bit more, following the sinuous flicks of his tongue as if entranced. He wasn’t even displaying half of it this time, either.
Definitely getting me into trouble, he repeated silently, finishing off the dregs in his cup. At least it’s just with words ...
“Doesn’t it get in the way?” Chanson blurted out, chin sliding off her hand so that she could gesture vaguely with her fingers.
“Mmm?” Mouth buried behind the solid safety of ceramic, Eduor gave her a questioning look.
She glanced around quickly, making sure they were more or less alone. While there were still several other villagers about, laughing and chatting and celebrating the odd but cheerful Festival of Mid-Dry, held twice a year during the middle of what passed for winter and summer each ... no one was within easy hearing distance. It helped that three of the original seven musicians were still playing quietly off to one side, though their music was more for listening now, and not the long, wild, exuberant dancing tunes from earlier.
Apparently believing they were almost alone enough, but not quite, she scooted around the edge of the trestle table, one of many set up in the temple courtyard. Slipping onto the chunk of palm tree trunk that served as a seat for the end of the table, she leaned over the corner separating them and whispered, “You know. Your tongue? I’ve tried, but I just can’t stop thinking about it.”
This close, Eduor could smell the spicy-sweet perfume she had bathed in before donning her elaborately brocaded blue thawa and jewel-pinned turban for the festival. This close, he could see how her own pink tongue snaked out to moisten her lips, full and soft-looking. This close, he could see she was nothing like the last two women to get this close to him ... except that she, too, was fascinated with his tongue.
Sort of. Her next words disillusioned him as to why, thankfully.
“Doesn’t it get in the way when you talk? Or when you eat, or swallow?” she asked under her breath, propping her cheek on her palm. “And what about when you kiss? You have such lovely diction, how can a tongue that big not interfere with things like eating and speaking and such?”
Ah. Lovely. Rather than thinking of me as a sexual novelty, she’s thinking of me as a freak, a demonic aberration from a Netherhell. Thankfully, the date wine in his system did a good job of blunting any possible sting accompanying that thought. Eduor shrugged. “It’s just ... there. It’s always been there. I’m used to it.”
“Yes, but it’s in your mouth, where you’re used to it. If you put it in a woman’s mouth, wouldn’t it get in her way?”
“No, I’m usually careful with it. A good ... kiss isn’t about trying to shove it down someone else’s throat.”
Her free hand came up, the edge of her finger brushing the underside of his chin. He liked the feel of her hand, warm, dry, and slightly calloused from the occasional non-priestly bit of labor. Chanson, like all the residents of Oba’s Well, was not afraid to get her hands dirty. Like that time, a couple of months ago, when she had offered to clean him up after his ignominious adventure in the mud and thornbushes.
“You don’t sound happy when you say that. Haven’t you had any good kisses lately?”
Eduor choked on an unhappy laugh. “As if. I haven’t had any kisses, good or bad, in a couple of years. Unless you count the exceptionally wet one little Amalie planted on my cheek a few weeks ago, but then she’s only three and I’m quite sure that doesn’t count.”
Stretching for her cup, she picked it up and drained it dry, then smiled at him. A teasing, feminine smile. Undoubtedly some of it came from the date wine, but enough of her own warmth infused it that it enthralled him. “Maybe you just need a beautiful young woman to kiss. An adult young woman, I mean.”
It took him a few moments to register what she was saying. At least, until her next words scattered his wits.
“Do you think I’m pretty enough to kiss?” Chanson asked him.
Eduor shook his head, but in agreement, not denial. “Definitely. Young, and pretty, and beautiful. But a kiss ...”
She pouted. Eduor stared, fascinated by the slight pucker of her lower lip. Normally, Chanson was brisk, efficient, and sassy. Much more lively and opinionated than any Mandarite woman dared to be, and far more warm and welcoming than any Natallian woman he’d seen. But a pouting Chanson was undeniably charming.
“It’s the wine, isn’t it?” She sighed, toying with her empty cup. “I’ll admit it’s given me the courage to speak, but it’s been on my mind all the same. I like you. Now that I’ve gotten to know you, of course.”
It was Eduor’s turn to glance furtively around. No one was looking their way, tucked into the back of the courtyard as they were, by one of the cisterns not yet tapped for use. Assured they weren’t drawing undue attention, he leaned close, cupped her cheek, and kissed her. Dry lips to dry lips, and no hint of his tongue, but a kiss all the same.
She was warm, she was soft, and she was feminine. She also sighed again, leaning into his kiss with an encouraging little nibble. Eduor enjoyed his first real kiss in years ... until the ugly thought popped into his head that his last “real kiss” had been with a concubine slave. By the coldest definition, not a free, willing woman. The wine may loosen her inhibitions, but it also loosens her good sense . . . and I like her far too much to let her regret any of this in the morning. Other than the hangover; that’s unavoidable.
Pulling back with a sigh of his own, Eduor looked down at the table. In the glow of the lights strung across the courtyard, candles sheltered from the night breezes in carefully crafted paper globes, his now deeply tanned hands didn’t look that much paler than hers. Parts of him were still quite pale, particularly from waist to knees, but months of labo
ring in the fields as a farmer had bronzed his skin as dark as it could go. He was happy to be a farmer, too. Happy to be here in the modest little village of Oba’s Well, somewhat off the main caravan routes and thus quiet and peaceful.
He didn’t want to ruin the life he was building by doing or saying the wrong thing. Still, he knew he had to say something.
“I like you, Chanson. A lot. More and more as the days go by. But, more than that ... I respect you.” He glanced up at her, wanting to gauge her reaction, to see if she knew just how important those three little words were. She looked a little surprised, yes, but also touched. Something inside him relaxed. She does understand ... Nodding, he shrugged. “That’s why I don’t think we should do this. Um, not under the influence of date wine. But later, when we’re both sober ... I’d like to try again.”
The smile that blossomed on her beautiful dark face made a small corner of his mind regret the decision to wait. The rest of him felt relief, knowing that it was the right choice.
“You,” Chanson murmured, lifting a finger so she could slide it down the length of his nose, “are a romantic. Aren’t you?”
It wasn’t a question. Blushing, Eduor ducked his head. Deciding it was best to make a tactical retreat, he carefully stood, mindful of the wine he had drunk. Then, because he couldn’t resist, he swooped down and kissed her. And very briefly, very quickly, licked her lips with his tongue.
After all, he thought as he pulled back, leaving her smiling and dreamy-eyed, if my tongue is going to get me into yet more trouble ...
The music stopped. Eduor became aware that all three of the musicians were staring at the two of them. Their stares and their silence were drawing more attention. Definitely time to retreat.
He didn’t get very far. Chanson’s mother, a matronly figured woman in bright brocaded green, bustled up to him, a cup of date wine cradled casually in one hand. She poked him with her other hand, alarming the young man. The older a woman got in this corner of Sundara, he had learned, the more inclined she was to speak her mind. Apparently, this particular middle-aged mother intended to speak it to him.
“You,” Marison stated crisply, “are something. You are one, and a total, total one, at that!”
“Milady, I swear my actions were not meant to offend anyone,” Eduor replied under his breath. Her confrontation was embarrassing and awkward, and drawing a lot of interest from the other adults still up this late. The last thing he wanted to do was raise his voice and let the others know what was being discussed.
“What?” She frowned at him, then sighed and shook her head. “No, no, no, boy! You are something. A better something than that Falkon was. Why, when he was courting my little girl, he always treated her like the girl next door! He took her for granted. Just look at him!” She flipped her hand expressively at nothing, both emphasizing her point and dismissing the man in question, then sipped from her cup. “Run off to fight. Silly man. The desert’s a hard enough life without adding warfare to strife ... mmm, heh, that rhymed ...
“But as I was saying, you are something. You have substance!” She clapped him on the shoulder, and being a somewhat large, well-built woman, made him stagger a little. Chuckling, Marison saluted him with her cup. “Make sure you stick around.”
Turning, she sashayed away, gathered skirts swaying with each step. A glance at the others still lingering at the celebration showed them smiling. Apparently, if Marison gave her approval, everyone else would. Eduor swayed a little from the sensation of being accepted by this community. Either that or it was the wine, but he felt good about tonight all the same.
“She’s right, you know,” Chanson murmured from right behind him, so close that Eduor jumped a little. She smirked at him as he glanced over his shoulder at her. “You are something, and I would like you to stick around. Preferably a good, long time.”
Her hand touched his back, then slid down to pat the curves of his buttocks through the brocaded purple of his festival thawa. It made him jump a second time, alarmed by the touch. That was what Midalla had done to let him know she ... This is not that dead hag of a merchant, nor her harridan niece, Eduor reminded himself firmly. Chanson will not demand I satisfy her, nor withhold everything else in my life until I comply. She is nothing like those two harpies ... for which, I thank the Gods.
It helped that when he looked at her, all he saw was a beautiful young woman with deep brown skin and nut brown eyes. Her twist-rolled locks had been swept up into a sort of dark cockscomb and confined in place by the length of sky blue linen wrapped around her head, nothing like the silky brown or blond tresses of a Natallian woman. When she walked, she walked with the same feminine sway to her hips that her mother used. Her ankles were bare beneath the straps of her sandals instead of covered in hose, and her arms decked with brass and silver bangles that clinked musically whenever she made some gracefully gestured point. Everything about the lovely dyara Chanson was different from the women haunting his past.
Tempted to follow her, Eduor reminded himself that they were both a little bit past the slightly drunk point and carefully headed for his temporary home instead. That’s another thing I have to think about. There isn’t a lot of arable land around Oba’s Well. If and when that Falkon fellow comes back, the land would likely revert to him. If he comes back before the next planting season, Eduor remembered fuzzily. Something about the queen a couple reigns back declaring that any landowner who abandoned his land for a full year ... something about losing the rights to own the land, or something . . . I can’t remember. It’s in the village records, I’ll bet.
Of course, with my luck, the fellow will come back right at the end of the harvest and claim all my hard work for himself. Which means I’ll need to either move on ... and leave her and all these people behind . . . or find some other way of staying here.
The thought of leaving threatened to sober him. Sighing, Eduor shook his head. No ... I’ll figure something out. I can always spend my time being a teacher and a scribe, though there isn’t much calling for the latter around here. I can try claiming further soil for farming at the far edge of the village, but that would need extra irrigation support ... or I could try my hand at Mandarite engineering.
There has to be a better way these people can irrigate their fields than what they’re doing now. They use open ditches, but it’s inefficient, since it’s subject to evaporation. Maybe a system of troughs, made out of wood or even pottery, graded for a gentle slope, and a holding tank with, what, a water-screw to lift water to the top, so all three dyara don’t get tired out from casting their water-magics all day?
Heh. Maybe I should just put boards over the tops of all those ditches? That’d be the easiest solution . . . Chuckling at the somewhat silly idea, Eduor took himself off to bed.
FIVE
Caught in the middle of polishing the brazier holding the Flame of Sundra, Chanson looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps. This close to the harvest season, it was unusual for anyone to enter the temple in the morning hours. Midday, yes, as the farmers gathered in the courtyard for half an hour before their midday meal to praise Sundra and pray for the right mix of weather. They wanted clear skies for the wheat harvest, followed by gradual light rains so the various fruits would ripen and the cisterns would refill. They didn’t always get it—the world was shared by many lands and many Gods with many people and many needs—but it never hurt to pray.
She did not expect to see Eduor. He looked like he was freshly scrubbed, dressed once again in his bright purple festival thawa, his hair freshly washed and separated into the thin braids which were the best imitation he could give of Sundaran twist-locks, given the fine, straight strands of his hair. Balancing two stacked baskets in his hands, he padded up to the end of the reflection pool, then dropped to his knees and lifted the baskets high. Offering them formally, she realized.
Quickly giving the underside of the brazier one last rub with the polishing cloth, Chanson hurried down the length of the sanctuary cou
rtyard. “Eduor? You’re bringing something to the temple?”
Lowering the baskets, he grinned at her. “I bring the first fruits for the Goddess, and the second fruits for the dyara.”
Bemused, she took the baskets from him, allowing him to rise. He took back the top basket, accompanying her toward the brazier. She eyed him as they walked. “I thought the consensus among the farmers was that most of the wheat wouldn’t be ready for harvesting for two or three more days.”
“Most of it,” Eduor agreed. “But some of it ripened early. It’s not much, but it’s all handpicked from just an hour ago. And there are some early figs, too, and some acacia gum. I also picked some of the sweet herbs for incense during the offering. And I confessed my sins, few as they are, to Jimeyon while he was scrubbing the tiles in the bathing hall.”
She smiled. “You’ve really put some thought and care into honoring our Goddess, haven’t you?”
He nodded and gestured at the brazier, which currently held only a small oil lamp. It was there to symbolically keep the Flame of Sundra burning while the ashes were carefully cleaned out each evening and the brass of the exterior polished each morning. “I want to make sure I do not offend your Patron. And to show that I will honor Her, so She will accept me. I like being here. Not just in Sundara, but living and working right here, in Oba’s Well. I don’t want to leave.”
“Even when the donkeys drag you into the thorn trees?” Chanson teased lightly.
He ducked his head, but he grinned. “Even when I’m dragged into the thorn trees.”
“Well, the Goddess is happy to accept such carefully selected first fruits. It’s the thought and the intent that matter most, not the size of the offering,” she told him. “The full fire won’t be lit until just before noon, but I’ll be happy to put ... this basket? Or that one?”