Alyea stood frozen and trying to look placid; she hadn't expected such violent support from the elder Sessin, and the words kill Lady Alyea had locked her throat with horror. Not a first-blood duel, then. How could she have been so stupid?
The terrified look on Pieas's face suggested he wouldn't dare to go up against Eredion; two options remained. Which would prove more distasteful to him she couldn't guess.
The younger man's jaw worked for a moment; then he said, hoarsely, “I'd like a day to consider. May we . . . continue this along with the other discussion tomorrow night?”
“Certainly,” Oruen agreed, seeming relieved. The two Sessins departed, Eredion's hand clamped firmly on the younger man's shoulder.
“Wait a bit,” Oruen said as the door closed again. “Let them get some distance before you leave.”
“I had no intention of tagging their heels.” Alyea sat on the arm of a chair, studying the man across from her intently. “You look tired.”
“I am,” Oruen said, slumping back into the cushions of his chair and rubbing his dark eyes. “Gods, I'm tired. I begin to think I made a serious mistake, accepting this crown.”
Alyea said nothing. He wasn't about to abandon the throne, after all he'd gone through to place his rear end on it.
“Are you planning on your aqeyva training being enough to beat Pieas with?” Oruen said after a while. “Because you're an idiot if that's all you're counting on. Eredion's right; Pieas is a nasty piece of work.”
She shook her head, unwilling to admit the extent of her mistake. Even if blood-right had meant a simple duel, the move had been pure madness, more bluff than anything else, now that she thought back on it. What had she wanted?
For Oruen to stop her. For him to say—
—oh, gods, was she still that mad about him? He'd made it clear . . . or had he?
She couldn't resist finding out if that flicker of emotion, when he'd heard of Pieas's attack on her, had been real or imagined. “Why did you choose me for this?”
He had closed his eyes while she brooded; he opened them now and smiled. “Why not you?”
“I'm only eighteen,” she said as emotionlessly as she could. “You have men and women in your service with the dignity of age and the wisdom of years who could handle this much better. Just because you seduced me once is no reason to give me important assignments like this one. Or do you want me out from nearby, to avoid the reminder?”
His smile hadn't faded; he watched her with a fond, if exhausted, expression. “You're a relative unknown, where those more seasoned diplomats already have reputations and enemies among the desert Families. You also have no taint of having been under Ninnic's service, which in itself will ease tempers along the way.”
“I can't be the only one like that,” she said, hoping her expression didn't betray the sinking feeling in her stomach. He'd carefully ignored the unsubtle prompt. “And I'm certainly not the most diplomatic envoy you have to hand.”
“You're the only one I trust,” he told her. “Young, yes, but you're sharp, and you've proven your loyalty beyond any question. This position requires a tremendous amount of trust. Diplomacy you can learn. And a rough edge can be a help, sometimes, with the desert lords.”
She frowned at him. “Most girls my age are married already, with a child on their hip.”
“You've often said that idea bores you to screaming,” he countered. “Has that changed? I could find you a good husband within a day.”
“No,” she said. “It still bores me.” She grinned at him, finding her resentment suddenly sloughing off like water over hard ground. She'd been a fool to hope anything had changed. “All right, I'll do it.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Now, I need some sleep. We'll meet here again an hour after tomorrow's dinner ends.”
By the end of the next day, rumor had already flown round the palace: Pieas Sessin had departed without a word in the middle of the night.
“It's true,” Eredion said, his face dark with anger when presented with the question that evening after dinner. Alyea had arrived moments before the desert lord. “He's taken his horse, and those of his belongings that travel comfortably. I did not give him leave to go.”
“Where is he headed?” the king asked, his own expression hard.
“I don't know,” Eredion said. “I can't believe he'd be so foolish as to make his way back to the desert. I've sent a messenger-bird to Water's End, and to Sessin Family Fortress, warning them to hold him against my return if he shows up there.”
Oruen rubbed at his eyes briefly. “You must have some guess as to where he would go.”
“You likely have the same guess,” Eredion said. “The Stone Islands, to hunt Scratha.”
The king seemed unsurprised by the thought, and not particularly worried.
“Yes,” he said. “I've sent word to the dock captains already to watch for him, and messenger-birds to the coastal villages nearby. If Pieas tries to catch passage on a ship to the Stone Islands, we may not be able to stop him, but we'll know about it within a day.”
Eredion turned to Alyea. “I offer my apologies, and offer my services as some compensation. If you need anything, now or any day in the future, call on me. I'll do what I can to help.”
“Thank you,” she said, startled. “That's a generous offer.”
He displayed another brief, intense smile. “I know. I'm counting on you not to abuse it.”
“I won't,” she said, at the same time Oruen said: “She won't, Eredion.”
They all laughed, the tension easing, and leaned back in their chairs.
“Let's have some wine,” Oruen suggested. “I'd like to hear your thoughts, Eredion, on the posting I'm proposing to give to Alyea. You have experience she lacks, and she's doubtless interested in your advice.”
“She won't take advantage, maybe,” Eredion said wryly, “but you're transparent, Lord Oruen.”
“The desert Families keep themselves very private,” Oruen said with a shrug. “Do you blame me for being curious?”
“No,” Eredion said. “Not really. A good king should take every chance to learn about his people and allies, and I think you're the first good king this palace has seen for far too long.”
“Thank you,” Oruen said, sounding deeply flattered. “More wine?”
“Now you're trying to get me drunk so I'll spill Family secrets,” Eredion laughed, and held out his glass. “You'll find it harder than you think.”
Oruen just smiled.
* * *
Chapter Three
Idisio quickly decided that learning to ride a horse would always be one of his least favorite memories. If, of course, he lived through it; after the fourth time the horse threw him, that began to seem highly unlikely. Either the falls would break something vital, the horse would step on something critical, or Scratha would lose the remnants of a short temper and throttle him.
“I should have stayed on the streets,” Idisio muttered, glaring nose to nose with his horse. It stared back with deceptively sleepy eyes.
“I should have left you there,” Scratha said. He rubbed at his eyes, glanced around, and turned his horse away from the road at a sharp angle. “Lead the horse,” he called back over his shoulder.
Idisio slogged over loose, sandy ground, walking-weed hitching at his ankles and legs. He spared a moment's weary gratitude that his master had allowed the time to change into more suitable traveling clothes before the disastrous riding lessons began. The sturdy linen of his new outfit had held up well so far, although Idisio suspected he'd be spending hours picking out the tiny green seeds.
If, of course, they ever got around to resting. Idisio stumbled, legs threatening to give way under him. It occurred to him, through a grey haze, that he wouldn't be standing, let alone walking, much longer.
“Sit down before you fall over,” Scratha said at last. “I'll come back for you.” He took the reins from Idisio's hand. Not caring whether he fell in the middle of a patch of walk
ing-weed or blood ants, Idisio felt the ground come up under his body and was aware of nothing more for a while.
When his eyes were willing to open again, he found Scratha carrying him, cradling him like a child. Idisio mumbled incoherent protest, ashamed.
“Quiet,” Scratha said, astonishingly gentle, and Idisio's eyelids, like undeniable, heavy weights, slid closed again.
The next time he woke, accumulated aches and bruises hammered at Idisio before his eyes were fully open. The smell of smoke came next, and the unmistakable aroma of food; Idisio's stomach woke with a loud growl at that. A woman laughed nearby.
Idisio struggled to sit up and focus sleep-bleared vision. Scratha knelt beside him.
“Don't get up,” Scratha said. “Your feet are wrapped. I'll bring you some food, if you're of a mind to eat.”
Idisio nodded, and the woman laughed again. Blinking past Scratha, the boy saw an old woman sitting cross-legged by a low table; her hair was pure white, her face lined and weathered like a thick log after a sandstorm. With no stiffness to her movements, she reached to scoop food from a wooden platter into a wide-mouthed wooden bowl, then turned a sharp, bright glance his way.
Fine, wide glass windows spilled light across the plain wooden floors and low, desert-style furniture. Large, colorful sitting cushions surrounded the table; the old woman sat on a deep purple one, and Idisio had been laid out on a wide bench covered with several more. Tall, glazed earthenware vases stood around the room: some as tall as Idisio, and all with dried or fresh flowers in them. A squat cookstove hulked against one wall, large enough to give heat to the room in cold weather; shelves nearby held jars of vegetables, meats, jams, and jellies. Glass jars, and well-made; this woman had to be as wealthy as a desert lord herself, to have so many fine things.
“What's your name, boy?” the woman asked as Scratha squatted beside Idisio again, bowl of food in hand.
“Idisio,” he said, taking the bowl from his master. A hunk of fresh bread, a pile of folded eggs speckled with green and red herbs, and a thick wedge of sourfruit; the food from the palace kitchen seemed to have been years ago. Idisio tore through the food, casting aside all his lessons on manners, slowed only by gulps from the mug of cool water his master held out to him. The eggs were just cool enough to pick up without scorching his fingers, the sourfruit sun-warmed and fresher than any he'd ever tasted before; he wiped juice and crumbs from his chin, surprised to find the bowl empty, and looked up to see two amused faces watching him.
“He's a boy still, Cafad,” the woman said. “Give me that bowl again. He'll need more than that.”
Idisio almost dropped the bowl as Scratha reached for it; the desert lord grabbed it, his expression souring, and said, “Yes. She knows who I am and the truth of the situation.”
“I know your understanding of the situation,” the woman corrected, a touch sharply; her smile took some of the sting out of the words. “Give me the bowl already.”
She filled the bowl twice more before Idisio motioned that he'd had enough.
“I thank you, my lady.” Idisio wiped at his face again and burped. “That was marvelous.”
“You're welcome, Idisio,” she said. “And you needn't call me lady. I left that word behind me long ago. Azni will do fine.”
Now that his stomach had been filled, other pains, along with his bladder, began to command his attention again, even as Scratha asked, “How do you feel, boy?”
“He hurts everywhere,” the woman said before Idisio could answer, “and he thinks you're a damned fool for dragging him all over until his feet are blistered.”
“No,” Idisio said quickly, afraid of looking as if he agreed, “I mean, I hurt, but I . . . I don't think you're a fool, my lo . . . Master.” Or should it be 'my lord', since the woman knew Scratha's true identity? He couldn't decide, but as neither Scratha nor the strange woman seemed offended, he let it pass without further attempt at correction.
“Well, you ought to,” the old woman said. “Because he is a fool for it.”
“All right,” Scratha said sourly, reaching for a pail of water, a cloth, and a small jar that were all on the floor nearby. “Let be already.”
“I'll knock it in until I think you're actually listening,” she replied. “We haven't got there yet.”
Trying to divert the conversation and ease the dangerous tension hardening his master's jaw, Idisio said, “Where are we?”
Scratha reached out and flipped the blanket back from Idisio's feet, which were wrapped in linen bandages.
“We're in Azni's home,” he said unhelpfully, and began to unwind the wrappings. For all his rough temper, he kept his movements gentle and careful.
Azni snorted. “About six miles northeast of Bright Bay is the right answer, and little enough to give at that.”
“You value your privacy,” Scratha said.
The wrappings dropped in a pile to one side. Holding Idisio's ankle, Scratha raised the foot slightly, squinting as he examined it. With his free hand he dropped the piece of cloth into the pail of water, pulled it out, and squeezed. Water dribbled back into the pail; the sound reminded Idisio of his increasingly full bladder.
“The boy's not about to lead a horde of murderers to my home,” Azni retorted.
Scratha made a face and began dabbing at Idisio's foot with the damp cloth. Idisio tensed, expecting it to hurt, but felt only a faint tickling as his lord wiped away a layer of salve. Twice he hissed as the tickling shot into a sharp burning sensation; each time Scratha nodded without looking up. “No,” Scratha muttered under his breath as he worked, “I'm the only one likely to do that.”
Azni showed sharp hearing for her age; she said, in a much gentler voice, “You haven't yet, Cafad, and I don't expect you will.” The previous layer of salve wiped away, Scratha spread more over two small spots at the edges of Idisio's left foot and let it rest on the cushion again, not bothering with bandages. He started unwrapping Idisio's right foot.
“This time is different, Azni. I've offended the whole of Sessin, and Pieas is after me.”
“You don't know that,” she said.
He paused in his ministrations and looked over his shoulder at her. “Pieas Sessin fights if he farts and someone has the gall to smile. He's killed over a wrong word before, when that word involved his sister. And I threw the girl out into the street half-dressed and named her a whore to all within hearing.”
“And if you'd known she was Pieas's sister, would that have held you back?” Azni asked.
Scratha held still for a moment, looking at her, then turned back to unwrapping Idisio's foot. “No. I was too angry.”
“Done is done,” the old woman said. “You'll deal with what comes. Even Pieas Sessin isn't fool enough to breach my walls in hunt of you, Cafad. He'll wait for you to leave—if he even knows you've come this way.”
“I covered my tracks from the road, but he'll know soon enough I haven't gone to the Stone Islands,” Scratha said.
“If he has the wit to stop and ask the right questions,” Azni said, “which I doubt; and if he's angry, that's even less likely to happen. If he's mad enough to hunt a full desert lord in the first place, he'll go west to the harbor, which gives you days to clear my home. Stop worrying so.” Scratha wiped Idisio's foot with the damp cloth. The pressure in Idisio's bladder built steadily. “My lo . . . Master,” Idisio said, catching himself again at the last second, and hesitated, not sure how to put the matter while a woman of obvious status stood in the room.
The eunuch hadn't covered how to say I have to take a piss in front of a noblewoman.
“Almost done,” Scratha said without looking up. “Let's talk on something else, Azni.” He set Idisio's foot down and sat back.
“Fine,” the old woman said. “Go get the boy a chamber pot before he floods my floor. I don't want him walking yet.”
Idisio felt a deep heat climb into his face as Scratha stood and left the room without comment.
“I've raised children wit
hout benefit of servants,” the old woman said, smiling. “I'm not so easily embarrassed as all that.”
She did have the kindness, when Scratha returned, to leave the room while Idisio relieved himself.
“Master,” Idisio said after the chamber pot had been decently lidded again and pushed to one side, “who is she?” He decided that using the term 'my lord' might trip him up in the future; better to start using the 'proper' public term now and avoid, as much as possible, using actual names aloud. That seemed safe enough.
Scratha sighed and settled to the floor, leaning back against the wall with his long legs stretched before him. “She used to be Lady Azaniari Aerthraim,” he said. “She left her family and married Lord Regav Darden.”
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