And with that done, they could take themselves home with a clear conscience. As the housekeeper left, Neime gave him a long, assessing look, then without a word, slipped out of the shop. Juimei sighed in exasperation, but was too tired to argue with the boy. He wondered how Wepizi was getting on—he was so glad to have him to help with these children. So glad to have him at all, really. He was just the kind of person Juimei wanted beside him in a crisis. Someone he would want as a friend, though he probably had ruined the prospect of that forever with his thoughtlessness.
Tomorrow, he had to get out and see what progress was being made. At least most people would be too absorbed in getting their homes rebuilt and putting their lives back together, to stand and snigger at him. No, that would come later. Maybe he should be giving a thought to leaving this post. The value of a respected leader was not in question—but whether he was what these people deserved, was.
Neime was back in five minutes. “Your carriage awaits, your highness.”
“What?”
Neime grinned. “Well, a cart actually. I thought you might like a lift.”
“I don’t—”
“Jui, don’t be an arse.”
Juimei leaned back, blinking at the uncharacteristic vulgarity, but then he chuckled. “That bad, is it?”
“You look exhausted. I feel the same. Come on, swallow your pride.”
He could either throw a tantrum, or he could let his page’s thoughtfulness make his life a little easier. He took the path of least resistance. The soldiers driving the cart saluted smartly, and helped him into the cart with immense dignity, so he could hardly complain on that score. And by Sephiz, he was glad not to have to walk half a mile right now. Yet people just as tired as he was, probably just as sore, some just as disabled, still worked as they passed, piling wreckage out in the street, or into carts. Sifting through broken possessions, extracting precious belongings that would help them remake their homes.
A child, clutching a dusty wooden doll to her chest, stared up at him as they drove slowly along past her ruined home, past the ruined homes of her friends and neighbours, her big eyes full of sadness and confusion at what had befallen her and her kin. It made him suddenly ashamed that he’d been thinking of abandoning them, abandoning children like her. This disaster would not be behind them in months—it would take years. Families had lost not just homes, but loved ones, livelihoods. Just because he had the luxury of scurrying back to the palace and holing up in self-pitying misery, didn’t mean these people could escape.
He told the driver to stop for a moment, and asked Neime to lift the child up to the cart, so she could stand on the running board. Her parents, hastily bowing and wiping their brows with grimy hands, seemed rather puzzled by what he was doing. They didn’t protest though. He twisted around to the girl. “Hello, my dear. They found your doll?”
She nodded. “‘s Wizip.”
“Wizip? That’s a funny name. Where did you come up with that?”
“‘s sound he makes. ‘Wizip, wizip’.” She demonstrated, making the doll dance a little as she made the sound. “‘s mine.”
She held it out for him to examine, which he did, noting someone had gone to a lot of trouble to carve a realistic face and colour it. Made with love as well as care. “Yes, he is. Have you got somewhere proper to sleep, my dear? What’s your name?”
She clutched her toy to her chest again. “Lasila, sir. Yes, we’re in a big tent cos the house is all broken. I was scared because everything shaked,” she added solemnly.
“Yes, I was scared too. It was pretty frightening, that’s for sure. Lasila, my name is Jui, and I’ll make sure your house gets fixed. You just have to be a brave girl and hold on until we do that. Was anyone hurt in your family?”
She shook her head. “My friend’s father got hurted. Broke his arm, snap.”
“Oh, that must have hurt,” he said, wincing in sympathy. “Well, we have to make sure no one else gets hurt, so you be careful while you’re clearing up.” He looked up and beckoned to her mother to come over, which she did, bowing politely. “Do you have everything you need? Have you got a place to sleep all together?”
“Yes, your highness. Up at the camp. We’ll be heading that way soon—we just had to try and get some of the clothes, and Lasila’s toys.” She rubbed her forehead again distractedly. “There’s just so much to do, and I don’t know how we’ll ever fix it.”
“Jui said he’d fix it,” Lasila assured her.
Her mother gave her a look of surprise at the familiar address. Juimei smiled to reassure her that no offence was taken.
“I certainly will. I’m just going back to my residence, madam, and then I’ll send this back for you, take you all back to the camp. You need to rest, eat your supper. It’s much harder when you’re tired.”
“That it be,” she said. “Lasila, come down now, let his highness get on.”
“What’s your name, madam?”
“Peiminze, your highness. That’s my husband, Jemai,” she said, pointing. “My son’s around somewhere,” she added, looking around as if she expected him to appear out of the ground.
“Well, Peiminze, I want you to let me know—let me or Neime here know personally—if there’s anything you or your friends need. I’ll be at my residence, or back in the square. Tell them all they can come speak to me directly at any point—they don’t need to go through an elder or an officer. I want to know if there’s anything we can do. Is there anything now?”
“No, your highness, except maybe if you could help us find a dry place to store the things we get out of the houses. It’s getting pretty crowded up at the camp.”
He turned to the solder in the backboard. “Thoughts on that, soldier?”
“I can ask if we have space in any of the barracks stores still standing, your highness. We’re short of canvas, though we’ve got people making oilcloth.”
“Then tell your jiren to make it a priority—no point people endangering themselves retrieving belongings if they’ll be ruined by the rain, or broken, or injure someone by being in the way. Tell him that’s my direct order.”
“Yes, your highness,” he said with a polite bow of his head.
“When you get back to the camp, ask Peiminze to advise you—you can do that, can’t you?”
“Yes, your highness,” she said, giving him a weary smile. “Anything to help.”
“Good lass. Now I’ll let you get back to your work. Lasila, you be careful now.”
“Yes, sir. Say ‘bye, Wizip.”
The doll was made to wave, and Juimei bowed solemnly, then her mother lifted her down and the cart moved off.
“Bad with children, eh?” Neime muttered quietly from behind him.
“Shhh. Infants are easy, that’s why I can handle you.”
“If you say so, your highness.”
~~~~~~~~
His two young companions were completely silent as they walked back through the town, now darkening in the dusk, and quiet, with most of the residents back in their shelters, and only a few soldiers with lanterns beginning their patrols. They saluted, offering assistance as Wepizi passed, but apart from borrowing a lantern, he told them to be about their business. Jozin and Iome ignored each interaction, lost in their thoughts and their sorrow. They had been fairly calm until the tinwis took them to the anonymous pile of dirt that marked their friend’s grave, but as the holy man explained what honours had been paid, and how he believed Timinke hadn’t suffered, Iome began to gulp, tears trickling silently down her face. She’d buried her face in Jozin’s chest, and they had both cried, more wrenchingly because it was so silent.
No hysteria, just pain, grief and loss, and a strange amount of acceptance of the fact of the boy’s death that the man, Frisenze, for all his advantage of age, had not been able to manage. Wepizi felt this was far from the first time these two had experienced bereavement and it made him more determined to get to the bottom of their situation. They were so young, and for all their
great powers, still in need of love and care. But there was a good deal of trust that would have to be built before he would be allowed to help them get it.
Now, their tears expended, they had no energy left for words. Wepizi respected their need for silence and privacy, just guiding them gently with a hand or a word as they walked along the shadowy streets. No sign of the prince or Neime in the square—they must have gone on ahead, as expected. He hoped Juimei wouldn’t hold a grudge over Jozin’s tactlessness—a week ago, he’d have been sure he would. Now—he didn’t know. Perhaps patience was a skill Juimei had relearned.
The residence seemed less busy, as if more people had moved out. The butler, Gimoz greeted him with the same perfect graciousness as the night before, the rotund, cheerful man a refreshingly ordinary and soothing sight after such a depressing day.
“Welcome, tezrei,” he said, beaming at him as if Wepizi was a long-lost brother, “and these are our two new guests, yes? Welcome, welcome, do make yourselves at home. His highness said to send you right along, sir, and we’ll have supper brought to you soon. I hope that’s all right with you.”
“Of course. Jozin, Iome—this is Gimoz, and he runs his highness’s home for him.” The two nodded, but clearly didn’t really know what to make of him. “Ah—my uniform?”
“All being taken care of, sir, and we’re getting a selection of clean clothes for your young friends. His highness said if there was anything any of you needed, to just ask. Is there something we can help you with? Miss? Sir?”
Iome hid behind Jozin, who shook his head. Wepizi answered for them. “Supper and the clothes will be fine—perhaps a wash too?”
“All in hand. Step along to his highness’s room, he’s waiting for you.”
He led the two young people along the elegant corridor. Iome’s eyes widened with curiosity, and even Jozin stopped scowling, staring up at the high painted ceilings, the polished tile and wood floors—immaculate even with all the pressure on the staff—and the pretty carved woodwork along the windows and doors. There were people around—servants, some of the sprightlier temporary guests—and each time someone came close, both Jozin and Iome retreated, hiding behind him slightly. They hadn’t been like that with the holy man, but Tinwis Kiein wasn’t anyone’s idea of a threatening figure. Or perhaps it was because they’d been in the open, and could make a run for it—ah, that was probably it.
As an elderly, obviously frail man passed them, helped along by a young woman, Wepizi turned to his companions, waited for them to be alone once more, then said, “You’re completely safe, both of you. You can walk out the door anytime you want. Please—relax. No one means you any harm.”
Jozin straightened up, and tilted his chin defiantly. “I’m not scared of you.”
“Good. Come along,” he said as if there was nothing untoward about the lad’s demeanour. He had to give him credit for courage, if nothing else.
He found both prince and page freshly washed and groomed, and clearly awaiting their arrival. As Wepizi closed the door behind them, Juimei struggled to his feet.
“Welcome to my home, my friends. I believe our supper will be here soon. Please, come and sit. Neime, chairs?”
In the bustle to organise things, any little awkwardness that might have lingered from Jozin’s behaviour earlier was masked, and the prince exuded, if not exactly bonhomie, certainly more polite graciousness than Wepizi might have expected, considering. The little table could be extended, and though it was snug, soon they were all seated around it, Jozin and Iome sitting stiffly and looking ill at ease.
Juimei pretended not to notice and asked Wepizi a couple of meaningless questions about food supplies, while Neime got up to tell the waiting servants outside that their meal could be served. Simple, tasty fare once again, though not stew, of which he’d had more than enough. Wepizi noted approvingly that someone had thought to remember the hungrier appetites of the newcomers. There was far more food than he thought the prince would normally order.
He expected Jozin and Iome to fall on the food as they had earlier—but they didn’t.
“Is it not to your taste?” Juimei asked politely, watching Iome pick at the cold roasted vegetables drizzled with herbed oil, and the flavoursome cheese, a speciality of the region. “Perhaps something plainer, like soup?”
“No, sir,” she said quietly. “I....” She heaved a sigh. “I miss Timinke. Now there’s just the seven of us, and I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“Iome, shut up,” Jozin muttered, but without much passion.
She turned to him, a rare flash of anger in her dark eyes, spots of colour high in her thin cheeks. “No, you shut up. Stop telling me what to do. If you’d made Timinke stay put, he’d still be alive!”
He stared at her, looking betrayed and hurt. “I tried, but he never listened to me. It’s not my fault!” He clenched his jaw. “I tried to stop him, but he had to go see the doigs because Laovei wanted to. I tried, I really tried.”
He hung his head, hair falling forward and covering his face. Wepizi suspected tears were being covered too.
“Jozin?” Neime offered Wepizi a clean handkerchief, which he handed to the lad as he put his hand on his shoulder. “No one thinks it’s your fault. It was an accident. Lots of people died that day.”
But Jozin buried his face in his hands and shook his head, protesting behind his muffling fingers that he tried, he’d tried so hard, but Timinke just wouldn’t listen to him. In the end, there was nothing for it but for Wepizi to wrap his arms around him and try to soothe him.
The others watched, Iome clearly distressed, the prince and Neime hiding their emotions behind solemn dignity. Juimei took Iome’s hand and held it—she didn’t protest the gesture.
The storm of emotions didn’t last all that long, and Wepizi wasn’t surprised when Jozin struggled out of his embrace. He half expected to be snapped at, but the boy only angrily wiped his face with the handkerchief, then handed it back with a muttered “Sorry”.
“No, keep it—I’m sure there are spare ones.” Jozin just nodded, wiping a stray droplet from his cheek, his eyes still downcast. “You remember that man in the graveyard?”
Jozin sniffed. “The one whose mother died?” he asked, his voice clogged from crying.
“Yes. He’s blaming himself, saying if only, if only. Really, he had done nothing he didn’t do all the time, leaving his mother in charge of the house—and who could have known that on that day, this would have such a terrible consequence? Timinke and Laovei probably went off on excursions all the time, didn’t they?”
“Laovei wanted to see the baby doigs,” Iome whispered. “She loves baby animals.”
“Ah, that explains—” Wepizi stopped—no point in talking about the accident and upsetting everyone. “But I’m sure they’d done that before with no harm coming to them, so why would anyone have known something like this would happen? Jozin, you can’t protect people all the time, no matter how hard you try.”
The boy stared at him with grief-stricken eyes. “But Gemeli died, and now Timinke. I could have saved them both, but I wasn’t there, and they both died.”
He wondered who Gemeli was, but it wasn’t the time to push. “Sometimes people die even if you are, son. My wife died in my arms. I couldn’t save her, and you wouldn’t have been able to save him. It all happened so fast—no one had time to react.” He laid his hand on Jozin’s shoulder. “He didn’t suffer. He was with a friend, and he was doing something nice for her. There are worse ways to die, though it’s a hard thing to have to accept.”
The boy scrubbed at his face again, and sniffled, trying so hard to calm down, be brave. “When...when did your wife die?”
Out of habit, he covered the instant pang with a smile. “Four and a half years ago. But it still hurts, as your grief will hurt. All you can do is pray for their spirits and remember them with love. To do anything else dishonours them.”
Jozin nodded, still not looking at him. Wepizi thought it b
est to leave him be for a little while, but kept his hand on his shoulder as a comfort. Iome was in better shape, though pale and red-eyed, but she hadn’t let go of Juimei’s hand even for a moment.
There was an uncomfortable silence, embarrassment as much as anything, but then the prince broke it. “Neime, let’s have some tea, shall we?” he said. “I think it might be better than drizu with this, and nice to have both.”
Neime eagerly took up the offered distraction, getting to his feet. “Of course. Iome, would you like some soup instead?”
“No...this is good. I’ll eat it soon.”
Neime nodded, and slipped out of the room. Juimei began to eat one-handed, as if his appetite was all that mattered, but the glances he gave the two youngsters, made it clear he was simply giving them time to calm down. Wepizi followed his example, and picked at the excellent food.
“Huoinevol cheese tastes better when it’s local,” he said, trying to pick a neutral topic of conversation.
“Yes, indeed,” Juimei replied, sounding as if cheese was of passionate interest to him. “They export it to Visiqe, but people there don’t know what they’re missing. The salt fish from Tsikiugui I always thought was one of the more sensible trade goods—doesn’t matter where you eat that.”
“Salt fish?” Iome asked shyly. “What’s that?”
“Well, it’s fish that you cut in half so it’s flat, and then you cover it with salt for about a week. You wash it off, dry it, and then the fish will keep for a good time. The fishmongers in Tsikiugui make a very tasty version.”
“Because we get the best fish in those waters,” Wepizi said. “Everyone knows that.”
“Are you from Tsikiugui?” she asked.
“Not originally, but I lived there for a long time. You’re from around here?”
Home Ground (Darshian Tales #4) Page 44