“You look well,” Hurst said, still watching the lake. “Did you have a good journey?”
“As good as it ever is,” she replied, the familiar greetings a comfort.
Then he turned to face her. “And Jonnor? He took care of things?”
His tone was casual, but she caught something deeper, some tension perhaps, in his voice, although his face was impassive, and that made her anxious. She wanted to answer lightly, to deflect any more questions so the moment would pass quickly, but somehow there was a thickening in her throat and she couldn’t quite look him in the eye.
“He did,” she said, but she knew he would notice her hesitation and gruff tone. She flushed, annoyed with herself, but he said nothing, and after a few moments the Slaves came in to lead the family communion. In the flurry of activity that followed she was able to compose herself.
Later, when they were setting up a game of crowns, he said in a low voice, “I shall be at the library tomorrow morning if you want to talk about things. An hour before noon, in the Old Murthian poetry room.”
“Oh! I didn’t know you were familiar with Old Murthian.”
“I don’t speak a word of it, but neither does anyone else, so we won’t be disturbed. You can tell me all about it. If you want to, of course. Would you like to play red this time?”
~~~
The library was a vast seven-storey pile built half into a straggling arm of the mountains on the far side of the lake from the Amontis house. It was too far for her to walk and the sky ships were busy bringing in more Karningholders for the winter quiet, so she sent for a push cart, a small wheeled vehicle propelled by two servants, which dropped her at the foot of the crumbling stone steps leading up to the entrance. Usually her visits to the library were a delightful respite from the bustle and lengthy rituals of the winter quiet, but today she was unaccountably nervous about talking to Hurst. She didn’t want him to think badly of Jonnor, and as for herself, she’d just as soon put all thoughts about that night out of her mind. It didn’t help to trawl over such experiences. It was more important to look to the future.
Despite her nerves, entering the library again after almost a year lifted her spirits. The ground floor was one huge open space, completely filled with walls of book hangers. Narrow balconies allowed access to the higher books. This level was almost entirely taken up with works of the imagination, and a few works of reality, such as certain histories.
There were no librarians about for her to hand over the books she was returning, so she hung them on the correct hooks herself, and quickly chose three more. It was many years since she had ventured beyond the familiar areas where she found all her own reading, and she could not remember where the Old Murthian poetry section was. She looked around for someone who might know, but the only person nearby was a Slave.
“Excuse me, Most Humble…” she began, but the Slave turned frightened eyes towards her and darted away. A wash of fear swept over Mia, leaving her heart thumping. Why would a Slave react that way? Had she offended in some way? But the Slave was gone, and although Mia waited a while, no one came to reprimand her or, worse, to take her away for investigation.
There was no one to ask for directions, but she knew every corner of this floor, and there was no poetry of any kind. The Old Murthian poetry room must be on one of the upper levels. She hadn’t explored up there for years, and the prospect distracted her thoughts from the forthcoming meeting.
She made her way to the stairs, broad and echoing. There were large niches on either side, but they were all empty. The centre of the stairs was carpeted, but it raised choking dust, so she walked carefully up the stone edges, avoiding the cracks. On the second floor, a large engraved marble slab told her the level was devoted to more histories, mostly battles and skirmish theory, and a lot of dull reality books - astronomy, geography, animal life and the like. No poetry.
The stairs to the third floor were free of carpet, but were even more dusty, with great spiders’ webs in the corners. The marble slab here was filled with unfamiliar topics: culture, anthropology, spiritualism, catastrophe theory, ritual studies… she had no idea what most of them were, but there was nothing about Old Murthian and no one around to ask, so she went up again.
The stairs now were covered with what looked like dead leaves, brown and dry, which crunched under her feet. Her curiosity at this decrepit state put everything else out of her head. This was not how she remembered these upper floors.
The slab on the fourth level had numerous entries hidden with strips of board, or painted out. But at last there were some languages – Elder Kashinorian, Later Kashinorian, Grivordian, Kannick Old Script, Kannick Revised Script, Herramish and Old Murthian, as well as many others she had never heard of.
This level was not open like the ground floor, and she followed the signs along endless corridors, past closed doors and a few which stood ajar, revealing walls lined with empty hooks. Even some of the passageways featured lines of hooks, but there were no books, and no people to be seen either. However, she could see footprints in the dust ahead of her, so she knew this part of the library was not entirely abandoned.
At last she reached a pair of doors, one labelled ‘Old Murthian, Language, Literature, History’ and the other ‘Poetry, Messhantian, Trithordinish, Old Murthian’. She took a deep breath, opened the latter and went in.
Hurst was already there, a book spread out on a marble bench in the middle of the room. He looked up at her, smiling, and she was filled with affection for him. Whatever happened, surely he would always be her friend.
“Well,” she said, gazing around in amazement at the rows of books filling every wall, “I had forgotten this room. I have not been up here for years. It was a lot cleaner then.”
“You’ve been here before? Whatever for? Did you get lost?”
“Not at all. One of my uncles – the fourth, I think – or maybe fifth – grew up in the area that used to be Old Murthius and spoke the language fluently. He showed me all round this section when I first came to the scholars. But there were books everywhere then. I remember the corridors were lined with them. I wonder where they all went to.”
But Hurst only shrugged.
“I had no idea you had a taste for poetry,” she teased, pointing at the book he had open.
“In Old Murthian? Not my style. I was just trying to work out whether I’d got it the right way up.”
“You have, actually. Oh!” She felt herself blushing. “Actually, I think it’s very much your style.”
“Really? Why?”
“It’s erotica. You could add it to your collection.”
“Well, what’s the point when there are no pictures? So, you can read this stuff, can you? All these squiggles mean something to you?”
“I can read a bit, but it’s not hard, it’s only the same as the Elder Kashinorian script. If you want a difficult one, try Kannick Old Script – all those tiny dots!”
“No thanks! But here… have a seat. I’ve cleaned off the worst of the dirt.” He folded the book up neatly, secured the clasp and hung it back on a hook. With a cluck of mock annoyance, she scooped it up again, and rehung it in the proper section. Then, giving the bench a final wipe with a gloved hand, she sat down. It was fortunate she wore dark clothing, or she might have been tempted to remain standing.
He settled himself beside her. “Well, it rather dents my opinion of my own cleverness if you already know of this place, but you must agree it’s very private.” He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “So. Do you want to tell me how things went with Jonnor? I rather imagined you would be dancing for joy afterwards, so should I assume it was a disappointment?”
They had always talked very openly, so she was neither surprised nor embarrassed by his frankness. But still she couldn’t quite look him in the eye.
“It was… not quite what I expected,” she answered in a low voice. “It hurt…”
And then, to her dismay, her eyes filled with warm tears which trickled
slowly down her face. Hurst said nothing, but put his arms around her and held her in a tight clasp as she sobbed into his shoulder, his face pressed against her hair. It was a comfort to be held in his strong arms, which rocked her very gently, as if she were a child with a scraped knee. After a while she was able to tell him something of the rest of it between sobs.
Still he said nothing, and eventually she felt strong enough to pull away and wipe her eyes. When she looked at him, she saw such a fierce expression on his face that she was a little frightened.
“Hurst? Are you… angry with me?”
“Not with you, Mia. Never with you.”
“You mustn’t be angry with Jonnor either,” she said, alarmed now. “It wasn’t… I mean, he did the best he could. But he’s still grieving for Tella, he misses her so much…”
“No excuse,” he said. “He really shouldn’t… but never mind that. He’s an odd one altogether, Jonnor is. At least it’s done. Are you all right, really?”
“Better for talking to you,” she said, with a tremulous smile. “You’re such a good friend to me, Hurst.”
He grunted, an odd twist to his mouth. “Well, I know you won’t let this come between you and Jonnor.”
“Oh no! Of course not. I understand. He just… found it difficult. I’m not Tella, after all.”
“Indeed you’re not.”
“And it will be better next time.”
“Yes. It will. But Mia…”
“Yes?”
“Don’t press him, will you? Give him time.”
“To get over Tella? Yes, I know.” But she felt her face fall, all the same. She had assumed – hoped – that once they got back to the Karninghold, she and Jonnor would begin a more normal relationship. But Hurst was right. Jonnor had forced himself to do his duty, but it might be a long time before he wanted anything more. Well, she had waited ten years for this; she could wait a little longer.
It occurred to her then that it would perhaps have been better if it had been Hurst instead of Jonnor. He was such a good friend, he would surely not have minded. But then she reminded herself that he was grieving too, for Tersia, so it would not necessarily have been any easier for him. Although he pretended their relationship meant little to him, they had been a couple for several years, and Tersia had indicated that her two eldest children were Hurst’s. There must have been affection between them.
It saddened her to be the cause of so much trouble to her two husbands. It was not strictly her fault, of course, it was just a quirk in the law that required the lead wife to be fully active, but still, she wished she were beautiful and desirable, like Tella, so that sex with her would not be such a chore.
“Well,” she said, straightening her tunic a little and standing again, “at least I know now how you managed to have sex in the library.” She managed a little smile. “Did you find this place yourself, or did your… lady friend know of it?”
“Oh, it was her idea. She is an administrator here, she organises all the activities of the quiet, so she lives here year round. Or did. I haven’t seen her for years. She brought me here when I was still with the scholars, and it was quite a regular thing for a while. There are any number of abandoned rooms like this, and quite a few with books still in them. She used to prefer the ones with books, for some reason. Even up on the seventh floor you can find a few books, although… they are not like these.”
“What do you mean, not like these?”
“Some of them are made differently. They don’t unfold, and they don’t hang on hooks, and they have strange thin covers. The paper is different, too, not crumbling at the edges, like these here. And the letters are smaller, but easier to read, if you know what I mean.”
“Not really.” But it was intriguing all the same. She felt a frisson of excitement; new kinds of books! What delights might be found within them?
But there was no time to search further that day.
“I never asked how your interview went,” Mia said later, as they waited by the library steps for her cart to be summoned. “I’m so sorry, Hurst, I should have asked straight away.” She was cross with herself for allowing her own problems to distract her.
“Oh, it went quite well, on the whole,” he said with an easy shrug. “As well as these things ever go.”
“You’re so relaxed about it! I’m always nervous, but there is nothing to fear, is there? The Voices are there to help us. Did they ask anything awkward?”
“Not really. Just about Tella, the arrangement, that sort of thing. Actually, they talked quite a bit about the blue arrows.”
She felt alarm spearing through her. “You aren’t…?”
“No, no, of course not. They just wanted to explain… well, how it all works. Just in case, you know. To be sure I understand the business. But I have no intention of asking, none at all.”
“I can’t imagine that you would ever want to kill Jonnor. I mean, you have disagreements, sometimes, but…” Still there was that little curl of fear at the thought of it.
“The option is there, that’s all. For both of us, in fact. In case the situation ever becomes… intolerable.”
“Intolerable?”
“That is the word they used. But I don’t see it happening, so don’t worry, Mia. Look, here’s your transport now.”
And he handed her in, all smiles, and she thought how different he looked then, his face lit up and those little crinkles around his eyes, not at all like his usual dark expression. He was not a handsome man, not like Jonnor, but he had a certain charm. Although he was ruthless, too, she knew, and she was not reassured. On the ride home, she wondered just what a man like Hurst would regard as intolerable.
10: Confession (Hurst)
For two full days Hurst churned with anger, glowering at the world and abrupt even with his Companions. He stomped around the training grounds, but he couldn’t settle to any serious work. All his energy was directed elsewhere. Only in the evenings at the pavilion was he mellower, for Mia had the power to soften even his current bad temper. Her interview had gone well, she told him, and she was glad she had talked to him at the library. She’d felt much more settled after that and able to face the globe with total ease.
But that did nothing to abate his anger with Jonnor. The morning Jonnor was due to arrive at the Arrakas men’s house, Gantor, Trimon and Walst were preparing to go to the training grounds, but Hurst hung back, determined to have it out with him.
“You coming?” Walst said with a frown, gathering up clothes to change into later.
“No, I think I’ll wait for Jonnor.”
The three men exchanged glances.
“No,” said Gantor, tossing down his half-filled bag and folding his arms.
“What do you mean, no?”
“I mean no. You’re not going to wait for Jonnor.”
Hurst raised his eyebrows. “Really? Who says so?”
“All of us say so. The mood you’re in, you’ll lose your temper and that will only end badly. For everybody. So no. Get your things, and hurl all that pent-up aggression at a training opponent. Knock me to the Ninth Vortex and back, if you like, or take on Walst if you want more of a challenge. Whatever makes you feel better. But you’re not staying here, even if we have to beat you senseless first and carry you.”
So he went, and he had to admit there was some small satisfaction in a good hard fight. First he mashed Gantor into a quivering heap, and then he turned his attention to Walst, who was more his weight. The two went after each other with such sustained ferocity and for so long that the whole training session gradually ground to a halt around them as one pair after another stopped their own fight to watch, awed. It was a strange thing, but his leg never bothered him while he was fighting, although he knew it would be agony later.
In the bathing pool afterwards, battered, his skin raw with bruises, and barely able to move, Hurst couldn’t help laughing.
“What the fuck’s so funny?” Walst grimaced, stretching his sword-arm ginger
ly.
“Gantor was right. I do feel better.”
“Not sure Gantor does. Or me, come to that.” With a wry shake of the head, Walst laughed too.
~~~
By the time they got back to the Arrakas men’s house, Hurst was too tired to do more than sleep through the afternoon stillness, and then there was the tedium of communion to get through. There was a purpose he could understand to a family communion, for it served to bring them all together – husbands and wives, Companions and children. But a house communion, with distant relatives he barely knew, that was a different matter.
They met in the temple, a round building connected to both the men’s house and the women’s. There was an hour allowed after the stillness for the various Arrakas members to gather in an ante-room, an opportunity for gossip which was of little interest to Hurst until his father and all his uncles and brothers had arrived from their various Karnings.
They filed through into the communion room, much larger than its equivalent at a Karninghold, which was fitted out with tiers of semi-circular marble benches around the central fire. The women sat on one side, the men on the other, each with a small cushion to protect their rears from the cold, while Slaves burned incense and chanted. Hurst made the required responses, and tried not to wriggle too much as his abused leg complained at the inactivity. Jonnor was there, of course, but no more than a face in the crowd, and Hurst had no opportunity even for a preliminary glower.
After that, a walk to the family pavilion, and another hour of wretched inactivity with incense and chanting and then at last, blessed release, when the Slaves would depart and leave the family to their meat and the pleasure of a shared evening.
Tonight was the first time they would all be together again, and although the morning’s activity had burned off the worst of Hurst’s anger against Jonnor, he was still not at all settled in his mind. But as soon as he entered the pavilion ante-room and saw Mia and Jonnor standing together, all his antipathy drained away in an instant. For she was smiling up at Jonnor, her face aglow, one dainty hand resting on his shoulder as if she were just about to reach up and kiss him. For his part, Jonnor at least looked less sulky than usual and was listening attentively to her. How could Hurst sustain his anger when she was so obviously happy?
The Plains of Kallanash Page 10