A flurry of pages.
A shuffle in the city.
I did not know it, but by the end of that diary, I had built a fortress somewhere in the city.
T e n –
Negotiations, Armored and Otherwise
I kept an eye on Tanen as I read from the diary. The others were about their business as I tended the morning fire. As far as Tanen knew, sitting across the room from me, I was simply passing the time waiting until the fire needed to be fed. He could not know I was not planning on sacrificing the volume in question when the time came.
I was all set to send him off with the rising of the sun, but Letta was not so quick to shoo him off without breakfast. Hence, the sun had crested the peak of its great cradle, and Tanen was still here with us.
With me.
He sat there innocently enough, but I could not tame my guard. My eyes kept straying to him over the top of Lady Sebastian's diary. For awhile, he did little things like whittle away at some little trinket from one of his coat pockets. I watched him roll his nice white sleeves up, wondering how he had kept the garment so nice, figuring he must have commenced with a good many more layers and been stripped of the other garments as they wore out along the way. A pair of lovely strong wrists were bared from beneath his sleeves, and then I lost interest in the rhythmic task that followed and immersed myself back in my book.
After a time, he put the trinket and his knife away in the pocket of his coat where it was slung across the back of his chair, then pulled the coat around to serve as a blanket and settled in to take a bit of a cat nap before his day's journey.
I considered him, wondering if the nap served to conquer boredom or if he was earnestly in need of sleep. I considered the shadows where his thick lashes fell against his cheekbones, then took in the lines of the rest of his nonchalant face. He looked agreeable enough in his sleep.
My eyes traveled down, considering his coat. I pondered the scratches and from whence they came, and then I pondered the pockets. What else did he have in them? I had the strange sudden urge to snoop, to creep into his pockets while he was asleep and see what kind of man this was, as if I could judge that from what trinkets were found in a man's pockets. They wouldn't be just trinkets. They would be symbols.
The bottom edge of the coat fell against his knees, and I followed the muscle of his calf as it plunged into his boot. His boots were worn, light gray in color, with scars of white criss-crossing like lashes on a slave's back.
My eyes trailed back up to his face, considering still, and then a certain sense of horror clenched me; his eyes were open. He was looking back at me – blank-faced, but he had caught me in the act.
My cheeks bloomed hot with roses, but the diary hid them from his witness sight, and then defiance came along to thrash aside the ridiculous idea of being ashamed in his presence. I wouldn't be caught dead being ashamed in his presence.
Tanen's hair disrupted his face again this morning, but those eyes were just as clear as ever. They were like crystals in the sun, reflecting back at me in the dim interior of Manor Dorn. They were many-faceted, two pristine windows of stained glass secrets.
I was grateful for the sound of the screen door creaking quickly open, announcing the return of the children just before they spilled into the room, feet heavy and clumsy on the floor as they romped past. Tanen and I were broken from our guilty little trance, but I noticed him shift a little distastefully to keep his legs out of the fray as the children brushed by.
I bristled, thinking it was more than mere avoidance of their antics. They were children, for the gods' sakes. They hadn't done anything.
Letta followed them in, a bushel of feathery oats bulging in her apron. On one arm was a bucket of water pumped fresh from the well.
The makings of our breakfast.
The children were in the kitchen already, and I heard the banging of pots as they selected the necessary cookery.
“Not quite so much passion, Dani,” I heard Letta remind the boy as she disappeared into the kitchen. Things quieted down to a dull rattle as they set about preparing the oatmeal.
“They won't bite, you know,” I said to Tanen, unable to keep from remarking.
He stared back at me, shifting slightly – but in a lazy fashion, nothing awkward. “Who?” My, wasn't he comfortable in his unwelcome mannerisms.
“The children.”
There was a slight pause before he spoke. His hair fell heavy in his face, his hands heavy in his lap. His fingers draped idle and careless between his comfortably splayed legs. “I should hope not.”
I did not appreciate the way he was slouching. It could be taken as entirely impolite.
That was how I took it.
I ground tight the muscles in my jaw and drew myself more stiffly upright on the hearth, letting pride hoist the sails that seemed ever coiled around my backbone in his presence like a scroll that was a proclamation of royalty, of superiority. I knew it only hurt my philosophy that people ought to be treated as equals, because here I was spitefully looking down my nose at another, and that really it made me a hypocrite, but I just couldn't help it in his presence. And since it was pride as a person rather than because of any class, and pride for others, I seemed just in getting away with it.
Tanen shifted then, this time perhaps with the slightest need to break the tension, scraping his extended boot over the floor until it was back where it belonged and he was sitting like a gentleman, rather than a slob.
I gave an inaudible sniff of approval and fastened my eyes once again to the pages my nose was still tentatively stuffed in.
“I don't suppose you've ever seen any of it crumble with your own eyes,” Tanen mused – and it was harmlessly enough, but instead of appreciating that he was making an effort toward pleasant (could that be called pleasant?) conversation I found myself annoyed that he spoke at all, incensed that he had once again interrupted my reading.
I reminded myself that it had been my eyes that had wandered to him the first time. Promptly, I didn't appreciate the reminder.
I glanced up in thought, thinking it was an odd mix indeed to be annoyed and thoughtful at the same time. “No,” I replied. I had never seen any of it crumble with my own eyes. “We hear it. We see the evidence. But I've never seen it happen.”
It occurred to me that he had been out in the open a lot more extensively than I had, so what about him?
“Have you?”
He shook his head, bemusement and intrigue showing in the lines of his face. For the first time I noticed those lines, and that his handsome face was weathered in a way. And shouldn't it be? “I heard it once, just behind me. But by the time I turned, it had happened. I was left in the onslaught of the cloud of dust. Don't you find it curious?”
“That we never see it? We stay cooped up as much as possible. And it seems to fancy happening overnight.”
“But I crossed countless cities. And I saw nothing.”
“I don't presume to have an answer for any of it, Cathwade,” I pointed out. “So it doesn't strike me as a particularly nagging observation.” Besides, Winifred Sebastian had seen it. I recalled the tower she had witnessed as it crumbled to the ground.
Tanen considered me, and seemed to decide it wasn't worth speaking of these things to me. I was not a very sympathetic ear.
With more determination, I raked my eyes back down to the pages in my grasp. I had been stuck on the very same sentence for far too long.
Was I being entirely too insensitive? This man had lost things, I reminded myself. What had I lost? In essence, nothing. I had gained freedom because of the devastation. It occurred to me that I was perhaps unfairly void of empathy for the plight that these times meant for others.
It humbled me for a moment, and then I realized I had neglected that same sentence yet again. It hovered on the page before me, unable to anchor me. And it was then that I... said Winifred Sebastian.
Then that you what? I demanded, and drilled on without patience for the tentat
ive words, wishing they would speak up instead of letting my attention wander.
Presently, Letta called out that breakfast was ready. I turned to poke the fire and tucked away the diary while I was at it, and then rose to join the others in the kitchen. Tanen, having risen and donned his coat with a sense of finality, or formality (or both), followed me in.
Letta had already dished up two bowls. I reached for the empty stack of broken old crockery and began serving some to be taken up to the Masters. Tanen paused in the doorway, waiting as we served. Letta glanced up at his idle posture, and nudged a bowl toward him, indicating he ought to start. I slopped the swollen oats into a bowl and set it on the counter to start another.
Tanen came forth as urged, and reached for a bowl. His fingers passed the entity Letta had indicated, and went right for a bowl I had served instead. I caught this, and watched with suspicion out of the corner of my eye. It was a farther reach for him to take one of the bowls I had served. It went against logic, as well as what had been indicated.
But not against prejudice.
My hackles burned. I felt like slapping his hand. Like biting his hand. The next spoonful of oats slopped hard into the bowl in my grasp.
Still acting ignorantly discreet, Tanen moved gracefully from the scene. My eyes burned into his back.
Letta seemed not to have noticed.
It was hard to muster the self control to resist marching in there and demanding what he thought he was accomplishing by avoiding Letta's offering. She had gone to the trouble of insisting he stay for breakfast, and he returned the decency by exercising prejudice? She had still picked the oats with her hands, I wanted to tell him. She had still cooked it with her hands. Not even the Masters would pull such a stunt as he had, and anyone who kept a slave obviously thought themselves superior. But it was her job, as a slave, to sustain them. To serve them food. They thought themselves superior, but did not avoid her like a plague of death.
My stomach churned with anger. The sludge of oats in my bowl lost its appeal, never mind that I was hungry. With an effort, I continued serving without any climactic outburst, and willed myself to carefully lay the bowl aside and go for another.
Dashsund appeared then, sidling into the kitchen. His hand went gently to my shoulder as he moved past me. His tenderness struck a chord in me, and I softened for that moment, touched by that casual but meaningful contact. But then the upset feeling returned as I got out the tray and banged it a little harder than necessary on the counter to be loaded. An eye or two glanced up at the rattle, but I offered no explanation, and they did not ask.
“Where's Henry?” I forced out instead, to divert attention.
“Mending the back shutters,” Dashsund replied.
I nodded, stiffly, and then whisked the laden tray off the counter to spirit it upstairs.
It was tempting, as I traversed the living room, to dump the contents quite 'accidentally' into Tanen's muscled lap.
“Make ready to leave,” I bade curtly, and whisked up the hem of my skirt to ascend the stairs.
At the end of the hallway, I quieted my footsteps and put my ear to the door for a moment before delivering breakfast. Every now and then I attempted to glean what went on beyond this barred threshold. Were they all well? Did they stew about; pace? Or did they huddle in the corners? And were they going just a little bit mad by now?
I heard nothing. Then, something stirred. A whisper. A murmur. Something scuffed. Then everything returned to silence.
I waited a moment longer, then drew back and lowered the tray. Rapping briefly on the door, I distanced myself down the hall and made for the stairs again. I heard the door creak open as I reached the landing, and couldn't help glancing over my shoulder to catch a possible visual. I only caught the briefest, ghostly portal, though, and then the boundaries returned to their discriminatory order.
Letting it go, I returned downstairs where the others were eating.
“Time to go,” I told Tanen. “I'll walk you into town on my way to see the newsboy.” I did not relish the idea of his company, but I wanted him out, and since I had an appointment with Johnny, I might as well see him out and assure that that's where he went.
“Where are you going to go from here?” Letta was curious.
Halfway through a nod, Tanen turned to her. “I don't know, Monvay,” he admitted. “It's not as if there is anywhere to go.”
Letta nodded, pursing her lips.
“We all have to make a way for ourselves,” I said, sounding encouraging only to hide the predominant pointedness. Tanen took my meaning; I could tell from the flick of his eyes. If Letta did as well, she didn't make it known.
Tanen rose to return his empty bowl to the kitchen. While he was out of the room, I went to the mantle above the hearth and reached to take down a sack of vegetables we had set aside there. It was what I would use to pay Johnny.
Tanen came back into the room just in time to see me sheathing my knife for the trip.
“Let's go,” I bade, and we both headed for the door.
“Keep your wits about you, Tanen of Cathwade,” Letta offered.
He nodded over his shoulder.
“The corners and the shadows tend to try to bite.” With that last amiable warning, Letta stayed behind framed by the door, and I took my charge across the yard, past the walls of the house. A bit of a breeze nipped at my skirts and hair, and I eyed the hazy-turning sky. A bit of weather? Or simply the gust of some shift, and powder over the sun?
Tanen hefted his coat more snugly onto his shoulders, and fell into step beside me. He stayed agreeably quiet for a good portion of time as we headed down the road into the city, but finally he had to pipe up.
“You know you are just taking me back the way I came.”
I glanced at him, a lock of hair whipping gently across my face. “You may go the other way if you like.”
He did not look back at me. His eyes watched his feet, his face grave. “If it's all like this, I think I would rather not know.”
Pity trickled through me, but there wasn't much room for it. “Suit yourself,” I said. “We've survived quite well not knowing.” There, perhaps that was encouraging.
“Your Masters – how long have they been up there?”
This time, my glance was not so tolerant. I could do without references to our 'masters' at this point. They had as good as faded from my life. I was no longer controlled by them. I was free.
I was free.
“We don't count days,” I said in the way of an answer. It was true enough. I counted only by way of having an appointment with the newsboy, or by how much the garden had grown, or by the week as I had to go out looting. But I did not keep track of everything else with much precision.
“Are they opposed to a guest in the house?”
What did he mean to get at by that? “They are opposed to anything and everything that comes from the outside, except what we need to survive. They are even opposed to some things that come from within. The house is diseased, like everything else.”
“Like me? Is that why you are so quick to hustle me out; because you believe everything is diseased?”
So he was going to challenge me, was he? “Can you blame me for not wanting to take chances?” I asked pointedly.
The tentative uprising that lit his face softened. “No.” He couldn't.
I did not want to point out that he treated the darkskins as much like a disease; I was too upset at him for it to bring it up. I would not stay civil if that came up as a substantial topic between us.
“You've been a lot of places,” I pointed out instead. “Who can say what you've brought with you? You could have tracked anything across the borders.”
“Certainly nothing that could come to your advantage like a good sense of the land or a diverse insight for resources.”
I bit my tongue. Why did he have to talk? Couldn't he just tag along and be on his way?
I reminded myself I was the one to offer to escort him into to
wn. I was beginning to regret it, even though I wanted to see him off.
“We're plenty resourceful,” I said, because I had to say something.
“Is that the reason for the array of shiners slashed all down your unprotected back?”
“What are you, an aristocrat?” I challenged, not liking his crafty way of getting at things. It occurred to me, after saying it, that that may very well be what he had been.
“Maybe,” he said mysteriously.
“Well it won't do you any good out here. We survive on grit, not politics. Fancy words are useless to charm a fortress from collapsing unless you're a wizard. Words just get drowned out, trampled. They're as good as ash on your tongue.”
“There is still something to be said about strategy.”
“If my strategy didn't work, I'd be dead.”
“And if it fails, you will be.”
I thought a moment. “Everyone has their time.” It was something one of the Serbaens might say of the matter.
“That's it? Nature will take its course? Don't you think that's a rather condemning philosophy in this day and age? Nature is ruthless. It's bloodthirsty. Look around you – it's clearly become not only unforgiving, but morbid.”
“It's not as if we lay down at the foot of the towers and tempt fate.”
“So...all those people – it was their 'time'?” A twinge of bitterness lined his voice, like dead, rained-down leaves lining a gutter, clogging it even as the season passes. I could see his shoulders stiffen as if his coat had suddenly become heavier. He carried it as if drenched, weighed down. Yet the thick sides flapped slightly with the force of his gait.
“Maybe,” I said gently as if admitting I could not really claim such, but still leaving it up in the air.
A rock scuffed under my boot. I began to watch the ground.
The rest of our jaunt down the road consisted of the burnt velvet whispers of dust under our feet. It sifted into the cracks of my boots, creaking in the leather.
The city was a hazy cluster in the distance, almost like a mirage behind the constant mask of powder. It grew slowly more defined as we inched closer.
A Mischief in the Woodwork Page 7