by Victor Poole
"I know that part," Ajalia said snippily. "Why didn't you tell anyone who you were?"
"No one believes a prince," Philas said. "All the slaves say things like that. No one believed me. Even the pirates thought I was just a cabin boy trying to get away."
"I think you're lying to me," Ajalia said. Philas shrugged. "That can't possibly be true," she added.
"I know," Philas said. "I don't really want to believe it myself anymore. It seems like a dream."
"Is that why you knew some Slavithe?" Ajalia asked suddenly. "Because you were from there? I don't believe you were royalty, but I believe you're from across the sea."
"Why believe even that?" Philas asked with a laugh. "I may as well be lying about all of it. I may as well be from Slavithe, or be master's bastard son. No one's ever really going to know, are they?"
"Why don't you go back?" Ajalia asked.
"Who would want me now?" Philas said cynically. "I'm a drunk. I'm old. I'm a mess."
"You aren't a mess," Ajalia said.
"I'm a mess," Philas said firmly. Ajalia got a dangerous glint in her eye. "Kissing me again is not going to convince me that I'm not a mess," Philas warned. "Although I very much want to kiss you."
"Why don't you get on a ship here and sail back?" Ajalia asked. Philas watched her suspiciously.
"I thought you were going to kiss me again," he pointed out. Ajalia shrugged and sighed.
"You're a mess," she said. "I couldn't possibly kiss a mess."
Philas grabbed her by the upper arms and pinned her down fiercely on the bed. Ajalia giggled and fought him. She twisted her face away from his mouth.
"I'm not a mess," Philas conceded. Ajalia presented her mouth to be kissed, and Philas leaned his body into her. He was heavy and warm, and much larger than she was. She wiggled under him, and wrapped her hands into his clothes, so that her fingers were against the skin of his chest. She sighed, and he kissed her.
"I don't know if I like you," Ajalia warned.
"I know," Philas said.
"I might fall in love with someone suddenly, and break your heart," she said.
"Agreed," Philas said.
"If I do fall in love with some ugly man tomorrow," Ajalia murmured, through Philas's gentle mouth, "I'm going to make you sail away home."
"I'm not going anywhere," Philas said, and nibbled coaxingly over Ajalia's lower lip. "I will stick around, and watch assiduously over you until you are dead."
"Then I will die tragically at a young age," Ajalia said, nuzzling his jaw, "and you will go home, and become king."
"Death first," Philas murmured. Ajalia pushed him away a little, and studied his face.
"Do you know that I mean it?" she asked. Philas looked in her eyes.
"I believe that you think that you mean it," Philas said.
"That is not the same thing as knowing that I mean it," Ajalia pointed out.
"If I say I believe you, will I get to kiss you more?" Philas asked. Ajalia laughed.
"Drunk," she said.
"No, in love with you," Philas said. His words were husky. A shiver passed over Ajalia's soul.
"Let me up," she said, and tried to sit. Philas tightened his hold on her.
"Why?" he asked.
"You think that I love you," Ajalia said. "I don't."
"But I want you," Philas said.
"Exactly," Ajalia said. "And you're rational, and if you love me more, and you have me, you won't be rational."
"That's silly," Philas said. He moved away from her. The world was cold and bare without him.
"I like you," Ajalia said.
"That's good," Philas said, but Ajalia's heart was trembling.
"No it isn't," she said. "If I like you, you'll hurt me."
"No," Philas said. He moved closer to her. She did not know if she should run away. Her body was a war of heat and pain. She wanted Philas to touch her, and she wanted to feel honest. "I won't hurt you," he said.
"But I will hurt you, and that will hurt me," she protested. Philas took her hand, and put his fingers into her palm.
"I will worry about me," Philas said. "You don't love me. I don't need you to love me. I want you just the way you are."
"But I don't love people," Ajalia said. Philas kissed her palm. "That is very distracting," she said.
"I will love you enough for both of us," Philas murmured.
"That is a terrible idea," Ajalia pointed out. "Very uneven."
"Nonsense," Philas said. He was drawing her back into his arms, winding her into an embrace. His body was warm and firm.
"You are ridiculous," Ajalia said. Philas murmured agreement, and kissed the place where her hair met her neck. "I'm just going to hurt you," Ajalia said, "because I'm not going to know what I want, and I'm not going to put you first, and then you're going to get all bitter and fall apart."
"Sweet," Philas said, "I thought of that before you did."
"No you didn't," Ajalia said. "I said that, and you don't really believe me."
"I believe you," Philas said.
"No, no, no, you don't," Ajalia said.
"Yes, I do," Philas said. She looked in his eyes to see if he meant it, and he did. Ajalia started to cry. Philas stopped kissing her, and put her down.
"What are you doing now?" she cried softly. She remembered that the house was full of slaves, and that someone was above her and to either side. She did not want them to hear.
"You are sad," Philas said.
"So?" she said. He pushed her hair away from her face.
"You cry," he said. "I will clean, and then I will see you tomorrow."
Ajalia tried to ask him why, but sobs choked her voice. She sat on the bed, and tears streamed down her face, and her body was racked with cracking heaves. Philas cleared the rest of Lim's stash of things from the bed, and arranged them so that they made small piles in the closet. He cleared away the bits of flotsam that remained on the floor, and straightened the furniture that had gone askew in his earlier search. When he had finished, the room was bare and clean. It looked smaller, and neater than it had before. Somehow Lim had made the room stuffy and cheap; his things had made the room both expansive and stifling. It felt now like an honest room.
"I love you," Philas said gently, and he kissed Ajalia on the mouth. He went out of the room, and pulled the door closed behind him. Ajalia cried harder than ever, and put out the light of the lamp. She did not know if anyone could hear her sobs, but she cared less now that Philas was out of the room.
She began to make a list of the things she was going to do in the morning. She did not know why she was crying, but the phantom image of her father danced before her eyes. She did not know why Philas had gone. She felt a sharp irritation nesting in her body. She wanted the world to stop moving around her. She wanted Philas to come back. She wanted to shout at him. She wiped her nose angrily with her hand, stood up, and paced around the room.
THE FEAST OF BEAUTIFUL THINGS
In the room, the white stone walls rose in perfect proportions over the floor; to distract herself, Ajalia sat down and examined the joint where the wall met the floor. She pressed her fingers into the crack. The door was hung with crude metal hinges in the doorway, but Ajalia could see that there had been no door when the place was built. A series of hairline cracks extended out from the place where metal knobs had been driven into the rock, and the hinges and door were hung from these.
The door was made of a thin metal that was like that used in the tenement, but the edges were finished more neatly, and the door filled up the opening of the doorway more completely. In the tenement, the doors all hovered a few measures above the floor, but the door here seemed to have been made to fit.
The aching sobs stopped breaking out of her body, and her nose no longer ran. She coughed, and rubbed her eyes. She still was not sure why she had cried. She wanted to find Philas, and to tell him that she didn't really cry normally, but standing up, now that she was sitting near the door, seemed far too much effor
t.
The stone joined from the wall to the floor in a seamless kiss; the white stone of the wall was a slightly pink tone of white, and that of the floor was a little yellow. The difference in color was hardly noticeable, unless you looked at the two right next to each other. Ajalia wondered if they were different types of rock. She leaned her head against the stone wall, and it was cool and hard against her temple.
The table with the lamp atop it was near door. Ajalia stretched her fingers to the tabletop; the lamp was just out of reach. Ajalia sighed, and stood up. Her legs had cramped up, and the rock floor had made a thick ache on her butt. Just as she turned out the light, she remembered that she had forgotten her goatskin saddle. She had left it tucked under a table in the cloth merchant's stall. The annoyance of forgetting, and then remembering, stirred up her interest in life again. She had meant to go lie down, to think morosely of Philas, and to cry some more, but now she stretched out her legs and tied up her hair.
Lim had left a crisp comforter over the bed, and it was folded in a clean line over a lumpy pillow. Ajalia pressed the blanket; it was a long folded piece of tent that Lim had kept out from the other luggage that had been stored with the horses. She remembered that she ought to go and check on the arrangements in the horse district. She could not believe that she had left her saddle behind. She had never lost it before.
The light in the room was dark and blue; a narrow window, hardly wide enough to admit more than a breath of air, was placed in the far corner of the room. There was no covering over the window, and a breeze flowed into the room in a tiny stream. Ajalia went to this window, and looked down into the street. The night was younger than she had expected; she had felt as though it were deep in the early hours, but the lights were still bright on the corners of the streets, and people were walking up and down. Ajalia imagined the black goatskin saddle right where she had left it. She had stuffed it neatly under one of the tables in the storage room of the fabric merchant's stall. When the servants had carried the last of the silks, and Ajalia had sold the last of the other merchandise, she had carried the money home and forgotten about the saddle.
She closed her eyes and pictured it where it had been, the stirrups folded under and the girth rolled up. The night air hit up against her cheeks, cool and sweet. She thought of Philas. She did not know if he had really meant anything that he had said. Her heart was on a careful wire, teetering between like and annoyance. She was not sure if she could trust him. She knew he was a drunk, and she had no doubt that he would go back to his old ways as soon as a reasonable tavern was within reach, but the new Philas, the sober, hardworking, sensitive Philas, was a man she could grow accustomed to.
For some reason the face of Delmar, son of the Thief Lord, floated up into her vision. His vague eyes and sappy smile made her shiver with displeasure. Delmar irritated her, and she didn't know why. She didn't think that he ought to bother her as much as he did. A sudden desire to tell Philas about Delmar sprang up in Ajalia, and she stuffed it away. She would go and get the saddle. Walking in the night air, she decided, would clear up all the swirling heat in her heart.
Ajalia went across the room and opened the door.
The hallway was empty, and dark. The house felt alone. Ajalia wondered where Philas was right now. She could still feel the warmth of his arms on her clothes. She wrapped her arms around herself, and walked down the stairs. She wondered how often Delmar went to the great rock in the city wall, to read his books with the luxurious painted stories. She wanted to go and find Philas. The loss of her saddle was an irritating tug at the back of her mind; she could not let it go. She couldn't believe that she cared about Philas now. She could feel little hooks pulling in against her skin, dragging her backwards, back into the house, to hunt up and down through the rooms, to find Philas and tell him too many things about nothing in particular.
She came through the downstairs room to the door, and let herself out.
"Where are you going?" Ajalia jumped almost out of her skin. Philas was sitting against the outside wall. He looked up at her. The torchlight danced against his cheeks. He hadn't shaved for too many days, and a wild brown scruff was overtaking his mouth. Ajalia found herself staring at the hair of Philas's beard, and remembering the way it had scraped against her skin. His eyes were soulful and brown in the darkness. There were fewer people in the streets; most of the Slavithe people had found their way home already.
"I left my saddle," Ajalia said. "I just remembered." Philas stood up, and swung into step next to her. "What are you doing out here?" she asked.
"Clearing my head," Philas said.
"Hold my hand?" Ajalia asked.
"No," Philas said. He grinned at her. A curl of anger swirled around Ajalia.
"I was going on a walk by myself," she said. "I wasn't looking for you."
"I know," he said. "I wasn't looking for you, either."
"Fine," she said. They walked in silence for a while.
"Where are you from?" Philas asked.
"Nowhere," Ajalia said.
"You told me once you were a mermaid," Philas said.
"I did not say that," Ajalia snapped.
"You did," Philas insisted. "A long, long time ago. Not long after we met. I was drunk, and you came and held my head after I was sick, and you told me that you were a mermaid from the south, and that your parents chopped off your tail. I think you meant for me to stop feeling sorry for myself."
"Did it work?" Ajalia asked.
"No," he said with a laugh. "It never worked. Nothing worked."
"Will you go back to it?" she asked. "When we leave?" She meant, would he start drinking again.
"No," he said at once.
"Will you have a choice?"
They walked through the white stone streets, and their feet made clicking sounds against the stones.
"Why would you ask like that?" Philas asked. Ajalia shrugged.
"It's been a long time," she said. "You've been a lot of drunk."
"Where are you from?" he said again.
"You've always been drunk," she said. "Always. And now it's less than a week since you stopped drinking. I want you to be yourself."
"What's myself?" he asked bitterly. Ajalia stopped in the street. After a few steps, he stopped and turned back to her. "The blubbering sot? Is that me?"
"I'm going to get my saddle," Ajalia said. She set out again, and after a moment, he followed her. She could hear his footsteps echoing just a few feet behind her. They walked that way until they came to the opening to the market. The lights were dim, and the stalls were closed. Ajalia realized too late that the fabric merchant and his wife were unlikely to be up for answering the door at this time of night. She did not know if she would be able to get in. She took an inner resolve to stay out in the market street until dawn, to retrieve her saddle as soon as the fabric merchant's wife was out of the house.
"I can't believe I forgot it," Ajalia said peaceably, when they had reached the fabric merchant's stall. The lights were on in an upper window, and Ajalia examined the cloth that hung as a curtain over the opening. The light within shone with a golden light, not like the silver lamps that shimmered through the residential streets. She wondered if the merchants used undecorated lamps from choice or necessity. She thought of remarking on the difference to Philas, but held her tongue.
"Where is the saddle?" Philas asked mulishly. She looked at his face, which was bound up in a knot of pain.
"I don't want to hurt you," Ajalia said again.
"I don't want to be a drunk," Philas pointed out.
"Well, there we are," she said. Philas looked at her, and she thought she saw in his eyes an idea of going away, of leaving and never speaking to her again. "Are you going to leave?" she asked.
"No," he said. "But I wish you would stop acting like it's my fault."
"Isn't it?" she asked. She was not sure if she wanted to knock at the door, even though a light was on. She felt like an intruder; she felt as though she did not be
long.
The door within the market stall opened quietly, and Ajalia looked around at the slight noise. The fabric merchant's woman crept out into the dark.
"You left your saddle," the woman said. She was smiling, and her eyes were more free of care than they had been when Ajalia had seen her last. Her wrinkles had softened, and a luminous glow was around her forehead. "I'm growing my hair out," she confided to Ajalia, and patted the back of her short crop of black hair.
"He married you?" Ajalia asked. Her heart had leapt up into her mouth; she did not know why she should care so much, but the fact that someone in this city was happy made her feel as though she could have a happy ending as well.
"I'm starting my own business," the Slavithe woman said. "I'm going to embroider, like you did. I know many stitches from my grandmother, and I can set up my sisters when I get a little farther along."
"I will buy your things," Ajalia said without thinking, and then added, "if they are good."
"My grandmother used to stitch pictures into the bodies of my dolls," the Slavithe woman said. "I am going to stitch pictures as well."
Ajalia looked at the Slavithe woman, who glowed a little in the darkness. Her body seemed wrapped in a glimmer of light, but light that quickened the air around her. The woman seemed more solid, more near to the air than Ajalia felt. Ajalia envied her. The Slavithe woman went to the inner room and returned with the goatskin saddle in her arms.
"I kept it here for you," the Slavithe woman said. "I knew you would come back for it. I am married now," she told Philas proudly.
"I congratulate you, fair one," Philas said. "Your husband is blessed in having you."
"Come and visit me," the Slavithe woman told Ajalia, "when you have time." She clasped Ajalia close to her for a moment, and murmured in her ear. Then the woman vanished into the inner room, and Ajalia and Philas were alone in the street once more.
"I didn't think I would get it back," Ajalia admitted, running her fingers over the soft leather of the saddle. "Do you want to see my horse?" she asked suddenly.