by Victor Poole
"No," Philas said. "Come home with me."
"I don't want to go home," Ajalia said, and she wasn't talking about the little house. She meant, I want some place of my own, somewhere quiet where no one will ever speak to me again. They turned their steps back the way they had come. "Chad is bringing me something in the morning," Ajalia said. "I have got to go back to the house, or he won't find me. He isn't clever enough to look anywhere else."
"He's a good boy," Philas said.
"He's stupid," Ajalia said.
Philas shrugged. They walked in silence. While they had been out, the streets had emptied, and the night had entered that stage of darkness that is both cold and empty. Though the blue moon and the stars filled the sky, they seemed too far away, and their lights showed only how dark the surface of the world could be. The light of the moon made harsh shadows on Philas's eyes, and when Ajalia looked sideways at him, she could not remember how she had thought him handsome.
"I came from a crossroads, in the middle of the land between the East and the north," Ajalia said finally. "My father was a schoolteacher at a priesthood for boys. They came and lived there, and my father taught them their sums. My mother was a liar, and a thief. I have a brother."
Philas did not look at her, or speak. His shadow fell against Ajalia's face, and she could not see the light in his eyes.
"I was nothing," she went on. "I fetched water, and kept the peace between my parents. When my father ran away from home, driven by my mother, I was the one who was going to be sold."
"Your mother sold you?" Philas asked.
"No," Ajalia said. "She tried, but I left. I sold myself to some traders going up to the north, and then I sold myself to an Eastern merchant."
Philas whistled softly. He didn't ask her how old she was.
"How old were you?" she asked. "When you ran away?"
"I wouldn't exactly call it running away," Philas said. "I was on my father's navigation vessel. They were looking for a better place to build a harbor. The trip was only going to take a few weeks."
He didn't say any more, and Ajalia pressed her saddle more closely against her body. The leather smelled of grease and soap.
"You didn't tell me how old you were," she said.
"You didn't tell me, either," he replied.
They walked in silence back to the little house. When they reached the door, they both stopped. As if by mutual consent, they turned away from the darkened house, and kept walking. Ajalia bent her steps towards the sliver of city where the horses lay. She wanted to stow her saddle, and she could check on the luggage in the dark.
"Do you ever sleep?" Philas asked as they walked. Ajalia shifted the saddle, and held it balanced against her hip. The leather creaked comfortably, and the stirrups swung to and fro.
"You're awake," Ajalia said.
"Yes, but I'm not usually," he replied.
"I don't know," she said. A cool wind bristled down between the lines of stone houses, and made a subtle hissing sound. Ajalia watched a scrap of paper as it tumbled down the street towards them. "Is Philas your real name?" she asked suddenly. Philas laughed, and his voice made a deep rumble within his chest.
"Now how did you know to ask that?" he asked. "You have dark powers, Ajalia."
She looked at him. "What's your real name?" she asked.
"When I tell you something like that," he answered, "you will know that I have lost all control over myself, and am in thrall to you."
"That's lame," she complained. "And overdramatic."
"No, it isn't," he said.
"It is," she said. "I don't have any magical powers. I'm just me."
"No one is like you," he said seriously.
"And I'm going to call you something other than Philas," she said. They walked for another stretch of houses, and came into a narrow street that smelled of horse dung. They were getting closer to the horses.
"Please don't," Philas said.
"Why not?" she asked.
"Because it will remind me that you don't feel the way I do," he said.
"How do you know how I feel?" she asked.
"Because you told me," he answered. The smell of horse hair and dirt grew, and they turned a corner into a long stretch of stables. These were constructed of wood, and filled up a wide corridor that lay between two high white walls of stone. The snorts and stamps of isolated horses came reverberating through the dark, and the air was full of the warmth of sleeping animals. "You bought a horse?" he asked.
"A lovely mess of an animal," she told him. "He's hideous, but I think he'll clean up well." She led him through the long row of stables and down a jagged aisle that ran between two wooden structures. There was little light, and she could hear Philas rubbing up against the walls and beams that stretched at irregular intervals through the narrow space.
"How do you not trip on things?" he whispered at her. She smiled. They came to the stall where her sunburnt black horse was, and she let herself in and held open the latch for Philas. "I can't see anything," he said softly. "Where is he?"
Ajalia closed the latch, and went towards the black horse. He was standing against the far wall, and she could see the barest outline of his ear as it tipped towards her.
"Jay," Philas said, and reached for her. Ajalia stopped, and Philas put his hand around her elbow.
"Yes?" she asked. Philas had never called her anything but Ajalia before. She did not know what it meant. His hand was large and warm. His touch seemed to radiate heat through her whole arm. She wanted him to hold her. She thought that she might be able to sleep without nightmares if Philas was touching her.
He didn't say anything. She stood still and felt him touching her. After a little while, he let go, and she went to the horse. She was still holding the saddle, and she shifted it up a little higher on her hip. Philas took the goatskin saddle from her, and put it over the half-wall that ran around the stall.
Ajalia ran her hands over the rough coat of her horse. He was no longer clunked with mud, but his hair was rough and hard with sweat. Ajalia put her hands on the horse's face, and scratched his cheeks.
"I wish you touched me like that," Philas said dreamily. He had come near the horse, and was watching Ajalia.
"The horse doesn't want to sleep with me," Ajalia said calmly. Philas sighed.
"I didn't say I wanted to sleep with you," he reminded her.
"You didn't need to," she said. She pulled him closer and put her fingers into his beard. Philas sighed again, and took her hand away.
"You don't have to," he said.
"What if I wanted to?" she asked.
"But you don't," he said. "Not really."
Ajalia wanted to apologize, but there was nothing to say. "I met a boy," she said.
"I thought so," Philas said. He sounded triumphant.
"Not like that," Ajalia said at once. "I don't like him at all."
"Mm-hm," Philas said. His voice was positively cheerful.
"I don't like him," Ajalia protested. "I like you far more than I—" she stopped.
"Than you like him?" Philas asked.
"I don't like him," Ajalia said.
"Okay," Philas said. He rubbed his fingers through the horse's tangled mane. "This guy is a mess," he said, and he was talking about the horse. Ajalia thought of Delmar, who was also a mess.
"I don't like him," she said meditatively.
"That's all right," Philas said. "Sometimes I don't like you now."
"Really?" she asked. "Tell me about that."
"Well," he said, "I can't help liking you these days. And it hurts to love someone. So, sometimes I'm irritated that I like you so much."
"That makes sense," Ajalia said. Philas kissed her. His mouth was gentle and insistent, and his hands crept slowly and firmly around her waist. "I thought we weren't doing this anymore," she said when he had stopped.
"Me too," he said. She put her hands back into his beard.
"I like your beard," she said. He kissed her fingers.
"We should go home," he told her.
"I want to check the luggage," she said. The packs and saddles of the horses and asses, and the heavy leather harness for the yurl, had been put away in a warehouse near here. She had not seen the things put away, and she wanted to make sure they were not in a snarl. Lim had not been the most efficient at handling the slaves, and she doubted that he had overseen the packing away himself.
Philas let go of her reluctantly, and Ajalia took her saddle from the edge of the stall. The dirty black horse snorted loudly, and followed her. The horse pushed his muzzle against the small of her back, and she laughed.
"He likes you," Philas said.
"I like him, too," Ajalia said. "I don't know when I'm going to get him all cleaned up."
"I can't see a thing," Philas said. Their eyes had adjusted to the dark, and the dim shapes of the horse and the wooden barriers stood out as darker shadows in the night.
"What do you want from me?" Ajalia asked. She latched the stall behind them, and carried her saddle through the maze of wood.
"Where are the things kept?" Philas asked. He put one hand on her waist. He was behind her, and the way was narrow and came in close on either side.
"Lim said they were in a warehouse, on the edge here," Ajalia murmured. "There will be a guard."
Philas pulled her back. "It's dark here," he pointed out.
"Yes, it is," Ajalia agreed.
"And holding you is very nice," he added.
"Your skin is warm, but what's your point?" she asked.
"I love you," Philas said. She waited. He didn't say any more. She couldn't see his eyes in the darkness.
"I can't see your face," she said.
"I know," he said. His hand was still on her side, where her ribs stopped. She put one hand over his fingers.
"What are you asking for?" she asked.
"I don't know," he said. He pulled at her, and she pushed his chest. "I miss holding you," he said.
"I don't know how I feel," she reminded him.
"I know how I feel," he said.
"I want to check the luggage," she added.
"What is this other guy like?" Philas demanded. He let go of her side, but his fingers sought out her hand, and held it fast. Ajalia led him through the stables to the main alleyway, and down to the end of the long avenue. Torches lined the corners here.
"Vague," Ajalia said. "Obnoxious. I really dislike him."
"Then why don't you like me?" he asked.
"I didn't say I didn't like you," she said.
"Yes, you did," he reminded her. "Many times you told me that."
Ajalia stared at Philas. The lamps were few and far between here, but she could see his face. He looked like a haunted soul.
"I didn't like you yesterday," she said. "I don't know what happened since then." Philas grinned, and Ajalia bit her lower lip. "This isn't fair," she told him. "You are manipulating me."
"Maybe," he said. "Or maybe you're in love with me and you don't know it yet."
Ajalia took back her hand. She turned on her heel and marched to the end of the alley. She had not been to the warehouses, but she had grilled Lim, and she knew they were near the end of the long line of stables. She came to the end of the alley, and turned a corner. This street led into a long series of warehouses. Each one had a long lock over the door and a lamp burning nearby.
"Second one here," Ajalia said. "I don't have the key."
"I do," Philas said, drawing a chain of things from an inner pocket. "I took it off Lim when I searched his room." Philas got a key, and began to fiddle with the lock. "What did that woman say to you?" he asked.
"What woman?" Ajalia asked.
"When we picked up your saddle," Philas said. "She whispered something in your ear. What did she say?"
Ajalia watched the lock fall open in Philas's large hands. "She didn't say anything," she said.
"She said something," Philas said.
"Nothing important," Ajalia said.
Philas pulled open the door, and a yawning darkness was revealed inside.
"Who's there?" a voice demanded sharply. It was a man's voice. A light flared inside the warehouse, and a luridly shining face appeared over it. "Who are you?" he demanded. Ajalia could see the coat of his uniform; he was a Slavithe guard. She had not seen many of these yet. The guards wore a brown color, and carried knives at their waists, and had high red boots.
Philas held out his key, and told the guard who they were.
"It's kind of late," the guard said, but his voice was friendly. He led them through the warehouse to a place where the walls met in a corner, and lit another lamp that was on the wall. The guard stood in the reflected glare of the two lights, and stared at Ajalia. "Are you Ajalia?" the guard asked. Philas looked around at the guard. Ajalia nodded.
"I'm Ajalia," she said.
"My wife told me about you," the guard said. "She said all the ladies thought you were a good sort."
"Thank you," Ajalia said.
"They've all been talking about your wares," the guard said chattily. Philas moved restlessly, but Ajalia ignored him. The packings were in a tangled heap, as she had feared they might be. She tore them apart, shaking the leather pieces to get each wrap and tether away from the others, and lay each piece out on the floor. After a moment, Philas joined her.
"My wife said they'd seen stitches on fabric, just for decoration, when their grandmothers had made pretty things, but it hadn't been done on clothes just for wearing. One of my wife's sisters got a piece of that fancy silk thread you sold," the guard continued, "and my wife bought a length of it. She's been talking ever since about what she wants to do with it. Doesn't want to waste it, you see. It's green."
"I have a silk scarf she could buy," Ajalia said. "A private piece. It used to belong to a slave." She looked up from what she was doing. "Would she like that?"
The guard was looking at Ajalia as though he'd been struck on the head with a heavy object. "Do you mean it?" he asked breathlessly. When Ajalia nodded, the guard turned to Philas. "They said she was a good sort," he told Philas. "All the women have been talking about her. I didn't think they really meant it. You're a good sort," he told Ajalia.
"I'm honest," Ajalia told him.
"Well, that's a good sort in my book," the guard said fervently. "You know; she couldn't outbid the ladies in the market. High prices, and all that. But she would dearly love to have a piece of silk."
Ajalia glanced at Philas, and saw that he was smiling. "You could set up one of the younger slaves, with those things," she told him, and she meant the pile of belongings in Lim's room. "Most of the fabric could be sold, if it was straightened up a little, or the clothes torn apart. We've had a problem with a slave," she told the guard. "One of our male slaves was caught stealing."
"Laying traps, more like," Philas added. The guard shook his head.
"Dishonesty is a terrible thing," the guard said.
"He's been stripped of his things, and so we have an accumulation of objects. Silks, and other things." Ajalia began to stack the packs neatly against the wall, bending the leather so that it would keep its shape. "This was disgraceful work," she said in an undertone to Philas, and he nodded. Philas was laying out the strips of the yurl's harness, and buckling the pieces together. The tents from the caravan's journey were already folded, and packed from the last day's approach to the city, but they had been jumbled in with the other things, and Ajalia beat the dirt off of them, and piled them tidily up.
"My wife and her friends would go wild about pieces of fabric, silk, or anything else, if it was from the East," the guard said. His eyes moved with Ajalia's hands as she tidied the last of the luggage. "They've been talking of nothing else since you arrived. All the people are waiting to see what the Thief Lord will say about the silks on the upcoming feast day."
"What is the next feast?" Philas asked.
"The day of rock planting," the guard said. "It is our most important day, or one of the most imp
ortant days. It is the day we remember the building of our city, and we honor the living stones of our houses and streets. On that day, the Thief Lord will offer gifts to the memory of our founder and his wife."
"Jerome," Ajalia said.
"Yes, his name was Jerome," the guard said. He was impressed. "You have honored us and our ways, fair stranger, in knowing his name," he said. "I would not be surprised if the Thief Lord offered you in the festival."
Ajalia smiled and thanked the guard for the compliment, but her heart turned over. She did not like the sound of these offerings. She wanted to find out more, but she did not trust the steadiness of her own voice. She had a terrible feeling of foreboding, suddenly. Something was wrong. She had a vision of the rich woman with brown hair, and her flesh rippled with disgust.
"What are your festivals like?" Philas asked. He had finished draping the yurl harness over the other things, arranging the buckles and the seams so that they lay flat and smooth, and he led Ajalia and the guard back to the entrance of the warehouse.
"They are wonderful days, bearded stranger," the guard said. "Forgive me, friends," he said. He held the light up so that it shone into the corners of each storage space. Wooden dividers had been placed throughout the warehouse, so that the building was divided into huge cubbies. Ajalia could see bundles of dried grasses, and lumps of huge metal in the spaces that the guard lit up. "Occasionally," the guard explained, "when someone comes into the warehouses at night, young boys will sneak in the open door, and hide. They are harmless pranksters, but annoying. I must check for them. They are probably hiding in the corners." He shone the lamp in every corner, and at the third cubby, a shout, and a flutter of scrambling legs rewarded his efforts. Loud shrieks of laughter echoed through the warehouse, and a knot of boys darted out of the door.
"You are disgracing your mothers," the guard shouted after them. "Our festivals are very colorful," he told Philas, as though nothing had happened. "We wear the finest clothes we own, and after a great procession through the city, we meet at the empty quarry just outside the walls." The guard held open the door for Ajalia, and then locked the warehouse door. He pointed towards the sea. "The quarry is a great empty hole. Much of the stone for this city came from that quarry. At the bottom of the quarry is a heap of ashes, from past offerings."