Secrets of the Sands

by Leona Wisoker

  He suspected the steward of having a grim joke at his expense. “S'ii,” he started, turning to the eunuch to protest, but the man had slipped from the room already. There was nothing for it but to put the clothes on. Once dressed, Idisio stood very still, wide-eyed at how smooth the silk felt against scrubbed-raw skin. It felt like walking in a continual bath of cool water, and the way the fabric flowed over his body was heady and arousing. He swallowed hard and finally managed to subdue the reaction; it took him a bit longer to walk across the room and back without it recurring.

  A long mirror leaned against one wall; he went to it hesitantly. He'd had a chance to look in burnished-metal mirrors, and once a real Sessin glass hand-mirror, but never his whole body at once.

  Idisio knew he didn't qualify as handsome. He'd been laughed at and taunted by too many girls for that to be a hope. What stared back at him from the glass, however, wasn't as ugly as he'd expected.

  He almost had the wide face of a born southerner, but free of dirt it showed a much lighter color than Lord Scratha's. His nose was far too snubbed to be true southerner, and his eyes, a clear bright grey, were unusually wide and round. His hair, washed, brushed, and tied back, turned out to be a fine shade of deep brown and as silky as the clothes he wore. His eyes shifted between grey-blue and grey-green as he studied himself, tilting his head this way and that. Standing straight in the fine new clothes, he could have passed for some noble's bastard down from the north.

  Idisio hovered between shock and revelation: nobility weren't born looking one way and street-scum born another. They were all the same. Put a noble's son in rags and run him through the sand and dust of the back streets for a day, and he'd look like Idisio had that morning. Noble blood attracted girls. The way he looked now, maybe they wouldn't laugh at him any more.

  It took him a while more to calm himself after that thought.

  Finally, fairly sure he wouldn't embarrass himself, he took a guess at the door he thought opened to the hall and looked out. The eunuch sat on a wide stool just outside, and a guard stood to the other side of the door. They both glanced at him as he stepped out.

  “Much better,” the eunuch said, favoring Idisio with a faint smile.

  The guard grunted, returned his attention to front, and said nothing.

  “Sorry I took so long, s'ii,” Idisio said.

  The eunuch's smile widened just a bit. “I understand,” he said, standing. “Back in the room, boy. I've been asked to teach you some manners so you don't disgrace your lord at dinner tonight.”

  “At. . . .” Idisio stared, suddenly horror-struck at the implication. Needing manners, not disgracing his lord, meant he'd be at a formal dinner, a noble's dinner, more than likely with the king attending. The notion scared him silly. “At dinner?”

  The guard made another small noise, his mouth twitching slightly in what might have been amusement or scorn.

  “It would be rude beyond measure, as your lord is staying at the palace, not to join the king at table,” the eunuch said calmly. “You have a bit over two hours left before the call. I expect I'll only need one.”

  “Nobody knows you as a street-rat,” had been the eunuch's first piece of advice. “Don't act like one; nobody will peg you as one. Stand straight—that's it, like that—and say as little as you can. Better for people to think you slow or mute than to hear that gutter accent of yours.”

  Idisio stood silent at his lord's side for what seemed like hours in the before-dinner gathering, watching the nobility and their servants flow by like an unruly river. Scratha stayed still, not quite in a corner but with his back inches from a wall, and watched the proceedings with an expressionless face. He had dressed in sober clothes—black trousers and soft black boots, a dark grey tunic with a high collar. Idisio saw a thick silver band on his left thumb, stamped with what looked like a family crest, and a thin silver chain around his throat. His long dark hair was carefully pulled back and tied with a black leather thong.

  In this crowd, all in silks and riotous colors, he stood out like an axeman at a wedding, and most people avoided him after a quick, uneasy glance his way. Idisio had the feeling that Scratha had aimed for exactly that effect.

  Idisio's boots began to chafe. His legs hurt; his back and neck ached. He couldn't wait for this to be over. Servants didn't sit, the eunuch had told him. They stood at their lord or lady's side, hour after hour after hour, until the dinner ended. Only then, and only if they were lucky enough to have their lord's approval, could they go to the kitchen to scrabble over scraps.

  Idisio had been unable to hide his dismay at that information. The eunuch had checked mid-sentence and given him a hard look.

  “You haven't eaten yet today, have you, boy?” he demanded, then sent a servant for a plate of food. Crusty bread, still warm from the ovens, a wedge of fine white cheese, and thick slices of sand-pear; it had been a feast, and only the eunuch's restraining hand kept him from tearing into it like a hungry asp-jacau. Idisio's stomach still felt warm and full from that first lesson on eating in polite company.

  Idisio looked over the before-dinner crowd with a rather benign feeling as a result, ignored his multiplying aches, and tried to see if his lord watched anyone in particular. He couldn't see any pattern, and his own gaze often wandered; a number of pretty girls were drifting around the room, most of them clad in thin silks and flowing gowns. The sight caught his breath hard in his chest. He looked at the ugliest old men in the room to calm himself.

  “My lord,” he said after a while, “may I ask a question?”

  “What?”

  “Why did the king say Arason is of special interest right now?”

  “Ghost Lake,” Scratha said, not looking down at him. “The people of Arason believe strange creatures live in the lake, creatures that come out and seduce unwary women. The children of such a union are supposed to have unusual powers, reading minds, seeing the future, and so on.”

  “Witches,” Idisio said. Something about his lord's words sent a shiver up his back, as if there were more to the story. Seeing the future? He won't kill me. This is a good thing happening. . . . He blinked hard and tried not to think about whether his intuition could be considered witchcraft.

  “Yes. The Church convinced Ninnic to investigate. Troops were sent to Arason to root out the witches. It got . . . ugly. Oruen called the troops back when he took the crown, but the damage will take generations to heal.”

  Arason is dangerous. Very, very dangerous. Idisio tried to quell the panic rising in his throat.

  “Do we have to go there?” he husked.

  Scratha made no reply beyond a faint smile.

  They stood in silence for a time, watching the room; then the faintest of sighs came from Scratha, drawing Idisio's attention. His lord's expression had shifted from bland to stony.

  “Damn,” the noble said, just barely audible.

  A tall, thin young man strode towards them, aristocratic jaw set hard and ugly. Idisio had seen him before, moving through uptown and downtown streets with no worry over safety: Pieas Sessin didn't need any thieves' warning passed before him to warrant caution.

  Scratha shifted slightly, as if considering rapid evasion, then stilled and waited, expressionless again. Pieas came to a halt before them, fine dark brows drawn into a fierce scowl.

  “You, Lord Scratha,” he said. “I've words for you.”

  “Sessin,” Scratha said, making the name sound like an insult. “I've none for you.”

  Pieas's dark face flushed further. “You dishonored my sister, Scratha.”

  People were beginning to turn and watch.

  “Your sister?” Scratha said idly, watching the young man with the detached interest he might have shown an unusually colored rat.

  “Have you forgotten her so quickly?” Pieas's hands were clenched now, his eyes narrow. “I shouldn't be surprised—”

  Before he could say more, an older man with a similar face but broader build pushed through the gathering crowd
and clamped a hand on his shoulder.

  “Pieas,” the new arrival said, and neither tone nor grip was gentle.

  The rage in the young man's expression shifted to a sulky, resentful demeanor as he turned to look at the man, who Idisio felt sure had to be Pieas's father or uncle. Pieas opened his mouth to protest, but the words seemed to fade into silence under the man's hard stare. With a last, burning glare at Scratha, Pieas jerked away to stomp off into the crowd, which scattered like sand in a strong wind as he passed.

  “My apologies, Lord Scratha,” the man said, offering a shallow bow. “Pieas is a bit of a hothead, I'm afraid. I warned him to stay away from you, but he listens about as well as a deaf and blind asp-jacau.”

  Scratha returned the slight bow a bit stiffly, as if reluctant to offer any courtesy to the man, and said nothing.

  “I don't know what happened with my sister's daughter,” the man went on, lowering his voice and casting a quick glance at the dispersing crowd. “I do know the girl's done nothing but cry for the past few days. I believe she was actually quite fond of you, Lord Scratha.”

  Scratha's face twitched, brows and lips and eyes contracting for an instant, but he stayed silent, his gaze watchful and wary now.

  The man, in turn, studied Scratha in silence for a few moments, then said, “I suppose I may as well be hanged for a turkey as for a leg. I've been troubled for years over the way my family treated you, but I couldn't go against my Head of Family—at least, that's how I saw it when I was younger. But I've grown up a bit since those days, and now I can say aloud what I should have said then: that I never agreed with Lord Arit's policy, and I am truly sorry about how Sessin has treated you, Lord Scratha.” He kept his voice low, although to his credit he didn't glance to see who else might be hearing his words.

  Scratha stood still in a way that reminded Idisio of a thunderstorm about to break.

  “I'm afraid I haven't met you, Lord Sessin,” he said at last.

  “I'm Lord Eredion Sessin,” the man said. “Sessin's resident ambassador to the northern court. When we last met, you were only ten. I'm not surprised you don't remember me; there was rather a lot going on at the time.” He grinned, a bright flash of even teeth in a dark face. “I normally don't attend these dinners, but when I saw Pieas setting out with that look on his face, I came along to keep him in hand.”

  Scratha drew a deep breath and let it out slowly, staring at the man with a distant, thoughtful expression.

  Eredion waited a moment longer, then said, “Don't think so harshly of all our family, Lord Scratha; some of us are actually human.” He offered another shallow bow and smile, then took his leave, unruffled by Scratha's silence and brooding regard.

  A rattling crash of hardwood sticks on wide, hollow metal tubes hanging near one of the wide entryways brought the crowd to hushed attention. Before the ringing tones had completely stilled, people began moving through the doorway into the huge dining hall beyond. Idisio obediently followed Scratha, took up a place behind his lord's chair, and tried not to look intimidated or overawed.

  The gathering room had been large, but with all the people moving about Idisio hadn't noticed the size or grandeur so much. Once everyone had settled into their seats, the dining hall was revealed as even more tremendous. Incredible vaulted ceilings rose high overhead, painted with murals showing the triumphs and tragedies of past kings and queens. King Ayrq, the first ruler of Bright Bay, glowered down, unappetizingly, at the diners: a huge, fierce man towering over those around him, one booted foot on a large pile of skulls. Another mural showed a queen with long black hair unbound and flowing around her, beseeching the skies as if asking one of the old gods for aid, a child limp in her arms.

  Idisio tried to keep his attention on his lord, but found it difficult. He'd never seen such vibrant artwork before, and certainly never on ceilings. He'd never been in a room lit by what must have been hundreds of fine candles, some of them taller than he could reach. More than candles brightened the room; several alcoves brimmed with with intense columns of light from some hidden source.

  A hard nudge to the ribs from the boy standing beside him jolted Idisio into realizing he'd been gawking. Many of the other servants around the table openly grinned at him. He swallowed hard and stood a bit straighter, resolving to keep his mind on his job for the rest of the night.

  Scratha said little, despite overtures from several people seated nearby; and the king, at the other end of the table, seemed to be ignoring the desert lord completely. Idisio had expected that Scratha, as a desert lord, would be sitting closer to the king's hand, but Scratha seemed oblivious to the unsubtle insult.

  “My lord Scratha,” said a thin young woman seated across from the desert lord.

  She was dressed in what Idisio guessed to be the high fashion of the moment. It seemed to involve a tremendous amount of bright red chachad feathers and silver chains. Idisio thought it looked absurd, but the girl preened as if the feathers made her a firetail bird herself and fluttered her lashes at Scratha as she spoke.

  “I'm Alyea Peysimun. Pleased to meet you. I understand you've not been seen at court for some time.”

  “True,” Scratha said, not taking his attention from his food.

  She waited, looking expectant; slow realization crept over her pert features like a growing storm cloud.

  “Really,” she said, no longer fluttering her lashes. “My lord Scratha, I had heard you were a man of few words; I see that's true as well.” He bit into a roasted chicken leg and said nothing. She raised an eyebrow and a shoulder at the same time and, her smile distinctly thinner, turned her attention to the people on her right.

  “I don't blame you,” said the thin man seated to Scratha's right, quietly, leaning over just a bit to keep the words private between them, “for not wasting words on her. She's a ninny.”

  Scratha spared the man a brief, dark stare before taking another bite of the chicken leg.

  “Chicken,” the man went on amiably, ignoring the lack of response. His voice acquired a conversational level. “I don't care for it much. I will say this for Ninnic; he knew how to set a table. Gerho at every meal, prepared in every imaginable way. Grilled, steamed, braised, fried; oh, that man knew good food, or at least his chefs did. Oruen's no gourmet.” He flicked a finger at the plate in front of him. “Good enough,” he noted with a shrug, “but I do miss gerho.”

  Idisio repressed a shudder. Marsh lizard had always been the food of last desperation for him, but all he had ever sampled was the stringy version available to anyone with the skill to set a small trap. Still, that was the first kind word he'd ever heard about the previous king. He served good lizard: what an epitaph for a mad ruler. Idisio held back a snort of nervous laughter.

  “Do you like a properly cooked platter of gerho, my lord?” the man asked against Scratha's continuing silence.

  “Yes.”

  Icy premonition scrabbled like a wet rat down Idisio's back: Gerho. Something about gerho . . . is that going to be important? He grimaced and pushed the uneasy worry to the back of his mind. He was having more intuitive flashes today than he'd experienced in the past four tendays, and he didn't care for it one bit.

  “It's a shame for the merchants that King Oruen can't stand it,” the man rattled on. “I understand some of them are rather put out financially; the market held quite favorable just before Ninnic had his unfortunate accident.”

  Idisio held his face as expressionless as possible. So that pleasantry covered Ninnic's death among the nobility? An unfortunate accident? The streets called it murder, and born of treason, but always in the tones of fact, not complaint. Nobody sane honestly missed Ninnic. Oruen had been marked as a hero the day he took the throne, from the lowest gutter to the highest table in the city.

  The talkative man rattled on for a few moments about gerho prices, market collapses, and despairing merchants. “There's one man in particular, invested too heavily, been haunting the palace trying to convince the king to chan
ge his mind. I believe he's only just left a few days ago. Lashnar . . . yes, Asti Lashnar, that's his name. Have you ever met him?”

  Scratha dropped the bare bone on his platter and reached for a piece of bread from the basket in front of him. He made no reply.

  The man sighed. “Lord Scratha,” he said, “you really ought to learn at least the basics of social convention, you know.”

  Scratha set the bread on his plate and turned his gaze to the man beside him. “Why? It's all chattering nonsense. I won't waste my breath on it.”

  “Suit yourself,” the thin man said, and turned his attention to people who were interested in chattering nonsense.

  By the time the last platter of desert-honey pastries had been cleared from the table, the afternoon snack seemed like days ago. Idisio found himself impatient to get to the kitchen and grab the remaining scraps of the glorious dishes he'd been seeing and smelling all evening.