by Marc Secchia
No. Father!
After attending to her charges, she ran to find the nearest overseer.
“Aye, your father’s orders, o Choice Tytiana,” said Overseer Laraxu, an elderly man who was very precise, and not as cruel as many others. “I have been lax in not appointing a successor. Forgive me.”
“I don’t want a successor.”
“You shall have to take your complaint to the High Master.”
Father’s office was situated inside the main House building, on the second floor directly above the entrance. It commanded sweeping southward views of the ornamental lawns and gardens that led down to the first orchards perhaps three hundred feet away. Juzzakarr had placed his desk so that he enjoyed the view, while his visitors had to settle for an eyeful of pictures of important relatives – mostly, the High Master’s patriarchal line. Tytiana’s favourite painting stood three relatives along to her left as she faced his immense, dark jalkwood desk. In the seven-by-four frame her mother sat facing the viewer in a classic Helyon pose, working a silk loom that was more ornamental than functional. Ahlyaza’s smile always struck Tytiana as enigmatic, and never more so than today as she faced her father. He had immediately brought her to the head of his appointment queue, as was her right but not always the treatment she received.
“Tytiana!” he said agreeably, indicating the chair directly in front of him. He wore a casual burgundy day shirt, and sprawled back in his comfortable chair with his legs stretched out beneath the desk. He was not wearing the Nestrakil, but it lay on his desk and the fingers of his left hand toyed with it as she entered … oddly, almost as a self-soothing gesture.
First time she had noticed that. Keeping her face fixed in a smile of greeting, Tytiana found herself saying silently to the gem, Misbehave, you accursed soul chiller, and I’ll toss you into the nearest volcano. Are we clear?
Huh? Now who was behaving strangely?
“Father,” she said equably. “How’s the sheen of all things silk today?”
“Good. Very good.” His hand dropped the gem. “Excellent work on the market pricing. You just about saved the season with one fell stroke.”
“It was perfect timing,” she said, perching on the edge of the plush armchair. “House Amandor had begun to prepare crimson fifteenth once again, seeking to undercut our price by half, but I won the business by pressing our superior quality and speedy delivery. We had his Dragonship fully loaded within three hours. That’s one happy – and greedy – trader.”
Juzzakarr belled out his big laugh. “Good work! Now, ready for the Ball?”
“The dress is exquisite. Thank you for allowing me to wear it.”
“Nothing but the finest for the finest. Although Zihaeri outmanoeuvred you in the Escort stakes, did she not? I had a feeling she was holding a bolt back – and Islands’ sakes, it was a corker!”
“A wonderful match,” Tytiana said truthfully.
“Your assessment?”
It was rare indeed upon Helyon to marry for love, and well she knew it. Zihaeri agreed. Now it seemed that her sister would win such a rare prize, the chance of a life with a man she adored and who doted upon her in return; Tytiana prayed that nothing would happen to spoil their happiness. How she prayed!
She said, “In temperament they are well suited. She has all the training to run a large House; perhaps the High Master Faran does not sufficiently appreciate what a jewel he will be acquiring, but he will soon learn. Zihaeri will grace his halls and his life, and I believe this liaison will open other lucrative opportunities for us, such as the opportunity to acquire insight into their fine-spinning processes for thread thicknesses smaller than the fourth centile. Furthermore, the wet-season performance of their stock is complementary to our dry-season dominance. In short, this match for Zihaeri will do both Houses great honour.”
Juzzakarr nodded thoughtfully, taking a sip of ice water from the crystal goblet set before him. “Good. In this we are in agreement.”
Tytiana tried to keep a studious expression on her face.
“Who is your target for the Ball?”
“I have some ideas, father, but no-one I have fully decided upon.”
Her father’s fingers tapped the glass in front of him. Restive? By that gesture alone, Tytiana sensed his displeasure. At length he appeared to come to some conclusion. Selecting a scroll from those lined up to his left, he nudged it toward her with his forefinger. “Herein you will find a short list of suitable candidates I have prepared for you. Pick three of the seven. I expect you to have initiated a bidding war by the end of the Ball.”
She arched an eyebrow.
Juzzakarr’s fist slammed down on his desk, almost jolting her from her perch in fright. “Stop that!”
“Stop what?”
“That’s exactly what your mother used to do.”
Her gaze stole up to Ahlyaza. She was not sure she executed the mysterious smile half as well, but the resemblance was otherwise striking – excluding her hair colour. Her mother did not have the straight Helyon blonde but rather a natural wave, which in Tytiana was only the wilder and more extravagant. She had the same wide eyes, blue to her daughter’s violet, and the mouth, that was pure mother. She had looked many times.
Her father said, “Whatever you were looking for in the storage chambers, you will not find it. I had all her diaries and letters burned. Waste of space.”
Threats, not even veiled.
One long, hard swallow later, she said, “I was seeking inspiration for the ball.”
In response, her father levelled one heavy forefinger across the desk at her. “If you have half your mother’s gumption, you’ll deal with this matter of a suitor expeditiously. Do not vex me in this matter, Tytiana. This is your final warning.”
Lower the gaze. Fight the fire! All you want is to be rid of me, father. Why?
“Do you hear me?”
Deliberately soft, she replied, “I experienced a setback in my work today. My lamko assistant did not report for duty this week. Much has been lost.”
“Appoint another one. They’re a dozen a brass dral.”
“Not the way they’ve been dying recently.”
“If there’s a particular reason to keep this one on, do tell.” Tytiana could not speak. A wrong word might doom Jakani and his family. Again, her father made her wait an excruciatingly long time, her eyes demurely and properly lowered, before he added, “The woman displeased me with her shameless begging. You embarrassed this House with your puerile grandstanding. Healing lamko indeed! Then I discovered that this Dirt Picker assistant of yours belongs to the same disgraceful brood of mud grubbers as his crawling insect of a mother. Clearly the honour of labouring honestly in our service is far too much, so I banished the family from approaching within two miles of the House. Those grotesque toad-spawn should be grateful I do not ship them all off to the mines. If there’s one thing I can’t bear, it’s base ingratitude.”
Flame flickered along her arms in response to his words. Crawling insect. Toad-spawn. His vindictiveness sickened her to the core, more than the scent of smouldering material which he must have noticed.
If he was the blacksmith, she was the malleable, forge-fired metal laying ready upon the anvil. Yet conversely to what she might have expected of a father-relationship, the hammer-blows of his words seemed to define only what she would not become. So many years he had worked at this. Now, the metal rejected the maker.
She extinguished her flame with an effort.
Juzzakarr’s sigh seemed to acknowledge this seminal moment.
Courage, Tytiana! Have the kind of courage that Isimi demonstrated that day …
She lifted her gaze to meet his piercing blue eyes, and saw graven upon his features the same thin-lipped, irate dearth of mercy with which he had approached a crippled woman, whip upraised to strike. With great deliberation and menace, her father finished, “And my daughter should be grateful I do not make her live like those lamko caroli, which is indeed all she will ever
deserve. I have indulged you for far too long, Tytiana. Now get out of my sight before I lose my temper.”
Chapter 14: A Choice Garden
SOKADAN PLAYFULLY SWATTED Jakani upon the shoulder. “Away, mine good cart, and make thee excellent time to the Gatehouse. I shall explain forthwith in such terms as even the dullest of conveyances may understand.”
Jakani hefted his brother easily in the Dragonback position. Since his legs from the waist down were stick-thin and twisted, while from the waist up he was slender but free of deformity, Sokadan weighed considerably less than an able-bodied man. He was wiry but surprisingly strong. His brother clung to his back like a proper monkey, not the lamko pejorative, and bounced along lightly as Jakani set out at a strong pace for the old Gatehouse. In olden times the estate had been much smaller and the Gatehouses had been two guard posts standing either side of the main gates of the estate, two miles from the beautiful white mansion. But Juzzakarr’s grandfather and father had aggressively expanded their holdings. Now the old wall was almost gone, its stone plundered for the dwellings of the higher castes, but there were still traces of its foundations amidst the orchards and at the Gatehouse, a few hundred feet had been preserved either side of the main road.
“You received a message?” he prompted.
Sokadan said, “A House Herald stopped by. You and I are ordered to attend the Choice Tytiana in the Gatehouse gardens – hurry up, would you – one hour before suns-down. We are to remain outside the wall due to the two-mile penalty imposed upon our family.”
“And your part in this is?”
“I have some trinkets to sell to the children attending a music recital. Well, my friend Hasko is the gardener there, and it is he who will help us –”
“Since no-one wants to handle goods touched by a lamko. Right.”
“Right.”
His bare feet pounded along the orchard trails, deeply shadowed by the fenturi trees which were full of leaf and life after a good spate of rains during the week. The burgundy colour turned so deep in this season, it was almost purple.
“You are annoyingly cheerful today, brother.”
“If you were more cheerful, you’d run faster. May I remind you of whom we are going to see?”
“How’s this for cheerful: mention her one more time and I’ll sock-a you-in-the-jaw-dan?”
“You are so unromantic, it pains my soul.”
“Everything pains your soul. You’re an artist. Isn’t that the point?”
Sokadan laughed in his ear. “I am happy because I see my life moving forward and I have a taste of purpose and … hope. That’s it. Hope. This is who I am and it feels wonderful and freeing, and for your information mister ‘all I see is gloomy clouds and no rainbows,’ aye, sometimes it is about the pain but sometimes there’s this sense of being a creator myself, in some limited measure, which is my homage and soul’s savour, a service to the Great creator Dragon himself.”
“I know.” Jakani dabbed at his eyes rather fiercely. “You were not destined to grub beneath the trees like the rest of us, Sokadan. You were created to – ouch! What was that for?”
“For putting yourself down again.”
“I – ouch! Stop that. I didn’t even say anything.”
“You were about to. You stop your ridiculous whining. Listen, a nameless and never-to-be-mentioned girl with waterfalls of swoon-worthy titian hair and ravishing eyes you could dive into forever just summonsed my bellyaching brother, by name, to a clandestine meeting a fraction of an inch outside the prohibited area. The meaning of which does actually penetrate the armour of inconceivable density surrounding your cranial cavity, does it not?”
“Meaning, I’m about to get a huge kicking?”
“Try actually using your brain for a change, genius. And run faster. I’ve heard that complaining less wastes less good oxygen and helps one to run more quickly.”
They were already a few minutes late and the Gatehouse dwellings, one stone home set either side of the main road, were still four miles from their hut. Sokadan knew that. Jakani picked up speed on a flat stretch, revelling in this newfound power of his body. His brother seemed feather-light. He could run like this for ages, he knew, for when –
“Oh! What the –” He skidded to a halt in a shower of dirt.
Sokadan peered just as curiously as him into the lowest fork of a tree they had just passed. “The dragonet’s egg?”
Both brothers shook their heads. The white egg quivered as if begging to be picked up.
Jakani chuckled, “I do believe little Snippy in there, who refuses to be born like most ordinary creatures, would like to come along for the ride. Very well.”
“Is Tytiana going to accuse you of having burgled her bedroom again?”
“Sokadan, when we’re around the Choice, please do try to leave me a shred of dignity to hide behind, alright?”
“Hey, I’m your brother. What manner of mischief could I possibly perpetrate?”
“A great deal, apparently!”
He made record time. Four miles and the suns had barely budged toward the horizon. Maybe ten or eleven minutes? Coming toward the old ruined wall, he left the trail and cut through a small culvert which led to the back of the house on the western side of the main paved road. Sneakily now. Keeping to the shadows and thickets. The Gatehouses had originally been built with a defensive mindset, with strong, thick stone walls and turrets on top for guards or archers, and ornamental gardens behind. Several immense, spreading jinsumo trees shaded the gardens, their boughs heavy with pink blossoms that just now had begun to shed, drifting down upon the mossy stone walls, the green fishpond inside the garden, the carefully trimmed shrubs and picture-perfect flower beds, and the gathering of simply but neatly attired adults and children who had clearly just raided a snacks table and were now listening in hushed awe to a talented harpist playing on a patio beside the house. Judging by their clothing they were from the artisan caste – barrel makers, vintners, leather workers, blacksmiths, silk spinners, tailors and the like.
The harpist began to sing, and Jakani felt his brother’s jaw thump down atop his shoulder. “Who’s that? Move us, I can’t see. Please.”
“Choice Quiraeli,” he breathed back, shuffling along the back wall to a place where they could be hidden by the boughs of a low-hanging faroon-nut tree, but also see clearly. He popped his brother atop the crumbling stone breastwork amidst the leaves, where Sokadan knelt, and sighed.
The young harpist sat on a tall stool with an exquisite instrument arranged before her, a harp of a design unfamiliar to Jakani. Rather than a single set of strings it had two wings set at fifteen degree angles to the vertical opposite each other, crossing over in the centre of the instrument, which could apparently be played independently. Quiraeli’s slipper-clad feet also danced upon a complex arrangement of foot pedals and levers. She bent to her playing with her eyes closed and her arms swaying in languid movements, like a pair of heron’s necks appearing to intertwine in a complex dance, and her fingers frolicked upon the strings. Then, she sang.
Spellbinding.
Tytiana sat to her sister’s left, similarly clad in a scarlet day dress, leafing through music set upon a carved wooden scroll stand for her sister and supplying harmony in a husky alto voice that contrasted strongly with her sister’s clarion-sweet soprano. Tytiana was good, but Quiraeli was astounding. After a long, long moment, he realised softly aloud:
“She has magic.”
Sokadan did not reply. When Jakani peeked over his shoulder, his brother looked as if he had just seen the legendary Star Dragoness herself lighting up the heavens in a blaze of glory, and his heart lurched in his chest. Oh no.
He felt instantly ashamed of his reaction. For if he as an able-bodied man had not a shell-sliver of hope with Tytiana, how could his crippled brother … wasn’t that what everyone must think, even the lamko girls who never, ever gave him a second glance? Sokadan must know. He must notice. Was he jealous of his more able brothers? Ma
ybe the real problem was in the minds of those – like himself – who denied him the chance to be able. Who overlooked him without even thinking twice. No chance.
He had never asked his father and mother how their romance had come about.
Had he been this blind all his life?
As the girls played and sang four ballads for their audience, he examined the ugliness he had discovered within himself. Whole societies taught their children to behave and think in these ways without any words, just unspoken attitudes that excused, demeaned and excluded. What excuse had he? None. He had known Sokadan all of his seventeen years. His mother too. He knew their value better than most, didn’t he? Then why not act like it? This was beyond being thoughtless. It was repulsive.
A brushing against the leaves alerted him. Hasko had come. He was a short, stout fellow of about Sokadan’s age, with a big nose which had clearly been broken at some point, but his eyes were wide and merry with life. He smiled at them both, then whispered in lamko dialect, “Thought you’d never turn up. Not a finger over this wall, understand? Two miles. Right here.”
They nodded.
“Sack of goods?” Sokadan passed it over. “Like my garden?”
“It’s amazing,” Jakani said.
“Enchanting,” said Sokadan, not exactly looking at the garden.
“A dragonet’s egg? Don’t be silly,” said Hasko, passing it back with a show of surprise. “So, let’s see. Three small paintings, and these animal and Dragon wood carvings. A sample picture frame. Good. I have all the pricing up here.” He tapped his temple with one green-stained finger. “More orders can be taken, right?”
Jakani elbowed Sokadan with all the brotherly love he could muster. “Aye, he’ll make more.”