Secrets of the Sands, Ch 1-4

---

Next Chapters

Annotated Chapters 1-4

Secrets of the Sands, Ch 1-4

Chapter One

Hee-ay, hee-ay: the cry of the water-seller in the broad and the narrow places; shass-shass-shass, the warning signal to clear a road for noble blood, be it one or many together. Iiii, iii-sass, iii-sass, the wailing of a merchant who protested his certain ruin—with overtones of castration—should he lower the price any further. To Idisio’s sensitive ears, the cacophony wove a melodic pattern that steered him, unerringly, to the best possible target.

At the height of his madness, the previous king had issued a decree forbidding residents of Bright Bay to speak anything but the common northern tongue. Two months later he had died of less-than-natural causes. Whether that absurd law had been the final wring on a mad asp-jacau’s tail would never be known; rumor said the new ruler, now six months on the throne, still worked day and night to untangle the mess left behind by his predecessor.

Idisio listened for more than words, in whatever language, as he worked his way through the cobbled, paved, and sand-gravel streets of Bright Bay. The most important sounds of the city had nothing to do with speech. The clink of a full purse at the side of a foolishly confident merchant meant meals for the next few nights. The solid crunch of guard boots nearby meant seek cover: although the worst had quickly been culled under the new regime, changes in permitted behavior were slow to filter to the street level. But hisses and whistles were more important than any of those. They served as coded warnings from the other thieves scattered throughout the city.

A strident whistle from a rooftop lookout could save Idisio’s life: while no true organization of thieves existed in Bright Bay, no one thief could ever hope to keep track of all the powerful people who moved through this sprawling city. The open warning, given by those who knew to those who didn’t, was a traditional obligation that only the most foolish newcomers to the trade ignored.

Idisio had grown up on these streets and survived the madness that had temporarily given Bright Bay the nickname “Blood Bay.” Those thief-calls had saved his life many times, and he’d passed on as many warnings; but many thieves, along with nobles, commoners, and priests, had fallen during the last weeks of Mad Ninnic’s reign. While the worst of the madness had passed, the streets would never be safe for Idisio unless he found a more respectable—and legal—trade.

He considered that as likely as an asp-jacau meowing.

As he slid between fat and thin, clean and unwashed, his breath clogged with the hot smell of a crowded southern city on a summer day. A light touch on a thick wallet bound at a man’s side prompted a certainty: gold. Not the half-rounds he normally counted himself lucky to get, but uncut disks of gold: more than one, many more. Idisio always knew, just from a touch, if the purse held anything worth taking; other thieves, seeing him withdraw from a mark empty-handed, had learned to steer clear themselves.

Idisio decided that any man foolish enough to carry gold in an outside purse deserved to lose it all. He reached, fingertip-knives busy, and had three of the four strings cut before another breath had passed.

Too late, he heard the warning: tee-tee-tee-awrk! tee-tee-tee-awrk! The loud, insistent call resembled that of a common sea-bird, but that particular bird never strayed this far from the docks proper. One of the roof lookouts was sending an urgent, if belated, “stay-clear”; and with the intuition that had kept him alive so far, Idisio knew he was the one being warned.

He started to slide away into the crowd, but found his wrist gripped in the mark’s hand, a larger and harder one than his own. He followed the line of the arm up. Dark, hawk-hard eyes glared at him from a narrow face containing a sharply hewn nose, bronze skin, and thin lips—reason enough for the tardy warning.

Old blood was in that face; desert blood, noble blood—definitely someone to stay well and truly away from. Idisio had never before been so stupid as to grab a purse without checking the appearance of the mark for danger signs first; but it only took one mistake, and this had been it.

“My lord,” Idisio said, caught without escape. He reached for an excuse, an apology, anything that would loosen that deadly dangerous grip and give him just a moment to run like he’d never run in his life.

The grip tightened, grinding the bones of Idisio’s wrist together; the very real prospect of death right here and now ran cold down his back. The slender finger-blades fell from his hand, landing on the paving stones with a distant clink.

Something about the noble’s touch sparked his erratic intuition: He won’t kill me. The surety faded, though, when he looked up into the man’s dark stare.

“Who sent you after me?” the noble demanded.

Idisio ran through a rapid list of names in his head, searching for one that might get the grip on his wrist released in a moment of fear. In the face of that desert-hot glare, he could only say, “Nobody, my lord.” He wouldn’t put his worst enemy in the path of that stare. And he didn’t have any names that might rattle this man.

“Liar,” the noble said, pulling Idisio a step closer, thin lips stretching back. “Who?”

“What’s going on here?”

For the first time in his life, Idisio blessed the arrival of the white-robed guards. There were four in this patrol, all carrying the thick staves of their office. At their side, an asp-jacau, tall and narrow, raised its thin snout and sniffed at the air, head tilted to allow one pale blue eye to study him.

Idisio let out a gasping breath of relief. Asp-jacaus only went out with King’s Guards. Even a southern noble had to respect them. But the man holding Idisio either didn’t know that or didn’t care.

“Just a pick-thief,” he said briefly.

“We’ll handle it.” A guard’s hand landed on Idisio’s shoulder from behind, closing into a hard grip that pinched a tender spot; Idisio hissed and flinched. The fingers dug in deeper, and Idisio squirmed, praying he wasn’t dealing with an unculled “Ninnic’s Guard”.

The noble didn’t loosen his hold, either. “I claim justice-right.”

“But—”

“I’m summoned to the king. Argue my right with the king. Argue the time with the tide that goes by. Let us pass!”

Idisio felt his bladder weaken, and clamped down just in time. He’d never had that extreme of a reaction before, but this mistake could cost his life.

Claiming justice-right marked the man as a full desert lord. They didn’t consider themselves subject to any kingdom laws. Many of them offered no term of courtesy beyond “lord” to the king himself.

And he had heard that desert lords, when angry, took their price in blood… slowly. Idisio might be better off with a potentially sadistic guard after all.

But his odd intuition insisted: He won’t kill me. This is a good thing happening.

Idisio wondered if he were losing his mind.

The guards gave way. The desert lord yanked Idisio forward. He trotted at the man’s side, wrist bones no longer in danger of breaking but still held bruisingly tight.

“Give me no trouble,” the noble said. “I’m not in the mood for it.”

“You’re hurting me,” Idisio whined, deciding to give pathos a try, and dragged his step.

“I just saved you a notch on the ear at the least,” the noble snapped, with no change in pressure. “You’ll live through a bruise or two. Hurry up; I’ll drag you if I have to.”

Idisio matched the man’s pace, feeling like a child against the noble’s towering height and determined stride. He said, desperate now, “Nobody sent me, my lord. I swear.”

“I’ll ask of you later,” the noble said ominously. His pace quickened yet again; Idisio jogged at his side and soon had no breath to protest further.

They swept through areas of increasing wealth, where Idisio had never dared move so openly. Plain clothes gave way to fine silks; brightly painted merchant stalls replaced worn storefronts. Horses stepped delicately through the corridors that opened for them in any crowd. Idisio even glimpsed the distinctive purple, gold, and black tabard of a King’s Rider, honored emissary and royal news-bearer throughout the kingdom.

Spaces grew wider as they neared the palace grounds, the heart of Bright Bay. This area was no less sprawling than the rest of the city. It boasted seventeen gates into the grounds proper; at least fifteen noble families lived inside the miles of costly iron fence, along with enough merchants and storehouses to make the palace a small city in its own right.

The noble headed for the Crown Gate. Gold had been cast in great loops around the grim iron bars, decorated further with river-opal, diamonds, and bits of moon-shell—not particularly attractive, except to a thief skilled at prying gems from their settings. The guards protecting this gate stood sentry as much to keep that from happening as to ward against intrusion.

The noble went forward as if intending to simply walk right through the open gates, ignoring the guards and horizontally lowered pikes in his way. He stopped at the last second, the shaft of a pike almost touching his chest. Idisio, staggering at the jarring halt, bumped into the pole.

“I’m summoned to the king,” the noble said, staring at the guards around him as if expecting them to bow on the spot.

“And this one?” The man wearing the white braid of command pointed at Idisio.

Idisio opened his mouth, hoping to get the guards to take him away from this madman. As his wrist bones tightened again, he abandoned the notion. He stood quietly, eyes downcast, gritting his teeth against the fire flowing from wrist to elbow to shoulder and neck. His hand began to go numb.

The grip loosened a little, just enough to allow prickling sensation to shoot through his hand.

“He’s mine,” the noble said briefly. “I’ll speak for him.”

A quick glance up showed the guards surveying him skeptically. He tried to look meek and innocent. Whether he succeeded or his captor’s obvious status dominated, the guards finally stepped aside and allowed them through.

The pace resumed, Idisio jogging along beside the long-legged stride.

“You needn’t hold me,” he said, darting a quick glance up to the noble’s stern face. “I couldn’t get anywhere; I’d be grabbed right away if you weren’t with me. I’ll stay with you, lord. I swear.”

The noble paused, considering. “Very well,” he said at last, and let go. “Mind, if you try to run….” He lifted a corner of his tunic to show a pair of long-handled throwing knives with hilts of solid ebony.

Any hopes Idisio had of escape failed immediately.

“Yes, my lord,” he said humbly, his stomach once again queasy with fear. Only weapon-masters used ebony on their weapon hilts; this noble had to be one of the best knife throwers in or out of the kingdom to be carrying those at his side.

As blood rushed back into Idisio’s hand, the pain increased. Cradling the hurt arm in the other hand, Idisio hurried obediently at the noble’s side, trying not to moan in agony even as he gaped at the astounding sights unfolding around them.

They entered a wide space filled with flowerbeds and statues, fountains and benches where a strolling courtier might take his ease with his latest lady of favor. No smell of trash and marsh could be found here: instead, a faint breeze stirred up the scents of rosemary and roses, whitemusk flowers and tall, red-flowering sage.

Idisio breathed deeply, overwhelmed; he’d never known such luxury. Knowing it now, he fiercely wanted it for himself. The thought of returning to the streets and lifting half-rounds from an unfortunate’s purse seemed, suddenly, worthless as a worn wooden half-bit. And that damned intuition kept nagging: This is a good thing happening. Stay with it.

Maybe he wasn’t losing his mind, after all. He started to sort through possible ways to stay in this magical place. Perhaps he could plead for a job, throw himself on the king’s mercy. Was he really going to be in front of the king? His step slowed as that thought fell on him with the force of a fish-eagle’s plunge. His knees wobbled, not wanting to carry him forward.

Even the noble’s pace eased as they moved through the cloud of scent shaken loose by the light wind. Eventually he took a deep breath and resumed his quick stride, not looking back to see if Idisio followed.

Idisio hurried to keep up, trotting along at the man’s side and keeping his eyes ahead as best he could. Moving too fast to properly focus on his surroundings, Idisio managed only a series of fleeting glimpses: silk curtains, elaborate tapestries, luxurious rugs, ornate chairs. He put a hand to his mouth, afraid he would start to drool with envy. They entered a series of hallways, turning this way and that, up and down short flights of stairs, until Idisio considered himself thoroughly and unusually lost.

Finally they stopped in front of a small grey door. Two guards with gold and silver braids looped on their sleeves watched as they approached, offering no challenge but also no welcome. The noble made a polite motion of greeting and stared at the door as if expecting it to be opened for him.

“Lord Cafad Scratha,” he said briefly. “I’m expected.”

“Yes,” one of the guards said. “Go in.”

Idisio’s mouth dropped open. All tales he’d heard claimed Scratha Family had been wiped out almost twenty years ago; nobody knew why or by whom. Apparently one survivor hadn’t been worth mentioning. A complete slaughter must have made for a more dramatic story.

Looking sour, Scratha pushed open the door. It swung noiselessly inward, and they walked into the king’s presence.

Not into the throne room, as Idisio had expected, but a small apartment of sorts, filled with bright sunlight. Idisio glanced up, his jaw sagging once more. Thick panes of fine glass, some sand-cast, others clear, were set in the ceiling, arranged in an eight-pointed star pattern: the traditional king’s symbol. The display of wealth and power made the Crown Gate look cheap.

“Lord Oruen,” Scratha said.

Idisio brought his attention hastily down and sank to his knees in belated courtesy.

“Up,” Scratha said. “This is an informal audience.” His expression hardened as he looked back to the man across the room.

King Oruen stood easily as tall as Scratha and had the same eagle’s nose, dark hair, and narrow build. His skin seemed a lighter shade of bronze, his eyes round where Scratha’s held distinct angles. The royal robe hung neatly on a hook to one side; he wore a simple, if finely cut, outfit of blue and green cotton. If not for the robe and the “Lord Oruen” from Scratha, Idisio would have thought this man simply a high-ranking court official.

“Informal,” the king agreed. His dark eyes studied Idisio for a moment. “Is this boy needed?”

Without thought intervening, before Scratha could answer, Idisio found intuition speaking for him. “I stay with my lord, Sire.”

He couldn’t believe he’d said it, but there it was, and now both men were staring at him. King Oruen’s mouth quirked in what might have been amusement, while Scratha’s expression could have melted sand into glass. Idisio swallowed hard and tried to look sure of himself.

“Very well,” the king said, seeming to dismiss the matter.

With one last, ominous squint, Scratha let it go as well. Idisio realized he’d been holding his breath; he let it out as quietly as possible.

“Do you know what I’ve summoned you for, Cafad?”

“I imagine I’ve upset some petty courtier again.” Scratha sounded indifferent, but his hands curled into fists.

“No,” the king said. He looked at Idisio. “Do you like my solarium, boy?” He pointed to the glass overhead. “I saw you admiring it when you came in. It was Sessin Family’s gift to me, marking their acceptance of me as the new king in Bright Bay. They tore down the existing roof and replaced it with that in less than a tenday.”

Idisio glanced up again, then back to the king, confused.

“It’s wonderful, Sire,” he said. “It’s a marvel.”

“A marvel that could have been commonplace by now, if not for the Purge,” the king said, his gaze on the glass star overhead. “A wonder that should have, would have been, if the madness hadn’t destroyed hundreds of years of learning. Sessin now knows more about glasscraft than anyone north of the Horn. They’re in an excellent position for trade, on that basis alone. Quite a lot of money in glass, as I understand it. Quite a lot of tax revenue potential for the city they choose to set up their main trade shops in. And do I need to note that this gift also marks Sessin Family as my allies? That’s not something for a new king to take lightly, either.” He didn’t lower his gaze from the ceiling as he spoke.

Scratha’s face was tight as his fisted hands. “This is about Nissa.”

“Lady Nissa, of Sessin Family.” The king at last turned his gaze back to Scratha. “She has some very livid bruises, Lord Scratha, and this isn’t the time of year for long sleeves.”

Cafad Scratha seemed to draw himself upright and compact, all at once.

The king said, “She claims you threw her into the street half-naked, bellowing that she was a whore.”

“It’s a good name,” Scratha said. “She’s Sessin.”

“She admits she should have told you,” the king said. “She was afraid of your obsession.”

“Obsession?”

“That’s what it’s been named,” the king said, “and I agree. The girl did nothing, by her account, that gave cause to humiliate her like that. Can you give a good reason?”

Scratha looked mutinous. “She’s Sessin. I’ll have nothing to do with that family.”

“You’re a fool.” The king sat down with a heavy sigh. “I have to do something about this, Cafad. I won’t alienate my strongest supporters for your pride.”

“Your strongest supporters?” Scratha said, and while his volume stayed low, his tone was anything but mild. “Sessin’s a family of cowards. Their support means nothing. Less than nothing. I wouldn’t let one of their asp-jacaus near me, much less one of their women.”

If there had been any point to running, Idisio would already have been edging towards the door. He stood very still and hoped they wouldn’t notice his continuing presence.

“I know Sessin was involved in my family’s destruction,” Scratha said, “and gods save them when I find the proof to present to a desert court. And I will. I’ll find it! And then you’ll see—”

“Enough,” the king said, raising a hand. “None of the desert families had anything to do with your family’s slaughter. I won’t believe such a thing, and neither should you. You’re wasting your life on this. Find a good woman, of whatever family or line. Fill your fortress with the laughter of children instead of the wailing of ghosts.”

Scratha stood mute and straight, a hard line to his jaw and a darkness in his eyes.

The king looked at that grim, silent refusal and slowly shook his head. “I had hoped to talk you into apologizing to Nissa. I see that won’t happen.”

“No, Lord Oruen,” Scratha said. “That will never happen.”

“Sessin isn’t the only family you’ve upset lately, Cafad.”

“That’s desert lord business, Lord Oruen, and none of yours.”

“You’ve brought your squabbles into Bright Bay, so it’s now become my business,” the king said just as sharply. He stood, and his tone changed to one of authority, one he might have used in front of a full audience in his throne room. “I have a task for you, Cafad Scratha.”

Idisio could feel roses and silks rapidly fading beyond any chance of his reach. He’d be lucky to live out his life in a dungeon alongside the man he’d foolishly claimed as lord. Twice in one day, intuition had failed him, and each time more disastrously.

“The royal library has been decimated since the time of Initin the Red,” the king went on. “I am of a mind to restock it. An accounting of the kingdom is sorely needed: history, current affairs, culture, religions, beliefs, and so on. Without such a guide, I’ll be hard put to pull order from the chaos I’ve been left. You’re a man of learning and intelligence; I place you in charge of compiling a modern history of this kingdom. I want tales of how the last two hundred years have affected the rest of the kingdom, especially the northern half.”

Scratha opened his mouth to speak, eyes narrowing.

The king stopped him with another imperious gesture. ”Arason is of special interest to me, but be very careful; they’re a bit touchy at the moment.“

The two men locked stares.

“This task of yours will take years, if I agree to do it,” Scratha said. “If.”

“You’ll do this, Cafad Scratha,“ the king said. “Or lose your access to Bright Bay for the rest of your life.”

Scratha stared, seeming more puzzled than angry, for another moment, then shrugged and gave a sharp nod. “I’ll do the job.”

The king smiled without joy and shook a small silver hand bell. At the faint tinkling sound, a servant stepped through a side door half-hidden behind draperies, and stood, attentive and silent, waiting instruction.

“Settle Lord Scratha and his servant in a guest room,” the king directed. “When they’re ready, take them to see the steward regarding supplies and two horses.”

“I only need one horse, Lord Oruen,” Scratha said stiffly.

“What about your servant? Is he to run at your stirrup? Take two, and a pack-mule if you need one.”

Scratha turned a glare on Idisio.

“I don’t know that I’ll need a servant on this journey,” he said after a moment, turning a markedly more polite glance to the king. “I’ll move faster traveling alone, and I’m used to doing for myself. Taking this one on was… a whim. I’ll find another place for him, before I leave.”

Intuition prodding him hard, Idisio gave in, hoping for better results this time, and matched the desert lord’s quick recovery with his own before the king could speak.

“My lord, I’m no whim. Just the other day you said you couldn’t do without me! And I really don’t know what I’d do without you.”

“Take your servant along,” the king ordered before Scratha could speak. “He’ll come in handy, and he seems devoted to you: not something to toss aside lightly.”

“Indeed,” Scratha said.

Idisio shivered at the ice held in that single word, and wondered whether he’d made a very bad mistake after all.

The wall crashed up behind Idisio, and his breath thumped from his lungs at the impact. Idisio rolled away from Scratha’s reaching hand and scrambled to his feet. Settling into a crouch, weight on his toes, he kept his eyes fixed on Scratha.

“Wait,” he said, knowing it wouldn’t do any good. “Wait, my lord, please….”

The man fairly steamed with fury. Idisio didn’t think Scratha would dare to kill him, since they both had the king’s notice now, but he suspected a hefty helping of bruises for his insolence loomed in the near future.

Idisio let the plea hang in the air and watched with intense relief as the madness slowly faded from Scratha’s eyes, leaving behind a simpler and safer version of that anger.

“I’ll ask you again,” Scratha said. “Who sent you?”

What the king had said helped Idisio understand the desert lord’s obsession, but made a convincing reply no easier to craft.

“Nobody, my lord,” Idisio said. “I’m just a simple street thief. I made a mistake, trying for your pocket.”

“And as a simple street thief you nailed yourself to my side in front of the king?” Scratha demanded.

Idisio lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “It’s a better life than scrounging half-bits for a living, my lord; can you blame me for trying?”

“I don’t believe you.”

Idisio shrugged and straightened. “Will you take my service, my lord, or am I out on the streets again? If I go back on the street now, after walking into the palace by your side, I’ll be dead by nightfall.” An outright lie, which was dangerous with a desert lord; but it would resonate with the man’s paranoid fears.

Scratha stared at him, anger easing further, and finally said, “Very well.”

Idisio let out a very quiet sigh of relief through barely parted lips.

“Get your belongings, then, and meet me back here,” Scratha said, turning away.

Idisio thought back over his small, carefully hidden cache of possessions; nothing there worth the trip to gather. A small dagger, a ragged shirt, a worn pair of sandals, a handful of coin that looked pitiful next to what he hoped to make now—if Scratha intended to pay him as a servant rather than use him as a slave. It seemed worth the risk.

“I have nothing to get, my lord.”

“Sit quietly, then.”

The noble knelt at a low wooden desk, pulled a quill, ink, and three pieces of parchment from the shallow drawers as though he’d known they were there, and began to write. Not being able to read, Idisio could only guess; one looked like a list, the other like a letter to someone. Judging by the frequent pauses, a good deal of thought was going into the writing of both. The third took less time.

Idisio sank to the floor while Scratha wrote, grateful for the chance to rest. His bare feet were scuffed and aching from walking over so much unaccustomed stone. He normally kept to the sand and dirt paths of the city, but almost all of the trip to and through the Palace had been on paved roads and along hard stone corridors.

“Here’s your first task, then, servant,” Scratha said at last, rolling up two of the papers, note inside the list, and fastening a silk ribbon tightly around them. The longer letter he folded and pushed to one side. “Go with that man waiting outside and take these to the steward. They’re just supply lists and directions on what we’ll need,” he added, sounding impatient, as if Idisio had questioned him.

Idisio stood, feeling the weight on his feet as if he were made of lead more than flesh. “You’re not going, my lord?”

“No. I have other… tasks to do.”

The steward was a thin, sharp-faced man of no readily-apparent bloodline and a sour demeanor. He stared at Idisio as if examining a particularly nasty bug.

“Eh… the servant to Lord Scratha, s’e,” the steward’s secretary murmured, then withdrew hastily.

The disdain on the steward’s face intensified.

“No surprise,” he said, not standing, “that he’d take on such as you.” He held out a thin-boned hand on which veins looped and sprawled prominently against paper-dry skin. “Give me the list, then, don’t stand there like a fool.”

Idisio stood silent, gaze on the floor, as the steward snapped the rolls open with quick gestures.

“I see,” the steward said, his voice considerably colder than it had been. “Boy, look at me.”

Idisio raised his gaze slowly.

“Do you know what this letter says, boy?”

“No, s’e. I can’t read, and my lord said nothing of it.”

“Kind of him, to send you with a handful of chaos and say nothing to you of it,” the steward said. “Typical of him, in fact.”

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes, seeming exasperated.

“The man’s got no idea of palace politics, none at all—and not much notion of how to play his own land’s games, either. He said nothing of this to you? Are you lying to me, boy?”

“No, s’e, I wouldn’t dare.”

“I believe that, at least.” The steward sighed and stood. “Come with me. I’ll send a servant along with the supplies by the end of the day. No doubt your hasty young fool of a desert lord will want to leave first thing in the morning. Not that I said that, mind you,” he added with a glare.

“No, s’e. S’e?” Idisio decided to chance his customary brashness. “What did the letter say?”

“Instructions to clean you up, and no surprise. You stink.”

Cleaning him up, as it turned out, involved a thorough scrubbing by a fat old palace eunuch who only gave over the brush when Idisio threatened to shove it somewhere unpleasant, and only retreated farther than arm’s length when satisfied that Idisio really would clean himself.

Idisio emerged feeling very raw and sour, especially when he found his old clothes gone. In their place lay the silks he’d wished for, spread out ruby and white on the wide clothes-stool, and a pair of dark soft-soled boots. He stared at them in dismay. The outfit might be suited to court, but certainly not the open road. He could imagine the state they’d be in after a tenday.

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 axe-man 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 change 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.

But with a motion of his hand, Scratha called his attention.

“Stay with me,” the noble said when Idisio bent to see what his lord wanted. The king rose to take his leave, and the whole room stood, everyone bowing deeply. As the nobles drifted to the surrounding gardens and social-rooms, Scratha laid a hand on Idisio’s shoulder and steered him in a different direction.

They walked through hallways and around corners, turning this way and that, seeming to go in circles, until Idisio once again conceded himself lost. At last he saw a familiar portrait. Confirming his guess, they paused before an unremarkable grey door.

“Yes, you’re expected,” one of the guards said, deadpan, and once again they walked through the door into the presence of King Oruen.

The royal robes of public appearance were draped almost carelessly over the back of the king’s chair. The king, now simply a thin, gangly man in breeches and tunic, half-slouched in his chair, looked up as they entered and pointed silently to seats. Without protest this time, Scratha sank into one and motioned Idisio into another.

“Lord Oruen,” Scratha said. “Once again, I am here at your summons.”

“And once again,” the king said, “I’m holding back an urge to throttle you, Cafad.” He held up a sheet of parchment that showed signs of having been crumpled and carefully smoothed back out. “What are you trying to do to me?”

“You benefit from this arrangement, Lord Oruen.”

The king looked at the letter again, shaking his head slowly. “The desert families will have a collective stroke when they hear of this.”

“Let them twitch,” Scratha said. “Your steward already has a brief version of the letter in your hand. No doubt he’ll spread the word before the news loses its value.”

The king’s gaze sharpened into a glare.

“You’re a fool,” he said, then: “No, you’re not. You’ve made it impossible for me to refuse. Nobody will believe that I turned this offer down. Damn you, Cafad!”

Scratha’s only answer was a shrug, hands spread wide.

“What did you put in the steward’s note?” the king demanded.

“That I ceded you stewardship of my lands while I am working off your displeasure,” Scratha said, emotionless. “Nothing more. The name change I put to you alone.”

Idisio tried not to choke audibly. A desert lord was giving a northern king authority over his entire holding? Collective stroke would be a mild reaction, under Idisio’s admittedly limited understanding of southern politics. And as much, if not more, ire would be directed at the king for accepting as at Scratha for offering such a thing.

But the king was right: nobody would believe he had turned down such an opportunity.

The king stared at Scratha for a while, fingers nervously working the edges of the note in his hand as if he longed to rip it to bits.

“Very well, then,” he said at last. “I accept. I’ll guard your lands from intrusion while you’re gone. You do realize the implications of your offer?”

“I do.”

“As for the name change—are you sure you want to do that?”

“I can’t very well collect history, observe culture, and send useful reports if the people I speak to are busy fawning on or fearing me as a desert lord,” Scratha said. “It’ll be hard enough, in the northlands, for me to pass at all without being attacked. I’ll probably be relying on my servant in some areas.”

Idisio did choke this time. Up to this moment, he hadn’t considered anything of his role beyond a hazy supposition that he’d be tending to Scratha’s horse, cooking him supper, mending and cleaning his clothes. Not that he knew how to do any of those things, but he’d figured it would all be easy enough to pick up along the way.

His strangling noise drew a brief, amused glance from the king. “I see you haven’t mentioned that idea to your servant yet.”

“There hasn’t been time,” Scratha said.

“At least you took time to clean him up before dinner. I’m grateful for that. And I hope you’ve also taken the time to caution your young thief against stealing anything while on palace grounds.”

In the following silence, Idisio could feel all color draining from his face, and Scratha looked completely at a loss for words.

The king managed a tired smile. “I’d be a fool if I didn’t inquire about a servant that looked as if he’d been picked up straight from the dustier streets of Bright Bay just before arriving—especially as you’ve never taken a servant before, Cafad. I thought you understood by now that I’m not a fool.”

“Indeed,” Scratha said. “My apologies, Lord Oruen. I seem to have forgotten.”

“You’re not the only one that forgets.” The king sighed. “Why, if I may ask, that choice of name?”

“Gerau was my s’enetan’s name,” Scratha said.

The king nodded. “Honoring your grandfather’s memory, I can understand,” he said. “And— forgive me—sa’adenit? I know you’re no fool yourself, but don’t you mean s’e deaneat, son of a desert family?”

Scratha looked grim. “I said what I meant.”

“There aren’t many who understand the old languages anymore,” the king said. “Most people won’t know what you mean.”

“All the better,” Scratha said. “Anyone who understands that word is dangerous.”

Idisio had held his silence for too long. Questions were crowding in his throat, becoming painful. He burst out, “My lord, Sire—what does it mean?”

“Ah,” the king said, smiling again as his gaze shifted to Idisio. “This one, at least, is safely ignorant, if there is any such thing.”

Scratha shook his head, brooding, and said nothing.

“What does it mean?” Idisio repeated.

The king answered, as Scratha sat silent. “It translates to ‘Blood on the Sand.’ The sa’a at the beginning marks it as matrilineal, where a line run by male parentage would call it se’edenit. It comes from an old verse. I learned it as a child, but I probably received a poor translation. Here’s best I can recall.” He began to chant in a hoarse voice:

When the desert sleeps
It does not forget its secrets
It does not forgive the blood
The blood that was shed without cause.
Stone grows cold and flowers close
But the desert remembers the warmth of life
The warmth of the blood as it fell to the sand.
The blood on the sand may disappear
But the desert does not forgive the death.
With the sun’s awakening the blood flows fresh
And the killer is damned by the desert
Because the desert does not forget
And the desert will never forgive.

The king paused, then repeated softly, “’The desert will never forgive.’ That verse always gave me chills.”

Idisio nodded fervently in agreement, goose bumps running up and down his spine.

“That was a poor translation,” Scratha said. He had crossed his arms during the recital, and still looked distinctly displeased. “It’s much longer than that, and more explicit. Northerns like to water everything down. But that version serves the point.”

“It’s a call for vengeance,” the king said quietly, his gaze fixed on the desert lord. “A thoroughly ugly call, at that, when it’s translated without what you call ‘watering down’ the words.”

“I will find the hand behind my family’s slaughter,” Scratha said, equally soft and calm, but madness flickered in his eyes again. “I will have their blood in equal measure. Never think I’m giving that up, however far you send me. Who knows, maybe the northlands will have clues I couldn’t find in the south. Stranger things have happened in this world.”

The king opened his mouth, checked, then sighed. “King’s Researcher Gerau Sa’adenit it is, then. I really hope you’ve thought this out, Cafad.”

“I have,” Scratha said, and stood. With two long steps he loomed over the king; then he knelt and held out his hand, palm up, offering a heavy silver ring with what looked like a family sigil stamped on the face.

Oruen stared at it for a moment, as if the desert lord were offering poison; then he reached out and picked the ring gingerly from Scratha’s palm. “I’ll tell people you’ve gone to the Stone Islands,” he said, not taking his gaze from the ring. “At least I can give you that much protection against gossip.”

“As you wish,” the desert lord said, sounding supremely indifferent, then stood, retreating as swiftly as he had advanced. “May we retire, Lord Oruen?”

The king waved a weary assent, sinking further into his chair. The last glance Idisio had of the king showed a deeply worried expression and a note once again crumpled between royal hands.

They didn’t return to their room, as Idisio had expected. Instead, his lord guided him through another seemingly endless march. They turned and twisted through various hallways, climbing a shallow flight of steps and then descending, several changes of direction later, a rather longer set of stairs.

The air grew noticeably damp, and Idisio put his arm over his nose to ward against the increasing tang of mold and mildew. The space between the guttering wall sconces grew until islands of light lay ahead and behind while they walked in darkness. The hallway narrowed, too; eventually Idisio could put his hands out to either side and feel the walls. And then the passage tightened further, until he could extend no more than elbows.

Finally there were no more torches ahead: only cold, unbroken silence and empty, dark, stinking air.

“My lord?” Idisio ventured, voice just above a whisper, hoping his growing panic wouldn’t show in the low tone. This place felt foul; although no smell of blood or refuse registered in his nose, an itching nausea seemed to lurk in the very air.

Something bad happened here. Lots of bad things.

Idisio felt as though the dead crowded close, their slimy hands caressing his arms and back and legs.

The noble made a low shushing noise and went on, his feet making no noise on the pitted rock that had long ago replaced smooth stone underfoot. Idisio drew breath, cursing himself for a fool, and followed, one hand out to avoid running into his lord from behind.

And then something stirred, something deep and wild and formless; there came a shriek that had no sound and a moment of grey eyes staring desperately into his own. Scratha’s hand, latching onto his wrist, jerked him back to the moment and almost brought the held scream from Idisio’s throat. With a faint whimper, he followed the man’s tug to the left.

To Idisio’s intense relief, the feeling of foulness faded with each step they took. Scratha walked behind him from that point on, steering with one hand on Idisio’s shoulder. Every so often Scratha tugged him to a brief halt, nudged a little faster, or turned this way or that, all in complete darkness. At times Scratha reached to touch, push, or pull something hidden, provoking muted clicks or distant grinding noises.

The floor finally sloped sharply upwards, and the air freshened, feathering Idisio’s hair. The darkness became that of an open, cloudy sky on a moonless night.

“Wait here,” Scratha said in a low voice, and slipped back into the passage.

Idisio stood still, trembling with relief, and stretched his arms out full in all directions, just to prove to himself that he could. Returning, Scratha made an odd noise that might have been amusement and nudged Idisio’s shoulder.

“Come on. We’ve a walk yet.”

Idisio couldn’t hold back a groan. More walking sounded as welcome as an asp-kiss.

“Where are we going, my lord?”

“We’re leaving. I’ve arranged everything to be left at a safe spot not far from here. And don’t call me Lord any more. I’m Gerau Sa’adenit, Master Gerau to you, now.”

“What happened to first thing in the morning?” Idisio muttered.

Behind them, the Bright Bay Watch-Tower bells sounded the midnight hour. Idisio cast an aggrieved glare towards the sound and stomped after his new master.

Chapter Two

In her dreams, Alyea danced.

Not the stately movements of the court waltzes and pavanes, not even the wilder peasant dances she’d secretly attended from time to time. She could find a partner for those anytime she liked, these days.

But her dreams had long been the only place she could safely dance aqeyva, the only place it was safe to hate the s’iopes—the priests of the Northern Church. Even now, as the city slowly settled back into unaccustomed sanity, she found herself reluctant to find another teacher and take up the training that had ended, once before, in such bloody horror.

Her feet slid across the sand and chalky grit which Ethu insisted on scattering over his training floor. Sweet strain shook through her muscles as she leaned forward on her right leg, lifting the left high, higher, and up! above her head, fingers brushing the ground—not into a flip, not this time, although she’d mastered that long ago—and back down, turning, drawing in close, closer, and straightening to stand solidly on both callused feet again.

The calluses were the despair of Alyea’s maids. She wouldn’t let them smooth her feet; she liked the feel of rough skin scraping against stone and grit. She smiled, sliding the hardened heel of one foot up against the calf of the other, just to feel the difference in texture—and the dream changed.

She was back at that day, in the public square, tied to a chest-high post, sweat stinging the cuts and bruises from her training sessions: wrists bound to a hook near groin level, the bindings forcing her shoulders forward and down, arms wrapped around the post in an obscene parody of an embrace. Two s’iopes in brown and white linen garments tied Ethu to a post beside her.

“No tears,” Ethu hissed.

Alyea’s stomach turned over. A scream wanted to emerge from her mouth, but her throat refused to make a sound. This was a dream: she had to escape it; but events moved on inexorably.

A gold-robed s’iope stepped in front of her: Rosin Weatherweaver, the head of the Bright Bay Northern Church, faithful advisor to King Ninnic and a thoroughly evil bastard all around. His eyes glittered as he intoned her crimes: “You come before us accused of heresy against the gods, rebellion against not only the gods but their earthly representatives and the king himself; you have performed acts forbidden to women, committed sacrilege in the sight of gods and men alike….”

It went on for some time. Weatherweaver repeated the offenses in several different ways, managing to make it sound as though she had committed an entire host of depravities. The crowd seemed to breathe as one, a slavering entity intent on blood and tears; among them, her mother swayed, white-faced and horrified, more afraid and ashamed than Alyea would ever be.

Weatherweaver’s voice rolled on, seemingly unstoppable. “—deceit against your guardians, sacrilege against the laws of gods and men—”

Sweat slicking what clothes they’d left her, sand grating under her bare feet, Alyea wished he’d just get it over with already.

At last he came to his offer:

“Publicly repent your sin and swear devotion to the Four Gods undying, or to go into death a heretic, casting your family into shame for ten generations to come. And if you choose heresy your family will be given punishment as well, to ensure the lesson is never lost.”

Her mother moaned, face whiter than bleached sand, and sagged in the grip of the two s’iopes holding her.

Alyea opened her mouth, but before she could make a sound, Weatherweaver snatched two whips from one of the nearby s’iopes and leapt to stand behind her.

The first blow shredded her breath and her voice; the second and third loosed her bladder and bowels, a small humiliation in the face of the moment. But she didn’t scream. She didn’t cry. She hung on to Ethu’s command like a lifeline, determined not to give them the satisfaction.

A long, awful pause; she began to draw in breath to speak, but just as her lips moved to form a word the fourth blow came, driving all thought and courage from her mind. She crumbled, unable to stand another stroke. Forcing breath, forcing words, she husked, “No more. Please. Repent. I repent.”

Weatherweaver came around to stand before her, leering as he leaned forward.

“What’s that?” he whispered. His eyes glittered. “You want your mother to go through this too?” The whips in his hands dripped with her blood.

Her mother swayed, face even whiter than before, and let out another low moan.

“Repent,” she tried to scream; it came out as a hoarse croak, but loud enough, thankfully, for nearby ears to hear.

“Louder,” demanded a lesser s’iope; Alyea noticed, with surprising clarity, that the priest’s hands had crumpled sweaty wrinkles into the front of his formerly immaculate brown and white shirt. Weatherweaver shot him a hard glare, then straightened, his expression sour and disappointed, as the junior priest repeated, his own volume rising defiantly, “Say it louder, so all can hear.”

“Repent. I repent.” She didn’t—couldn’t stand to—look at Ethu as she spoke. “I repent my sins. I swear undying devotion. I swear.”

They made her repeat it again, and once more, each time louder, until her voice finally gave out.

“Enough,” the junior s’iope said at last, casting a nervous glance at Rosin Weatherweaver’s glowering expression. “We accept your repentance. Now—”

Weatherweaver’s eyes brightened. “Five more, I think,” he purred. “To make sure she doesn’t forget.”

“I don’t think that’s—” the other s’iope began, but Weatherweaver was already moving.

Alyea lost track of sound. She drifted through a white, orange, and yellow tunnel of agony, hanging on to Ethu’s command with everything she had. No tears. It was all she had left.

At last her bonds loosed and hands tugged her to stand in front of Ethu.

Weatherweaver loomed up in her peripheral vision, a wild gleam in his eyes, whips still in his hands. “Your words have condemned this man as guilty,” he declared loudly. Then, lowering his voice, he added in her ear, “Persuade him to repent. Death can be fast for him if he repents.”

She stared at Ethu. He looked back at her, eyes blacker than black and face stony as a mountain. He said only, “No tears.”

That moment was the closest she came to losing control.

Ethu looked straight at Rosin Weatherweaver and told him to do something anatomically impossible and thoroughly obscene, elaborating loudly on that theme even as the blows began.

Alyea woke screaming, as she always did, the image of Ethu’s bulging eyes and bloody, bitten lips seared into her mind. He hadn’t screamed, not once; not when they threw buckets of salt water over him, not even when bone began to show through the cuts on his back.

She shook in the darkness, bathed in sweat but freezing with remembered terror, and nobody came to comfort her.

Scarcely any s’iopes remained in Bright Bay. Alyea had made Oruen promise to get rid of every single one if he gained the throne, and he’d held to his word. Most had left months ago, trundling out the eastern gates in fours and eights and sixteens: headed east to Salt Road or north through the Great Forest, returning to their legally acknowledged holdings. One small, stubborn band of holdouts had built a group of cottages at the western edge of the city, and for some reason Oruen allowed them that space; but they kept to themselves, and Alyea was content to let them be if they stayed out of her sight.

The Audience Hall in which the priests had dispensed their notion of justice through a mad, puppet king had been destroyed, and a new one was being built. But more petitioners filled the ballroom that served as temporary Audience Hall than ever before: an untidy line of supplicants, ranging from rich to poor, mostly southern but quite a few from north of the Great Forest. Today there was even a desert lord. Not as unusual as it had been under Ninnic, but still rare enough to send an excited buzz through the court and prompt everyone to crowd in, just a little, to hear the conversation.

Curious to see if it was Lord Scratha—the man could chill a fire to ice in seconds, and an audience between him and Oruen would be something to see—Alyea pushed and slid though the crowd, gathering more than a few sharp glares along the way, until she could see the desert lord clearly.

From where she stood, his back was to her, and his voice didn’t sound familiar. She leaned to one side as a large woman, shifting restlessly, moved into her line of sight. There was no visible insignia on the desert lord’s clothing of blue and sand-tan, but those weren’t Scratha colors in any case. A wide, beaded band covered the man’s right forearm from the wrist nearly to the elbow, but he stood too far away for Alyea to make out any distinct patterns or colors.

Alyea heard the Hall steward begin to announce someone’s arrival just as the large woman stepped directly back and stumbled against her. In the resulting fuss of sharp words and apologies, she lost her chance to hear the identity of the new arrival. It had to be someone important, or the steward wouldn’t have bothered calling out the name; and the reaction of the crowd around her suggested it wasn’t someone particularly well liked.

She managed to catch a glimpse of the desert lord; he had turned to look towards the approaching newcomer. Even seeing his face clearly, she couldn’t place him, but the man striding towards the throne was much younger—and she recognized him instantly: Pieas Sessin.

Alyea would never forget his face pressed close, his breath foul with wine and drugs; would never forget the pain, never forgive the humiliation which had led, in the end, to Ethu’s death. Not that Pieas Sessin likely knew about that, or even cared.

Nausea thickened her throat, along with a wild desire to call out his crimes; but she couldn’t do it. Not in front of Oruen. Never in front of Oruen. She’d promised herself that much, long ago.

As Pieas passed, arrogant in emerald green and sand-tan, the normal low chatter of the Audience Hall ceased completely. Even the most witless courtiers edged away as he passed. In the complete stillness of the room, his voice carried clearly:

“S’a-ke Eredion,” Pieas said, cold and deliberate, using the familiar mother’s-brother rather than the formal s’a-ketan; a subtle insult all its own in this highly formal setting. “You neglected to inform me you had secured an appointment with the king.”

Turning, he added, “Lord Oruen,” while dropping a just-adequate bow to the man on the throne. “I offer my apologies for my late arrival. Please continue.”

He straightened further, tucking his strong hands behind his back, then stood silent, poised like a desert hawk about to plunge. His arms, neck, and ears were all completely bare of ornamentation: another insult, implying that Oruen wasn’t important enough to warrant such a display.

Eredion Sessin took a deep breath. “As I was saying, Lord Oruen—” The desert lord’s clear voice carried in the continued stillness. “The next shipment of glass is well on its way to being completed.”

That wasn’t, Alyea knew after a swift examination of Oruen’s face, what they had been discussing before Pieas swept into the room. Nice try, but it wouldn’t hold; too many others had heard the discussion and not all of them could hide their surprise.

Pieas turned his head, his sharp eyes obviously picking up the slight start here and twitch there that spoke volumes about the lie presented.

“S’a-ketan,” he said, the formal term now even more of an insult, somehow, than the informal had been moments ago. “Surely we aren’t wasting our lord’s time with servant’s talk? I had thought we asked for this audience to press our complaint against Scratha.”

Eredion’s chin lowered, and his shoulders rounded forward as he turned a stare that could have melted glass on his nephew. “Surely you don’t intend to tell me what I may and may not discuss, s’ai-keia.” While his tone stayed mild, the threat—underlined by a word one would use to a sister’s son still in drooling infancy—was unmistakable.

“Of course not, s’a-ketan,” Pieas said humbly, apparently backing down, to the extent of physically retreating a step. “Please forgive me.”

But the damage had been done. Complaint against Scratha? Those words had exploded a susurrus of murmurs across the room. Alyea dearly wished she’d arrived sooner, secured a better view, caught even a bit of the earlier conversation. They’d probably been discussing, in careful, sideways terms, the very thing on which Pieas had demanded public attention.

Eredion Sessin looked ready to take the man to pieces with his bare hands.

Oruen shook his head slowly. “I assume this is about Nissa? If so, I should tell you that I spoke to your sister before she left for Sessin. I also summoned Lord Scratha. And I have already settled the matter to my own satisfaction. Lord Eredion, just before you arrived, had agreed to wait on a more private audience to discuss it further, later in the day. You may attend that discussion, if you wish.” His flat stare dared Pieas to protest further.

“Yes, Lord Oruen,” Pieas said. Alyea thought some of the humility in his voice might be real this time; the man looked badly rattled.

Eredion spoke, his voice and hands tight: “We beg your leave to withdraw, Lord Oruen.”

At Oruen’s weary nod, Eredion dropped a deep and profoundly apologetic bow, gripped his nephew’s elbow in what looked to be an iron hold, and hustled him from the room.

Intrigued, hoping to see Pieas receive a serious scolding, Alyea wormed her way back through the crowd and followed them. She slipped into the secret passageways and, undetected, watched them from hidden posts as they returned to their rooms.

Their private quarters were one of the few with multiple watch-holes, but only one other watcher was in place when Alyea arrived. She recognized the lean face and dark eyes of a man who had seen, if reports were true, three kings come and go. Not that Ninnic and Mezarak had lasted their full natural lifespans; but still, it spoke of capability. She didn’t know his true name. The Hidden Cadre left all prior identity behind when they entered royal service. His call-name was a word from the old language: micru, the black and tan-banded viper that moved faster than thought and could kill a healthy draft-horse.

Micru gave her a swift and disinterested glance as she slid into the spying area, then put a finger over his mouth in a wordless warning: be silent and you may stay. She nodded, agreeing, and peered through one of the spyholes. She found the two men speaking quietly, not shouting as she would have expected. Even with her good hearing, she had to strain for their words.

For a long, annoying time, she caught only a fragment or an occasional word, not enough to make out what they were discussing. A glance at Micru showed him sitting perfectly still, intent, eyes half-closed as he listened. Alyea guessed he could read lips, and wished she had been able to pick up that skill; but her feeble attempts at it had always been disastrous.

After a while, Pieas stormed out of the room. Micru didn’t move, his attention fixed on Eredion; she stayed, wondering what he was watching for now. It finally occurred to her that he’d be sitting here for hours; Micru was posted to watch the room, not Pieas.

She was being an idiot, and her presence was useless. No matter how adept she was at sneaking through secret passages and moving quietly, she was no palace spy and never would be.

The admission galled.

So did Micru’s brief, amused glance as she slid past him on her way out of the passage.

Just tired enough to want to avoid chance encounters with ambitious nobles and courtiers, Alyea chose a little-used passage back to her rooms. While her family had a small estate within the Seventeen Gates, Oruen had set aside a small suite of rooms for Alyea within the palace itself, and she stayed there more often than not. Her mother never complained, more than content that her only daughter should remain as close as possible to the king. Alyea had given up trying to convince her mother that Oruen would never offer marriage. Once that woman got an idea, a mountain of sand couldn’t smother it.

Swinging around a corner, she stopped, startled.

Alyea didn’t know all the servants, but she did recognize the simple ruby-and-silver ring visible on this girl’s right hand as she struggled with the man pinning her against the wall. Along with the long dark hair and a scar on the back of the girl’s right hand, it served as positive identification: Alyea had given that ring to her favorite maid before dismissing her years ago.

Alyea pulled the man away and shoved him staggering sideways before he had time to react to her presence.

“Stand off, s’e!” she barked.

“How dare you!” he shouted simultaneously, catching himself against the wall.

The man out of the way for the moment, Alyea turned to the servant girl. “Wian, are you hurt?”

A livid bruise shadowed the side of Wian’s face, and her simple servant’s dress was in disarray. “I’ll survive, my lady,” she said, sagging back against the wall with one hand to her throat. “Thank you.”

“How dare you!” the man raged, straightening and advancing a step; and at last the voice registered as familiar.

Alyea turned to stare at the man. Pieas Sessin—again! For a moment she didn’t know what to say, and Pieas seemed to be searching for a suitably harsh reprimand. He obviously didn’t recognize her; just as well.

“How dare you?” Pieas repeated, moving another stride closer. “This is none of your concern!”

“She’s not willing, so it certainly is my concern.” Her anger, now back in full force, burst loose. “You have no right to take any servant inside the Seventeen Gates against her will!”

“She’s willing enough to have lured me here,” Pieas said, arrogant in certainty. “Any cry of rape would be a lie; she almost dragged me with her.”

Alyea stared at the man in disbelief. She didn’t need Wian’s pale, frantic head-shake to know Pieas lied. “And the bruise?” she demanded. “And her struggle to be free? Do you take me for a complete fool?”

“She only fought when she heard your step,” he said smoothly. “And the bruise was there before she flung herself at me. She can’t cry rape just because she’s embarrassed at being caught!”

“She doesn’t need to; I know her, and you, and I call it rape. Stay away from her and the other servants, or I’ll see you barred from setting foot inside the Gates.”

“You have no such authority,” he said, laughing at her now. “Cry all you want. I’ll let the little whore go; there are others more interesting.” He turned to leave.

“You’re a fine champion for your sister, Pieas Sessin,” she snapped.

He stopped and turned with shocking speed and grace, looming over her before she had time to draw a breath. “Don’t you dare compare my sister to some palace whore!”

“Wian isn’t a whore,” Alyea said, “and neither was I.”

“What, you’ve known me as well?” he asked, almost laughing again, then stopped, searching her face more carefully. A faint frown creased his forehead, and he began to speak.

She cut him off. “Go away, get out of the Palace, Pieas, before I call the guards to escort you out!”

His frown shifted to a sneer. “Go on, call them! They can’t touch me. Desert Family immunity, in case you’ve forgotten your lessons.” He cast the maid a thoughtful glance that sent ice down Alyea’s back, and sauntered away, whistling loudly.

“Gods,” Alyea muttered. She turned quickly to her former servant. Wian had sunk to the floor, head on her knees, breathing in great, wobbly gasps. “Wian, come, let’s get you back to Lady Arnil’s.”

“I didn’t encourage him,” Wian said shakily, “I swear, I didn’t. He followed me all evening, and I was trying to avoid him, I know his kind, I know that look, and I thought I was safe, cutting down this hallway, and didn’t know he followed me….”

She started to cry, shivering, her eyes wide and dilated with shock.

“Hush, Wian,” Alyea said, gathering the terrified girl into a tight hug before tugging her back to her feet. “I know. Believe me, I know.”

“Pieas Sessin?” Lady Arnil shook her head. “No, I don’t think I’ve heard of him before.”

Lady Arnil, Alyea thought, lived a sheltered and deliberately ignorant life; her home just barely qualified as within Bright Bay boundaries. Her late husband had kept his frail wife there for the same reason Alyea originally sent Wian to the lady: as protection against the gross excesses of the last king.

While she’d dismissed all her servants after Ethu’s death, convinced one of them had betrayed her to Rosin Weatherweaver, she’d done her best to arrange good homes for all of them. Wian, her most devoted servant, she’d been extra careful to place in a safe spot, far from danger. She hadn’t known, at the time, Lady Arnil’s temperament: arrogant, selfish, and even more obsessed with status and propriety than Alyea’s own mother. A safe home for Wian, yes; but not, unfortunately, a kind one.

But Alyea didn’t say any of that aloud. What she did say, after a carefully measured breath for patience, was: “He’s an unkind person, my lady. And Wian’s run across his worst side. She’s in danger.”

“How can that be?” The woman squinted at Alyea, seeming honestly puzzled. “We’ll simply keep her within the house until he leaves Bright Bay. For that matter, what in the world were you doing in the palace, Wian? You weren’t given leave to go anywhere—”

Afraid of the conversation sidetracking, Alyea didn’t wait for an answer. “My lady, Wian’s in danger so long as she stays in the city. I suggest sending her away until Pieas has had enough time to forget about this incident.”

“This incident,” Lady Arnil repeated, and peered shortsightedly at the silent maid standing beside Alyea. “You say this man trapped you in a back hallway of the palace—”

“Time is short,” Alyea said, her patience thinning. “Take my word for it, Lady Arnil. You have to send her away to a place Pieas has no influence—”

“Don’t you tell me what I must do,” Lady Arnil said, her tone sharpening. “You’re barely above a girl yourself!”

“I’m sorry, my lady,” Alyea said quickly. “I misspoke—”

“Indeed you did,” Lady Arnil said stiffly, and stood. “You may go, young lady. Wian will stay here, and stay within the house walls for a while; that may teach her a lesson about wandering about without permission.”

“But, my lady—”

“You may go.”

Seeing no point in further arguing, Alyea grimaced and turned to leave. She paused to embrace Wian on her way out, and whispered: “I’ll find a way to get you out of the city, if you want.”

“It’s all right,” Wian murmured. “I’m honored by your care, my lady, but I’ll do as Lady Arnil says. I’m sure she’s right. I’ll be safe here.”

Alyea shook her head, but under Lady Arnil’s fierce glare had no room for protest. “Take care of yourself,” she said at normal volume, and left feeling that she had betrayed Wian’s trust.

By the time she got back to the palace, the hallways had grown relatively quiet with the advancing night hours. She paused at the passage leading to her rooms. She badly wanted a long, hot soak in a lavender-scented tub, and a light platter of fruit. Her stomach rumbled and her legs ached from the long walk, but the desire to talk to Oruen about the gross injustice of Pieas’s behavior being protected by diplomatic immunity was too strong. She hurried onward.

Rounding a corner, she almost ran into a servant; he reached to tug anxiously at her sleeve as she detoured around him.

“Lady,” he said. “Lady Alyea? The King calls you to attend him. A conference, he said, and for you to hurry.”

Alyea stopped on the spot, staring at the servant: he was buck-toothed and gangly, his face heavily scarred with adolescent acne. He showed only relief at having found her.

“A conference?”

“That’s what he said, Lady, and for you to hurry.”

Conferences involved more than two people. “Do you know who else is with him?”

“The lords Sessin, I think.”

“Thank you,” she said, dismissing him. He scurried away, and she paused for a moment’s thought before continuing. Pieas must have run straight to Oruen to complain, no doubt twisting the matter to her disadvantage. Her step quickened along with her temper. She vowed that by the time she was done, Pieas would be lucky to walk out unbruised himself.

The guards at the small grey door nodded silently and opened the door without even the flicker of a smile. The room beyond was quiet as she stepped through; she heard the door snick softly shut behind her. She paused a moment, studying the two Sessins—who were, as she’d expected, sitting stiff and grim on padded chairs across from the king.

With a few long strides, she covered more than half the distance to Oruen’s chair. “My lord King Oruen,” she said, dropped to one knee, then rose. She kept her gaze directly on his face, her expression carefully inquiring. “You sent for me?”

His dark eyes narrowed. She could see him considering both her formal address in what he referred to as his “casual room” and her ostentatious indifference to Pieas and Eredion.

Offended anger nearly steamed from the two to her left. Sessin Family always had been rigid sticklers for propriety, and her refusal to greet them directly qualified as insulting by even the loosest standard.

“I did,” Oruen said at last, and pointed to a chair. “Sit, please, Alyea.”

She held back a smile at having gotten away with the insult and sank into a chair, keeping Eredion between herself and Pieas.

“Pieas and Eredion Sessin, Alyea Peysimun,” Oruen said, making the introductions with a sweeping gesture.

Alyea looked to the two Sessins and inclined her head graciously. Pieas’s smile was strained and his glare murderous, while to her surprise Eredion actually seemed amused. Could a Sessin have a true sense of humor, to the extent of laughing at himself and his own kin? The sea, Alyea thought, may be about to swallow us all.

The king settled into the wide, thick-armed chair he favored, and studied them all for a moment. “Alyea,” he said finally, “you’ve heard of Cafad Scratha?”

She blinked at him, caught off guard. Then she remembered the earlier court audience and cursed herself for a fool; this meeting had nothing to do with herself or Wian. “Of course.”

Eredion’s smile faded. “Lord Oruen, I don’t understand the need for her presence.”

“You will in a moment,” Oruen said, relaxed and sure of himself now. “Alyea, as you may have heard by now, Pieas brought up a formal complaint against Scratha in my court this afternoon.”

Alyea nodded without speaking, tilting her head, expression politely curious.

“And if you heard of the complaint, you likely heard the cause,” the king prompted.

“Scratha offered insult of some sort to Pieas’s sister, Nissa,” Alyea said.

“This is a desert family matter,” Pieas said sharply. Eredion’s hand clamped down on the young man’s arm, warning; the younger Sessin now wore a thin bracelet of gold and green beads on his left arm, arranged asymmetrically on fine silver wire. She squinted at the pattern, unsure what it meant.

“As is my right,” Pieas continued as if his uncle hadn’t moved, “I ask that she be removed as having no bearing on the matter at hand. Whatever you called her to… discuss…. ”

Eredion removed his hand as abruptly as he had moved it before, expression suddenly stony. Alyea’s ears burned at the crude implication.

“—Can surely be done later, after our business is concluded.”

Eredion reached out, not even looking, and flicked Pieas’s thin bracelet hard, as though to draw attention to it. Glass beads clicked and bumped against each other. Pieas turned a hard glare on Eredion; his elder ignored him, while the king’s eyes narrowed briefly.

“Lord Eredion?” Oruen said, apparently choosing to ignore the insult himself. “You’re a full desert lord, and the right he refers to is your prerogative, not his.”

Pieas’s scowl deepened. He covered the bracelet with his other hand and sat back into his chair, chin to chest, glaring sideways at his uncle.

“I have no objection to the girl staying,” Eredion said. “I trust your word that she’s important to this discussion.”

“Thank you,” Oruen said, not looking at Pieas. “The incident between Lady Nissa of Sessin and Lord Cafad Scratha was serious, differences in telling aside. But in the end, Nissa chose not to press charges against Scratha. She considered it an unfortunate mix-up of identity and communication.”

“In other words,” Lord Eredion said, “she damn well should have told him who she was. She knew he hated our family.”

Oruen nodded. “She admitted that herself, yes. All she wanted was her apology conveyed, and she hoped for a similar response from Scratha. But Scratha refused his part. Since I had to do something, I gave him a choice of punishments.” He stared at his linked hands for a moment, brooding, then went on: “He chose temporary banishment to the Stone Islands, and voluntarily gave me control of his lands—”

Pieas was abruptly on his feet. Eredion made no move to stop him; his own mouth hung slightly open in astonishment.

“—in order to be sure, under desert law, that he will have them when he returns. Alyea will be leading my embassy to hold Scratha Fortress until I release Cafad Scratha from his penance.”

“You cannot banish a properly named desert lord!” Pieas snapped. “Or take his lands under your hand!”

“He chose both,” Oruen said. “He offered his lands, and chose his banishment, freely, rather than offer apology to Nissa. I found it a suitable and legal arrangement.”

Alyea drew a long breath, rapidly fitting together implications. In essence, she’d just been handed control of a desert fortress, as representative of the king. Depending on how this fell out, she could find herself ranked as a desert lord, with the king’s backing: an absolutely unheard-of situation—

Which also might just place her above Pieas Sessin in rank. She fought against a wide grin.

“Under desert law,” Eredion said slowly, “the lord of a fortress has the right to abdicate his lands in a manner of his choosing, but that has not been done in hundreds of years, and never to a northern king. The last case was of Wiyric of Tehay Family, who gave over his lands to F’Heing in payment of a monstrous gambling debt, went with his entire family to the deep sands in shame, and never returned. The Stone Islands is not the place of shame for the desert families. It is not the right place to have sent Lord Scratha.”

“If you like,” Oruen said amiably, “I will certainly summon Scratha back, and send him to the deep sands to die; but his offer of stewardship was voluntary and unprompted in any way—and so, under desert law, holds regardless of Lord Scratha’s punishment. If he dies, then the crown will hold his lands: not only for a short time, but forever. I thought this the better way, given the relatively small offense involved.”

Eredion let out a harsh breath, clearly startled. “You are right, Lord Oruen.”

“Right?” Pieas blazed. “Right? How can you say that? No desert Family has ever handed authority to any king!”

“We have no choice,” Eredion said. “Lord Scratha is within his rights, and Lord Oruen is entitled to accept the freely made offer.”

“We can call for a Conclave,” Pieas said.

“Feel free,” Oruen said calmly.

“Pieas,” Eredion said, sounding exasperated, “a Conclave isn’t a simple matter—”

“But the decision of a Conclave is binding even on a king, isn’t it? I demand a Conclave!”

Oruen smiled, unruffled. “You can’t make that demand, Pieas,” he said. “Even Eredion can’t. Only the head of a desert Family can call for a Conclave. You’ll have to travel back to Sessin Fortress and convince Lord Antouin Sessin yourself.”

Eredion snapped, “Pieas, sit down. Stay down. And shut up.”

His nephew, mouth folding into sulky lines, sank back to perch tautly on the edge of the plush chair. Alyea rubbed at her nose to hide a grin at Pieas’s discomfort; a stern eyebrow quirk from Oruen settled her down.

The elder Sessin drew a long breath and said, more quietly, “This situation requires a good amount of thought. May we have a day to consider, and gain audience to discuss this further tomorrow evening?”

“Certainly,” Oruen said. “We would all be the better for some rest.”

Alyea made a quick decision; whatever might happen tomorrow, she didn’t want to lose the chance she had right now. It was too good to let go. She stood.

“My lord King,” she said, hands clasped tightly behind her back, “I have a complaint of my own to press, one of a sensitive nature best discussed in the privacy of this room.”

By the look he gave her, he’d desperately wanted to retire to sleep and wasn’t at all pleased at the delay. “It has bearing on Sessin Family?” he asked warily.

“It has bearing on Pieas Sessin,” she said.

“Lies!” Pieas cried, coming up out of his chair again; this time Eredion reached out and hauled him back down. “Lord Oruen, she offers only lies!”

“Without even knowing what she has to say?” the king inquired. “Let her speak before you cast doubt on her word, Pieas.”

Alyea took a deep breath. “I think you know my maid, Wian; you recommended her to my service some years ago,” she said, a blatant lie that Oruen had the wisdom not to challenge openly, although his expression warned her not to push further. She explained about the encounter, careful to stick to absolute truth from that point on. “I am dismayed, sire,” she finished, “that desert immunity is being so abused as to allow rape in the very palace halls.”

Eredion’s expression bore the dark ferocity of a thundercloud now; his stare at Pieas made the young man squirm in deep discomfort.

“It’s a lie,” Pieas said, sounding much less confident now. “The servant girl is just a whore. She insisted on dragging me into a deserted hallway.”

“I will speak for her honor,” Alyea said. “The king knows her and will speak for her honor as well. Are you calling us both liars, then?”

One of Oruen’s eyebrows cocked, just a little, signaling strong displeasure at that maneuver.

Stuck, Pieas looked to Eredion. “I swear to you, I never asked for more than the girl was willing to give. Any marks are those of passion, not struggle.”

“I would have an easier time believing you,” Eredion rumbled, “if this was the first such complaint, Pieas.”

“No complaint of rape has ever been proven against me,” Pieas said. A shadow of panic lurked beneath the bluster.

“You’ve never had noble accusers before,” Eredion said. “It’s far easier to believe a commoner or servant is out to wrench a handful of gold from us; but if Lord Oruen himself can speak to this girl’s character….”

Oruen’s eyes narrowed. Afraid he was about to choose sides—and not hers—Alyea took a deep breath and, for Wian’s sake, broke her promise to herself.

“I’ll do more than speak to Wian’s character. I present my own. Some years ago, Pieas took me by surprise as I walked in the town, and the bruises he left took days to fade.” And before the bruises had faded, Ethu had begun training her to make sure that such a thing never happened again; but she left that part silent.

The king’s eyebrows came down into a sharp frown.

“I do recall those bruises,” Oruen said. “You wouldn’t tell me where they came from.”

She tried not to flinch from his stare. “There was nothing you could do. He was in Ninnic’s favor, and my family wasn’t.”

There might have been the faintest flicker in his eyes, a hint of something she’d thought long gone; her heart turned over in her chest. A moment later Oruen’s expression flattened again, and she looked away, jaw tight, and cursed herself for hoping.

“Are you claiming that Pieas raped you, Lady?” Eredion demanded.

“I am,” she said clearly, then took a gamble. “And I also ask for blood-right, which I will stand to myself.” It sounded impressive, and she was fairly sure that blood-right was just a first-blood duel; but as soon as she’d said it a bad feeling began to churn in her stomach.

Eredion studied her with narrowed eyes, calculating; and Pieas’s grey face slowly regained its color and creased into an arrogant smile. “Blood-right under kingdom law, or under desert law?” Eredion said at last, cautiously.

“Kingdom,” Oruen said before Alyea could even open her mouth. Just as well; she hadn’t been sure of the difference. “I’m sure Alyea wants no part of a desert holding beyond what she’s already being granted.”

She nodded, agreeing fervently, glad he’d answered for her.

Eredion visibly relaxed. Pieas sneered.

“You have nothing to worry about, s’a-ketan,” the younger Sessin said. “She has no skill at arms.”

Eredion turned a black glare on his sister’s son. “And how would you know that?”

Pieas scrambled to repair his mistake; before he managed two words, Eredion lifted a hand to cut him off.

“Lord Oruen,“ the elder Sessin said, directing a sober glance to the king, “if you’re minded to allow this challenge, I’ll stand on my authority as a lord of Sessin Family and permit it as well. I have to warn you both, in fairness, that I know Pieas as a skilled fighter with an unfortunate lack of scruples. I have little doubt as to the outcome.”

“I can’t refuse her choice,” Oruen said dryly. “She knows what she’s doing.”

“What about your placement of her as embassy head to Scratha fortress?” Eredion said suddenly. “That’s a binding she’d be abandoning if she fell in challenge. That makes her choice illegal; she has to call a champion to represent her.” He looked deeply relieved at the thought.

Alyea kept her expression still with an effort. Fall in challenge? That didn’t sound like a first-blood duel. Her hands tightened into fists.

“Unfortunately,” Oruen said, “she hasn’t been sworn to that yet; you yourself asked for a delay.” He rubbed wearily at his eyes, and shot a sharp glance at Alyea.

The elder Sessin turned a bleak stare on Pieas. “You’ve been a concern to me for years, Pieas,” he said. “I’ve seen you get away with more than your due, and walk proud in the company of madmen and murderers your father would have shunned. I’m at the end of my tolerance for you. If she falls, I will claim my own right as lord of Sessin, and challenge you myself.”

Pieas stared at his uncle as if he couldn’t believe his ears. “You would betray me like that?”

“You’ve already betrayed Sessin,” Eredion said roughly. “From Water’s End to Bright Bay, good people turn away to avoid your path, while disgraceful men steer straight for you. You’re putting a reputation to our name that we don’t want and can’t afford. I’ve tried to warn you, and you’ve refused to listen, so you have three choices. Kill Lady Alyea, and face me after. Submit yourself to Lord Oruen’s punishment instead of taking up the challenge. Or run disowned into the deep desert, to make your own way as you will.”

Alyea stood frozen and trying to look placid; she hadn’t expected such violent support from the elder Sessin, and the words kill Lady Alyea had locked her throat with horror. Not a first-blood duel, then. How could she have been so stupid?

The terrified look on Pieas’s face suggested he wouldn’t dare to go up against Eredion; two options remained. Which would prove more distasteful to him she couldn’t guess.

The younger man’s jaw worked for a moment; then he said, hoarsely, “I’d like a day to consider. May we… continue this along with the other discussion tomorrow night?”

“Certainly,” Oruen agreed, seeming relieved. The two Sessins departed, Eredion’s hand clamped firmly on the younger man’s shoulder.

“Wait a bit,” Oruen said as the door closed again. “Let them get some distance before you leave.”

“I had no intention of tagging their heels.” Alyea sat on the arm of a chair, studying the man across from her intently. “You look tired.”

“I am,” Oruen said, slumping back into the cushions of his chair and rubbing his dark eyes. “Gods, I’m tired. I begin to think I made a serious mistake, accepting this crown.”

Alyea said nothing. He wasn’t about to abandon the throne, after all he’d gone through to place his rear end on it.

“Are you planning on your aqeyva training being enough to beat Pieas with?” Oruen said after a while. “Because you’re an idiot if that’s all you’re counting on. Eredion’s right; Pieas is a nasty piece of work.”

She shook her head, unwilling to admit the extent of her mistake. Even if blood-right had meant a simple duel, the move had been pure madness, more bluff than anything else, now that she thought back on it. What had she wanted?

For Oruen to stop her. For him to say—

—oh, gods, was she still that mad about him? He’d made it clear… or had he?

She couldn’t resist finding out if that flicker of emotion, when he’d heard of Pieas’s attack on her, had been real or imagined. “Why did you choose me for this?”

He had closed his eyes while she brooded; he opened them now and smiled. “Why not you?”

“I’m only eighteen,” she said as emotionlessly as she could. “You have men and women in your service with the dignity of age and the wisdom of years who could handle this much better. Just because you seduced me once is no reason to give me important assignments like this one. Or do you want me out from nearby, to avoid the reminder?”

His smile hadn’t faded; he watched her with a fond, if exhausted, expression. “You’re a relative unknown, where those more seasoned diplomats already have reputations and enemies among the desert Families. You also have no taint of having been under Ninnic’s service, which in itself will ease tempers along the way.”

“I can’t be the only one like that,” she said, hoping her expression didn’t betray the sinking feeling in her stomach. He’d carefully ignored the unsubtle prompt. “And I’m certainly not the most diplomatic envoy you have to hand.”

“You’re the only one I trust,” he told her. “Young, yes, but you’re sharp, and you’ve proven your loyalty beyond any question. This position requires a tremendous amount of trust. Diplomacy you can learn. And a rough edge can be a help, sometimes, with the desert lords.”

She frowned at him. “Most girls my age are married already, with a child on their hip.”

“You’ve often said that idea bores you to screaming,” he countered. “Has that changed? I could find you a good husband within a day.”

“No,” she said. “It still bores me.” She grinned at him, finding her resentment suddenly sloughing off like water over hard ground. She’d been a fool to hope anything had changed. “All right, I’ll do it.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Now, I need some sleep. We’ll meet here again an hour after tomorrow’s dinner ends.”

By the end of the next day, rumor had already flown round the palace: Pieas Sessin had departed without a word in the middle of the night.

“It’s true,” Eredion said, his face dark with anger, when presented with the question that evening after dinner. Alyea had arrived moments before the desert lord. “He’s taken his horse, and those of his belongings that travel comfortably. I did not give him leave to go.”

“Where is he headed?” the king asked, his own expression hard.

“I don’t know,” Eredion said. “I can’t believe he’d be so foolish as to make his way back to the desert. I’ve sent a messenger-bird to Water’s End, and to Sessin Family Fortress, warning them to hold him against my return if he shows up there.”

Oruen rubbed at his eyes briefly. “You must have some guess as to where he would go.”

“You likely have the same guess,” Eredion said. “The Stone Islands, to hunt Scratha.”

The king seemed unsurprised by the thought, and not particularly worried.

“Yes,” he said. “I’ve sent word to the dock captains already to watch for him, and messenger-birds to the coastal villages nearby. If Pieas tries to catch passage on a ship to the Stone Islands, we may not be able to stop him, but we’ll know about it within a day.”

Eredion turned to Alyea. “I offer my apologies, and offer my services as some compensation. If you need anything, now or any day in the future, call on me. I’ll do what I can to help.”

“Thank you,” she said, startled. “That’s a generous offer.”

He displayed another brief, intense smile. “I know. I’m counting on you not to abuse it.”

“I won’t,” she said, at the same time Oruen said: “She won’t, Eredion.”

They all laughed, the tension easing, and leaned back in their chairs.

“Let’s have some wine,” Oruen suggested. “I’d like to hear your thoughts, Eredion, on the posting I’m proposing to give to Alyea. You have experience she lacks, and she’s doubtless interested in your advice.”

“She won’t take advantage, maybe,” Eredion said wryly, “but you’re transparent, Lord Oruen.”

“The desert Families keep themselves very private,” Oruen said with a shrug. “Do you blame me for being curious?”

“No,” Eredion said. “Not really. A good king should take every chance to learn about his people and allies, and I think you’re the first good king this palace has seen for far too long.”

“Thank you,” Oruen said, sounding deeply flattered. “More wine?”

“Now you’re trying to get me drunk so I’ll spill Family secrets,” Eredion laughed, and held out his glass. “You’ll find it harder than you think.”

Oruen just smiled.

Chapter Three

Idisio quickly decided that learning to ride a horse would always be one of his least favorite memories. If, of course, he lived through it; after the fourth time the horse threw him, that began to seem highly unlikely. Either the falls would break something vital, the horse would step on something critical, or Scratha would lose the remnants of a short temper and throttle him.

“I should have stayed on the streets,” Idisio muttered, glaring nose to nose with his horse. It stared back with deceptively sleepy eyes.

“I should have left you there,” Scratha said. He rubbed at his eyes, glanced around, and turned his horse away from the road at a sharp angle. “Lead the horse,” he called back over his shoulder.

Idisio slogged over loose, sandy ground, walking-weed hitching at his ankles and legs. He spared a moment’s weary gratitude that his master had allowed the time to change into more suitable traveling clothes before the disastrous riding lessons began. The sturdy linen of his new outfit had held up well so far, although Idisio suspected he’d be spending hours picking out the tiny green seeds.

If, of course, they ever got around to resting. Idisio stumbled, legs threatening to give way under him. It occurred to him, through a grey haze, that he wouldn’t be standing, let alone walking, much longer.

“Sit down before you fall over,” Scratha said at last. “I’ll come back for you.” He took the reins from Idisio’s hand. Not caring whether he fell in the middle of a patch of walking-weed or blood ants, Idisio felt the ground come up under his body and was aware of nothing more for a while.

When his eyes were willing to open again, he found Scratha carrying him, cradling him like a child. Idisio mumbled incoherent protest, ashamed.

“Quiet,” Scratha said, astonishingly gentle, and Idisio’s eyelids, like undeniable, heavy weights, slid closed again.

The next time he woke, accumulated aches and bruises hammered at Idisio before his eyes were fully open. The smell of smoke came next, and the unmistakable aroma of food; Idisio’s stomach woke with a loud growl at that. A woman laughed nearby.

Idisio struggled to sit up and focus sleep-bleared vision. Scratha knelt beside him.

“Don’t get up,” Scratha said. “Your feet are wrapped. I’ll bring you some food, if you’re of a mind to eat.”

Idisio nodded, and the woman laughed again. Blinking past Scratha, Idisio saw an old woman sitting cross-legged by a low table; her hair was pure white, her face lined and weathered like a thick log after a sandstorm. With no stiffness to her movements, she reached to scoop food from a wooden platter into a wide-mouthed wooden bowl, then turned a sharp, bright glance his way.

Fine, wide glass windows spilled light across the plain wooden floors and low, desert-style furniture. Large, colorful sitting cushions surrounded the table; the old woman sat on a deep purple one, and Idisio had been laid out on a wide bench covered with several more. Tall, glazed earthenware vases stood around the room: some as tall as Idisio, and all with dried or fresh flowers in them. A squat cookstove hulked against one wall, large enough to give heat to the room in cold weather; shelves nearby held jars of vegetables, meats, jams, and jellies. Glass jars, and well-made; this woman had to be as wealthy as a desert lord herself, to have so many fine things.

“What’s your name, boy?” the woman asked as Scratha squatted beside Idisio again, bowl of food in hand.

“Idisio,” he said, taking the bowl from his master. A hunk of fresh bread, a pile of folded eggs speckled with green and red herbs, and a thick wedge of sourfruit; the food from the palace kitchen seemed to have been years ago. Idisio tore through the food, casting aside all his lessons on manners, slowed only by gulps from the mug of cool water his master held out to him. The eggs were just cool enough to pick up without scorching his fingers, the sourfruit sun-warmed and fresher than any he’d ever tasted before; he wiped juice and crumbs from his chin, surprised to find the bowl empty, and looked up to see two amused faces watching him.

“He’s a boy still, Cafad,” the woman said. “Give me that bowl again. He’ll need more than that.”

Idisio almost dropped the bowl as Scratha reached for it; the desert lord grabbed it, his expression souring, and said, “Yes. She knows who I am and the truth of the situation.”

“I know your understanding of the situation,” the woman corrected, a touch sharply; her smile took some of the sting out of the words. “Give me the bowl already.”

She filled the bowl twice more before Idisio motioned that he’d had enough.

“I thank you, my lady.” Idisio wiped at his face again and burped. “That was marvelous.”

“You’re welcome, Idisio,” she said. “And you needn’t call me lady. I left that word behind me long ago. Azni will do fine.”

Now that his stomach had been filled, other pains, along with his bladder, began to command his attention again, even as Scratha asked, “How do you feel, boy?”

“He hurts everywhere,” the woman said before Idisio could answer, “and he thinks you’re a damned fool for dragging him all over until his feet are blistered.”

“No,” Idisio said quickly, afraid of looking as if he agreed, “I mean, I hurt, but I… I don’t think you’re a fool, my lo… Master.” Or should it be ‘my lord’, since the woman knew Scratha’s true identity? He couldn’t decide, but as neither Scratha nor the strange woman seemed offended, he let it pass without further attempt at correction.

“Well, you ought to,” the old woman said. “Because he is a fool for it.”

“All right,” Scratha said sourly, reaching for a pail of water, a cloth, and a small jar that were all on the floor nearby. “Let be already.”

“I’ll knock it in until I think you’re actually listening,” she replied. “We haven’t got there yet.”

Trying to divert the conversation and ease the dangerous tension hardening his master’s jaw, Idisio said, “Where are we?”

Scratha reached out and flipped the blanket back from Idisio’s feet, which were wrapped in linen bandages.

“We’re in Azni’s home,” he said unhelpfully, and began to unwind the wrappings. For all his rough temper, he kept his movements gentle and careful.

Azni snorted. “About six miles northeast of Bright Bay is the right answer, and little enough to give at that.”

“You value your privacy,” Scratha said.

The wrappings dropped in a pile to one side. Holding Idisio’s ankle, Scratha raised the foot slightly, squinting as he examined it. With his free hand he dropped the piece of cloth into the pail of water, pulled it out, and squeezed. Water dribbled back into the pail; the sound reminded Idisio of his increasingly full bladder.

“The boy’s not about to lead a horde of murderers to my home,” Azni retorted.

Scratha made a face and began dabbing at Idisio’s foot with the damp cloth. Idisio tensed, expecting it to hurt, but felt only a faint tickling as his lord wiped away a layer of salve. Twice he hissed as the tickling shot into a sharp burning sensation; each time Scratha nodded without looking up.

“No,” Scratha muttered under his breath as he worked, “I’m the only one likely to do that.”

Azni showed sharp hearing for her age; she said, in a much gentler voice, “You haven’t yet, Cafad, and I don’t expect you will.”

The previous layer of salve wiped away, Scratha spread more over two small spots at the edges of Idisio’s left foot and let it rest on the cushion again, not bothering with bandages. He started unwrapping Idisio’s right foot.

“This time is different, Azni. I’ve offended the whole of Sessin, and Pieas is after me.”

“You don’t know that,” she said.

He paused in his ministrations and looked over his shoulder at her. “Pieas Sessin fights if he farts and someone has the gall to smile. He’s killed over a wrong word before, when that word involved his sister. And I threw the girl out into the street half-dressed and named her a whore to all within hearing.”

“And if you’d known she was Pieas’s sister, would that have held you back?” Azni asked.

Scratha held still for a moment, looking at her, then turned back to unwrapping Idisio’s foot. “No. I was too angry.”

“Done is done,” the old woman said. “You’ll deal with what comes. Even Pieas Sessin isn’t fool enough to breach my walls in hunt of you, Cafad. He’ll wait for you to leave—if he even knows you’ve come this way.”

“I covered my tracks from the road, but he’ll know soon enough I haven’t gone to the Stone Islands,” Scratha said.

“If he has the wit to stop and ask the right questions,” Azni said, “which I doubt; and if he’s angry, that’s even less likely to happen. If he’s mad enough to hunt a full desert lord in the first place, he’ll go west to the harbor, which gives you days to clear my home. Stop worrying so.”

Scratha wiped Idisio’s foot with the damp cloth. The pressure in Idisio’s bladder built steadily. “My lo… Master,” Idisio said, catching himself again at the last second, and hesitated, not sure how to put the matter while a woman of obvious status stood in the room.

The eunuch hadn’t covered how to say I have to take a piss in front of a noblewoman.

“Almost done,” Scratha said without looking up. “Let’s talk on something else, Azni.” He set Idisio’s foot down and sat back.

“Fine,” the old woman said. “Go get the boy a chamber pot before he floods my floor. I don’t want him walking yet.”

Idisio felt a deep heat climb into his face as Scratha stood and left the room without comment.

“I’ve raised children without benefit of servants,” the old woman said, smiling. “I’m not so easily embarrassed as all that.”

She did have the kindness, when Scratha returned, to leave the room while Idisio relieved himself.

“Master,” Idisio said after the chamber pot had been decently lidded again and pushed to one side, “who is she?” He decided that using the term ‘my lord’ might trip him up in the future; better to start using the ‘proper’ public term now and avoid, as much as possible, using actual names aloud. That seemed safe enough.

Scratha sighed and settled to the floor, leaning back against the wall with his long legs stretched before him. “She used to be Lady Azaniari Aerthraim,” he said. “She left her family and married Lord Regav Darden.”

Idisio’s jaw loosened. The streets of Bright Bay called those two families dangerous. Darden had a reputation for ruthlessness and the Aerthraim raised caution from mystery. And they were supposedly as amicable with one another as fire and oil.

“After Lord Regav died,” Scratha said, smiling slightly at Idisio’s stunned expression, “Azni decided that she’d had enough of living in the deep desert and moved here. I’ve stayed with her often in recent years. She’s one of the few people I trust.” His expression darkened. “I’ve always been careful to keep that secret, to avoid drawing danger down on her.”

“I can take care of myself,” the lady in question said as she came back into the room. “Really, Cafad, after all I’ve taught you, don’t you know any better than that?”

Idisio’s master bent his head and said nothing.

“You need to rest, Cafad,” Azni said. “Go get some sleep. I’ll bore your boy here back to his own rest, and teach him a few things he’ll need to know if he’s to play at taking care of you.” She smiled at Idisio. “He hasn’t slept at all,” she added in a loud whisper. “Worried over you, no doubt.”

Raising his head, Scratha rolled his eyes and heaved himself to his feet. “I had a lot to talk to you about, Azni,” he said. “Don’t make it sound something it wasn’t. This boy doesn’t need any help with his ego.”

“Of course,” she said, tone bland, eyes bright with mischief.

He shook his head and snorted. “We leave in the morning,” he said, and left the room.

Azni smiled as she watched the tall man walk away, then turned to Idisio with a brisk motion. “Now, tell me about yourself. Everything. I know Cafad didn’t even bother asking your name; typical of him. I tore him raw over that. Even servants deserve respect, especially if they have to put up with someone like Cafad.”

“That’s all right, s’a,” Idisio said, feeling clumsy and awkward. Ancient as she seemed, she still had a graceful and cool demeanor that he’d never been faced with before. “I mean, I’m used to not accounting for much.”

He wished he hadn’t said it as soon as the words were out; her gaze sharpened instantly, like a blacktail hawk about to drop on a mouse.

“Cafad said he caught you trying to steal from him,” she said. “You’re a street-thief, then?”

Idisio nodded, feeling the color rising to his face again. He couldn’t stand to meet her stare any longer. “I never knew my parents. Some beggar-thieves raised me, but they never pretended to be related. They were always clear they’d found me as an abandoned infant.”

He bit his lip at the prickling pain of that—and at the recurring vision of a pair of wild grey eyes staring into his. Why had that been so vivid an image? And why did he feel it was important? He shrugged and turned his attention to talking.

“The street thieves waved me around, when I was a baby, to get sympathy and coin from the nobles; when I grew too old for that I took up thieving myself. I’ve been living the streets my whole life.” He grimaced, wondering why he was babbling so much to a near-stranger, then knew: to avoid thinking about those haunted grey eyes.

She said nothing for a while. He could feel that intent stare burning into him. At last she said, “You’ve been used for more than sympathy.”

“I grew up on the streets, whaddya think?” he started to say, intending it as a hard-edged warning to back off; found his voice choking off into unexpected hoarseness and then silence halfway through. He shut his eyes, tears prickling against his eyelids; biting his tongue hard held them back.

“Yeah,” he husked after a moment.

“Idisio,” Azni said, “I’m not prying, and I’m not offering pity. Life is what it is, ugly and bitter and sweet and fine all together. I’ve been through my own rough times, and so has Cafad. But we probably had more support than you ever dreamed of knowing. You surviving this long means you have more strength, in some ways, than many people. Keep that in mind, if Cafad ever tries to intimidate you. And remember this, too: he’s not as hard-hearted as he tries to act.”

She drew a breath, lightened her tone, and began to talk of less serious things. Idisio, relieved, let himself be drawn back out into conversation and even shared some of the funnier stories from his life on the streets.

They talked for the remainder of the day, until a fire had to be set in the stove and bowls of stew ladled out of the large pot. They talked by candlelight as they ate, as she cleaned up, and by the time Idisio dropped back to sleep on his pallet, his head spun from the things he’d learned. Politics and family ties, blood oaths and noble secrets and gossip, and, woven in here and there, casual comments on the best way to mend clothes, cook food, and ride a horse.

A few words from her had explained more about that than hours of his master’s cursing and admonitions. He also had a better idea of what it had meant for Scratha to change his name and take to the road, with his true name in official disgrace and his true person in the king’s service. If he’d simply gone traveling as Lord Cafad Scratha, with his desert holding empty and unprotected, desert law would have given rights to any who chose to occupy it for a year’s time. He could have come home to find himself homeless. But by placing his land in the king’s hands and his true name in temporary public disgrace, the king himself had to keep the holding open for Scratha, whether this journey took months or years.

As even a temporary holder of a desert fortress, whatever the legal fiction involved, the king had just acquired certain rights and the other desert families certain obligations. The traditional independence of the desert families from the actual kingdom had just developed a small but significant political vulnerability.

“He’s always been rash,” Azni sighed. “Rash and quicktempered and hard to reason with. He regrets afterwards, but never remembers long enough for next time. Your worst task, Idisio, will be keeping his temper under hand and him out of trouble. I don’t think he really has any notion what he’s done, choosing to travel as nothing more than a court researcher. He has no idea what it’s like, not being treated as a noble. He thinks he does. He really, truly, doesn’t.”

She shook her head slowly. They went on to other topics, and finally she declared herself too tired to talk further. She left the room with a gracious goodnight and a lit candle by his pallet; he blew it out and settled back on his cushions soon after.

Idisio stared into the darkness of a room gone quiet but for late-night insect noise and tried to think it all through. He didn’t get far before the darkness crawled inside him and swallowed him into sleep.

His feet didn’t hurt. The throbbing, aching pain of the previous two days was completely gone. His muscles still protested the unaccustomed exercise of riding, but his feet, unswollen and unblistered, slid back into the hard black boots without complaint.

Azni gave Idisio a jar of salve. “For next time Cafad works you too hard,” she said with a smile, and pressed another onto Idisio’s master with an admonition not to waste them. Scratha treated the small earthenware jar with a respect that told Idisio it was a precious gift; as if his miraculously healed feet weren’t evidence enough of that.

His horse remained placid and obedient now. It snorted and shied occasionally when a sand-grouse or tizzy-lizard darted out from underfoot. Idisio, more comfortable with riding every mile that passed, held his seat and patted the side of the beast’s neck until it calmed again. He noticed that his master’s horse hadn’t even made that slight twitch of reaction, plodding along uninterested in bird or lizard.

“He’s a good rider,” Azni had told Idisio the previous night. “Better than perhaps he even realizes. He’s got a gift with animals. But he’s impatient with anyone who doesn’t grasp a skill as quickly as he does. If it comes natural to him, then it should be easy for all; if it’s hard for him, then it doesn’t need doing by anyone.”

Scratha turned abruptly in the saddle and stared at him. “Where do I begin?”

“Pardon?” Idisio blinked, startled.

Scratha waved impatiently for Idisio to move forward beside him.

“Where do I start?” he repeated once the two horses were abreast.

“I don’t understand,” Idisio said, completely bewildered. His master’s dark eyes bored into him as if expecting a better answer.

“With this stupid history!” Scratha said. “What do I write about? What do I even call it? When do I start? It’s all nonsense.” He stared ahead, brooding and dark.

Idisio drew a breath slowly, holding back a grin. “You could start with Lady Azni.”

“No,” Scratha said immediately. “She’s not to be mentioned at all. I want her left alone.”

“Then start with the first village we come to.”

Scratha pulled his horse to a halt and sat still. “But what do I say?”

“I don’t know, my… Master,” Idisio said. “I can’t even read.”

Scratha stared at him for a long moment, then said, “I’ll have to fix that. I’ll need you to be able to read soon.”

Idisio nodded, speechless. He’d always wanted to learn to read, but it was a hard skill to pick up in the streets, where reading meant time away from making money for survival. He’d always been told most lords preferred their servants illiterate.

“I’d like that,” he said.

“We’ll start tonight,” Scratha said. “And you have the right idea. We’ll start with the first village. There’s one just outside Bright Bay, isn’t there? By the marshes?”

“Ye-e-ess,” Idisio said reluctantly, “but—”

“Then we start there.” Scratha shook the reins, turned the horse’s head more south than east, and nudged into a trot.

Chapter Four

White sand, blown over the wide paving stones of the King’s Road by the ever-present sea breeze, scraped under the horses’ hooves. Alyea treasured the sound. The road and the alabaster sands of the coast both petered out at roughly the same time; once that grating shiss stopped, she would be in alien territory, completely dependent on the handful of advisors and guardsmen who had been sent with her. The advisors rode horses of a bloodline second only to the News-Riders’ mounts; the guards walked behind.

“You need to strike a delicate balance between appearing lazy and appearing hasty,” the bony old man riding beside her said. “Both can get you killed; both will lose you respect. Four days to reach Water’s End. No more hurrying than that, no less easy a pace than that. Three way-stops and we’ll be in Water’s End midday on the fourth.”

Lord Eredion Sessin had said something similar about respect, during their meeting with the king two nights ago.

“The desert holds its own time,” he’d told her. “You’re good at the northern courtesies, but those won’t do you any good in the south. We’re a slow folk, but far from stupid; in the time northerns rattle off five wrong answers to a question, we’ve thought through twenty and only say the right response. Hurrying won’t gain you any respect, so learn to slow down.” Shortly afterward, he’d been called away and hadn’t been able to speak with her again before she left. Now she depended on Chac for the information she’d expected to get from Lord Sessin.

Chac had always been something of an enigma. He’d been close to Oruen, helping plot the overthrow of the former king, but beyond that she knew little about him; he lived just outside the Seventeen Gates, had no family, held no status she could determine, and refused all formal recognition or invitations from anyone with noble blood. But Oruen had seen fit to send Chac, along with Micru, to accompany her south, so apparently part of the old man’s mysterious past included knowledge of the southlands.

She looked sideways, studying his leathery, sun-wrinkled face for a moment, then said, “When were you last in the desert, Chac? The true desert.”

“Years,” he said, his gaze on the distant arc of the Crescent Mountains to the southwest. “Many, many years. I used to go once a year on a desert walk to clear the sludge of the city out of my veins.”

“And to look for the wife that ran away,” Micru said from Alyea’s other side.

Chac’s thin lips drew back from his teeth. He stared straight ahead, his hands crushing the thick leather reins, and said nothing. Alyea repressed a sigh; why Oruen had sent two men who so fiercely hated each other she couldn’t understand, but the animosity had been made clear before they even passed through the southern gates of Bright Bay.

“Why did you stop going on desert walks, Chac?” she said, shooting Micru a sharp, repressive glare.

For a moment, she thought Chac might refuse to answer, too aggravated by Micru’s repeated barbs to talk any longer, but at last he said, “Ninnic. That stupid Travelers’ Law made it impossible. I couldn’t afford the taxes; they were doubled on the south gates.”

“And the guards paid more attention to who went in and out,” Micru noted, not turning his gaze from the near-sleepy examination of the terrain ahead. Chac seemed unoffended by that comment, so either it had missed its mark or it actually hadn’t been intended as an insult.

Alyea shook her head. “Gods preserve us from those days ever coming again,” she muttered, not aware she’d spoken aloud until Chac answered.

“Asking the gods to save us from that madness,” the old man said, “ignores the fact that the gods permitted it to happen in the first place.”

“The gods do as the gods do,” Micru said. “Anger at the gods is foolish and a waste of time. You ought to know that by now, Chacerly.”

Chac stiffened, a dangerous light in his eyes.

Alyea said sharply, “Stop it, both of you! We’re barely clear of Bright Bay. If you’re going to act like squabbling children the whole way, I’ll turn around right now and ask Oruen to pick new advisors for me.”

They both turned to look at her, visibly astonished. Micru’s dark eyes narrowed slightly, while Chac’s almost disappeared in the wrinkles of his squint; she wondered if she’d gone too far. Sworn to protect her or not, angering one of the Hidden was stupid, and she suspected Chac could get thoroughly nasty as well.

After exchanging a brief, calculating glare in which hostilities were wordlessly suspended but not forgotten, both men turned their attention stiffly forward and fell silent. Alyea let out a long breath and wished, uselessly, that horses could grow wings and fly them all direct to Scratha Fortress.

Alyea stood on the edge of a steep drop and stared at the vast spread of the Goldensea, far below and to the west. The sun had melted into a bronze-gold puddle on the water. Small dots were moving towards the coast: probably fishing boats bringing in the day’s catch. The air, darkening towards dusk, felt clear and sharp in her nose.

The erratically climbing path had already taken them higher above sea level than she’d ever been before. Sand colors had gradually shifted to white, then grey, then changed entirely to pale brown rock; the stench of a busy coastal city gave way to the sweet, thick, and earthy tones of scrub-sage and clay dust. The transformations created an entirely new landscape, one she needed to stand still and adjust to. When Chacerly went to direct the lodging arrangements in the way-stop behind her, she took the opportunity to move to a nearby overlook spot.

From the coastal lowlands of Bright Bay, the Horn climbed sharply to a near-mountain height. Jagged cliffs rose on one side of the trail; a steep drop lay on the other—and which side was the cliff might shift with no apparent transition.

Court sages liked to argue over whether the Horn was a natural place or an aberration created by the gods. It rose too high, too sharply, and the weather patterns were all wrong, said one side, while the other argued it was proof that nature was far more complex than mankind’s limited mind could understand.

Alyea closed her eyes and breathed deeply, then looked out at the ocean. That water had always been close enough to dip her toes into, with less than an hour’s walk; now it was close to a day’s walk, if a path so short could be found across the broken ground of the Horn.

Soon it would be farther yet, and after that, gone from sight. The land past the Horn widened into another vast continent, and her path lay straight down the center. Scratha Fortress sat deep in the sands of the true desert, a ten-day ride from the east coast, easily three times that to the west coast. To the south would be only more sand, and beyond that, the forbidden Haunted Lands and southern jungles.

She shivered. The breeze swirling up to her felt cold, misty, and unpleasant compared to the warm evening sea breezes common in Bright Bay this time of year. She turned away and headed for the inn.

Way-stops in the Horn were the only places for merchants and travelers to pause overnight. At this one, indoor rooms and stables proper were reserved for important people; commoners pitched their bedrolls and sheltered their mounts in low-walled enclosures covered by heavy, waterproof canvas tents. In deference to her noble blood, Alyea had a room indoors. Chac had told her to keep her status as king’s representative quiet for the moment, out of concern that someone might try to challenge her holding of Scratha Fortress before she took actual possession of the land.

She couldn’t see that happening, but had to defer to Chac’s judgment. Not for the first time, she wished she’d had a chance to talk with Eredion Sessin about protocols and courtesies; he’d seemed much easier to talk to than the sour old man. Certainly friendlier. Chac had barely said two words since her morning rebuke.

Chacerly waited for her by the door of the inn house.

“Hurry,” he said as she approached. “The evening meal’s almost ready. Go clean up.”

She was tired from the long day, sore from the miles on horseback, and wanted nothing more than to sit in quiet to brood. “Can’t I eat in my room?”

“No,” he said. “Get moving.” He followed her into the inn, caught up to her shoulder where the narrow passage widened just enough, and said in a low voice, “One thing I’ll tell you again is that you ought to have brought maidservants.”

“I don’t like servants,” she said. “All they ever did was spy and tattle, and the ones that didn’t were hurt for it. I’d rather take care of myself.”

He grunted. “It looks bad. One woman with all these men. Not even women in the guards. I don’t like it.”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, pushing the door to her room open, and shut it in his face before he could argue further.

It didn’t take her long to strip out of the dusty leggings and tunic, sponge off road grime, and slip into a dress. Managing without servants had given her a certain impatience for lingering over simple tasks like dressing.

She turned, examining herself in the long mirror. The fabric hugged her narrow shoulders and arms just enough to show line, not bone; the squared scoop of the neck showed her collarbones but nothing lower. A thick band of gold and silver thread brocade wound around the waist, and the skirt hung long and fully pleated. Thin red and gold shoes, little more than slippers heavily worked with a brocade that matched the waist pattern, and a long, thin gold chain with a single hematite marble finished the outfit. Her hair she left loose and brushed out carefully until it lay in a silky cape over her shoulders and back.

Satisfied both by her appearance and how quickly she’d managed it, although her mother would have been horrified at her “unseemly haste”, she gave the mirror one last warm smile, practicing the expression, then turned to the door.

Chac, waiting outside, looked her over critically as she stepped out of the room. After a moment, he nodded and produced a thin beaded bracelet.

“Right hand,” he said, and fastened the string of beads around her wrist. “Don’t take it off.”

It seemed simple enough; small, round pieces of some dark green gemstone interspersed with squared off, unevenly sized pieces of thick white shell, threaded on a thin golden wire.

“What does it mean?”

“It means you’re wearing a bracelet,” he said, his expression closed and hard. “It means you’re not a servant. Now mind you don’t toss and flutter like you’re the prettiest in the room. You’ll get yourself a name you won’t like later on.”

“I don’t,” she started, indignant.

“I’ve seen you do it,” he cut her off. “Quiet. Modest. Eyes down. And use your ears and eyes before your mouth.”

“It’s only a way-stop,” she protested.

“No such thing as only,” he said. “Not anywhere south of Bright Bay. Everything is important, here, and everyone could be. Pay attention.”

“All right,” Alyea said, feeling thoroughly rebuked. Trying to move in a properly humble manner, she followed the old man down the inn passage. “What should I be looking for?”

He waited until they’d left the narrow corridor and emerged into the open air before speaking again. As they walked across the rough ground towards the dining hall, she regretted her choice of thin slippers. Even the raked-out sandy path, lit now with pole lanterns to either side, held numerous pebbles and sharp rocks. She stepped with care and tried to divide her attention between Chacerly’s quick, low voice and the path ahead.

“Deiq of Stass is here,” the old man said. “He’s a big man, big and dark.”

“Thanks for the warning,” Alyea said, her heart sinking.

“You know him?”

“I don’t think we’ve been introduced, but I’ve seen him in court now and again. He always made me uneasy.”

“With good reason. Stay away from him.” Chac seemed about to say more, then shook his head, his lips pressed tight. “Just… just stay away from him,” he finished at last. “And don’t make him angry.”

“Gladly,” Alyea said fervently. Deiq’s dark stare always seemed to be sizing up everyone around him for their value to his own personal amusement; she had no interest in speaking with him or drawing his attention in any way.

“He’s the only one of real status I’ve seen—not rank, he’s no noble, but he has influence.” The old man grimaced and changed the subject. “Remember that you have to earn respect. Your family blood means much less here than it did in Bright Bay. Stay quiet until you’re spoken to.”

“And if nobody speaks to me?”

“Then you enjoy a meal in silence for once in your life. It won’t kill you.”

Alyea snorted, annoyed at Chac’s brusque reply, but they entered the dining hall without a single suitable retort coming to her mind.

The dining hall was a long, low building with five bench-seat tables. The center table, set with silver salt-cellars and a thickly embroidered, linen table-covering, was obviously for the most important guests; the outer tables, by similar indications, sat successively less worthy folk. Guards and servants were placed at the outermost tables, which had only bare wood and small, rough wooden bowls of coarse salt. Chac steered her to the center table, close to the door; after a quick, assessing glance up the mostly empty table, he said, “Sit at the end here, my lady. I’ll take a table over.”

She settled obediently on the wide, wooden bench just as a deep, brassy note from a hidden gong filled the air: once, twice, a third time. People began to stream into the room and sort themselves out into seats; Alyea noted several subtle clashes over the seats at the center and flanking tables by newcomers. There were few enough people and more than enough seats, however, so the disputes faded away with little more than an evil glare here and there.

Alyea recognized a few faces, high-blood merchants and low-end nobles who had swirled through Bright Bay her whole life. One or two, catching sight of her, smiled and nodded brief greeting; she returned the amiable gesture in kind.

Deiq of Stass sat high at the other end of her table, watching the room with lazy interest. Alyea managed to lean over and adjust her slipper just before his searching gaze reached her area of the table, and took her time about sitting back up. A quick glance reassured her that his attention had fixed on a plump woman at the next table over; she let out a thin sigh of relief.

She risked looking around the room herself, trying to keep her gaze casual. Micru, still in rough but clean trail clothes, had chosen a spot among the servants, laughing and joking as if he were nothing more than a low-born himself. Chacerly, at the next table, already seemed deep in conversation with the people around him, merchants by the look of them.

Wide wooden doors opened at the far end of the hall. Alyea had assumed they led outside, but a rich, savory smell filled the air as servants marched in carrying huge platters of food.

The richest dishes were brought to the center table, the simplest to the sides; roast pheasant and puff-bread on silver platters for nobles, roast chicken and black bread on wooden slabs for lesser men. The servers placed the food on plates for the more powerful, left the platters on the outer tables for the servant-classes to argue over.

Servants placed delicately-arranged helpings of white beans and feathery greens, thin slices of roast pheasant and puff-bread, small globes of creamed rice balls, and long strips of steamed black mushrooms on the silver plates. Alyea applied herself to her food silently, keeping a pleasant expression on her face. After the long day of riding, she wanted thick food, not this fluffy stuff. Hopefully Chac could get her some dark bread and cheese from the kitchens later.

“Beautiful, aren’t they?” a thin voice to her left said.

Alyea turned her head, relieved that she wouldn’t have to sit silent all through dinner, and smiled at the woman sitting a bit more than arm’s length away. “It’s all lovely.”

“The mushrooms, I mean,” the woman said. She was short and well-fed, with greying brown hair framing a contentedly round face. “I’ve never seen them quite so large.”

Black mushrooms from the Horn were often the size of a dinner plate and, although a delicacy, weren’t all that uncommon in Bright Bay. Alyea took a closer look at the woman, noted the northern roundness to her face, the simple cut of her dress, and the lack of jewelry, and tried not to wince.

“Everything’s so much larger here,” the woman went on. “It’s lovely. I imagine you grow your gardens all year round, here, don’t you? I wish I could. You can keep basil going all year, I imagine—am I right?” Her smile was open and innocent as she waited for an answer.

Alyea stared, taken aback. Did this woman think nobles gardened? “I… I wouldn’t know.”

The woman seemed to take in Alyea’s dress for the first time.

“Oh, dear,” she said, her round face flushing. She glanced around the room, seeming uncertain and flustered. “I’m sorry. Have I sat at the wrong table?”

“No,” Alyea said after a moment, ashamed of her initial, snobbish reaction. Everyone could be important, Chac had warned her; Alyea decided, a bit impishly, that those words should apply to an ignorant northern as well as anyone else in the room. Let him rebuke her for over-friendliness; she’d throw his own words back in his face.

“Are you sure? I could… move….” The woman glanced over her shoulder, visibly reluctant to leave the good food in front of her for the lesser meals on the further tables.

“Absolutely,” Alyea assured her, flashing the warm, practiced smile. “You’re fine. There’s plenty of room here, no reason to move, and you’ve already got food on your plate. Please, stay and talk to me. I’m Alyea, of Bright Bay. You’re from the northlands?”

“Well… yes,” the woman admitted, relaxing. “I’m Halla of Felarr.”

“What brings you all the way through the Forest and into the Horn, s’a Halla?” Alyea asked, interested now. Most northerns, and especially women, didn’t travel this far, and definitely not alone, as Halla seemed to be.

The woman picked at her food uncertainly for a moment before answering.

“My son,” she said finally. “He wanted to travel to Bright Bay. I couldn’t stop him, and my husband’s dead five years. Rebon went off with a merchanting caravan, hired on as a clerk; he’s a good boy, a smart boy.” She swallowed hard. “He never came back.”

“How long has he been gone?” Alyea asked.

“Three years,” Halla said. She stared at her plate, took a listless bite. “The merchant he worked for is dead two years back, killed in a riot in Bright Bay. I don’t know where my son is. I’ve spent the last four months in Bright Bay, trying to find a trace of him; the only word I gathered, finally, is that he might have been seen going into the desert with a group of southerners, as a slave.”

Alyea nodded, unsurprised, and said nothing.

Halla shook her head and poked at the food on her plate.

“Everything is so strange here,” she said after a moment. “I don’t know what to do. I ought to turn back now, to get home on what money I have left.” She laughed, a sharp humorless bark. “Not that I’ll have much to return to. All my savings are in this venture, and I have no man to help bring in more.”

Alyea ate quietly for a time, considering, then said, “I’m headed south, and I could use a maid, s’a, if you’ve the interest in a job.”

The round face brightened. “That would be perfect, s’a,” Halla said. “I’ve been a merchant’s wife for most of my life, but I’ve done my share of serving the wealthy. Would you take me on?”

“I will,” Alyea said.

“I’m so grateful—”

The northern woman’s voice stilled as a male tenor interrupted softly, “My lady?”

Alyea turned to look up at the man standing behind her. He wore the colors of the way-stop, grey and black, and the slash embroidered on his sleeves marked him as a dining-hall servant. A bracelet on his right wrist ran through a gamut of grey hues, in three rows of precisely-matched beads.

“Yes, s’e?”

He bowed briefly. “S’e Deiq asks the favor of your presence closer to his hand.”

Startled, she glanced up the table. The big man’s brooding dark gaze had fixed directly on her; not the best of manners but a clear sign that he’d take refusal of the offer poorly.

Don’t make him angry, Chac had said.

Alyea stifled an annoyed sigh.

“We’ll discuss this more after dinner,” she told the woman. “Wait for me outside when the tables clear, or speak to Chacerly; he’s the oldest man at that table—see?” Reassured by Halla’s quick, bobbing nod, Alyea stood, schooled her expression to neutrality, and walked towards the head of the table.

As she moved, conversations ebbed; heads turned to watch her. Then, politely, the noise resumed. She sat across from Deiq, inclined her head in greeting, and waited. A fresh plate was placed in front of her and swiftly filled, along with a clean cup of water and a small goblet of white wine.

“I believe I’ve seen you before, Lady,” Deiq said once the servants withdrew. “In Bright Bay.”

“I grew up there,” she said.

His eyes narrowed. She smiled and turned her attention to her food.

“What brings you to the Horn?” he asked.

“Scratha.”

A thin line of broad teeth showed briefly in a slight smile. “Busy man.”

She gave him the full weight of a direct, emotionless stare for a few seconds, and went back to eating, leaving the prompt unanswered.

He chuckled. “You’re more than Scratha’s worth. Come with me instead.”

“I’ve business with Scratha,” she said without looking up.

“You’re not the first,” he said. “Nissa of Sessin went through here wailing over him not long ago.”

She stayed quiet, trying to keep her chewing slower than the sound of her pulse hammering in her ears. Close up, Deiq was disturbing in a way she couldn’t quite place. And he seemed to be the only person at this table not wearing a beaded bracelet; she resisted the urge to study him for other jewelry, not wanting to give him the wrong impression.

“Mm,” he said after a brief silence. It sounded thoughtful, and she glanced up to see him looking at her with narrowed eyes. A wider smile than before curved his mouth. The moment showed her that he wore no earrings or necklaces. “I remember where I’ve seen you before. You were always wandering about behind that skinny nothing.”

“Who is now king,” she said without taking offense. Oruen had been a gangly, unremarkable man until Chacerly’s tutoring had straightened his stance and paced his movements.

“What’s the king’s woman doing headed down the Horn?”

“Do you call every woman you befriend yours?” she countered.

“What are you doing headed down the Horn?” he said with no visible annoyance or contrition. His gaze rested on her thin bracelet of green and white; his lips shifted as though resisting a smile.

Alyea shrugged. “King’s business,” she said, and cursed herself silently for answering that way; she’d intended to say “my business.”

“King’s business,” he repeated, and grinned. It wasn’t a particularly friendly expression. “Must be important or he wouldn’t have sent such a good friend.” When she didn’t rise to that bait, he nodded as if satisfied and said, “You know, you really are far too smart for Scratha. Or for Oruen. You’re wasted on them. I’m headed south in the morning, out to the east road. I’d be honored for you to travel with me, Lady. I think I’d like to get to know you better.”

She felt a pressure behind her eyes, a velvet not-quite headache.

“I take the King’s Road,” she said, wishing she knew a more tactful way to refuse.

“That’s a longer way,” he said, “and a harder one. You’ll get seasick from all the hills you’ll travel over. The coast road is smoother, and beautiful. And from the lovely port of Stass I can arrange a ship to take you to Agyaer, no charge, and so much less riding.”

“The King’s Road is a shorter way,” she said, not looking at him, “and a neutral road.”

“Ah,” he said, as if she’d said a great deal in few words. They finished their food in silence.

The dinner dishes were being cleared away and replaced with bowls of clean sand before he spoke again. Scooping up a handful of sand and rubbing it briskly between his palms, letting the grains drizzle onto the floor at his feet, he said, “Do you know what neutrality means, lady?”

She shook her head as she cleaned her own hands, tucking away the thought that he also displayed no rings on his large hands. Did the lack of decoration mean no status of note—or too much to mention? She’d have to ask Chac, and hope for a straight answer.

“Neutrality means,” Deiq said, “being a whore to every man while letting him think he’s the only one.” He stood and smiled down at her. “It’s a wonderful dance. I look forward to sharing it with you.”

Before she could form a reply, he turned and walked away towards the entrance of the dining hall. After a moment, when her breath unlocked itself from its hard stop beneath her ribs, she used it to swear: quietly, but at considerable length.

Annotated version

Next chapters WILL POST 10/17!

Next annotated chapters will be on a $1/month Patreon tier — sign up now!