Servants of the Sands, page 11
Some business, even Banna didn’t want coming to her door.
He came back, of course, we always knew he would. He wasn’t the type to be welcome at many places. Tan always said he came to Banna’s because nobody else would let him do the things he did. He came back, and he brought several bottles of fine liquor, and bags of fine-looking jewelry—
—wasn’t real, Salt interrupted, his expression flat, almost radiating icy hatred. Banna was hot as the hells about that later, finding out she’d been handed a bag of pretty glass fakes. And the liquor wasn’t but rotgut in fancy bottles—
Don’t, the others said almost as one, their faces wrinkled with distress. Several turned away, collapsing into varying reactions: Shakes, dry-heaving, curled up with hands over ears. Allonin stepped in, soothed what tremors he could, and suggested leaving the rest of the story for another time. Salt shook his head stubbornly and said it was better finished and out instead of hanging to wait and rot. Two other kathain agreed. They moved out of earshot from the others, and went on.
He wanted Avin, and sweet-talked Banna, and got what he wanted. Avin hadn’t been himself since Tan died. He’d been—quiet. So quiet. He didn’t talk, didn’t laugh, barely moved except when told. Banna finally put him to work in the kitchen, scrubbing pots and floors. So when Salas asked, Salas got....
And Avin, on being faced with Salas, alone in a room with the man who’d killed Avin’s idol—Avin woke up out of his fog, and went mad. He got hold of Salas’s belt knife and went after the man, stabbing everything he could reach—
—they carted Salas out the back wrapped in the entire stock of our bandages and a set of torn up sheets. He was bleeding through it all fast, last I saw—
—once Banna got him off the premises and out to a proper healer, she chased all the customers out, shut the doors and put out a closed-come-back-later sign—only time we ever saw that happen—dragged us all out to the main room—told us we needed to be taught a lesson—
—beat Avin to death in front of us.
—Didn’t take all that long. She had her guards standing by, said if any of us tried interfering we’d be wishing for that easy a death.
You came the next night an’ took Lit’l Red. We figured she’d overheard him being mouthy—he was mad about Avin—figured she’d sold him to a pit merchant. That’s what we was told you were, anyway.
Allonin drew in a deep breath, steadying his increasingly unsettled stomach. That had been his cover persona: a man specializing in buying hard-to-sell, recalcitrant slaves—and either breaking them into proper submission or turning them over to the literally dead-end work arenas. He’d hated it then, hated it now, but never before considered how his presentation affected the kathain he’d left behind.
“I lied about being a pit merchant,” he said. “I was—I was trying to save kathain. I could only take one at a time, back then, and—” He stopped, biting his tongue. Far too easy to let guilt and shame spill dangerous truth from his mouth. “It wasn’t enough. I decided I had to do the job right and get you all out. It took me longer than I wanted.” Close enough to the truth. Leave it there, intuition warned. He cleared his throat.
I heard Banna talking to Salas, beforehand, one of the stricken kathain said. She’d crept up to listen, and now sat huddled near Allonin’s feet, her gaze shadowed with memory. It’s good you took Lit’l Red, you know. Salas wanted him next. Banna said sure, he was getting too old anyway, and she’d been thinking of selling him off to a pit merchant because they paid well for the healthy young ones like him—
—so Salas paid in advance for Lit’l Red, for his next visit, to be sure he’d still be around—
Salt cut in again. Way we heard it, she made you pay heavy—well, she had to give Salas back his deposit, din’t she. He din’t die, worse luck for us. He come back, still all bandaged up, and was heavy angry that Avin was already dead and Lit’l Red weren’t there. She gave him those two over there, the ones as don’t talk no more....
Nausea won at last: Allonin stood, lurched clear of the group, and comprehensively lost everything he’d eaten for the last two days.
Chapter 13
Lichni captured Cafad’s attention, despite his intention to be cautious, with her blithe spirit and generous laughter. He found himself relaxing more than he’d thought possible since Nissa’s betrayal.
She proved to be surprisingly perceptive, placing her hand right on a sore muscle and working it loose almost before he’d registered the ache: all the time distracting him with amusing stories.
“I found out quickly that kitchen work doesn’t suit me. Do you remember what Nea said?”
“She said you’d poison your entire household if allowed to run a kitchen,” Cafad agreed around a long breath of relief as his right shoulder relaxed under her prodding.
“Remember she said I couldn’t tell the difference between flour and salt? Well, that proved out true.”
He tipped his head back and looked up at her, grinning. “And was that actually an accident?”
She gave him a sly look. “Well....”
Cafad rolled a glance towards his s’e-kath, standing by the door as always. “Seg, make sure Lichni is never assigned to the kitchens here. I don’t need to wind up in the bathroom for three days.”
“Oh, now, that was an accident,” Lichni protested. “Nea didn’t say that mixing those two herbs caused that reaction. Gods, I’d forgotten all about that! I don’t even remember what the dish was, or the spices.”
“Definitely don’t let her in the kitchens,” Cafad said wryly. Seg offered a small, dry smile and a head tilt of acknowledgement.
“That’s the last of it, lord,” Lichni said, running her hands over Cafad’s shoulders and back one more time, then stepped back, bowing.
“Thank you.” Cafad rose to his feet, reaching for his shirt; caught Lichni surveying him with blatant interest, and froze in place under a wave of conflicting emotions. “Ah. I’m... going to walk a bit. Stretch my legs.” He looked away as he spoke, unable to meet her eyes.
“Yes, lord,” Lichni said, tone completely neutral. “Would you like me to walk alongside, lord?”
“N... no.” Cafad cleared his throat. “No. I’ll be... I’ll be fine alone.”
Seg stirred from his blank contemplation. “I advise against that, lord. You should always have one of your kathain with you unless you’re in a formal situation.”
Cafad opened his mouth to offer his opinion on that. Lichni cut in smoothly: “Lord, Norau would be more than happy to walk with you. He’s very good company, lord. And you did say you wanted to handle our service differently than the old Lord Scratha, that you wanted to get to know us as individuals.”
He frowned at her, annoyed as much by having his own words thrown back at him as by the reminder that she wasn’t his friend, but his servant. He’d actually managed to forget, to elide the years and changes for a few precious moments.
Lichni’s earnest, open gaze held no hint of guile. Her emotions held no tinge of attempting to manipulate him. Seg, by contrast, was obviously amused by the exchange.
“Fine,” Cafad said, his earlier good mood comprehensively gone. “Send for Norau, then.”
Lichni bowed and withdrew to the kathain room. A few moments later, a broad-boned man with skin the glossy, coppery hue of eastern desert olives emerged in her place. “Lord,” he said, bowing.
Cafad’s gaze focused on a familiar pattern: embroidered groundhogs ran along the man’s sleeves, blue thread stark against pale cloth. “You’re claiming Scratha?” he said, unable to help the hostility in his tone. “I thought you were from Eshan.” The man’s features spoke to a more southeastern peasant heritage than Scratha Family.
“My parents were Resp and Bahanna, two of the Scratha weavers,” Norau said. “I was a foundling. They took me in. I grew up here, lord.”
The names were vaguely familiar. Seg’s hard stare indicated that Cafad was skirting inappropriate rudeness. In any case, Norau’s words held no trace of deceit.
“I don’t remember you, I’m afraid,” Cafad said as mildly as he could.
“No reason you should, lord,” Norau said. “We lived in a different section of the Fortress, and we didn’t socialize much. Too much work to hand, usually.” He cleared his throat. “You wanted to walk, lord? I can show you one of the tapestries one of my s’e-ketans crafted, I saw it down the hall a ways.”
“Yes.” Cafad glanced at Seg’s once more blank expression. “Let’s... let’s walk. Show me that weaving.” Once safely out of Seg’s earshot, he asked, “Why did you transfer to Eshan, if there was enough work for you here?”
“I wasn’t so good at weaving,” Norau said without the least embarrassment. “But I picked up quick on things like how to read, do accounts, keep a room tidy, make folks laugh, things like that. Happened my cousin was serving over Eshan as kathain, and he came along one day when his lord stopped by for a chat with the old lord Scratha. He offered to take me along to train.” He shrugged. “It’s turned out well. I enjoy this work far more than I would have done weaving, and I’ve less thread dust to cough up. Ah—here, lord, this is the one I mentioned.”
The tapestry was impressive. A wide pattern of green and gold leaves formed the background for a pair of birds—great desert hawks, by the look of them, worked in brown and black cut through with silver.
“He liked birds,” Norau said. “I remember this one while it was on the loom. He missed out on the birth of his second son because he wanted to get this finished before some great celebration or other. Way I heard it, before his wife forgave him, he had to make her one just as fine, too.”
Cafad grinned, then sobered. Without Seg’s disapproving presence, he could speak freely, and one point needed to be settled right away. “I’ll be blunt, Norau,” he said. “Tidy the room all you like, but you won’t be sharing my bed. I’m not inclined to that road.”
He left silent that in any case, Norau wasn’t in any way attractive to him. Thick-set, with a heavy scattering of moles along the left side of his face and the pockmarks of a childhood illness visible on the right, it seemed unlikely, to Cafad, that Norau could be particularly attractive to anyone.
Norau nodded, unconcerned. “I already knew that, lord,” he said, subtly urging them back into motion as he spoke. “Your s’e-kath told us before he accepted us into your service. I’m happy to serve however you like, without complaint. You’re family, Lord Scratha. Last I’ve got, you and Lichni. My parents and all died in the attack. I’ve been waiting for you to open the Fortress back up proper for years. I’ll do what you like and not what you don’t, if it means I get to stay here.”
A lump formed in Cafad’s throat at the simple sincerity of the words. How had he been so dense for so long? How had he forgotten that his Family were more than simply his parents and the relatively few people he’d directly known in his childhood? How had he missed the simple fact that refugees like Norau and Lichni waited in out of the way corners for him to take up his responsibilities and bring them home?
How in all the hells had he come so close to throwing it all away for that wretched Sessin woman?
“Thank you, Norau. Do you know of others—other Scratha relations, like yourself? I’ll buy out existing contracts when possible, if you’ll do the work to find more of our scattered Family.”
Norau’s face lit up. “That would be a wonderful thing,” he said. “I’d be honored to do that, my lord. May I have access to the Books of Blood, to make it easier to track who—” He paused, then finished, hesitantly, “Who might be available?”
Cafad blinked against a sharp dryness in the back of his eyes, hearing the unsaid words: Who might still be alive. “Yes. Tell Lord Azaniari you’re to have full access to the Fortress library. Have her give you the key.”
“Thank you, Lord Scratha,” Norau said, his broad face shining with astonishment. “That’s an honor, lord, truly. When she returns, I’ll speak to her about that.”
“—Oh. Of course. She’s not here....” Cafad rubbed at his forehead, momentarily disoriented. His vision hazed again. He wondered if he ought to mention that to someone, perhaps have Seg check him over; then the thought faded. “I’ll let you in myself. This way.”
“Lord,” Norau said three paces later, “If you leave me at the library—you’d be alone, lord.”
“I’ve managed for many years without constant company,” Cafad said dryly. “But if you’d feel better, we’ll go collect one of the other kathain first.”
“Yes, lord,” Norau said, visibly relieved. “Your s’e-kath said not to let you wander alone if we could help it.” A flush darkened his desert olive tone to a harsher bronze hue, and he looked aside. “That was out of turn,” he muttered. “I’m sorry, lord.”
There was no point in scolding a servant for words that came from another. He’d have a talk with Seg over the matter. In the meanwhile— “The s’e-kath is probably right. Let’s go see who’s the least busy with whatever tasks you’ve set yourselves today.”
Chapter 14
Scratha land, while considered desert, was more rock and scrub than sand. Along its western border, the land flattened and became sere. To the southern side rocks gave way to rough mounds covered in spike-grass. To the north and east, the most-traveled area, the road changed without warning from broad and clear to a random, scrambling thing that looped around gigantic, unfriendly slabs of rock, stubbornly rooted old stone root bushes, then dropped abruptly away again where the rainy season carved out brief lived rivers, only to rise without warning into a nearly laddered climb. Taking any kind of carts along this part of the road would be a complete nightmare.
As mute testimony to that, the remnants of broken hand-carts bridged several of the deeper chasms. The construction wouldn’t last long, and made for tricky footing, but Azni appreciated the courtesy of the bridges being left in place all the same. Likewise, roughly knotted ropes ran at convenient heights along the steepest sections, offering a steadying handhold for those unfamiliar with such terrain.
Azni remembered the road being much wider and smoother in previous years. The fall from political power, and Cafad’s subsequent neglect of his responsibilities, had allowed the severe southern weather to destroy much of the main path. From her journey south, Azni knew that most of the side paths intended for lone travelers were long since completely erased.
The road showed the wear of recent traffic: rocks shoved into inconvenient holes in the road, an overgrown stone root bush sawn roughly back; even, in one spot, a dead bush cut down completely and cast aside. That would have been no easy task—stone root bushes were aptly named. Even the sharpest axe left little impression on dead stone root wood. The upper branches were slightly more brittle, and made for excellent, long burning firewood if one could wrench enough of the thicker ones free.
Few of the preceding travelers so far had apparently bothered to do so, more than likely confident in the traveling supplies laid in at the camp site ahead. Not so sure that there would be anything left in the wake of such large parties, Azni directed the guards to collect what they could from the dead bush.
As the guards worked at the tough branches, Sela sat on a large, flat-topped boulder with obvious relief, sipping carefully at her water flask. Her silence had changed from hostile to thoughtful over the course of the day, and she looked around with a new alertness. Apparently she wasn’t so dense as to miss the change in the land around them. But she stayed quiet, and even accepted the burden of carrying a few branches when they moved on.
The campsite, when they reached it, was surprisingly tidy. Located in a grove of willow trees, the floor of the site was a series of precisely fitted rock tiles covered with dirt and sand. The ground had been swept clear of debris and footprints alike, leaving many of the tiles showing. A small pile of wood was neatly stacked by the fire pit and stone ovens. Tall sections of wattle fencing, still fresh enough to be weeping sap in spots, gave off a distinctive greenwood aroma. Roughly stacked rocks as large as a man’s head, some larger, braced the fencing and formed low walls in-between wattle sections.
“What’s that?” Sela asked, pointing and frowning.
A freshly carved greenwood pole as tall as Azni protruded from the ground beside the well—probably the only spot clear enough of tiles to allow for such a thing. Rocks piled around the base provided additional balance. Wide ribbons of cloth fluttered from the pole in a distinct sequence: black, bright blue, black, light blue, black, greenish-blue, black, red, brown. A white ribbon at the top bore a rough, nearly abstract sketch of a groundhog.
Azni cut a glance at the guards, who were staring at the pole with appalled expressions.
“Should we take it down, lord?” one of the guards asked, seeming more pragmatic than upset.
“No,” Azni said. “We can’t. Desert law.” She sighed. “Set up camp, please.”
“What is it?” Sela pressed, frowning now.
“It’s a warning marker,” Azni said. “It says that the well here is dry, and it warns of trouble ahead.”
She looked up at the trees—cousins to tethiir-fronds, if she remembered her lessons. They were drought-hardy despite their thin appearance, and the last to die for lack of water. Their spider-silk thin roots splayed out underground for miles. This tree could and would drain a small lake two miles away to keep itself alive. All the same, the higher leaves were tinted an unhealthy brown, and the lower leaves showed a cracking crenellation along their outer edges.
Sela glanced over her shoulder, clearly worried. “We’re walking into trouble?”
“No,” Azni said. “It’s meant for inbound travelers. We’re outbound.”
“Trouble—inbound? At the Fortress?” Sela’s eyes widened in abrupt alarm. She turned as though to begin marching to Scratha Fortress, then stopped and looked at Azni again, her shoulders slumping. “I wouldn’t make it back on my own, would I?” she said. “And you won’t help me, either.”
