Servants of the Sands, page 26
Cafad shook his head and stood, motioning to his guards. The men holding Yihan surrendered the impostor to the guards and moved back several steps.
“Remove his shirt and his bonds,” Cafad said. “And bring me a whip. Thirty-four offenses, thirty-four stripes. Then comes the set for offending against me just now.”
Yihan spat on the floor again.
“Ten more for that,” Cafad said.
Gria gave a faint, barely audible whimper. Cafad kept his back to her. If he saw her horror directly, he’d have to respond to it. The task to hand was already distasteful enough. Hopefully Azni could catch Gria’s eye and signal her to act appropriately.
The guards pulled Yihan’s arms forward, bound his wrists with sturdy leather cord, then moved aside. There was no fear of the man running at this point. Too many people stood in the way, for one, and any desert lord could outrun a scraggly human with ease.
Cafad laid the first ten stripes in a crisscross across the man’s back, barely hard enough to draw blood—just enough pain to break through a compulsion and allow the man to recant. One last chance.
Yihan’s only response was a stifled grunt. This was real, then. He was an ass and a fool, and filled with enough anger and arrogance to destroy his common sense.
The next ten stripes landed with considerably more force, as did the following sets. By the time Cafad delivered forty, he was using almost his full strength. Yihan was whining and coughing in an effort not to cry out. Fifty strokes left areas of bone clearly visible among the comprehensively bloody ruin, and Yihan was screaming without pause. His knees had long since buckled.
Cafad lowered the whip, assessing the man’s condition with a cold stare. The smell of blood, piss, and pain-sweat hung rank in the air. Yihan’s misery writhed against Cafad’s body, very nearly tangible: slick, warm, seductive. Cafad ignored the sensation, just as he ignored the avid stares that clearly expected him to act according to his F’Heing training. He’d never been aroused by delivering violence, even in the wake of his blood trials. The crowd would have to be disappointed in that respect, at least.
Cafad stepped back and circled round to face the man. One of the guards grabbed Yihan’s hair and hauled his head up so that Cafad could look the imposter full in the face.
“You will die nameless and unremarked,” Cafad said, “Without honor, without heritage, unwept, unsung, godless and alone. Take him west, well past the border. Bury him without sign or mark, and salt the grave to be sure he never rises to trouble the living again.”
He paused, studying Yihan’s contorted, tear-streaked face, listening to the man’s wheezing breaths, gave himself a heartbeat of hating what had to be said next—then said it, with a deliberately brutal lack of emotion: “There’s no need to wait for him to die before burial.”
A long sigh went around the room, a gust of relief at tradition and ritual upheld. Gria was silent. Azni’s face went an odd shade, her stance rock-rigid. Four guards carried Yihan from the room. Cafad exchanged the blood-soaked whip for a damp cloth, then looked around the room as he cleaned his hands.
“If you don’t mind, s’ieas,” he said dispassionately, “I’d prefer to have the floor cleaned before we hear any more petitions today. I find that the smell of blood sours my temper.”
A few eyebrows went up at that, and a few gazes drifted down past his waist. He set his jaw and kept his tone mild. “I’ll return at noon. You may remain here. If you wish a light meal, you will be escorted to the dining hall and trays brought out from the kitchens.” He offered a short bow, then turned to Gria. “Numaina. Would you care to withdraw with me?”
“Yes,” the girl said. Her stare was as warm as midnight in a desert winter. “I think that might be best, Lord Scratha.”
“Seg, would you please stay here and supervise the cleaning?” Cafad said. A few of the surprised looks faded into smug smirks. He ignored that, too. The indiscriminate randiness of desert lords was a common topic of gossip, subject to wild exaggeration, throughout the entire southlands.
He wasn’t sure if Gria understood that aspect of her new life. He made a mental note to have Azni speak with her, now that Sela was out of the way. Gods knew he felt no interest in taking the girl to bed himself, but visiting desert lords would see it as a political triumph to seduce her. She ought to be trained in how to handle the intensity a desert lord could bring to bear.
Seg bowed, entirely, properly bland. “Yes, lord.”
“Thank you.” Cafad took Gria’s arm and steered her from the room, careful to keep her to a slower pace than she clearly wanted to take. Once they were clear of the room, she turned to glare at him.
Cafad shook his head. “No. Not yet. Wait.”
When they reached his suite, he pointed Gria to one of the northern style chairs and went to the sideboard.
“How could you?” she demanded as he poured them each a full-strength shot of teyanain mountain lightning. “That was obscene!”
“It had to be done.” Cafad brought her the small cup. She waved it away, shaking her head fiercely. “Take it, Gria. Drink it. Now.” He set the emphasis just shy of the compulsion point.
It was easier to compel each time he did it—less distasteful—more enjoyable. He squashed the faintly smug feeling that urged him to push harder, to get her to do whatever he wanted—
No. This was the Heir to Scratha. He couldn’t bend her will, couldn’t risk weakening her. He needed her to be strong and annoying and argumentative.
Gria’s lips thinned, her glare curdling the air. After a moment, she took the cup and tossed the contents back without pause, then let out a long, open-mouthed breath, her eyes watering. When she could inhale, she shook her head again and set the cup aside. Cafad waited for a few heartbeats, watching the color rise to her face, before sitting in a nearby chair. He cradled the small cup in one hand, keeping his attention on Gria.
“I risked my life to become a desert lord,” he said. “There are two dozen ways I could have died during my trials that are more horrific than what I just did to Yihan. Supplicants who fail the final trial—some of them come back out with their entire bodies turned inside out. Some are returned skinned alive. It’s not a gentle death.”
He looked down at the cup in his hand, studying the nearly colorless liquid to avoid seeing her expression.
Her voice was nearly shrill. “Why would anyone take that sort of risk? Why? It’s madness!”
“It’s necessary,” Cafad said. “Without the desert lords, the entire world would be as dry and dead as the desert outside these walls. We live in the wastelands so that your kin don’t have to.”
“We’re not going to agree on that,” Gria retorted, her voice thin.
“No. We aren’t. And this isn’t the time to discuss it.” He tossed back the drink and shut his eyes, focusing on the heat racing through his system. “Right now, we both need to eat something, and rest, and put that unpleasant moment out of our minds.”
“You still have blood all over your clothes!” she blurted.
Cafad glanced down at himself, his mouth quirking, then stood. “You’re right. Thanks. I’ll go change.”
“How can you be so casual about it?” she demanded, her voice rough with disgust.
Cafad layered ice and iron into his tone. “Because it had to be done. And I have to live with the necessity. What’s the use in agonizing, once that point is reached?” He turned without waiting for an answer, then went into his bedroom to find a set of fresh clothes.
Mei was standing to the left of the doorway, her arms folded, a pensive frown on her face. He leveled a finger at her before she could do more than open her mouth, and shook his head firmly.
“I’m not interested in being scolded,” he told her, not even trying to ease the harshness from his tone. “Go talk to her yourself if you have an opinion on how to handle this situation.”
Her frown deepened, then eased to a more neutral expression. “Yes, lord.” She uncrossed her arms. “If I may, I will.” She went through the doorway, gently drawing the curtain across the opening in her wake.
Cafad began stripping off his blood-splattered clothes. Norau appeared at his elbow with characteristic kathain silence and took each item as it was removed, dropping the garments into a small laundry-basket at his feet.
“Where’s Lichni?” Cafad asked as he drew his shirt over his head.
“Lichni is elsewhere today, lord.”
Catching the mild warning in Norau’s tone, Cafad bit his tongue. Kathain could take time away from their masters, and Lichni probably expected him to be busy in Open Conclave all day. He couldn’t fault her for turning her attention to personal matters today.
It would have been nice to bury his head against her shoulder for a few moments, though; to replace the smell of blood that coated the inside of his nostrils with the lighter, more pleasant scent of her perfume.
“If I may, lord?” Norau held up a damp cloth.
“Where the hell did you—” Cafad looked around. The laundry-basket was gone, replaced by a small bowl of water. “How did you do that?”
Norau’s mouth creased in a small, satisfied smile that lent his homely face a surprising amount of charm. He twitched the hand holding the cloth slightly, by way of silently repeating his own question.
“Go ahead,” Cafad said, surrendering, and stood still as Norau cleaned him from face to toes.
The kathain worked without speaking, then dropped the cloth into the water and stepped back a pace. “Lord?” he said, hesitant. “I do not wish to be rude, lord—I know you walk only one road, but I was given to understand that under certain circumstances....”
“I don’t have that reaction to violence,” Cafad said, as mildly as he could.
Norau blinked once, twice, his forehead creasing. “Is it in any way—a failing on my part, lord?”
“No. Nothing to do with you, Norau. I don’t find killing a man to be erotic. I never have.”
Norau glanced down, as though expecting the lack of response to have changed in the last few moments. “Yes, lord,” he said finally, more assured now. “Then may I offer a massage, lord?”
Cafad measured the polite tone against the man’s now direct, unflinching gaze, and surrendered. “Yes, that’s a good idea. Thank you, Norau.”
He stretched out on the bed, face down. The kathain knelt over him and began working warm oil into Cafad’s back, humming quietly. Cafad found himself relaxing more than he’d expected. Norau’s presence was surprisingly reassuring.
Cafad wished, for a moment, that he could have one of his kathain with him in Open Conclave. But just as with the more formal gathering, it would be a tacit admission of weakness. Cafad needed to project unyielding, indomitable assurance above all else. People wouldn’t return to Scratha lands if they thought their leader was weak.
Norau’s hands abruptly flattened, pressing down. The motion caught Cafad back into awareness of the moment, of the tension gathering in his body. He grunted wordless apology and made himself relax once more.
“Honor and grace to you, lord,” Norau murmured after a few more breaths, brushing his hands lightly up Cafad’s spine, then retreated to stand nearby, hands folded over his stomach.
Cafad rolled to one side and swung himself upright with care. “That was excellently done. Thank you, Norau.”
Norau grinned, pride lighting in his eyes. “Your clothes, lord,” he said, indicating a neatly laid out set of clean garments on a chair near the bed.
“How the hells?—Wait.” Cafad glanced at the tapestry to the kathain quarters. “Gano’s here, isn’t he?”
“Yes, lord,” Norau said, his grin widening into an infectious, delighted expression. Cafad shook his head ruefully. He’d been more distracted than he’d realized, not to sense Gano’s presence and helping hand.
“I believe Mei is done speaking with the numaina, lord,” Norau said, cocking his head like an asp-jacau listening for the sound of a snake in its burrow. “May I attend Lord Darden? Her own kathain is in need of rest, and I believe she may need company at the moment.”
“Yes. Go ahead. Thank you.” Cafad dressed without haste. As he settled the folds of his shirt into place, Mei pushed the curtain aside and came into the room. She paused, studying him critically.
“The numaina should now be able to handle a light meal and return to Open Conclave,” Mei said. “Strong drink was a dangerous notion, lord.”
Cafad regarded her with a raised eyebrow. “Is she drunk?”
“No. But you couldn’t have known how the drink would affect her, lord.” Mei’s face set in stern lines as she spoke, and her tone held more reproach than courtesy. She’d clearly begun feeling attached to the girl.
“Are you being protective of the numaina, Mei?” Cafad said with deceptive gentleness. “Interceding for her well being—against me?”
Mei opened her mouth, her frown deepening, then hesitated. “No, lord,” she said finally, her tone subdued. “I see your point, lord.”
“Thank you, Mei,” Cafad said. She took the words as the dismissal they’d been, and went into the kathain room without looking back.
He shut his eyes and grinned, absurdly pleased at finally having gotten an edge over Mei. Sobering, he ticked a fingertip across his array of earrings, each clicking sound reminding him of responsibilities. Then he sighed, and went into the outer room with a stony expression firmly in place.
Chapter 35
Buried alive. Dear gods. As the imposter was hauled from the room, Azni’s skin twitched as though trying to shake itself loose of her bones. She breathed through her mouth, shut down every possible aspect of her sensitivity, kept her expression stern, met Gria’s gaze without flinching, and ignored the speculative glances being aimed her way. She’d experienced her own moments of being aroused by violence, but not since—
No. I’m not thinking about that right now.
Thank all the gods that Riss had left the room to show the fisherman to guest quarters before that display. Azni could feel Gria’s revulsion and outrage from across the room. Riss wouldn’t have reacted any more gently, and Azni wouldn’t have been able to stand up against that level of emotion from someone standing right beside her.
Cafad swept Gria from the room. Seg caught Azni’s eye and nodded, his gaze flicking to the doors. She took the hint, offered a half-bow, and withdrew as gracefully as possible. Safely around a corner, she stopped and leaned against a wall, breathing hard.
Buried alive.
She knew what that felt like.
No. Not here. Not yet. Azni made herself walk, slow, stately, arrogant in her indifference to everything. She paused to answer questions from two servants, with no idea what she’d said. By the way they scurried off, she’d been considerably more abrupt than usual.
Around a corner. Another. Stop to examine a small hallway table for dust. Routine, routine, stay with routine. Someone would be watching. Someone was always going to be watching—and this would be a very bad time to worry the household.
The door to her rooms lay ahead. She opened it without haste, stepped through, shut it with care, stumbled forward three steps, then collapsed. Her body shivered as though naked on a frosty northern morning. Her mind reeled under brutal memories of darkness, screaming, bloodied hands and broken fingernails. The smell of fear and sweat and urine and feces filled her senses; her ears recalled laughter, jagged, golden-edged mirth with no claim to sanity.
Oh, gods, Regav. I should have been able to save you. It was all my fault....
I need Ishru. Where is he? Of all the times for me to give him a day away from my side—
Suspicion flared, dark and harsh as anything that Cafad could have summoned. Had Ishru known that there was a false desert lord being presented today? Had he known what Cafad would do, or how Azni would react? He was kathain—No, he was katheele. It was insanely unsafe to trust him in any way.
Azni drew in a long, shuddering breath. He doesn’t truly serve me. He has other obligations, other objectives. I can’t let myself forget that. And now there was the question of what he’d done to upset Cafad....
Someone knocked on the door. “Lord Darden?” an unfamiliar voice called out. “Ishru said you needed company. Lord?”
Azni rose and opened the door with shaking hands.
One of Cafad’s kathain stood in the hallway, the one with the heavily pockmarked face. “My name is Norau, lord. May I be with you for a time?”
She backed up a step, allowing him into the room with a sense of dull reflex. Norau shut the door behind him. While his gaze never seemed to leave her, she had the impression that he simultaneously managed to take in the entire room.
“Why didn’t Ishru come himself?” she asked.
“Ishru needs to rest, lord,” Norau said. “He asked me to stand for him, and Lord Scratha approved the request. Am I acceptable? I can send for another, if you find me unpleasant.”
She stared, taken aback. He touched the side of his face lightly.
“I know I am ugly, lord,” he said. “If that repels you, I will find someone more suitable to fill your needs.”
“No. No. That’s—that’s fine. Sit down.” She took a wobbly step. He moved up beside her and wove his arm around her waist, lending her support without asking permission. She leaned on him, surprised and grateful. He lowered her onto one of the couches and sat close against her, his arm around her shoulders.
“Lord,” he said into her ear. “I am directed to care for you as I would Lord Scratha. What may I do to serve you?”
“Azni,” she said. She shifted her position to lean her head on his shoulder. “Call me Azni, Norau. Please.”
“Yes, Azni.” He ran a gentle hand over her hair, then down her neck, and cupped a shoulder. “Azni?”
