He’d chosen to wear his Family colors for once: a long, dark red silk shirt, trousers that looked red or black depending on the light, and a vibrant yellow sash that cinched the shirt around his waist. Barefoot, as she’d sensed and heard. His narrow, callused feet left little imprint on the sand, and while he’d put on weight, all of his movements were still lithe.

  His long dark hair was pulled neatly back to reveal a face nearly free of age lines. A single, sinuous white scar ran along the left side of his face, a bleached strip of tissue from eye to mouth. He hadn’t had that scar at their last meeting, some years ago now.

  She didn’t ask what injury could have caused the peculiar mark. She didn’t have to. She bore her own such scars, thankfully easier to hide beneath clothing. “Lord Irrio,” she said with measured chill, and watched him pause, his dark eyebrows dipping fractionally.

  “Sorry,” he said after a few moments, and sat on the bench beside her, straddling it so as to face her profile. Azni hauled herself round to face him, rucking her skirts to make sitting crossways on the bench marginally comfortable. A faint smile touched his thin lips as he watched her adjust and tug at the recalcitrant folds of fabric.

  “Scratha’s uneasy that you’re not by his side,” Irrio said, once she’d settled. “There’s others have noticed, too. You’re not doing yourself any favors, Azni.”

  His eyes strayed over her body in rapid, jerky glances. The tautness in his jaw told her that he had something else altogether on his mind.

  “I’d rather be less visible just now,” she said. Irrio inhaled as though to say something sharply rebuking, then stopped and looked away. After a few breaths, he looked back at her.

  “Azni. What the hells happened to you? Last time I saw you—”

  “A lot has happened since then,” she said, glancing down at her age-freckled arms, and drew calm around herself, layering gritty sand and flickering light and clove-orange through the forefront of her mind as she spoke.

  “I almost pissed myself when I saw you—”

  “Wouldn’t that have been a moment to remember?” she said lightly, hoping to sidetrack the coming questions.

  “Godsdamnit,” he said with an unexpected passion that silenced her. He drew a deep breath and calmed himself again. “Azni. You’re younger than I am. You’re Binto’s age. Even living for so long out of range, you’re a desert lord. And you’re not— you shouldn’t be....” He made a helpless gesture that took in her whole body.

  “Old,” she supplied dryly, looking at her thin arms, the knobs of wrist and knuckle that stood out clearly under dark skin stretched pale. Not for the first time, she wondered how her change had affected Allonin. Also not for the first time, she buried that thought almost before it consciously registered. “This isn’t the place to talk about it, Irrio. You know that.”

  “I know I won’t get you away from here to any place where you can discuss it,” he countered, then his tone softened towards rueful. “And—I know you’ve no reason to trust me these days, but I wish you’d walk with me to the borders, Azni.”

  “What, sneak away in the middle of the night without leave, like randy children?” For that, she won a sharp answering grin. Her chest hurt, seeing that smile in the flickering light, his dark skin burnished with gold, his expression open and generous for one fragile moment. He looked so damn much like his brothers.

  His eyes narrowed, his smile fading. “You’re thinking about Regav, aren’t you? You still miss him?”

  She shut her eyes, her own throat too tight for speech. He’d always been irritatingly good at picking up her thoughts—on that topic, at least. When the thickness eased, she said, “Every day. Every moment.” It’s my fault he’s dead: an old and grey thought that still held a powerful sting.

  “I suppose I should be grateful you’re not brooding over Binto,” Irrio said sourly, then let out a breath that was as much curse as exhalation. “Damnit. I told myself I wouldn’t throw that in your face again.”

  She shook her head, opening her eyes, and regarded him with a tired smile. “I’m used to it,” she said. “You always do think of your brothers when you see me. I suspect you always will, considering that it’s my fault that they’re dead.”

  Irrio shut his eyes briefly, clearly gathering calm. “Let’s not talk about them.”

  “That would be a nice change.” She kept her tone light, despite a feeling he’d aim for something even more painful next. Darden men were almost uniformly predictable in some ways.

  Irrio began to speak, then stopped, his face set and hard. After two more failed attempts, he said, “I’d hoped, when I heard you would be here—” He swallowed the rest of the words and looked away, his mouth set in a grim line.

  Even suspecting a trick, her defensiveness softened. “I know,” she said, and feathered a fingertip touch against the back of his hand. “We never did properly finish that... conversation my children interrupted. I’m sorry, Irrio. It’s too late now.”

  “You came back south after all, despite your fine protests,” he said, not looking at her. “But you came here. For him. You wouldn’t do it for your own children when I asked—”

  She shouldn’t have given him an opening. “Irrio. Don’t do this. Not here, not now.”

  He was adamant. “I still want answers, Azni. What’s happened between you two over the years? Why have you put up with Scratha’s asinine behavior? Why has he kept haunting your door?”

  Because it was safer than having him wandering about and disrupting the entire southlands with his hunt for answers, was one response to the latter question. Because Eredion asked me to, was another. Neither of those were safe to tell Irrio, for complex reasons both personal and political—and thinking about those things wasn’t safe, not with a restless ha’rethe stirring underfoot and Cafad likely to be testing his newfound powers at erratic intervals.

  “I still won’t talk about it, Irrio,” she said sharply. “Gods, have some sense. Not here!”

  A humorless smile stretched his mouth. “No,” he said. “Of course not. And gods forbid I speak rudely of my host. Forgive me. I should avoid anything stronger than water, apparently.”

  She bit the inside of her cheek and resisted the impulse to roll her eyes at that bit of typical southern false courtesy.

  Lord Irrio stood, bowed with ostentatious irony, then left the courtyard. As he passed through the archway, every light went out at once with a sharp, petulant pop.

  Chapter 2

  The tapestry to the kathain quarters displayed a ginger plant twined around a staff, flanked by groundhogs standing on their hind legs facing the staff, each with one front paw resting on a leaf edge. Goldenvine wove across the bottom edge of the curtain, each funnel-like bloom splayed ostentatiously wide.

  “Subtle,” Cafad muttered, then sprawled on the bed and shoved himself back against the piled-up cushions. The movement wrenched at his loose trousers. He rearranged the thin fabric, irritated, tempted to simply strip down and have done. But that wasn’t polite, not yet, not until he was actually going to sleep.

  Or was he remembering that correctly? He’d spent so much of his life wandering amongst differing Family and social constraints that he had trouble remembering his own Family customs at times. It didn’t help that he felt nearly drunk at the moment, which didn’t make any sense at all. He hadn’t allowed himself more than a single courtesy cup of wine tonight. But what else could he call the wandering, fuzzy sensation fogging his mind and turning every movement he made clumsy?

  The last time he’d felt like this, he’d just been bitten by a venomous snake in a wretched excuse for a village. He’d had to focus on preventing his servant from panicking and dragging in a ‘healer’ who would have done more harm than good.

  Idisio’s grey eyes hung in his memory: huge, lambent with terror, his face white and stretched. Cafad recalled his own astonishment at the strength of the boy’s reaction. He’d genuinely feared that the bite would cause Cafad’s death. Even though Cafad had been brutally unkind to the boy more than once, he had cared....

  Idisio. Have to start remembering names. And boy was wrong, too—disrespectful—Idisio was, as it turned out, ha’ra’hain: Cafad’s superior in terms of status. That still itched. He’d be glad when the boy—when ha’inn Idisio—left his lands.

  Mostly. Probably. Almost certainly.

  He didn’t want to think about that any more. He didn’t have to think about that any more. He was Lord of Scratha Fortress. He could put his attention on... whatever he liked.

  I should eat something. There was a small dining room, not much more than an annex, truly. It had two doors: one that opened to the outer suite and one that opened to his bedroom. It was a long walk for the servants carrying food from the kitchens, a deliberately awkward setup intended to encourage the bound lord to emerge from his rooms and join the fortress at meals. Even so, he could ask for a platter of cold meats and cheeses and bread to be sent out. That was little enough to ask. Except: I’m not hungry. I don’t want to eat. He rubbed at his eyes, feeling extraordinarily sullen.

  He’d expected his new position to mean more. He’d finally claimed his due, his rights, gotten the respect he’d wanted. He’d ended his meandering, distracted lifestyle in favor of solid, productive behavior. There was nothing left in the north for him. There never had been anything for him in the north, only a series of delusions that he’d desperately wanted to believe in. He’d been a fool, and he’d very nearly sunk himself past recovery.

  Cafad put out a hand to the bedside table, touching the side of a thick bowl crafted from a translucent orange and white rock. It was of teyanain make, one of a set of six, each gifted to a different Family at a Conclave long enough ago that Tehay had been a recipient of one of the bowls—which, more than likely, now resided in a F’Heing hall.

  The Scratha bowl had been appraised, sight unseen, in Bright Bay for a sum that would have erased any concern over money for the rest of Cafad’s life—even given the lifespan of a desert lord.

  I almost sold it. I almost walked away from my heritage, almost gave everything over to a lying whore of a Sessin—

  “Lord,” a voice said. A tall man with coal-black skin and pale blue eyes stood just inside the doorway to the outer rooms. “Your tea is ready, lord.”

  “Don’t want any,” Cafad muttered, scowling more at his own childish tone than any irritation with the servant. He hastily added, “Sorry, Seg.”

  “I’d advise you to drink a cup, lord,” Seg said placidly, brushing a piece of lint from his immaculate, intricately embroidered shirt. “It will ease the disorientation you’re feeling.”

  Cafad sat up straight, lurched, and caught himself with an outstretched hand before he toppled from the bed. Suspicion rose, acidic in his throat. Had the meal been poisoned? The one cup of wine? Seg’s job was to prevent such things, meaning he would have been involved....

  “What did you do to me?” he demanded.

  “I have done nothing, lord,” Seg said. “Your disorientation is part of your new role, as I understand it. Ha’inn Deiq recommended a certain tincture be added to your cups for a few nights, to avoid—complications—while you adjust to circumstances. The tea—”

  “You’ve put something in my drink because Deiq told you to?” Cafad demanded, staggering to his feet. “Are you completely insane?”

  “The tea,” Seg went on as though Scratha hadn’t spoken at all, “will ease the slight side effect of disorientation that you appear to be experiencing. It will also ease your increasing irritability. Lord.” The last word held a distinct emphasis.

  Cafad leaned against a wall, breathing hard and staring at his unrepentant servant. “Bring it in,” he said at last, and wobbled back to the bed before his legs could give way.

  A few sips of the pale tea later, his head did feel considerably more clear. He studied Seg, who had returned to his post by the door, hands clasped behind his back. The man didn’t move a muscle, and didn’t appear to be looking at anything. Cafad could scarcely catch the tiny movements of breath passing through Seg’s body.

  Cafad looked at the fabric and cut of Seg’s clothing, noting the images of plump fish embroidered in gold thread along hem and sleeves, the deliberate contrast of pale stitching and indigo cloth, the precise, formal lines of the outfit. There was no mistaking this man for an ordinary servant, nor for an in-service kathain. He was s’e-kath: northerns would probably translate the concept as master servant, a bewilderingly nonsensical phrase in Cafad’s opinion.

  Whatever the translation, Seg was, very obviously, an excellent s’e-kath: as quiet and unassuming and, underneath, as dangerous and complex as Chacerly or Micru had proven themselves to be. He’d gone through specialized training to gain this position. It wouldn’t do to underestimate him, or treat him like a fool.

  “S’e kath Segnilious,” Cafad said eventually, keeping his tone even. “About that tincture.”

  Seg’s gaze focused on Cafad’s face. He made no other movement.

  “Why did you trust Deiq of Stass on something so personal as putting a tincture in my drink?” Cafad said, trying to keep his tone reasonable.

  Seg answered without hesitation: “Because Lord Azni approved it, lord; and because the ha’inn has no reason to wish you harm. Because the ha’inn is the type for a direct blow, lord, not a treacherous poison; and because while bound so closely to a ha’rethe, you are safe from any poison I know of. Because I drank it myself, lord, before allowing the tincture near your cup. Because—”

  “Enough,” Cafad said. “I get the point. You didn’t trust him blindly.”

  Seg’s face remained expressionless, but Cafad caught a tiny crease of amusement around the man’s eyes. “I did not, lord.”

  “You can stop that, too. I don’t need you to call me lord every sentence.”

  “As you like. I suggest that in public you allow me to address you with proper formality.”

  “Fine.” Cafad tossed down the last drops of his tea. Seg moved forward, lifted the intricately worked ceramic teapot from the side table, and refilled Cafad’s cup. “I feel better. Thank you.”

  Seg went back to his silent stance by the door.

  “Who do you serve, Seg?” Cafad asked.

  “You, lord.”

  Cafad made an impatient gesture with one hand. He saw no real point in worrying about courtesy with his personal manservant. Either Seg would take offense and leave, or he’d put up with Cafad’s irascible behavior. Better to know now, before he came to rely on the man.

  “Before that,” Cafad said. “Who loaned you out?”

  Seg’s right eyebrow raised the tiniest bit. “Nobody loaned me out. I chose to come and serve you.”

  “And when you leave my service?”

  “If that day comes,” Seg said, unruffled, “I will choose another lord to serve.”

  Cafad resisted the urge to say something obscene. Choosing his words with more care and keeping his tone neutral this time, he tried, “Who did you choose to serve before you arrived here?”

  “Lord Tereph.”

  Cafad’s teeth set together hard, and he shut his eyes. “Meaning Sessin,” he said through his teeth.

  “No, lord. Meaning Tereph.”

  Cafad glared at the man. “Tereph is Sessin, Seg.”

  Seg bent his head, picking another bit of lint from his shirt sleeve. “No, lord. Tereph is Tereph. Sessin is Sessin.”

  “That’s not the way I remember it!”

  “When was the last time you visited Tereph, or Sessin?” Seg inquired gravely. “Even desert Families change, lord. Even Sessin Family adjusts to new political times and necessities.”

  Cafad stared, his mouth slightly open, then blurted, “Just who is in charge of Tereph these days?”

  Seg folded his arms over his chest. “Lord Olla.”

  Breath left Cafad’s body for a moment. “Olla?” he said when he could speak again. “How in the hells did she manage that? She’s not a—” He stopped at the look on Seg’s face.

  “I couldn’t say, lord.” Seg’s eyes slid half-shut: a clear warning that Cafad was, finally, treading on dangerous ground.

  “Of course not,” Cafad said, gathering his composure. “No, of course you can’t. My apologies, Seg. I was—surprised.” He cleared his throat and finished his tea, then waved Seg back when the man took a step forward. “I’ve had enough. Thank you.”

  “Would you like me to remove the tea service, lord?” Seg asked, his gaze on the wall above Cafad’s head.

  “No, no, leave it for the—” He stopped and rubbed a hand over his face. “Damnit.”

  He wasn’t in the northlands. He was Lord of Scratha Fortress. He didn’t have access to the ordinary servants that scurried about handling such small tasks for the rest of the fortress. Using them would be an unacceptable breach of propriety—insulting, both to the servants themselves and to his own status. Desert lords, especially Heads of Family, had their own special, dedicated servants: kathain.

  Kathain—proper kathain, not the abominations that the coastal villages produced—stood by their chosen lord’s side as constant companions. Most only served for a few weeks to a few months at a time before withdrawing from service to rest and recover from the strain.

  Desert lords were notoriously temperamental on a wide range of issues, from diet to exercise to entertainment requirements. Kathain made sure their lords’ vagaries never extended so far or so visibly as to embarrass either the host or home Family.

  He winced, realizing something else: Seg must have been handling all the small duties such as making Cafad’s bed and fetching his tea. Without a word of complaint, without ever drawing it to Cafad’s attention, Seg had been quietly filling the role of multiple lesser servants. Cafad opened his mouth to apologize, managed to shut it just in time. That would be even more of an insult, at this point.

  Seg waited a few beats, his gaze steady on the wall, then inquired, “Would you like me to send for a selection of kathain, lord?”

  Cafad’s chest felt thick and his breath stifled. “Yes. Please. I don’t want to see the handler. Go pick some out. No more than... than five.”

 

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