Servants of the Sands, page 4
Most of the kathain loaned out by the visiting lords for the Conclave celebrations were departing with their Families. An independent kathain handler was taking charge of those left behind. If Cafad didn’t arrange their purchase within a few days, the handler would escort them back to their proper Families. This particular handler had also brought along a motley group of his own. Cafad had sent them all to quarters on the other side of the Fortress as a delaying tactic.
“Five will not be sufficient, lord—”
“I don’t need more than five,” Cafad said harshly. “I’m not going to go through them like suka candies!”
Seg shook his head, brushed a finger over one of the embroidered fish on his sleeve, and let it go.
“For permanent staff, lord?”
“Yes. Permanent,” Cafad said, his mouth dry. “No boys. No children. No more than five. Arrange their full purchase, and send the handler on his way in the morning.”
Seg bowed slightly and left the room. Cafad leaned back against the cushions, raking his hands through his hair, and swore in every dialect he knew.
Even before meeting Idisio, he’d regarded kathain with more than a little distaste for the ugly necessity they represented. Now, with Idisio’s haunted grey stare clearly in mind, he couldn’t help thinking about the treatment he knew F’Heing and Darden kathain generally received. He’d spent enough time at the two Fortresses, over the years, to understand that aspect of west coast culture very well indeed.
The former Lord Scratha’s temper had been well-known within Family walls, and kathain rotated through his quarters at an increasingly brisk pace over the years. Gossip, throughout Cafad’s childhood, indicated that Lord Scratha had been even-tempered before stepping up to his current position. The duties of the office quickly wore him down into a much harsher man.
The gossip shifted focus when Cafad was accepted into desert lord training, younger than he should have been and from the wrong family branch, at that. Cafad found speculative stares following him everywhere he went. Lord Ordenial said not to pay attention, that desert lords always were watched and that Cafad must accustom himself to moving with grace and confidence at all times.
Back then, Cafad found the notion of having a staff of kathain to be incredibly exciting. No matter how often Orde tried to explain that kathain were considerably more than whores, all that remained in his students’ minds was the concept of having as much sex as they liked, at any time of day or night.
Years later, Cafad formed a very different opinion: as much as he liked would have been fine. As much as he needed was another matter altogether. The first six months after his blood trials had been painful, by the end of the day. He couldn’t imagine how any woman could go through that and be able to sit down without a thick cushion involved—
He winced, recalling that Azni was nearby, and quite capable of picking up stray thoughts—as were Deiq and Idisio. He directed his attention to studying the decorations in his bedroom until Seg returned with five kathain, each carrying a small bag of possessions.
Two male—not boys, but close to his own age, at a guess. He hadn’t been explicit on gender, just age—his mistake. Three women, a triumvirate of young, middling, and older than he himself. None of them met his gaze, although the middle-aged woman had an odd twitchiness to her shoulders, as though she wanted to look at him.
Three women. Two men. “Ah,” he said, recognizing the pattern finally. “Maiden, Matron, Crone. And two Heroes. You’re fond of the old stories, then, Seg?”
Seg’s shoulders relaxed. “Yes, lord. I thought it would—amuse you.”
“Amuse? Not really,” Cafad said. “But it’s a useful arrangement.”
Maiden, Matron, and Crone from the ubiquitous southern mythology, and the two Heroes that served them. That put Cafad in the High Lord spot. Most people wouldn’t ever pick up on the pattern, not consciously, but they’d all heard the same fireside tales as children. There would be an unconscious layer of added respect.
“Subtle,” Cafad murmured again, this time without sarcasm.
Seg bowed slightly and, at Cafad’s nod, waved the kathain into their new quarters, a spacious set of rooms beyond the groundhog and ginger-decorated curtain he’d been looking at earlier.
“Refresh yourselves as you like,” Seg told them. “I will call you when Lord Scratha desires company.”
They nodded and disappeared through the curtain. Cafad listened to the sounds of the kathain exploring and unpacking. Closets opened and shut, and drawers burred back and forth. A delighted murmur could be heard from the youngest woman, a few pleased grunts from the men. The kathain of a Head of Family could expect quite a bit more than most servants.
Seg stood by the doorway, silent and impassive once more.
“Thank you, Seg,” Cafad told him quietly.
“You’re welcome, lord.” Seg’s gaze remained focused on Cafad this time. He seemed to be considering something. After a few moments he said, “I suggest you keep to proper formality with your kathain, lord. The men are from Tereph and Eshan, the women from Tereph, Eshan, and F’Heing, in order of descending age. One of the men and one of the women were formerly Scratha Family, but were sent away before the disaster. The youngest woman may have a claim to a Tehay bloodline.”
Cafad sat up straight. “I thought Tehay was gone!”
Seg moved a few steps closer, lowering his voice. “Legally, it is. There’s no chance at a land claim, and she’s well aware of that fact. But if she ever proves her bloodline claim, she’ll be an embarrassment to F’Heing just by existing. I thought it best to pull her over to your service, given the chance.”
“I’m surprised they let her out to the Conclave in the first place,” Cafad observed.
Seg ostentatiously studied the embroidery on his shirt cuff.
“F’Heing didn’t know she was in their company, did they?”
Seg fixed his gaze on a nearby wall hanging.
Cafad sighed, not sure whether to be amused or exasperated. “Seg—”
His s’e-kath inclined his head, turning his attention back to Cafad. “This is a minor matter, Lord Scratha. It’s well within my responsibilities and authority to handle. Any trouble will come upon me, not upon you.”
Cafad stood, restless, and paced across the room, then turned to frown at Seg. “If they ask for her back—”
“They will not, lord. That would mean admitting they let her get this far, and draw attention to a person they wish to obscure.”
In the other room, one of the kathain broke into cheerful whistling. The sound was echoed by two others in a brief burst of woven melody. Cafad didn’t recognize the tune, but the clear enthusiasm brought a reluctant smile to his face. Maybe this wouldn’t be so awful after all.
He made himself focus back on the conversation at hand. “They’re not going to believe any of it was chance, Seg.”
“What they believe and what they can act on, lord, are very different things.” Seg tucked his hands behind his back again, weight balanced evenly, the very image of patient obduracy.
Cafad snorted, deciding to allow himself to be amused. “All right, Seg,” he said, and sat down on the edge of the bed again. “You’re going to keep me muddled right up into the middle of things, aren’t you?”
“Lord Scratha, that is part of my job,” Seg said with deadpan sincerity.
“I was joking,” Cafad said, startled.
Seg crossed his arms before him, expression flattening. “Lord Scratha, the more inconsequential matters your mind is filled with, the less time you will have to brood. The tincture may only be used for a handful of days in a row. Ha’inn Deiq has told me that Scratha ha’rethe has agreed to leave you an unusual level of privacy, to give you time to adjust to this unexpected situation. Once that grace time is over, lord—you must be able to handle emotional matters without assistance. To fail in that could well be to kill us all.”
Cafad sat still, hands flat on his thighs, the thin pants fabric abruptly feeling as harsh as shattered rock. All the blood in his body seemed to be draining to his feet, leaving him light-headed for a dreadfully long moment. The chatter of the kathain in the other room hazed into incoherence, then returned, loud and distracting, a mixture of dialect and servant slang he didn’t properly understand. He shut that out with an effort, rebalancing his perceptions, then said, “What are you talking about?”
“A moment, lord.” Seg went to the curtain to the kathain room, put his head past, murmured something Cafad didn’t catch, then returned to his patient stance near the door. “In the early days of a binding, as I understand it, ha’reye cannot tell the difference between the bound lord stubbing his toe and the bound lord being attacked by an unknown opponent. While the primary purpose of your kathain is to serve as insulation between your moods and the ha’rethe’s awareness, the majority of that distinction must come from the bound lord himself, from a clarity of mind and spirit that separates the trivial from the important, the dangerous from the merely inconvenient. As far as I know, lord, you have not yet had that level of training. Am I incorrect?”
Cafad sucked in a gasping breath. “Holy gods,” he said. “Tell me you’re just trying to scare me.” Distantly, he noted that all sound from the kathain room had stopped. Apparently Seg had told them to be quiet. Not entirely fair, but Cafad had to admit it came as a relief.
Seg regarded him with an implacable expression. “No. I am not trying to scare you, lord.”
Cafad shut his eyes, his heart thundering in his ears. Nobody ever told me about that. Nobody. Ever. Why? Because they never expected me to properly bind myself to a ha’rethe. He stopped himself from going any further along that line of thought with an effort. “And you chose to come here?” he blurted without meaning to say it aloud. “Why, for the love of the gods?”
Seg’s gaze was direct and his tone devoid of inflection as he said, “Because rebuilding Scratha Family is a move of great significance to the southlands. I believe I am the best choice to keep you alive through this time of transition, and I believe that job to be more important than any risk to my own life.”
Cafad stared at the man for a while, until his heartbeat faded from his own hearing, then said, “Do you play chabi, Seg?”
Seg’s mouth stretched into a brief smile. “Of course, lord. Doesn’t everyone?”
“I think I’d like to play a game or ten against you.”
Seg flattened his palms together before his chest, smiling, and offered a slight bow. “Of course, lord. Perhaps not just now, however. It is rather late in the evening, and I believe you might prefer to sleep.”
“After hearing that?”
Seg regarded him with raised eyebrows and said nothing.
Cafad rubbed a hand across his eyes. “Being tired won’t help matters. You’re right.” He stood to turn down the covers on the bed.
“Which kathain would you like tonight?” Seg inquired, moving toward the curtain.
Cafad opened his mouth to protest that he’d rather be alone, then stopped and looked at the floor, his lips pressed tight together, remembering Seg’s words: The more inconsequential matters your mind is filled with....
“You decide,” he said at last, sullenly. He stripped out of the thin trousers, dropping them to the floor, and climbed under the covers.
A few moments later, as Seg turned the lamps down, a warm and undeniably female body slipped in beside him, tucking up close, shivering a little as though chilled—or afraid.
“I am Retiae, lord,” she said in a small voice. “I—I thank you for choosing me tonight.”
Cafad drew a deep breath and made himself put his arms around her, murmuring reassurance. Whether from the tea or the tincture or from some other reason, he had absolutely no interest in her. Once she realized that, her shivering stopped. She relaxed against him with a contented sigh and promptly fell asleep.
He stared into the darkness, the kathain’s hair—or wig, more likely—tickling his nose; wondering, bleakly, why he’d ever wanted to be a desert lord, let alone Head of an entire desert Family. Maybe the Aerthraim had the right idea after all: no desert lords, no ha’reye, no Agreement. Their lives had to be considerably simpler, in some respects.
Something stirred in the darkness—not in the room, but inside his mind. Deiq’s distinctive presence pressed in, more intimate and disturbing than any sexual encounter. Quiet, he said. Quiet, Lord Scratha. Quiet. Layer your thoughts. Like this—
An insidious pressure shifted and rearranged bits of Cafad’s mind like tiles from a child’s puzzle. Cafad gagged, gasping for breath; then dropped unexpectedly into a crystalline calm, a centered awareness, with every thought in his head swirling around like a lacework globe of random, fractured patterns.
Nobody ever taught you this? Stupid. Can you manage this yourself? Deiq said, sounding more than a little tired and irritable. I can’t hold it going for you, and certainly not after I leave.
I think so, now that you’ve shown me how it works, Cafad said, and gingerly set mental fingers against critical support points. He felt Deiq’s presence easing free. The globe wobbled a little, then steadied. Thank you. I had no idea this was possible.
Deiq didn’t answer, just withdrew completely, which felt—strange, after that moment of overwhelming internal pressure. There was an absence now, a void that wanted to be filled, which translated to an unexpected interest in the kathain beside him: and she made no protest at all over being abruptly roused from sleep.
Chapter 3
“This heat! Dear gods, how do these people stand it. And not a window in sight!”
Riss held her face politely attentive. Sela didn’t seem to notice, her attention fixing on her niece’s less amiable expression as Gria said, “Well, aunt, you could be sleeping, like everyone else around here.”
Or wearing properly light clothing, Riss thought but didn’t say aloud, eyeing Sela’s relatively heavy northern-style garments. While her clothes were at least made of linen, the long sleeves, long skirt, and stiff embroidery had to be absolutely brutal in this heat. Sela never wore anything that could expose her forearms, which, given the harsh scarring from the ugren cuffs, was entirely understandable. Gria tended to wear lighter, gauzier clothes with loose sleeves that accomplished the same goal without setting her so visually far apart from the locals.
“Don’t you mock me, young lady,” Sela snapped. She cast a sideways glance at Riss, her expression shifting from irritable to vaguely chagrined. “You may be numaina, but you’re still my niece, and you’ll mind your manners,” she added, as though to explain.
Riss let it go. They were the only people, as far as she knew, in the courtyard at the moment. Sela clearly realized she’d been rude by southern standards, and just as clearly had decided that Riss didn’t count as arbiter of etiquette yet without Lord Scratha or Lord Darden present to back her up.
Riss went on quietly braiding Gria’s dark hair into coiled loops atop her head, occasionally pausing to mop sweat from the girl’s neck. It was properly a servant’s task, but Riss didn’t mind. Besides, Gria refused to let any of the servants tend to her grooming so far. That came directly from Sela, no question. The woman was adamant about not allowing her niece to get “soft” from her new status.
Riss found it hard to believe the small, bony woman was related to Gria; found it harder to believe that Gria had accepted the lie of Sela being her mother without question for so many years. Sela was shorter, paler, all knobbly irritability and wide-set, prominent eyes. Gria was a good head taller, with thick black hair and dark, sharp features, and even at her most sullen she was never openly rude these days. She’d picked up on southern etiquette much more promptly than her aunt, and had shown a much broader willingness to accept cultural differences.
“You haven’t told me how you came to meet Lord Scratha,” Sela said abruptly, fidgeting. Her gaze skittered away, came back, a frown crossing her face. “I’ve been meaning to ask, but there always seem to be servants about, and I’m not one for dragging personal matters out before the help.”
Riss bit the inside of her cheek, understanding the implication perfectly. The real question in Sela’s mind involved the words unwed and pregnant.
“It’s not a particularly interesting story,” she said, and tucked the last bit of braid securely into place with a lizard-shaped clasp to hold it.
Gria felt at her hair gingerly as Riss stepped around her. “Thank you, Riss,” she said. “That is much more comfortable.”
“One of the servants showed me how to do it,” Riss said. “They have ways of cutting your hair, too, that thins it out during the hot season.”
“That would be a valuable skill for you to learn,” Sela pronounced, nodding. “Entirely suitable.”
“For an ambassador?” Riss said acerbically, unable to help it this time.
Sela’s prominent eyes narrowed. “You still believe that’s what he’ll have you doing? Foolishness. Noblemen can’t afford to have—” She stopped short, her lips thinning.
Riss felt her jaw harden even as Gria said, reproving, “Aunt Sela!”
“I’m not a whore,” Riss said.
“You’re unmarried and pregnant!” Sela snapped. “How is that anything but disgraceful? He can’t possibly intend for you to represent him with honor. You’re being groomed as a southern whore, at best. Wake up, girl!”
“It’s not the same here,” Gria protested. “Aunt Sela, you’re not being fair!”
“There’s no fair to the truth,” Sela said, glaring at her niece.
“But you don’t know what the truth is,” Gria said hotly. “It wasn’t Riss’s fault!”
“So, then, she was raped? That’s no less disgraceful, Gria! And she’s chosen the path of flaunting her shame to all with eyes to see!”
“I am right here,” Riss said, an ugly heat flushing across her face. “S’a Sela, I’m not discussing this with you, now or ever. I’d appreciate your not speaking of it, either, as it’s none of your damn business. Excuse me.” She turned and strode from the courtyard, shaking and nauseous with the force of her rage.
