Servants of the Sands, page 66
Tharr waited, his eyes once again half-shut. She had the feeling he could wait forever.
“All right,” she said finally, and began to sing.
Chapter 80
Lantern-light gave the white drapes a grey-golden sheen and caught gleams from the recently polished blackwood desk. Cafad could still smell the polish in the air; some sort of almond oil, at a guess. Not his favorite aroma, but the desk looked even more magnificently imposing than usual. He could tell that Seg had been handling a number of administrative duties here. Different papers were stacked all around, and a fresh inkwell and several quills had been added.
The constant, rhythmic battering of wind and rain made conversation here, as in many rooms of Scratha Fortress, difficult at best. But Cafad had to sort out what his s’ekath had been doing, so he was sitting at his desk, chair edged close to Seg’s, heads bent together over various letters and documents.
They mostly concerned tedious, boring matters. A bill for seedlings, paid and receipted. A note from the gardeners on how the seedlings were coming along, and how many would be set aside for seed and propagation, how many used for fruit and food. A listing of the current garden staff, and notes on their behavior. Pages of observations about the numaina’s habits: She was spending a great deal of time in the library, and had been distantly polite to all since the ceremony. Seg had it all organized very clearly. This stack for the kitchen, that stack for household servants, this for the kathain....
Cafad flattened his hand on the kathain paperwork as Seg began to set it aside. “Lichni,” he said. “You said she’s still here?”
“Yes, lord. Waiting on your word as to her status.” Seg glanced up, his mouth moving into a faint grimace. “Given the current weather, there is no hurry, lord. She will not be able to travel for some days yet. You have time.”
“I’d like to get it over with,” Cafad said. “First and foremost, Seg, I owe you an apology.”
Seg inclined his head gravely. “Yes, lord,” he said. “Accepted and appreciated. Shall I fetch Lichni?”
Cafad hesitated—he’d had a lengthier apology ready—but Seg had the right to decline further conversation on that point. “Yes, please,” he said, surrendering. Seg’s mouth moved in a slight smile, and he inclined his head again.
“I’ll send for a tea tray as well, if I might,” Seg offered as he rose to his feet and set his chair back to the front of the desk. “It’s nearly time for the afternoon meal, in any case.”
“Yes. Thank you.” Cafad sat back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes. As the study door closed behind his s’e-kath, he idly opened a desk drawer. Writing supplies rattled: a box of ink powder and a bound bundle of uncut quills, a sharp knife, a box of drying sand, a half-melted bar of blue wax, the Scratha Family seal—He frowned at that last item. It should have been in a locked safe. He’d scold Seg over that on the man’s return.
It also seemed like an excessive amount of writing supplies. He’d have to ask Seg how many letters he’d been writing while Cafad slept—and to whom. He slid the drawer closed again, opened another. This one held a stack of folded cloths: neatly embroidered handkerchiefs, of all things. He shook his head, bemused, and began to close the drawer again. Something else rattled.
He paused, pulling the drawer out until it met the stop, and lifted aside the cloths to find a small box containing several spools of thread and an assortment of needles and thimbles.
Interesting. So Seg liked to embroider in his spare time. But the box didn’t rattle quite the same way as the sound he’d just heard, and this was the drawer he’d always heard an odd noise from. He lifted cloths and sewing supplies aside, piling them carelessly on the desk, and began seriously studying the inside of the drawer. The rain eased, its roar dying to a steady patter as he ran his hands around the wooden rectangle.
The study door opened. Seg ushered Lichni into the room.
“Lord,” he said, “as requested—ah.” He paused, regarding the embroidery on the desk. “I apologize, lord. I had intended to take that out of your way.”
“It’s fine, Seg,” Cafad said, waving at the chairs before his desk. “Sit down, Lichni, I’ll be with you in a moment.”
“Lord,” his manservant replied, tone reproving. “I took s’a Lichni from meditation—”
“I take no offense, s’e-kath Seg,” Lichni said, settling into the northern-style chair rather than the kneeling stool. “It’s enough of an honor to be in my lord’s presence, whether he addresses me immediately or later.”
Cafad glanced up at her, eyebrows rising. She met his gaze, serene, smiling. She hadn’t been shaving her scalp. The hair was a soft dark shadow, just past stubble, a tacit declaration that she wasn’t currently in service. She wore a simple dress of dark-neutral colors, and sat in the chair with her bare feet resting gently against the floor.
“Thank you,” he said after a moment. “Seg, did you send for tea yet?”
Seg’s head-tilt offered silent reproach for that question, but he said only, “Yes, lord. It should be here shortly.”
Cafad tilted his own head, raising an eyebrow pointedly.
Seg picked delicately at one sleeve, his mouth twitching. “—Ah. I’ll go check on that, if I may.” He bowed and removed himself from the room.
Cafad went back to examining the drawer. “I’ve been hearing a rattle from this drawer ever since the desk moved in here,” he said. “Drawer’s empty, everything feels solid, nothing’s wiggly, so I thought—”
“A secret bottom or back,” Lichni said, beaming. “Oh, that’s fun!”
“This was Orde’s desk,” Cafad said. “I rather doubt anything he thought worth hiding would be fun, Lichni.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure,” she returned. “I’ve heard many a rumor about Orde over the years. He had some peculiar tastes, apparently.”
“He was a desert lord,” Cafad said absently, feeling around the inside of the drawer once again. “Peculiar is normal for us.”
“Even so.” She wiggled her eyebrows, grinning. “I’ve heard kathain saying he was unusual—in more than one way.”
“I don’t want to know,” Cafad said, then grunted and sat back in exasperation. “Nothing. I can’t find the slightest ridge or hook. The drawer is as solid as all of the others.”
“Sounds like a puzzle box,” Lichni said. “I love those—Norau taught me rather a lot about them. Maybe I could look?”
Cafad flattened his hands on the desk, jarred by the abrupt reminder. “Lichni,” he said, “About that—about... what happened.”
She sobered. “Lord, I was not available when you needed me, and you were injured from my inattention. That was my failing. I should have waited until I was certain you would be occupied elsewhere that night. I owe you an apology, and you may take whatever penalty you choose for my failure.”
“You weren’t the only one involved,” Cafad said, the words emerging harsh from the back of his throat.
“True, but you weren’t looking to take them to bed that night, lord,” Lichni pointed out. “I am the one at fault. I have already offered your s’e-kath my apology, and paid his choice of penalty, for putting him at such risk. Please don’t ask what he required of me, lord. I’d prefer not to discuss it.”
Don’t ask—words he’d always hated hearing, now more so than ever. I have a right to know! said his younger self. She has the right to refuse answers, came the more mature, and extremely frustrating, reply.
Cafad looked down at his hands until his temper subsided once more. “I’m sorry, Lichni,” he said then, not raising his gaze. “I expected more of you than was proper, and I put the entire Fortress in danger from my mistake. You did nothing wrong.”
“I appreciate the kindness, lord, but I was at fault. I accept your apology, not because I need it, but because you need me to accept it.” She paused, then added, “Caffy, I’m sorry. Truly. I hurt you, and I never intended to do that. All I wanted was to make you happy, which I would have tried to do whether I was your kathain or ordinary lover. I never lied. I did want to serve you, when I heard you were alive. I still want to serve you. I’m not sure, though, that my continued service is what’s best for you.”
He looked at her, studying the lines of her face, the laugh wrinkles, the sadness in her eyes, the stubble of her hair, and sighed. “See what you can do about this damn drawer,” he said, standing to move out of the way. Her expression lit up at once, shifting to a childlike joy, and he laughed as she almost leapt from her chair.
“I love puzzles.” Unbothered by his amusement, Lichni shut the drawer, studied the handle, and tapped a few places along the top and sides of the desk. Then she opened the drawer again, slowly, head cocked as though listening for something. She ran her fingers around the inside, as he had done, but with more attention to the rims of the drawer than the bottom and sides. She repeated that process twice more, each time more rapidly, then shut the drawer firmly and straightened, smiling.
“You solved it?” he demanded.
“I think so.” She motioned him back to his chair. “Take hold of the handle, not as though you’re pulling it out, but as though you’re going to turn it in place. Now twist it to the right. You should feel a click—there! Now wait—don’t move a muscle—hold that for one, two, three, four—now twist it back to the left, and further to the left, until you feel that click again—Now turn it back to center quickly, good. Now pull the drawer out as normal.”
The drawer that slid out was a good inch wider to each side than it had been. The original drawer was easily lifted out and set aside. A metal cylinder, capped at each end with wax, took up most of the previously hidden drawer. Much of the wax had broken off, probably while the desk was being moved, and a tight roll of papers could be seen within the tube. Three small stone balls had rolled loose as well, each one a varying shade of blue.
“Holy gods,” Cafad said, grinning widely. “Thank you, Lichni! That’s astounding. How did you know that?” He picked out the marble-sized stones, setting them on the desk with care, and corrected their slight movement until they held still.
“It’s an Aerthraim-crafted puzzle drawer,” she said, returning to her chair, visibly pleased with herself. “Norau told me about those. He couldn’t show me any, obviously, but he told me so many stories about the ones he’d encountered. He was a very good storyteller, lord.” She sighed. “I do miss him. Oh—” She looked at Cafad in consternation. “I’m sorry, lord, I wasn’t paying attention—that was unkind of me.”
He doubted that the comment had been in any way accidental, but he waved it aside all the same. “Thank you,” he said again. He hesitated, then added, “Would you join me for dinner tonight?”
She smiled and bent her head. “I would be honored, lord,” she said. “But I need to know my status before accepting. And I need to know the penance for my failure, lord.”
He sat back in his chair, considering, turning the metal cylinder over in his hands. What was left of the seal showed Orde’s distinctive stamp, and the metal was etched with Orde’s shorthand for confidential/danger.
“I think—” he began.
The door to the study opened. Cafad put a hand over the stones to keep them still; then, impulsively, scooped them up and tucked them into his belt pouch. Seg ushered in one of the new kathain, carrying the tea tray. Another followed behind with a folding tray-table, which he silently set up at the corner of Cafad’s desk, to Lichni’s left hand. The first kathain set the tray down, fussed a bit with the fixings, poured two cups of tea, set one before Lichni and one before Cafad, then bowed and withdrew alongside his companion. Not a word was spoken the entire time.
Seg shut the door gently behind the kathain, then turned to frown at Cafad. “What is that, lord?” he asked, motioning to the cylinder in Cafad’s hand.
“This was in a hidden drawer of the desk,” Cafad said, holding it up briefly. “There are papers inside. I haven’t opened it yet, but I think it’s something Orde wrote.”
“Ah.” Seg’s frown deepened. “I think perhaps I should take that, lord.”
“What?” Cafad felt his chin go up, his jaw hardening. “There might be answers in here!”
“Which is precisely why you should not read it, lord,” Seg interrupted. “Allow me to read it first, please, to make certain you will not be troubled with matters a bound lord ought not concern himself over.”
Anger flushed up his spine. Cafad sat up straighter and snapped, “No. I’ve been looking for answers my entire fucking life, Seg! I’ll decide if I should be troubled in this instance, thank you very much.”
“My lord,” Lichni said, her expression anxious. “Your s’e-kath is correct—lord, you should really allow him—”
“Quiet,” Cafad said harshly. “You’re not in my service any longer. You have no right to advise me, and I’m not asking for your opinion in any case.” Lichni’s back stiffened, her head lifting in clear affront.
“Lord,” she said, standing. “I’ll excuse myself, by your leave, and begin preparing to depart once the roads are clear.”
A sharp ache cut through his chest. Rising anger cauterized it a moment later, adding acid to his reply. “Fine. Seg will write you an open recommendation for any place you like. Gods’ grace, s’a.” The final words felt insincere and hollow in his mouth.
Lichni’s mouth turned to a sour line. “Gods’ grace, lord,” she said with matching emptiness, then turned and stalked from the room.
Seg’s frown almost obscured his eyes. “That was ill done, lord,” he said. “The temper you’re displaying makes me all the more inclined to insist you not read that document.”
“You’re not going to insist on a godsdamned thing,” Cafad said thinly. “You may sit your arse down in the chair and stop scowling at me. You’re not taking this out of my hands.” He matched Seg’s glare for a moment, then added, “I’ll read the damned thing aloud. Slowly. And you can interrupt and make me take a break if I get too upset. All right?”
Seg, his lips a thin line, settled in the chair Lichni had been occupying. “May I suggest adding a tincture to your tea, at least?” he said.
“I don’t have any more.” Cafad reached for his now-lukewarm tea and tossed the liquid back like a shot of desert lightning. He shut his eyes and swiftly constructed the strongest possible version of the layered thought-globe Deiq had shown him. “There. I’m settled. Now—”
He brushed away the remaining wax, and scooted the mess off to the side with one hand. Seg reached out and gathered up his embroidery supplies, depositing them gently onto the seat of a nearby kneeling chair.
Cafad unrolled the papers, hands steady. Seg leaned forward and pinned down the top edge with one hand, eyes darting over the revealed text. His frown returned immediately, and Cafad laughed, unable to help himself. “You can’t read this upside down,” he told his s’e-kath. “Orde had a specific way of writing when he wanted something kept private from onlookers. And it’s Scratha dialect. I’ll have to translate some of it for you.”
“I am not unfamiliar with Scratha dialect,” Seg retorted, clearly nettled.
“Seg, Orde invented words. I doubt even the old Lord Scratha could have made sense of this entire thing. I’m going to have to work at it, myself. Now be quiet and let me concentrate.”
He worked through the first paragraph in silence, struggling to remember Orde’s style and eccentricities. He’d spent considerable time, over the years, reading through every journal and record book his mentor had written, but it had been a long time since his last attempt.
“Ah,” he said under his breath. “That’s right. He always swapped out those letters—and put those words backwards—I remember now.” He straightened, rubbing his eyes, then began reading aloud.
I begin this account on the ninth day of—
“I’ll skip the beginning, it’s all dates and titles and how long he’s been in service at Scratha—wait. He didn’t train at—oh. He trained at the Qisani! I never knew that!” Cafad glanced up to see a faint smile twitch Seg’s mouth. “Obviously you did.”
“Yes, lord.”
“Hm. Well. In any case—”
—I have made many a controversial decision during my time serving Scratha Family. I already have more enemies than friends, and I fear that will only grow worse in the coming months, as I make ever more dangerous arrangements. Many Scratha desert lords are already abandoning their oaths, going to safer service or, in the most extreme cases, losing themselves to strong drugs and drink.
Cafad paused. “Oh yes,” he said under his breath. “I remember.” Shaking his head, he returned his attention to the document.
My task is the preservation of Scratha Family as a whole first; obeying the Lord of the Fortress comes second. This is heretical to many of my fellow desert lords, who see themselves as far above the commoners as a mountain to a grain of sand. The commoners merely serve us, they are replaceable and insignificant. I vehemently disagree. Scratha Family has always been premier diplomats, but that is of late becoming a restriction that holds us back and sets a barrier before those of potential, merely because of their bloodline. I will change this.
Cafad paused again, leaning back in his chair. “So that’s why he brought me in,” he said, wonderingly. “As part of a bigger plan. I thought he just... well. I didn’t look at it too closely, actually. I was afraid that if I questioned my good fortune it would be taken away.” He went back to reading:
I believe this troubling separation between those of so-called noble birth and those who can only expect to perform menial labor throughout their lives is directly tied to the influence of Scratha ha’rethe. The ha’reye, as I learned during my time at the Qisani, are extremely narrow of vision and divide all things into the worthy and the unworthy of consideration, often missing the complex nuance of human reality. I was taught that the host affects the protector as the protector affects the host, and that over centuries a given Family will find that their ha’rethe takes on the dominant characteristics of their leaders, while their leaders become, in turn, more like the ha’reye.
