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Knock knock knock…
Déárán languidly opened one eye lid and gazed around to determine the source of
the irritating noise. A calm ray of daylight poured into the room through the
great glass panes (he usually left the drapes open), and like the spring fae
welcoming the blossoming savanta, skipped gaily around the furniture. The scene
seemed eccentrically familiar to the young Lillivear. Of course; he had lived
through this a few moments ago. In that state between dreaming and waking up,
when we are presented with strangely clear insights into some of life’s most
baffling questions (which, we unfortunately cannot put together in the same
configuration soon after we step down from that divine light onto our mundane
worlds), it all made perfect sense. He had seen all this a minute ago in his
dream and thus he knew how it was all going to take form. He might as well save
precious time and skip through the run of the mill of the waking ritual (some of
the rites of which, such as the continuous yawning and rubbing of one’s eyes
while persistently demanding answers to the same questions, had they occurred at
any other time, would most certainly be associated with a deficient development
of the mind). The room still smelled of the rich odour of lilac.
"Cletus, I already told you that I am not feeling
alright – and no healers please. Just leave the tray by the door; I promise to
pick it up later."
"But sir -"
Knock knock
knock…
Déárán languidly opened one eye lid and gazed around to determine the source of
the irritating noise. A calm ray of daylight poured into the room through the
great glass panes (he usually left the drapes open), and like the spring fae
welcoming the blossoming savanta, skipped gaily around the furniture.
He stared at the beautiful morning sky and mumbled to himself or to whichever
Zhunite deity might be watching him (some gods, really, had too much time on
their hands, which they unfortunately perverted into spying on people’s lives;
someone ought to teach them the notion of privacy), "This is starting to
get tiresome…"
"I do not desire to see anyone."
Knock knock knock…
"Cletus, do not make me repeat myself: I want that breakfast outside my door
now; I will not be joining the Rhuniths; and no, you will not be coming in. You
will leave the tray by the door. I do not wish to see anyone today – and that
includes a healer from the Temple."
"I see you are absorbing the lordly tones all right. At this pace you will
outperform Lord Xhinarkel in arrogance before the week wanes."
The young Lillivear darted out of bed with all the verve of a cat whose tail has
been stamped on at the sound of his childhood mentor. Roná? RONÁ? Here at the
Rhunith residence? Oh Ankriss, no! Cannot be, please let it not be! She isn’t
even supposed to be here! A chain of heavily disturbing thoughts dashed across
his mind like a squirrel chasing its mate’s tail. She could not have heard about
the yesterday’s incident – no: catastrophe – could she? Oh Lords, oh Lords! What
if she mentioned it to mother? Sweat began to trickle down his shoulder-blades.
You idiot, of course she hasn’t heard of the party; news doesn’t travel that
fast – not even in Zhun. And mention it to mother! Déárán, she is half the world
away; it would take weeks for a letter to reach her – even with the express
lines!
"Roná? What possessed you to get out of bed so early today? You never get out of
bed before the sun is well into the day."
The room was filled with his bursting laughter.
"Oh dear Ankriss! You must have woken with dawn to be here at this hour!"
There was a nettled jingle of keys and suddenly the heavy oak door banged open.
"Looking good, looking good…"
She eyed him from head to feet like a Serekeyer potter examining her wares.
"You may even have your chest hairs soon."
Entertaining a generous palette of pinkish tones, Déárán coloured very
self-consciously in the face and made a frenzied attempt to reach for the thin
mantle. Gasping, he began a high-pitched tirade, his scandalized voice spelling
'outrageous' with every syllable.
"You don’t just barge in to someone’s bedchambers! You knock first and wait for
an answer!"
"Which… I did."
"And you comply with their requests!"
"Ah! Technicalities…"
"When someone says no, you don’t go on interpreting it as casually as the Krean
Council interprets the Krath High Codes to infer 'Oh, I meant please come on
in.' When someone says they do not wish to be disturbed and asks you to not come
in, you don’t just barge in, you don’t just barge in!"
"You are beginning to repeat yourself. And you will catch the wind standing like
that. That blanket looks horribly thin. Why would anyone buy something like that
in the first place? That thing has more holes in it than thread, I’m telling
you."
Déárán looked down at the sheet he was holding very tightly to and realized it
was one of those decorative bed coverings woven from white Kechit yarn, which
did not really do much in covering anything with its generously spaced patterns
designed to exhibit the expensive sheets beneath. Blossoming into a full red he
silently thanked the Goddess that he had never taken up that peculiar Zhunite
habit of sleeping completely naked.
"Roná why are you even here? Aren’t you supposed to be on your way to Sah,
taking that long overdue leave you have been nagging endlessly for the last
seven years? What happened this time?"
Mistress Roná tossed her hair in that very characteristically irritated way and
simply said "Yukselos." as if that one word contained within it the
explanation of the world’s most complicated problems. The young mage
contemplated that in a sense for her it did.
"What did he do this time?"
"He got us thrown off the ship with his tirade on the social injustice of the
Empire. Dim-witted Roná works her hair into grain for them, and noble Yukselos
cannot restrain himself until at least the ship sets sail!"
Déárán could barely restrain himself from erupting into laugher.
"What exactly did he do?"
"Arh! Arh! Shall I start by his calling the captain a ‘big fat slave of
imperialism who could not see his own feet from behind his imperial belly’ or
his asking the captain’s first if they had nothing better to sail in than ‘this
leaky bathtub’?"
"I see…"
After a thoughtful pause, the Lillivear mage asked:
"Wait a second! How did you even get in here?"
"I ran into Khalid on my way up the stairs and upon hearing that I had travelled
all this way to see you, he very kindly offered to fetch Master Xaras’ keys for
me. You should try to be more like him."
"Oh for the sake of Ankriss, that boy is terrified of Xaras! He would eat his
shoes than ask him for keys to the guestrooms. Roná, what did you do to
that poor boy?"
"Nothing! I merely inquired whether he could find me the keys to your chambers."
"Roná…"
"Now reflecting back on the whole incident I guess I may have seemed a bit
exacting to the casual observer…"
"RONÁ…"
"Alright, alright! I cornered him against the railings and tickled him until he
was willing to give up his keys."
"I never gave him any keys…"
"Well then, you will have to work that out between yourselves."
"But, Roná, seriously, why are you here?"
"You asked for a consultation, remember? Check your programme; it is listed
under early morning before your meeting at the Golden Coronet."
Déárán raised a very suspicious eyebrow and opened the heavy tome sitting on the
ornate bedside table.
"I swear to Ankriss that wasn’t there last night! Just how many people have
access to this room, walking freely in and out at such private hours!"
"Well, I shall let you to ponder that. I will be in that Sea Terrace; join me as
soon as you are dressed."
"For the hundredth time Roná, it is 'the Terrace of the Singing Waves'… Oh, and
before you leave could you send Fiolina up to fill the scented bath?"
"Déárán I’m not going to wait downstairs until sunset. And you do have an
appointment at lightthrive."
"Oh, stop it for earth’s sake! You and my mother! You two would make an ape out
of a field mouse! But fair enough, I shall not take a bath this morning; had one
last night and Master Blandon can always be counted on to work up a sweat
anyway. You have been delivered Roná, say your thanks to the gods!"
By then the curly haired woman had already left the room, but her laughter
carried up the spiraling stairs, echoing the one question Déárán always asked
her:
"Where did the sender's address go again?"
Slightly under three quarters of
an hour, Déárán made his long awaited appearance at the rather quaintly named
'Terrace of the Singing Waves'
after composing his hair into a delightfully presentable state, bathing his face
in seven different tonics (all of which had to be freshly prepared and applied),
subtly scenting the day’s outfit (the choosing of which leased the better part
of an half-hour), and packing for the busy morning ahead, by which time Roná had
already burrowed halfway into her third plate with good cheer. The young Krean
had chosen to amuse himself with a dark blue robe with a fashionably high neck
and shoulders hoisted cleverly from the inside to just the broadness he always
believed Nature had erred in not granting. Déárán thought he looked quite royal
in the majesty of the garment.
Roná mumbled something (which Déárán took to be) in vague resemblance of a
greeting whilst loading another hefty cargo into her labouring mouth.
"Excuse me?"
Gulping the rose shaped bread down with juice freshly squeezed from fragrant
oranges picked from the estate’s orchards earlier in the morning, she tried
again:
"Isaidwhyareyou walking like a malfunctioning Anpagan
golem?"
"You try walking in this! These Zhunites!.. They starch and iron their garbs,
until the robes can attend a council meeting by themselves."
After a moment’s careful contemplation, the young officer added, with his head
slightly tilted, "Considering the ridiculous length of those discussions, in
some weird way that does make some sense". He knew it would take the better part
of the morning’s sunshine to ease the clothes’ rigidity.
Roná advanced her inquiry from behind the tangerine she was trying to squeeze
into her mouth, "What took you so long?"
Going over a detailed account of the activities that had occupied his waking up,
skipping of course the smelly potion – they were as a rule of thumb always
smelly - which was supposedly exceptional for removing headaches (applying
inductive reasoning Déárán had come to the conclusion that it was anybody’s
guess how something of such appalling odour removed only the ache), he reached
halfway across the table to the crystal pitcher (which it was hoped signified a
drawing towards an end), "… and holding the fact that I had to prepare seven
tonics – the effects of which you almost neutralized – you ought to congratulate
me, Your Ladyship, for coming down in such good time." A spray of tangerine
formed a perfect sphere a nailsbreadth from the young mage’s forehead.
"Impressive."
"Thank you, Roná. It is a great pleasure to have you finally acknowledge the
subtleties of our art."
"Oh not that", making a grand gesture of indifferent dismissal, which
involved the flailing of a breakfast knife covered in melted butter, Roná
continued, "- the dress! Is it not hot in that though?"
Déárán nodded his head in a knowing fashion, "Yes… it’s always the dress… And
for your edification Roná, this is not a dress but a robe."
"You haven’t answered my question."
The Krean eyed the sizzling drops of hot butter squirting from the ornamented
silver knife his mentor was waving in an accusatory manner in his face.
"How lady like…"
Déárán relished his small victory of finally causing the brisk woman to blush
(and thus restoring the balance of justice) with a smug smirk on his lips. Roná,
like all women, knowing not where to pull the reins, hanged on to that
inopportune phrase (actually as a Krean, Déárán observed that pattern of
behaviour characteristically more often in men here than their wives - likewise
whoever thought women were the nagging gender obviously never had drinking
companions):
"I said you haven’t answered my question…"
"As I am sure you realized when you acquainted yourself with my schedule
yesterday – Ankriss knows when! –"
"I resent that."
"I hope you do."
Tossing his locks back in a very aristocratically irritated manner (and
realizing that this was no longer possible with his substantially shortened
hair), he continued as if no heated exchange had just passed between them:
"I have an appointment at the Imperial Quarters at sunreign."
"You still haven’t answered my question."
Now in true imitation of noble irritation, Déárán hissed like a rosesnake:
"Like the falseheart once you cling to a rock, you hold onto it don’t you? No, I
do not sweat terribly in this robe notwithstanding the horrible heat."
"What’s the fabric?"
"Half cotton, half silk and half spilk – satisfied?"
Roná eyed the young Krean over the appetizingly warm slice of bread on which she
was spreading melted Kechit cheese in perfect meditation.
"That adds up to more than one whole! That’s enough cloth for one and half a
man."
"Alright, reduce the spilk a bit…"
Suddenly the determined woman reached across the span of a fully blossomed
Zhunite breakfast and got an unexpected but firm grip on his left sleeve. The
abrupt move sent down half empty jugs and all sorts of little side plates that
routinely attended a morning meal in Kimbar. Bright, blue strands of runes
spiralled out of the gentle breeze and scarcely caught the articles before their
contents spilled all over the white embroidery.
"Look what you’ve almost done!"
"I thought you used green light?"
"I do," the young man hastily added, "but that wouldn’t have matched the robes,
you see…" He did not want Roná to realize that he had just used Aesteran magic,
the awareness of which would rapidly present itself to Khalid the moment the
smug pleasure of knowing something he did not dawned on her. Then Khalid would
be all over him, demanding to know what he knew and… Suffice to say the effort
of slithering out of the situation did not appeal to the adolescent officer.
Roná, never taken with the arcane, revisited the more engaging topic of wealth,
hearsay fashion and life of the upper echelons of society,
"PURE spilk? Have you any idea how much that is worth?"
"Judging from the gleam in your eyes, I am sure I soon will…"
"Why, you could buy the whole Imperial Quarters with that dress, that… that…
robe."
After several failed attempts Déárán finally rescued his arm from Roná’s
tentacles. Deciding to gracefully ignore her invigorated calculations, nodding
encouragingly of course at thoughtful intervals to keep her from venturing into
more disturbing territory (such as particulars and fresh gossip material from
yesterday’s festivities), the young Krean began to decorate his porcelain
breakfast plate with fruits. The peaches looked especially succulent today. He
regarded the whole episode as a valuable exercise: Keep the candle of curiosity
alight and the gale of hearsay blowing and you could smuggle an adult Gorba
through a mouse hole (cities always have mice – except in the Twin Kingdom –
which always nibble at the most unsolicited places, but in his two weeks as an
Imperial Appraiser, Déárán had discovered that this city had a propensity
towards breeding remarkably large and voracious ones). It was an empirically
proven fact; people did it everyday.
" … and of course if you shorten it – nothing major! Just a few fores from the
hem – much more stylish that way – and invest it in the – I hear there is a new
shipment of Anpagan tobacco coming this week from well… Anpagan –"
"Aha, just a few fores did you say?"
"On second thought, a few palmspans may do just as well," realizing that she got
a bit too carried away (that would practically leave Déárán stripped below the
waist), her voice trailed off to a nervous blush. In fact, Déárán could almost
see the syllables swell and balloon into chubby flushes. So lost was the Zhunite
in her acute embarrassment that she eventually picked up exactly where she had
left: "After all, everybody says that can only be an infected load – did you
know that the captain had already gone ashore at Hoostar but apparently had no
luck with the traders therecanyoubelieveit?" Her words had an interesting way of
bonding with their successors like isolated rain droplets which continuously
merged into little streams on glass windows.
Déárán was mightily enjoying himself. As he maintained his nodding pace he could
not help realize that those sweet melon slices would bring out just the right
contrast next to juicy apricot wedges he had recently obtained at/from a lengthy
journey to the other end of the table.
"… but then again ifonlyyoucouldbealittlelessgenerous with those sleeves …"
So fascinated was Roná by her own tittle-tattle that she very nearly talked
herself into believing the buzz she formulated last week to keep that annoying
Anestra off those lovely shell trinkets.
In the meagre time it took Déárán to peel some figs and serve himself a glass of
that sweet tangerine, his mentor had already engineered an alternate world order
and was now going over the details.
"… by which time, Nestolander," (her husband), "will have departed this life to
meet his maker – and what a sight that would be! I wonder who would be the more
disappointed… Speaking of dissatisfaction, I hear that Cyrian wool trader got
thrown out of his house last Ajo’i! Finally that woman came to her senses – you
know I’ve been uttering a word of warning for months, do you not?"
"Yes. Quite a few actually…" So Master Tibalt was evicted at last. That was news
to the Krean Appraiser. Good news. "The scoundrel got his desert afterall…" he
muttered.
"Paintings."
"Come again?"
"Paintings. He had some excellent oil paintings dating back to the Year of the
Singing Bird, all three hundred years. Now that he’s gotten the boot and no wife
to bleed dry, I expect he will want to shift the burden. Oil doesn’t feed you
Roná nor do colours settle an upset stomach – not even Bland’s. Do you think I
should exhibit the tenderness of my heart and lend a helping hand?"
"Who are you kidding Déárán? I know you since you held your first quill; it is
that stormy sea canvas you are after… The pun was too subtle by the way."
"Sowhatdo you say, Roná? What’s the word in the market?"
"Well, things are a bit shaky down at the grand agora, so I don’t reckon that
rascal will have much luck this week. I wouldn’t recommend the venture though; a
better bargain would be those Cuscan ceramics down at the White Gull’s Flight."
Déárán nodded approvingly. Of course he did not intend to heed the Zhunite’s
recommendation; taking financial advice from Roná was like… In fact, there was
nothing (quite) like it. Metaphors about the wolf asking the shepherd where to
find his lost flock or the sheep asking the wolf if he knew of a good place to
spend the night paled, considerably, besides inviting Roná to speculate about
investments.
"I shall think about it." - And he did. It took thirteen blinks altogether. See,
Roná was a firm believer in dialectical materialism. The only problem was
nothing good ever came out of the ensuing struggle other than a more determined
Roná.
It would be most imprudent to miss this golden opportunity. He had to move fast.
Déárán intrinsically knew a killing strike was needed; a swiftly delivered one
timer; a tempting offer before any of the Vultures heard the irresistible voice
of disaster and lunged – and stirred the prey… Actually that was quite
misleading. The Big Vultures never moved. They stayed still (airborne) and the
world revolved around their special gravity in that peculiar, uncertain way - as
it always did around shiny objects. Whoever told you The World had a method to
its madness were dead wrong (probably literally so). Obviously they had never
been down to the Real World. The World did not have a strange, inbuilt logic; it
just loved shiny objects. In fact, The World and Merfolk had a lot in common:
They both enjoyed watching the sun reflect off sparkly items. They also lost
interest very quickly. The Vultures were big man who lived quiet lives. Better
grab the snake before the stakes were raised. That was why the Asaen family wore
spilk when emperors had to war for silk. They got there first.
Just as Déárán was preparing to slip away before his mentor shook off the warm
absorption of reveries, Roná roused from her light flight of fantasy.
"Hey, not so fast… Where do you think you are going, my sweet Déárán? You never
asked for your consultation. Your sister’s shyness must have rubbed on to you.
Worry not; I shall start. Now, I presume you meant to ask me about the …….."
In the forty minute one-way conference, the young mage managed to finish his
breakfast, rinse his hands in the scented water one of the maids brought in a
crystal basin, and even rush upstairs to brush his teeth and refresh his
perfume. He was aberrantly quiet.
When his mentor finally summed up, all the Krean had said was:
"I think I will go for those paintings. Why did you say they wouldn’t be a wise
exchange in the first place anyhow? If they don’t turn out to be as
gorgeous/worthwhile/indispensable as they seemed, I could always pass them onto
someone as a party gift. Oh stop frowning for the sake of Ankriss! Why do you
think no one ever knows the current location of one of Master Sculptor Basil's
works?"
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