Caiso took another swig, seemingly unaffected by the rancid taste. “Well, that Ishir proved more useful than his appearance might suggest. He’s at the helm right now. With any luck, next week they won’t be picking up pieces of us from the Orasmus shoreline.” He grimaced. “Doesn’t mean I’ve forgiven you, by the way, but you’re the boss and I like money.”
“You’ll get a raise when we get back. I’ll take over when we’re done here. Let Ishir get some sleep.”
Caiso sloshed grog at his direction. “You’ll do no such thing. For one thing, you’re half-drunk.”
“I’m just surprised I’m not blind, from the taste of this swill.”
“Another thing—you’ve been silent the whole evening. More so than usual. It’s affecting you, isn’t it? Seeing your people again, and all that? As if you weren’t enough of a basket case already.”
Kefier looked over the rim of his cup. “It’s just this feeling I have that I’ve done nothing my whole life except clean up after my brother’s messes.”
“You have a brother? Goodness, aren’t you a bag of surprises. Well, tell me why that’s a problem. From where I stand, it makes him the fuck-up, not you.”
“That’s…” He sighed. “Nothing. Thank you for listening.”
Caiso looked disappointed. “But I haven’t even gotten started yet.”
“Call Eswenna. She’ll out-drink you.”
“Like I’ll share this fine grog with that bitch. Where are you going?”
“To relieve Ishir, like I said.” Kefier walked out to the deck, to the smell of salt and sea breeze. Caiso appeared a second later, covered in a cloak. He was still carrying his cup of grog.
Ishir greeted them with a nod. His hair was pure white, a stark contrast against his dark skin. “Calm, quiet wind like this, should get us within sight of land by morning.” He shivered. “I didn’t get the chance to thank you for what you did earlier. You risked your life for us. You didn’t have to.”
“I think I did,” Kefier said, rubbing his ear. “Somebody tipped them about my presence in the Hafed ship. I would’ve just gone on with my life otherwise. Be in Tilarthan by now.”
“Where I could be getting a nice foot rub by a strapping young lad in The Wrinkled Shrew instead of drinking this delightful…beverage,” Caiso grunted. He grimaced, sticking his tongue out. “Thanks for reminding me. Now I hate you again.” He spat to the side. “Speaking of which, I’m almost sure it was Bannal who told them about you. That sneaky bastard must have figured out which ship we took that morning.”
“It’s too late to do anything about it,” Kefier said. “We’ll get him next time.” He patted Ishir’s shoulder. “There is a spot on the southwest of the peninsula—as close to Hafod as you can get it—that should allow the passage of a ship this size. Let me know when we’re close. I think I can lead you to it.”
“The peninsula. You still haven’t explained to us what we’ll be doing there.”
“I may have a place for you, if you’re in no hurry to be anywhere else. It isn’t much. It’ll be safer than Hafod, anyway.”
Caiso looked up in interest. “Knowing you, Kefier, that place is probably the last bastion to civilization. A place where we can congregate with animals and dance with the trees. Just my luck...I can’t even take a stroll without a sunburn.”
“I’m sure we can scrounge up a hat for you somewhere.”
Caiso shivered, frowning. “I can’t wait.”
Interlude
That feeling of fear, gnawing in the pit of her stomach, is a new sensation. It is not to say that she has never felt fear before, but in all those other times, there was an outlet, a thing she could do to distract her from her emotions. Today, it is different. Today, her father failed to return on the day he said he would, and there has been...nothing else. No more news, no proclamations trumpeting through the halls. The birds outside her window continue to sing.
Rosha knows that most children would cry and lock themselves up in their room in an effort to mute the pain. But she is not like most children. She heads to the courtyard for her daily lesson with Jarche and calmly makes it through the morning without breathing a word about her father. Only when it is done does Jarche notice something—a look in her eye, perhaps. She is not sure how people can do these things.
“He’ll come home,” Jarche says. “I’m sure he was just distracted by something.”
She shrugs. “He knows how to take care of himself.” Deep down, she is not sure. Even though she is only eight years old, she knows that her father is not like the men he runs with. There is a distinct kindness in him, the kind that would mean he could kill himself extending his help to another, or find himself taken advantage of by desperate souls. This worries her. She meant to say something to him one of these days, but she could never bring herself to.
Rosha must have at least asked him to take care of himself. She knows that he lives a dangerous life, has seen it from the occasional sighs he would utter whenever he would finish speaking with the master, or the way his eyes would harden as he straps his sword and kisses her goodbye. She also knows that it is mostly her fault that he feels like he has to do all of this—that he obeys the master so that she could continue to learn and play with the agan.
It does not make her feel bad, of course. She likes studying—likes that the master’s house is always full of books, compared to their little house in Jin-Sayeng, where she would get so terribly bored. She likes it when Jarche would take her into the city after the morning lessons, exploring the market for little trinkets or watching her meet all sorts of people. She does not like talking to people herself, but it is always interesting to watch them—their clothes, their shoes, what kind of food they ate. It made her imagine all the different places they must have come from, and what she could see herself, if she ever found the time or courage to go out into the world.
“Would you like to go to town with me, then?” Jarche asks, predictably. “We can take a walk along the docks and see if somebody came upriver with some news. Maybe something happened in Baidh. Bad weather.”
Rosha looks up. The sky is clear, no cloud in sight. The birds are still singing.
“Well,” Jarche sighs. “It may look different in Baidh. It is still so far away, after all.”
“I don’t feel…”
“Child,” Jarche exclaims. “Just come with me. Do not argue.”
“I just don’t think it will make a difference,” she says.
“We can get some cakes in the market.”
“Cakes won’t save my father if he’s in danger,” she sighs, but she jumps down from her seat and grabs her coat, anyway. She is a little hungry. She follows Jarche down the path, past the gate. The footman closes it behind them.
They stroll through the street in silence, breath fogging over their mouths. Rosha always likes to walk one step behind Jarche, because it makes it easier for her to think. She walked like that with her mother, too. It is different with her father, who insists on holding her hand. Even after she told him that she is far, far too old, and unlikely to walk straight into running carriage…
“You would, too,” Kefier told her. “You and your mother, your thoughts have thoughts of their own. They scurry around. Like rats.”
“Don’t compare me to her,” she remembers replying. He also lacks a gift for imagery. Rats, indeed.
She realizes that they are in the marketplace and that Jarche, as good as her word, is buying cakes. She feigns disinterest, choosing instead to gaze out at the other stalls in an effort to distract herself from thinking about Kefier. But one of the vendors is selling dogs, which makes her efforts doubly difficult. Her father likes to buy her puppies, especially when he is trying to appease her. There are at least three in the stable, full-grown beasts with appetites to match. She didn’t have the heart to tell him that she is not as fond of them as she used to be.
“I got you ginger cakes,” Jarche says, appearing beside her. She gives Rosha a paper bag. The
re is already a half-bitten cake in her hand.
“Thank you,” Rosha replies. She takes one out and nibbles a little at first, testing the texture of it, before taking a bigger bite. Jarche leans over to touch her hair.
“You need to comb once in a while,” she says, running her fingers through Rosha’s thick, dark brown locks. “You don’t want it to mat.”
“Don’t have the time,” Rosha mumbles.
“Even so.” She sighs. “You do have your father’s hair.”
Rosha looks up at her. “No, I don’t.”
Jarche smiles. “I meant to say—I suppose not.” She adjusts Rosha’s scarf before gesturing. “Shall we go to the docks?”
“I guess,” she says. They continue to walk. She starts to stare at people, again, and Jarche attempts to distract her with casual conversation about the household: how the master needed to replace his last horse for shying at stray leaves, and how the last cook was involved in a scandal in Kiel—and to think they trusted the woman with their evening meals! Rosha nods, listening only enough so she could make the appropriate sounds in response, because she has learned that it upsets people when she doesn’t pay attention to them.
At the docks, she ignores Jarche to look out at the river. It is almost midday. Her father should have arrived yesterday morning. He should, in fact, have arrived in Hafod three days ago, where he promised her he would conclude business as soon as he could and then take a ship to Nalvor and then a riverboat up the river to Cael. He knows she likes it when he goes into detail.
“Stay out here, where I can see you, while I go talk to them again,” Jarche says, indicating the registration office. “Don’t go anywhere.”
“I know,” she sighs. Jarche does not look convinced. It does not bother Rosha what Jarche chooses to believe. She begins to swing her legs, regretting her decision not to bring a book. She thinks, if there was bad weather in Baidh, there would be less ships at the docks today. Fifty-five percent of shipments to Cael come from Baidh. Mostly in the form of wool and wool products.
She takes another cake, blinking. The cake warms up in her hand, but she does not really notice this. Something must have also happened to his companions. Otherwise, they would have arrived in time or at least sent a missive through one of the trade ships. But the last message from the Boarshind in Hafod says that none of them made it back at all.
Another thought occurs to her. I used to wait like this for him. When he finally arrived, it was not as happy as I imagined… The thought fades before she realizes it. She blinks. Jarche is coming up behind her.
“You’re not happy,” Rosha says, observing her face. It’s partly a question, but she does not want to seem so eager.
“Nothing at all.” Jarche flicks her ears back. “On the other hand, no news is good news.”
“I suppose,” Rosha says. She jumps from her seat. “Let’s go home.”
“Are you sure? We could stay here, ask around some more…”
“He knows the way back,” she says. “If he can, he will. If he can’t, there’s nothing we can do.”
She wonders, a little later, if her tone could be construed as harsh. It is not her intention. She appreciates what Jarche is trying to do, even if she herself does not understand it too much. Later, after they get back to the mansion, she locks herself in her room. She gets into bed and attempts to read a few books. She is crying before she realizes it. She knows it is frivolous—another unnecessary act—but the realization does not stop the tears from falling.
Chapter Five
The evening after Tetsung alon gar Shoho’s funeral, Sume returned to Fuyyu and found Arn sitting on a bench outside the inn, a book in his hands. Cloaked in rain, she couldn’t help but stop and stare at him. The stark contrast of the ghostly image, compared to all the other times she had encountered him caught her off guard. That boy, his figure barely perceptible through the thin mist while he thumbed through the pages, could not be that same, crazed lunatic who stabbed his own mother without blinking.
Sume observed how Arn angled the book against the lamp behind him in an attempt to play with the light. She also noticed how, despite how interesting the book must’ve been for him to deal with the inconvenience of reading it at this hour, his face remained expressionless. After turning each page, the fingers of his left hand would tap a silent rhythm on his knee, as if he was playing a musical instrument.
Her thoughts drifted back to Rosha and the arrangement that kept her locked up in Yn Garr’s abode. One thing became clear: Yn Garr did not take in thugs. It was one thing to educate children for the sake of educating them—she had seen enough of Dai to know how quickly some children lost interest if you gave them the chance. But she had only seen this enraptured look while reading in another child before, and that was with Rosha. She imagined Enosh had been the same. Yn Garr’s criteria seemed to involve not just a tendency for the agan, but intelligence as well.
“Are you planning on gawking at me all night?” Arn asked, breaking her thoughts.
She lowered her umbrella and came up to join him under the porch. “It seemed strange to see you alone.”
He looked irritated. “You requested I don’t take Faran with me.” He ran his fingers through his damp hair before tucking his book into his bag.
Sume sighed. “We Jinseins are suspicious. If it’s not a dragon…”
“Yes, you said. But I also know you don’t like him. Maybe you think I’m helpless without him.” His eyes got dark.
“I’m well aware of what you’re capable of without your beast, Arn. Let’s not discuss it any further.”
“Have you finished all your affairs?” Arn asked.
“Tetsung’s family was...devastated, as to be expected, but I think his wife knew. She had learned to prepare herself for news like these.”
“And the other?”
“I’m about to pay Hirong Sethi’s home a visit right now.”
Arn got up. “I need to come.”
Sume wondered what people would say if she brought in a rai, a foreigner, into their midst. Merchants, as a rule, were the most tolerant of the castes, and in a place like Fuyyu, the fact that Arn was a Kag shouldn’t pose a problem. She found herself nodding and held up her umbrella for him to duck under. It was entirely out of reflex: it was raining and he was getting wet. She caught the look on his face—a mixture of confusion and relief, like he wanted to accept the kindness—before he hung back, scowling.
They made their way through the dark streets in silence. Sume hoped she could find the Sethi home using the half-hearted instructions Tetsung’s mother had given her. The reception at Tetsung’s family home had been cold. She stayed exactly one night and left before things could get any worse.
Sume had expected this—she was the one, after all, who had asked to meet up in Fuyyu—but dealing with a grieving family had been more difficult than she imagined. They did not know her association with the man who killed him—Hana had not betrayed her in that regard, at least. It was just as well...she didn’t think she could handle them blaming her any more than they already did.
She thought of Kefier and that last fight they had in Dageis. I wonder if this was what you were afraid of, why you didn’t tell me about my brother for the longest time. She had not really known how to process her emotions about him when she first found out he was responsible for her brother’s death. Killed him, he had said. He had claimed it was an accident, but a part of her refused to believe his words. Now, after her own part to play in Tetsung’s death, she wasn’t sure what to believe anymore.
What she did know was the way she felt in those days when Kefier looked after Rosha and Dai like they were his own. The memories made it easier for her to deal with the aftermath of facing Tetsung’s family. They made it a little harder for her to deal with her feelings towards Kefier, but that was a burden she had learned to bear all these years.
She found herself standing by the porch leading to a small home. She flicked the water off the umbrell
a and left it against the wall. “Take your shoes off,” she told Arn before knocking. He scowled at her.
The door slid open, but not all the way. “I’m here to see Hirong Sethi,” Sume said to the crack.
“No one by that name lives here,” a woman’s voice replied. “Sorry for the inconvenience.”
“Please,” Sume said, grabbing the door before the woman could slide it shut. “I received information from the Shoho family that this address would lead me to him. I know he does not go by that name anymore.”
“I can’t help you,” the woman said, attempting to force the door. Sume pushed back.
“I’m Kaggawa’s daughter. My father is dead but Magister Sagar told me about Hirong. He doesn’t know where he lives, or if he even goes by that name anymore, so I’ve had no success for years until I learned that the Shoho family used to do business with him...”
There was a creak. Sume stepped back as the door opened the rest of the way. A tall, grey-haired woman stood in the entrance, arms folded. She had a strong, flat jaw and sharp, wolfish eyes. She glanced at Sume first, and then at Arn.
“Two strangers in the rain…” she murmured. “Damn fortuneteller was right.” She shook her head. “Never mind that. Come in before you catch your death out there.”
Sume stepped out of her shoes and followed the woman inside. “Sit,” the woman said, indicating the cushions on the floor. Sume settled into one. Arn chose to stand in the corner with his arms crossed.
The woman glanced at him and pressed her lips into a thin smile. “It is poor practice not to submit one’s self to a host’s request.”
“So I told him,” Sume said. “The boy is a bit...stubborn.” She tried to say it lightly, hoping Arn didn’t understand Jinan. From the flat expression on his face, it didn’t look like he did. “About the man I seek…”
“First, let me correct you. Hirong Sethi is not a man. Never was.” The woman folded her hands and bowed.
An Elegy of Heroes Page 85
