by Kevin Hearne
“Oh, no, you and I can talk later. I understand from your clan that there are more pressing matters than my ease, and since they’ve sent a greensleeve, I can hardly argue the matter.”
I blink a couple of times. “The greensleeve came with you? I didn’t expect him to arrive for some time.”
“It’s true he had a good distance to travel and he nearly missed the ship, but he ran through the night, forgoing sleep, and he just made it. Our rooms are right next to each other and he told me he’d be along shortly; he just wanted to shave.” Kav Mit Par takes a step back into the hallway and looks to his left, instantly spying the subject of our conversation approaching. “Ah, yes, here we are.” He smiles, shifts to the edge of the doorway to make room, and says, “Ambassador Mai Bet Ken, I present Mak Fin ben Fos.”
A greensleeve walks into the room, his gaze following the gesture of Kav’s berobed arm. His blue eyes lock on mine, and both of us freeze, suddenly rooted.
We do not speak. There is silence: a golden time in which each of us grows in the light of the other’s eyes. He is, quite simply, a beautiful man. He cannot be unaware of it, just as I am aware that sometimes I am thought beautiful too. But we have stunned each other and recognized it, and rather than ruin it with speech, we linger in tense, delicious awkwardness, savoring each second of this bright precious time when we cannot make a mistake, cannot be foolish or vain or indeed even human—just an ideal, long dreamt of, made suddenly flesh, scions of generations who lived to bear a legacy and now, finally, we are joined.
The moment stretches, neither of us willing to break it, and though I think Ambassador Par takes a ridiculously long while to recognize that his introduction has sufficed, he does eventually realize that he should make a smooth, graceful exit.
“Please excuse me,” he says, and clears his throat. “I have something to do now…elsewhere.”
Well, the ambassador is young, and I am sure he will work on his smoothness and grace.
His departure only makes the silence between us more exquisite. The air seems to shimmer, I am so gripped by emotion—a phenomenon I have noticed only twice before in my life: once when my younger brother was born, and the other when I bade farewell to my family to leave the Canopy behind, perhaps forever. How has ben Fos done this to me in mere seconds?
I direct my hand toward a silverbark settee, indicating he should sit. There is a round tea table set off to one side in front of it, made of the same sacred wood, and he gives the barest nod of acknowledgment before moving. I move at the same time to the hearth, where there is always a kettle to be boiled, and shift it over the flame to heat up.
Once done, I glance over my shoulder at him as he folds himself behind the table. Please, I implore him with my eyes, do not feel you need to talk. Just sit there and be pretty. Perhaps he is silently pleading with me to hold my tongue as well. The execution of tea service in traditional fashion, no steps spared, can be a comfort like no other to one who has never left the Canopy before. It is a ritual to which people cling, a comforting touch of home when confronted with this alien landscape bereft of trees, and I have brought visitors to tears with it in my time. I wonder if he will weep too.
I hope he does, and yet I hope he does not.
I suppose that means he can do no wrong in my eyes, and I feel how dangerous that is professionally. My judgment is already suborned regarding this man. That means I’m in danger of doing something profoundly stupid, sooner or later.
I hope it’s later.
The tea service—made entirely of Fornish hardwoods, right down to the tray and spoons—waits for me on the counter. The interiors of the pot and the cups are coated with a resin that can handle the heat of the boiling water.
I present his cup and saucer to him on the palm of my hand. It’s a small cup without any handle, an upside-down bell of polished inlaid wood; the beautiful panels are of different hardwoods, which a greensleeve would recognize instantly but that would stupefy almost any foreigner. While the interiors are smooth, the exteriors are finely carved with clan patterns, creating an interesting sensation on the fingertips. Back home these are called “ambassador tea sets”: They are what we use to show off to people outside Forn, but they’re rarely seen inside our own borders since they’re too expensive. At present there are only two living crafters who can produce them. It is traditional to do honor to the crafter and thereby show the guest in what esteem he is held. This can be done verbally, but more often, as in this case, there is no need: There is a linen card on the tray with the information printed on it in plant-based inks, because this too shows off the bounty and craft of Forn. Handing him one is both part of the ceremony and a convenient excuse to remain silent, and I do that once I set down the tray on the table in front of him.
Mak Fin ben Fos reads it, holding it in both his hands, and then, instead of returning it to the tray as expected, he smiles at me and puts the card in the pocket of his waistcoat. Why? Is it because I gave it to him?
My innards feel molten, and I hope I’m not visibly sweating.
The kettle is just about ready. I spoon some of our clan’s proprietary tea blend into the pot. There is no cream or sugar on the tray: It simply is not done in ceremony, and in fact it’s rare in everyday use too, at least in Forn. The people of other nations seem to like their tea altered from its original taste, but we have suited our tastes to what the Canopy provides.
I bring the bubbling kettle over from the fire, gather up the sleeve of my robe, and pour water into the pot. It’s flawless, not a drop spilled, and I smother a grin, because that’s supposed to be what I do naturally.
Once the lid is on the pot and the kettle returned to the hearth, there is nothing to do but wait for the tea to steep. It would be acceptable to speak at this point, but I don’t want to accept that from him. I want more of this mutual silent admiration. Because I can tell that he likes what he sees—which is, apart from all subjective judgments, a woman who likes what she sees. That shining regard in the eyes: That is the sweetest honey.
There is an upholstered silverbark chair next to the settee, angled for conversation, and I sit on the edge of it, back straight, and fold my hands in my lap, beaming at him. And thank the Canopy, he keeps his mouth shut and answers my pleased expression with his own. The silence continues.
After a slow count to sixty, I rise and present to him a strainer to place over the cup.
When he reaches out to take it from me, there is the smallest contact of skin on skin, a shivery frisson that becomes embers inside me. He holds the cup still while I carefully pour tea through the strainer. With that done, I pour tea into my own cup. He waits until I’ve returned to my seat and then, looking at each other over the rims, we sip once, twice, then shoot the rest, as custom dictates. It scalds the roof of my mouth, but I don’t care.
He sighs in contentment, then puts his cup and saucer down with a muted but audible thud on the table. It breaks the spell, and he finally speaks, in a rich baritone that quietly steps into my mind and wraps it in a comfortable blanket. “Ambassador Ken, that was a perfect welcome. Thank you.”
“You are indeed most welcome, ben Fos. I cannot express how glad I am that you are here. You have taken on a duty that will prove draining, I fear, but in service to Canopy and clan alike.”
“It’s that service that made me volunteer. This plan of yours will yield bountiful harvests for years to come. And it has certainly motivated the clan like nothing I’ve seen.”
“How so?”
“Well, we have so many young people leaving the Canopy to work in these tea treehouses I’m going to be growing. If nothing else, you’ve made a name for yourself among the parents of the clan for inspiring their children to leave home.”
I winced. “Oh, no. What is the staffing like?”
“Mostly young adults, with a few older ones to manage th
em. There will be two ships leaving Pont full of staff—one is no doubt en route and will arrive in the next couple of days, I expect. It’s supposed to have enough staff for here, Batana Mar Din, and Khul Bashab. We’re going to hop on that one to head north. The second ship will have staff for the northern cities.”
“So the clan council agreed that the Red Pheasants should staff them all? It’s truly a clan affair?”
“Everything has been done according to the request in your report. It was masterfully written, if you don’t mind me saying so.”
“That’s very kind.” By the blossoms of the First Tree, he’s shining his sun at the perfect angle for me. At present I can only admire his jaw and frame and demeanor, but these are impossible subjects to mention aloud. I confine myself to saying, “I expect I’ll have cause to compliment your work very soon.”
“I hope so. I’ll get to work in the morning after a full night’s sleep. I assume you have much to do to prepare for our departure north, so I’ll not take up any more of your time.”
He rises and I do the same, telling him he’s been no burden at all and my door is always open to him. He gives a nod of acknowledgment to this, opens his mouth to speak, and then his eyes travel up to the ceiling and he pauses, choosing his words carefully.
“As an ambassador to Ghurana Nent, I expect your profession will require you to stay away from the Canopy for many years.”
“It will. And as a greensleeve, I expect, you can’t wait to return to the Canopy.”
“I’m going to enjoy this time for what it is: new growth for everyone. But, yes, I’m sure I’ll be grateful to be home again, whensoever that day comes.”
I nearly laugh aloud at my own folly. I had felt such hope, such soaring exhilaration, like a fledgling taking her first flight, but this attraction is an impossible one. Mak and I can be nothing to each other but a fantasy, a ghost of an impossible future that will haunt us in the dark of lonely nights. Well, I can only speak for myself. Regardless of what he feels or doesn’t feel, our lives will be forever lived apart after this brief time of twining.
And that is all assuming that he’s free in the first place. I can’t imagine he’s available, even though he’s not wearing a wedding band. Perhaps that’s on purpose, though: Maybe he’s thinking that since he’s out of the Canopy he might as well pretend he’s free. But apart from returning the same intense regard I’m giving him, he’s done nothing to suggest he’s seeking a liaison.
This attraction is astoundingly inconvenient. I wish he would do something rude or gross so I could clear him out of my head. Perhaps the best way forward is to get down to business.
“May I ask if you know how long it will take to grow the treehouse?”
“I can do it in a day if the soil is cooperative. We can leave almost as soon as the ship arrives from Pont.”
I wish him a good evening, in response to which he places a hand over his heart and bows, his moss-covered forearm so gorgeous against the red of the waistcoat, and wishes me an untroubled and restful night. He is so perfect I am seized by the impulse to just grab his face and gnaw on him. Only years of training to mask my thoughts and desires save us both.
When he leaves, I go to the liquor cabinet and pour myself a drink much stronger than tea: Raelech rye whiskey from Aelinmech, which, I am told, is known throughout Rael as “the Good Shit.”
I wind up pouring three before retiring for the night.
I don’t see Mak Fin ben Fos again until it’s time to board the ship to Batana Mar Din. By that time he’s grown the tea treehouse, Kav Mit Par and I have spoken extensively about his priorities and duties going forward, and I’ve packed up everything and managed to convince a couple of my experienced staff members to come with me.
During the journey, ben Fos and I do get a brief time to talk again, and I am proud of myself for keeping it entirely professional.
“Your most important growth will be in Khul Bashab,” I tell him, “because that is where these children of the Sixth Kenning are located. If there is anything you can do beyond what you normally do to make that tree especially grand and attract them, please do it. One of the beast callers is linked to bees, so perhaps some attractive flowering vines would not go amiss—if that’s possible?”
“It’s possible, certainly. You may count on me to see it done.”
“Thank you. The ambassador there, Jes Dan Kuf, is not of our clan but he’s of our mind. He sees the Sixth Kenning as a vital component of Forn’s future flourishing. You may rely on him as you would me.”
“Indeed? That’s a comfort. There is no higher recommendation.”
Oh, rot and ruin. Whether he knows it or not, he’s an expert in pollinating my pistil. I need to leave before I nibble on his ear, but I can’t without saying something oblique to let him know in what high regard I hold him.
“Thank you, ben Fos. I will anxiously await your arrival in Talala Fouz, and I hope there we might have more time to talk. Forgive me for now, but I must compose a letter to the viceroy of Batana Mar Din for you to deliver.”
“Of course.”
I am so smooth and graceful. Kav Mit Par should have seen that exit; the boy could stand to learn a thing or three from me.
Every day that I don’t wantonly mash my face against Mak’s is a victory. I would rather nurture my impossible longing than act on it and be crushed like autumn leaves underfoot.
At Batana Mar Din, I give ben Fos letters for the viceroys on the Banighel River and another for Jes Dan Kuf.
“Hurry if you can, but leave nothing undone. I would like to hear news of the beast callers as soon as you can manage.”
He performs that bow again, hand over his heart, and mine practically melts. Leaving him hurts; the ship is quite lonely with him and all the treehouse staff gone. It is only my staffers and me continuing on to Talala Fouz, together with a cargo of building supplies being shipped up from Pont. Some of it is for our own use, to reestablish our embassy there, but the rest will be sold to the city for their own rebuilding efforts.
It is a cold, withering truth I must confront, that my days ahead will be filled far more with Melishev Lohmet than with Mak Fin ben Fos. Such is the patch of garden in which I must grow.
I’ll see ben Fos for a brief time when he gets there, then he’ll have to leave once more, sailing up the West Gravewater, building tea treehouses in all the river cities. He will make one last visit in Talala Fouz before he returns to Forn, and after that, I’ll likely never see him again.
Canopy first, I remind myself; clan second; and myself last.
* * *
—
“And while that was going on,” Fintan said in transition, “matters escalated in Khul Bashab…”
He took the seeming of Viceroy Bhamet Senesh.
The shitsnake of Hashan Khek, Melishev Lohmet, is now my king. King Kalaad the Unwell, they’re calling him. I’m more surprised at the sudden vacancy, however, than at his ability to slither onto the throne. Winthir Kanek losing his blasted mind and setting his fury loose in Talala Fouz was not a scenario I had anticipated. This is the year of unpleasant surprises, apparently.
According to the Raelechs, who had a bard in the room when it happened, the meltdown was all over his daughter and his desire to see her married to his political advantage. I will call that Exhibit B in my ever-expanding file of Why Marriage Is a Bad Idea, my parents retaining their place at the top as Exhibit A.
I already know from Melishev’s responses to my requests for help that he holds no love or respect for me. If I don’t wipe out these beast callers soon with my meager resources, I can expect to be replaced. Melishev didn’t appear to be concerned by the threat these kids posed to the throne when he wasn’t sitting on it, but I suspect that will change, if it hasn’t already. The only chance I have of holding on here is to t
ake care of the problem myself.
Captain Khatagar has made himself scarce around the tower lately, since he’s hyperaware that if I see his face, I’ll ask him about the elusive beast callers. When he finally does show up, he interrupts a fervid and rather humid report from Patriarch Dhanush Bursenan that attendance in the church has dropped every week since rumors of the beast callers began. The priest finishes with the indignant air of someone who expects me to do something.
“Like I told you before, Dhanush, it’s past time for the church to make up some new shit,” I say.
“What if it makes more people leave?”
“And what if it makes them come back? From what you’re telling me, they’re leaving anyway.”
“It would be more helpful if the Sixth Kenning were not real,” he says. “Then we wouldn’t need to come up with some alternative to long-held beliefs.”
“Again, Patriarch, you’re complaining to the wrong guy. Denying reality is the church’s business.”
His sweat glands practically ejaculate in anger as he trembles and takes a breath to respond, but I cut him off with a grin.
“You see what I did there? I turned that back around on you. You were trying to be critical and I shoved it down your soup hole. I’m quicker on my feet than you and I’m sitting on my ass right now.”
That’s when Captain Khatagar appears, saving the patriarch from having to reply. It’s just as well.
“We found one of them,” he says as soon as he bursts into the room, confident that I’ll know who he means—and I do, since there’s nothing else on my mind except those kids. “Would you like to be present for the interrogation?”
“I would.” I heave my bulk out of the throne and nod at good ol’ Threat Sweat as I descend the stairs. “Pardon me, Patriarch. Urgent business. Ask for a towel on the way out, though. Looks like you’re about to drown in your robes there.”
He gurgles impotently at me as I pass. Everything about the man is wet somehow. His socks must be practically weaponized by the end of the day. I’ll have to give him something plush and dry to make up for abusing him, though. Maybe a curly high-plains alpaca he can rub up against every few minutes. Or maybe send him a case or two of those marinated eels he likes. I do need the church on my side, and I don’t need to eat any more of those things. My waistband’s tight enough as it is.
