Kei's Gift

by Ann Somerville

  His chest ached a little at the memory, and Kei reached out to touch his hand. “I can’t teach that in words, but I could make notes about some of the treatments that might help. It would be a start.”

  “Would it bother you the army would use it?”

  “An injured man is an injured man, Arman. My patients are not enemies.”

  Arman wondered whether any of the physicians down on the Street of Punus Gift would feel that way. They were arrogant and proud of their so-called skills, loudly proclaiming the support of the gods for their vocation, even though their only real talents lay in ushering the dying out of this world, and snatching their fees from the living left behind. The army medics were far more honest and less likely to sacrifice a basket of fowls as an answer to a marsh fever, but their successes were no greater, unfortunately. “Start writing it in Darshianese and then we can work on translating it as it’s in progress. It may be never be finished, but perhaps one day someone will take up the task.”

  “As you wish. I doubt anyone will listen to a filthy Darshianese.”

  The low bitter words were not like Kei at all, and Arman wondered who or what he’d heard. “Never mind, I will.”

  Kei nodded and then gave him a quick, almost embarrassed hug before turning to lie down on his pallet.

  Arman retired to his own bed, and tried very hard not to think how good it felt to hold Kei. That line of thinking had to be closed as tight as Kurlik Pass, or he would go mad.

  ~~~~~~~~

  It was like trying to climb naked out of a long, dark well, with slime-covered walls, having only a single rope to pull himself up with—a rope that only bore part of his weight so he had to use his fingertips, his toes, and raw willpower to climb. Every inch was won at the cost of bloody hands and feet, and every foot came at the price of falling back six inches. The only guide was the distant, dim light above him, promising freedom if he could only reach it, and that fragile, precious rope.

  Arman was the light, his touch the rope, and Kei used them as much as he dared to help himself escape from the void eating at him from within. Every day was a struggle, the nights a torment. Arman was almost always there, a kind presence when Kei needed it, offering a touch, an embrace, stolen when they were alone—small things that created the footing Kei built for himself. He still slipped, and the slipping was agonising—but at the end of a week, he was amazed how far he’d come.

  The project Arman had thought up was a stroke of genius. A useful task, absorbing enough of his attention to distract him from the ache inside for long periods of a time, and occupying his intellect rather than his emotions, it was ideal for his present situation, and he threw himself wholeheartedly into it. Such guides already existed in Darshek, texts for training healers sent from the villages, and for the staff who worked in the infirmaries in the city. But a simple instructional text that even a common soldier or farmer could use, did not exist, and so Kei set to writing it.

  He refused to care some of his people might think he was giving aid and comfort to the enemy. He healed and he helped the sick. His father had never said his drugs were to be used only on the Darshianese. His mother had taught him the correct way to bandage all wounds, not just those on brown skin. Besides, his enemy was giving aid and comfort to him, so he was in no position to sit in judgment.

  Arman was taking an enormous personal risk for him. Not only had he left himself wide open before now to accusations of infidelity against his wife by treating Kei with such consideration, he left himself vulnerable to even worse attacks by keeping Kei in his office each day.

  He and Arman were careful to be discreet in their friendship. Kei was always meticulously respectful to any visitors, leaving the room if directed without any question (and then having to find a corner in which to hide, to escape the curious looks of the soldiers and palace staff), but Arman was still exposed. He received high-ranking visitors on a daily basis, and it could not have been normal for him to have Loke with him as he did Kei.

  Other people didn’t think so either. One afternoon, when Kei was working intently on a description of the management of infected thurl bites, the door opened without any warning and in swept Senator Mekus.

  Kei stumbled hurriedly to his feet and bowed, but Arman merely looked coolly at his visitor. “Senator, is there something I can help you with?”

  “Yes, you can, General—I want to know why you have a Darshianese hostage right in the heart of the palace, allowing him to spy on us!”

  Kei gripped the back of the chair he was standing behind, and tried not to be sick on the spot with fear and with feeling the anger and resentment of the man in front of him. He also wished his Prijian hadn’t become so fluent—ignorance would be bliss in this situation.

  Arman switched to Darshianese in his reply, which Kei was pretty sure he only did to annoy the senator. “Spy? If you mean my manservant, I don’t understand the accusation.” How did Arman do that? Manage to seem unconcerned, even slightly bored, when Kei knew how strong his anxiety was.

  “I mean this,” Mekus said, snatching up the paper on which Kei had been writing. “I’ve been told he sits here, day in and day out, listening to private meetings, making notes! What possible purpose can it have, and what in hells do you think you are doing!”

  “Senator, Kei is never present at any meeting with a security implication. What you’re holding is a medical manual in Darshianese, which he is writing, and I’m having translated. If you would care to look....” Arman made a pretense of sorting through his files, even though he knew exactly where what he wanted lay. “There—my notes, translated from his. Shall I read the original, Senator? Or would you accuse me of lying to you?”

  “Why him? He’s a barbarian villager from the middle of nowhere!”

  “He has some small medical knowledge—I thought to exploit that. However, if you don’t want the Prij to benefit....” Arman shrugged, as if it was no consequence at all to him. “I’m merely making use of a tool, Senator. I’d have thought you would have approved of the economy.”

  Mekus sneered. “Then one hopes his village will continue to behave itself. It would be a pity if your tool had to have his throat cut, along with the others of his clan, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes, I suppose it would,” Arman said, sounding utterly uninterested, even though Kei sensed his roiling anger. “But unless that happens, I don’t see any problem.”

  “It’s irregular in the extreme.”

  “The notes don’t leave my office, Senator. You can have them all now, if you wish.”

  Mekus looked at the pages, obviously frustrated by being unable to read the characters, and threw them down on the desk. “I’d heard you hated the Darshianese, general. On the whole, I’d prefer you did.”

  Arman made a slight bow. “Then I will endeavour to maintain whatever emotions serve the senate best, senator.”

  “You impudent brat. I never thought you were officer material—you’re too damn soft and too damn bookish. Your father should have settled you on an estate and kept you out of mischief.”

  “This is an opinion you’ve shared with Her Serenity, senator? Because I understood the decision to promote me was a personal one, based on her assessment of my ability. I’m sure she’d like to have that assessment corrected by you.”

  Mekus glared, and Kei felt faint at the loathing radiating from the man. “You’ll slip and fall one day, general. Your family’s prominence is based on a very slight foothold. I’ll be there when it disappears, mark my word.”

  “I’ll be sure to share your good wishes with my honoured father, senator. Now, was there something else?”

  “Keep him out of the rest of the palace,” Mekus said, stabbing a finger in Kei’s direction. “If I catch him where he should not be, he’ll be killed on the spot.”

  “As you wish.”

  Mekus growled and then stalked out of the room, slamming the door which Arman quickly locked behind him.

  Kei had to sit down—he really fel
t like he would be sick, until Arman put a hand on his shoulder and he could use the warm concern and the buffer his touch provided as an antidote to the poison of Mekus’s emotions. “Are you all right?”

  “He...he wants me dead.”

  “Not personally, I think,” Arman said calmly, sitting on his desk but keeping the hand on Kei’s shoulder.

  “But why does he hate us? You had a reason...but what did I ever do to him?”

  Arman sighed. “What did any of us do? He thinks the world owes him a lot more respect and honour than it gives him, and if he became the sovereign, it wouldn’t be enough. He won’t touch you, I promise.”

  Kei swallowed down the sickness he felt. “If he ordered you...to kill me, to kill the others of Ai-Albon, what would you do?”

  “I don’t know—delay and try and get you away, if I could. I’ve been giving it some thought, actually.”

  “Really?” Kei looked at him in amazement. “You’d really help us escape?” Even with everything he knew of Arman now, it was very hard to imagine him even contemplating that.

  Arman smiled. “To save your life, I would try, certainly. But it won’t come to it. I’ve put so many safeguards into the reporting procedure that unless your clan loses the patience they’ve held for so long, no one will pull a trick again like at Vinri.”

  “But if the siege goes badly....”

  Arman’s expression darkened. “Then I’ll still do all I can to get you away. The fact remains that I may be a general, but I’m still only one man. There’s a limit to what I can do, you have to understand. Be assured I will fight to the death to protect you. That’s the least I promise you.”

  “I don’t want your death for mine.”

  Arman squeezed his shoulder. “Then let’s avoid that, shall we?”

  He hopped off the desk, and Kei straightened the papers the senator had thrown into disorder. “Arman, I think I want to visit Karus tonight. At least, visit Jena.”

  “What? Are you sure? You can barely stand my officers coming in and out the way they do.” Arman peered at him, his blue eyes full of concern for him.

  “But they’re not friends, and I’m finding I can more easily bear sensing the less hostile emotions. I don’t...it’s not everything so much any more.”

  Arman gave him a wide smile. “By the gods, that’s good news. Of course we’ll call on Karus. I get notes from him every day asking about you. I think he doesn’t care about me at all anymore,” he added with a mock frown.

  “I doubt that, my lord,” Kei said, and was able to find a smile too. Another inch gained today.

  He had to visit Karus’s house sooner or later. If he couldn’t bring himself to tolerate Karus’s gentle kindness or Jena’s loyal affection, then he really would be better off dead, because there would be no one he would be able to turn to, not even Myka. Arman would not be with him forever. Kei didn’t spend any time thinking about the future any more, or the day when he would leave Utuk, but it would come, however much he ignored it. Arman had given him the place from which he could rescue himself, but it was up to him now.

  Besides, he wanted Jena to restart the mental exercises with him, to see if he could tolerate them at all and if they would help, and also to see if working with Karus once more would be possible. Arman was trying to dismiss Mekus’s threat, but he was worried, very worried. Kei didn’t want to die if it meant the others did. Or that Arman did. He felt sick and cold at the very idea he could cause Arman’s death. He didn’t want his spirit burdened with that crime, nor his heart with that sorrow. So, if he reduced his visibility, Mekus might leave Arman alone. He had to try it.

  Arman sent a note to Karus to warn him of their intention to call on him, and then after another two hours which, fortunately, brought no more hostile visits, Arman took Kei by calash to Karus’s house. The streets were empty—it was now deep winter and cold by the standards of Kuplik, although nowhere near as cold as it got in the north.

  Kei welcomed the lower temperature as it meant fewer people were around, and it seemed to have a dampening effect on people’s passions too—or perhaps he really was starting to build his defences again. Nothing could touch the shocking emptiness in him, the wound left by the loss of ten souls—nothing except Arman. Kei didn’t know why that was, and it made him shudder at the idea of there being no other remedy for this pain. To live with it for the rest of his life, was a prospect worse than torture.

  Arman held his hand in the dark in a way which was nothing short of tender. Kei sensed the carefully suppressed desire underneath Arman’s kindness, a desire neither of them would ever dare give into—Arman because of his position, and Kei because...to have sex with someone would be to make himself open to them in a way he could not bear at all, and perhaps never would be able to. Arman’s feelings were buried deep, perhaps unacknowledged even by himself, and Kei would not utter a word to arouse them. His nights would have been easier if he could have spent them at Arman’s side, but there was no way that could occur without raising uncomfortable questions Kei couldn’t deal with.

  The Prij were a reserved race, so unlike the open and exuberant people Kei had grown up with. They rarely touched in public that Kei had seen, and Arman wasn’t even physically affectionate with people like Karus. He didn’t know how Arman rationalised the touches, the affection, the...caresses...to himself if he would not admit his physical desires. Kei could only put it down to long practice at self-denial. Arman was chaste and faithful to a woman who loathed him, and with whom he never spent a night or a willing conversation. Either he spent a lot of time in secret masturbation, or he really did have a rope around his balls.

  But Kei was grateful not to be pressured, even though he wished he could offer more of himself than he could. He was a hollow wreck now. Ai-Albon would get back a mere shadow of the healer it once had. He hoped that would be enough for his clan.

  He steeled himself as they arrived at Karus’s home. Apart from the transitory visits from Arman’s officers, he’d had no prolonged contact with anyone other than Arman in over a month. The house was quiet, and Matez left them alone as soon as he let them in, which immediately made Kei suspicious.

  The suspicion was confirmed when Karus made no move to take his hand, even though he was clearly delighted and relieved to see him. “Pei, Jena’s told you, hasn’t she?”

  “About what, Gidu?” Karus’s guileless blue eyes were wide in enquiry and nothing else.

  Kei looked at Arman, who shrugged. “About my...gift,” he said, using an ambiguous word he could explain away if he was wrong.

  But he wasn’t. “Yes, my boy, she did. I’m so very sorry this has happened to you and I won’t burden you this evening with my company. Jena’s waiting for you in the front room, with a good fire and a hot meal. Arman and I will keep each other occupied tonight. Go see her, she’s missed you terribly.”

  Kei bowed. “Karus-pei, you’re both kind and wise. I’ve missed you too.”

  “Well then, I hope you’ll be able to spend more time with us soon. Run along, and remember you promised me to tell me more about that academy in Darshek one of these days.”

  “Yes, Pei, I haven’t forgotten.”

  He went looking for Jena. There, that hadn’t hurt too much.

  ~~~~~~~~

  Karus sighed, and asked Arman to help him to his feet. “Poor child, what a dreadful affliction.”

  “I’m sorry not to tell you, Pei, but I was sworn not to.”

  “Of course you were. If I weren’t a harmless doddering old fool, Jena would doubtless have made me swear too, but who would believe my tales of people who can read your thoughts with a touch?”

  “I’ll allow the ‘old’, but only a fool would think you one. Where do you want to go?”

  “To the kitchen. I gave Cook and Siza the night off, and told them to find their sweethearts and enjoy themselves,” he said with a chuckle, leaning on Arman’s arm as they walked towards the kitchens.

  “I never knew you were a ma
tchmaker, Pei.”

  “Oh, a terrible meddler, given my choice. Such am I reduced to that I need to arrange the affairs of servants to amuse myself.”

  It was warm in the kitchen, and smelled deliciously of the meal waiting for them. Karus indicated he wanted to sit at the main preparation table and told Arman where Jena had left them their supper. He sighed happily. “This reminds me of my childhood, watching my mother prepare our meals with our cook. So many changes have happened since then, of course. Even what we eat—I’d never heard of medo fruit when I was a child, and then it was a luxury only the rich ate. Now, of course, they throw them at the festivals as if they’re nothing. I don’t suppose you can remember a time without cheap Darshian fruit at your meal table.”

  “No, Karus, I can’t.” Arman set the cold cooked fish and the spiced vegetable soup out in front of them, and handed Karus bowls and implements, before serving the food and cutting some bread. It reminded him of the quiet suppers with Kei in his own rooms—how much more enjoyable it was to be with a friend over a private meal, than at a state feast. Most of the senatorial class adored big occasions like those often hosted at the palace—Arman had always loathed them with every fibre of his being.

  “So many changes,” Karus said again, spooning his soup into his mouth. “So many changes in you, Arman.”

  “Me? Well, of course I’ve changed, you’ve known me since I was in baby robes, Pei,” he said with a smile.

  “Yes, and you were such a sweet baby to grow up into such a disobedient child,” Karus said wagging his finger. “That blessed tuktuk was never the same after what you and Tijus did to him.”

  “Sorry, Pei,” Arman said but still able to grin over the incident. He lost his grin as he remembered telling Loke about it on his death bed. But it had been so funny when the tuktuk had sworn at Senator Dizus’s wife....

  “But that’s not the kind of change that strikes me most about you, my boy. Even since you came back from Darshian...do you not feel it yourself?”

  Arman cocked his head. Karus was giving him one of his critical looks, the one that seemed to know exactly what he was thinking or feeling at any point. That look had made him an effective disciplinarian in former years, and it was one Arman used on his officers from time to time with great effect. But he really didn’t know what his friend was getting at. “What do you mean?”