Flesh and Bone

by Robin Lythgoe

  “What of the wall we’re to tear down?” He nursed a headache inspired by smelling a dozen perfumes.

  Bairith came to stand in front of him, looking at him intently. “Am I boring you?”

  “Yes.”

  Surprise flickered in the jansu’s eyes.

  “You trained me to fight. Why, if we are only to sip wine, lounge at the fire, and grow fat?”

  Bairith laughed, his delight ringing through the link like a chorus of small bells. “Why indeed?” He prodded Sherakai’s belly as if he might find the lean muscle had gone to flab.

  Sherakai didn’t flinch, didn’t back down. “Do you mean not to use me after all?”

  “And waste such a beautiful, fierce weapon?” He cradled Sherakai’s jaw in one hand. “Oh, I will use you, my dragon, and the world will tremble.”

  “Half the Westlands already does that.”

  “Are you satisfied with only half?”

  His eyes narrowed. “You’ve taught me never to do things halfway.”

  “Mmm…” He perched on the padded arm of a chair near the fireplace. “This zeal is quite the reversal of your original outlook. An outlook, I remind you, that remained as inflexible as stone until rather recently.”

  “Rather recently, I lost something I believed important to me. I see things differently now. You promised I would always have you, but you keep sending me away. I wonder how much longer your patience with me will last.” He ought to be angry. Nothing changed with Bairith Mindar; he could never be pleased. Getting to his feet, Sherakai bowed. “Good night, sir.”

  “You fight me tooth and nail for years, then expect me to blithely accept your capitulation?”

  On the way out the door, he paused. “Not even stone lasts forever.”

  Chapter 65

  He did not waste his freedom. While Jansu Chiro was occupied with the everyday matters of arranging murders and destroying the Westlands, Sherakai prowled the length and breadth of the keep like a caged, restless beast. Up and down, back and forth. He etched in his memory the locations of doors and windows, and which walls were wood rather than stone. He learned where he might find the most luxuriant and most flammable furnishings, and where the candles and oils for the lamps were stored. His visits to the kitchens introduced him to storage rooms stacked with casks of oil and barrels of lard. His presence frightened the kitchen staff. They didn’t know what to do with him, so they pretended to ignore him.

  One day, he trailed a maid from the laundry to a pair of closets stuffed with linens. She kept him in her line of sight every moment and fled at the first opportunity. Watching her go, he wondered how he might disguise the bleakstone cuff. Would the jansu sense it near him and bring the entire plan to a disastrous ruin?

  If not, why not? The more he considered it, the more he recognized flaws in the link. Bairith used it to share information and sensations, and to to compel Sherakai to obedience. But his perception of Sherakai’s emotions required proximity. Specific attention. Perhaps additional magic.

  The jansu had come to him at Tanoshi after the—after the rakeshi had taken him over. Why? How had he known when to rescue his lost dragon? Scrying perhaps. If they were one as Bairith claimed, with all the affinity of something beyond blood ties, why would he need it? The crux of the entire matter was that Bairith could not truly feel what Sherakai felt. If he did, the extremes of emotion or pain he endured would cripple the jansu.

  The halfer never even broke a sweat.

  Feathers distracted him.

  The advent of the slave boy in his life provided another complication. How many slaves had their own slaves? However ludicrous he found the idea, it put them both in danger. He couldn’t very well carry out his plans with a spy dogging his heels, but if Sherakai rejected this gift, Bairith would likely kill the boy. Likewise if the boy had nothing useful to report, so he couldn’t just drug him and leave him in a heap in the corner.

  Or he could…

  He began by instituting a new custom of a cup at the end of the day and insisting the boy join him. It took no great skill to find a small supply of thousandleaf, nor to slip it into the boy’s tea. Only a little of the stuff would assure sleep without inducing a stupor.

  The first night the slave fell asleep where he sat, Sherakai moved him to a thick rug and covered him with a blanket. The next morning the boy prostrated himself in apology. He was horrified by what he’d done, and how either of his masters might react.

  Sherakai pretended to think for a while. Then, with an attitude of reluctance, divulged that the company comforted him. For a truth, it did. More than once after the child became a nightly fixture behind a couch, he sat close while he slept, listening to his steady breathing.

  He never asked his name. Didn’t dare.

  The boy’s presence didn’t prevent Sherakai from his own spying. He visited the gardens, watched the ironsmith, and stood on the walls. He walked through the great gates just to see if the guards would try to stop him. “We’ve orders not to let you pass, sir,” they said, and he felt sorry for them. Only Bairith Mindar himself could keep Sherakai in this place, and that power would end soon. He did not test their commitment.

  “Are nightmares plaguing you again?” the jansu asked one night. The two of them supped on a meal of glazed duck, mushrooms with leeks, saffron rice, salmon pastries, fruits, cheeses, little braided breads, and the invariable izaku. The rings on his hands glittered like stars in the candlelight. Threads of gold in his burgundy tunic mimicked the shine of the jewelry. He’d chosen to wear his black hair twisted atop his head. The style revealed his long, elegantly shaped ears and fragile gold wire earrings.

  He took a sip of his own watered, utterly common wine. “No more than usual, lord.”

  “And yet you’ve been walking the entire keep through the night. Every night.” The jansu dipped his fingers in a small crystal bowl of water and dried them on a snow white cloth.

  “Yes. I’m sorry, should I stop? The freedom is a little… heady.” He needn’t fear a lie or exaggeration, for he spoke the truth. Freedom lay just beyond these dismal gray walls and he could taste it with every breath.

  “I heard you were at the gate. Are you entertaining ideas of leaving me?”

  He knit his brows. Consternation, too, was real. He needed to soothe suspicion—but not too much. As the jansu said, he’d fought tooth and nail for too long. “I confess, it crossed my mind, but who else do I have? No one cares for me the way you do.”

  “That is true.” Bairith gave him a small smile over the rim as he sipped his drink. “I have proven my devotion for you countless times, and it has never pleased you before. But now that you are, shall we say, orphaned? Now my love and my sacrifice is acceptable?”

  Sherakai set his utensils down and folded his hands, appropriately silent and chastened.

  “Well? Speak, boy.”

  The man was exasperating, demanding love and loyalty one minute, and rejecting it with the following breath. “You have no reason at all to believe me, sir. After what happened at Tanoshi I am—a weight has been taken from me. I am wild one moment, restless the next, and eager five minutes later.” He drew his lower lip between his teeth, then shook his head in evident confusion.

  “And walking at all hours of the day helps.”

  “It does, lord.”

  “Have you considered returning to the practice chamber?”

  “May I?” He lifted his head.

  “Of course.” The jansu smiled indulgently. “And I imagine wandering through the keep won’t do any harm. You must come to me if the burden becomes too great.”

  These meals and these conversations challenged him. This meal, watching the jansu stir his detestable izaku, this conversation—Go to him for relief!? Thank you, I will. He expressed his gratitude for the offer of help he didn’t want. What he wanted was to grip that slender throat and crush the life from it. His hands, held decorously in his lap, twitched with the savage desire. Wild, wild, restless. Safe now, to entert
ain those emotions. Soon, he promised himself as Bairith finished his drink, then licked the gritty remains from his pretty, dainty, costly spoon. Choke on it, you monster. Such a forbidden thought…

  It evaporated under the brilliance of a new idea: that spoon! That beautiful, delicate spoon with its grainy, pungent residue the jansu so adored! That awful, marvelous pepper, little bits of seed, so like stone ground to powder!

  “You’ve come such a long way,” Bairith murmured.

  “Sir?” He pressed down the swell of joy for his discovery. It was so bright he feared it gleamed from his eyes like traitorous beacons.

  “I never imagined you’d respond to me with such gladness. My patience is rewarded.”

  Boldly, Sherakai met the mage’s gaze. “I have come a long way, haven’t I? Thank you again, lord, for your help.”

  “It is my pleasure.”

  Liberty to wander the keep allowed Sherakai to prepare for his final day at the Gates. He raided the kitchen for oil and the storage rooms for empty bottles and clay jars. He stole linens and made himself a collection of simple incendiary devices. Those he hid near things he could fire easily—stuffed chairs, draperies, tapestries, and rugs. Where he thought it would go undetected, he poured oil onto the fabrics and into baskets or wooden chests. He filled decorative urns and containers with pig fat, though not as many as he would have liked. The silk clothing in his wardrobe, torn into strips, made excellent wicks. The lamps and candles scattered throughout the halls would provide all he needed to turn Nemura-o pera Sinohe into a funeral pyre.

  And he couldn’t think about any of it.

  He couldn’t think about things that would catch Lord Bairith’s attention or displease him if he happened to focus on his pet.

  So he thought about the sound of his steps on the stone. Snow. The composition of certain paintings. The aspects of magic he’d learned during his tower lessons. He recited passages from books and contemplated strategy tactics—everything and anything save for what his hands were doing.

  Sherakai stashed his small collection of supplies in an unused chamber near his own. The boy wouldn’t find them there. Neither would any of the staff that drew the unfortunate assignment of cleaning and dusting his tower rooms once a week.

  While he put his plans into motion, he had to ensure two things. First, that no one saw him doing anything but walking through the keep and, second, that he avoid a sense of purpose. The latter was most challenging, but capitalizing on ‘restless’ and ‘eager’ emotions gave him considerable leeway.

  It was inevitable that he come across servants quietly working during the ‘unseen’ hours lest they disturb the jansu or his guests. One look at him, and they scurried away. He had only to concern himself with the occasional guard—and his own feelings and thoughts.

  It was maddening. Be eager, but not fervent. Be cautious, but not nervous. Be wild, but not out of control. He had concocted a recipe for disaster, and any moment he expected the jansu to confront him. Bairith would see right through him. He would sense what Sherakai planned. Would he feign dismay, then punish his disappointing student?

  He’d have to catch him first.

  “Shall I pour for you, sir?” he asked his would-be master the evening after his revelation. He did not wait for permission but picked up the wine decanter as if he’d always done so. Gently, he swirled the izaku to mix the heavy sediment before tipping the liquid into one fragile goblet. A pinch of crushed bleakstone went in with it. The golden spoon chimed against the glass.

  He'd found a small box that fit into his pocket just so and fiddled with the lid until he could open and close it with one finger while dipping inside with thumb and forefinger. Then, while the slave boy slept, he'd practiced the movement the way Iniki and Hamrin had made him practice everything—until he could do it without thinking.

  “Thank you.” Bairith absently stirred the grains, a thoughtful expression on his face. “Am I forgiven?”

  “Sir?”

  “You were angry that I doubted you.” The sense of probing accompanied his words.

  Sherakai occupied his thoughts with izaku. Grit and silk. The piquant scent of deep burgundy. The burble it made tumbling into the goblet. “Not angry, frustrated. You have every right to doubt me. In the past I did little to inspire your confidence in my allegiance. Quite the opposite. I thought that—” I thought you’d be happy I’d changed, you implacable, toad-licking bag of slime. “No matter. I apologize, lord.” He lowered his head, keeping his gaze downcast. It was harder to keep from clenching his jaw.

  “After all this time, you still do not trust me with your impressions and feelings.”

  Imagine that… Sherakai rubbed his chin and took the seat Bairith motioned him to. The same seat, the same wordless imperative given every evening. “They are unworthy of you.”

  “Sometimes,” he agreed. “I cannot correct your misunderstanding if you do not express it. Am I not your teacher?” Bairith removed the spoon to lick the dregs. “I enjoy our lively discussions. I also delight in the way you think. You remain your own man in spite of my influence.”

  Ah. Now he was a man. For the moment, anyway. Let him confess his ignorance, and the jansu would demote him again. Shame nibbled at his confidence.

  “Come, tell me what is on your mind.” Bairith’s Voice stroked his senses, and the familiar wave of warm reassurance filled the link.

  False! he reminded himself. “Yes, lord. I thought the bond we share would convey what I feel. About this place. About you.” It was as good a time as any to learn whether his deception held.

  He sat still as the jansu peeled him like a grape, though it made his breath catch. Bairith’s razor-edged study burned through his deliberate detachment. It stalked after hidden thoughts and emotions. Shone a light on all Sherakai’s dark, secret places. It was all he could do not to leap up and run. His heartbeat pounded in his ears.

  ~Why so afraid?~

  ~I feel exposed,~ he blurted.

  Bairith’s chuckle was soft and amused. ~You know me. I am always here with you, am I not?~

  There was no arguing that. “Yes,” he breathed. And then, “What do you see?”

  He did not answer at once. “Desperation.”

  Sherakai twitched. Calm, he ordered himself. It doesn’t matter what he does to you. You have nothing more to lose.

  Except your humanity, came the counter-thought.

  What remains of it.

  “What is it you want so desperately, my dragon?”

  “To—” He bit his tongue to keep the perfection of truth from tumbling right out of him. It would ruin him. Half-truths were his salvation, and the slippery slope of insanity his protection. “To be enough for you. I—I don’t know how.”

  “Because you’ve fought it for so long.” The mage set down his goblet and leaned toward Sherakai, long fingers caressing his cheek. “You are wild, aren’t you? Twisted with emotion and a bundle of nerves. You hide it well.”

  “I do?”

  “If not for our link, I would not suspect. On the outside you are calm, but there is always something in your eyes.” He held Sherakai’s chin for a long moment, then leaned back again, reclaiming the izaku.

  “What is in in my eyes?” he asked when the silence curled around them like a teasing zephyr.

  “Ferocity. Keen interest. You are forever turning things over in your head, puzzling them out, fitting them into their place, storing information for the future. Consuming everything you see and hear.”

  Sherakai’s brows tented. “All that…? I’m just trying to stay out of trouble.”

  The jansu laughed. “That is an excellent use of your shrewd observation skills.” He stirred his drink and licked the spoon. “I think you’re hiding something from me.”

  The moment slowed to an ooze. Bairith knew. He would punish Sherakai to within an inch of his life. He did not want to hurt again, but it no longer terrified him. Bitterness replaced the press of resigned dread. He held his hands out, pa
lm up. “I told you I can’t control my wards anymore. I can’t hide anything from you.”

  “I believe you can.” The spoon drifted through the wine, though his keen attention rested on Sherakai. “You have developed a habit of obscuring what you’re thinking when I reach out to you. Feathers seem to be your favored focus.”

  “Feathers,” he echoed. Fear remained at a distance, which was just as well, but he had his bitterness. Not a bad weapon for misdirection, he concluded. He drew a tattered feather from his pocket and held it out. “I saw one on the ground, and it struck me how exactly opposite it is from the rakeshi—soft, fragile, and innocent. I thought it might be a good foil to help me learn control over the thing.” He paused. “You do want me to control it, don’t you, lord?” He added the title deliberately to appeal to Bairith’s vanity. “Or do I misunderstand and you’d rather I continue as a club instead of the blade you once hoped for?”

  “My plans for you have not changed, boy.”

  The expected demotion from adult to child came as swift as ever it had. “I am not a boy,” he murmured. “Will I never truly please you? You insist that I share what I’m thinking, but if you dislike it you punish me.”

  Bairith picked up his golden spoon, tapping it with one finger. “How do you imagine you are being punished now?”

  “You called me ‘boy,’ the way you do when you are angry with me. When you are satisfied with my behavior—or my words—you call me your dragon. These last months I have done everything in my power to please you, but still you doubt. What must I do to prove myself?”

  Bairith’s fine features narrowed in irritation. He licked the spoon and dropped it back into the goblet. “Love me.”