He threw himself into the prostration, trying to do it as gracefully as he’d imagined it could be done. No one instructed me, he thought. No one even searched me. They never did; I could be carrying a knife. “Rise.” He felt too weak to lift himself, but did, and tiptoed to the chair offered him, keeping his eyes lowered.
Silence stretched to what seemed a day. Shefen-kas called in Yeoli, and rattled off orders to the servant who appeared—or squire, by his manner; there was no obsequiousness in it at all. He caught only the word “Saekrberk.” A glass appeared before him, was filled, the green liquid swirling. Its scent haunted him with memories.
“Drink up, Matthas.” Shefen-kas spoke Arkan, superior-to-inferior but only one step down. Poison? No, he wouldn’t waste it on me. Does he mean to torture me with hope? “You need it, I can see. Go on. Korukai.” He’d never imagined a conquering king could have such a quiet voice.
As per Brahvnikian tradition, he downed the whole glass in one draught. As he felt color burn out into his cheeks, the servant filled the glass again.
It’s not fair, he thought, glancing up at Shefen-kas for a moment and then down again. It’s not fair that he, whom all the might and stealth of the greatest Empire in the world broke itself against, is sitting here in front of me disguised as a mortal, looking exactly like a plain medium-sized man whom I could reach across and strangle with my bare hands ...
“I only skimmed the transcript,” the Yeoli Imperator said. “There were things there I don’t want to know, and things not there that I do. How long did you work for Irefas?”
I am recounting my career, Matthas thought with a sense of unreality as he spoke, to the one who’s about to cut it and me off. He told no lies, even by omission, seeing no point. When he came to times the old state had made his life difficult, Shefen-kas seemed, of all things, sympathetic, as if its incompetence somehow saddened him. I don’t know why, Matthas thought drily. You’d be worm-meat ten times over if not for it.
“Well,” Shefen-kas said when he was done, “you worked for Arko under Kurkas. Would you work for Arko under me?”
It was like feeling his heart miss a beat, or expecting floor at the bottom of a darkened flight of stairs, to feel his foot find only air just as he put his weight on it. He stared; Shefen-kas’s eyes stared back, no lie or game in them.
“I mean it,” he said. “At the same rate of pay you were earning before, but with better consideration of your requirements, and respect of your opinions, from above.”
Matthas took refuge in his cup of Saekrberk, staring down into it, lifting it to his lips. The muscles of his middle hurt; he realized it was with being so terrified, so long. Now that he was merely stunned speechless, they’d relaxed.
“Tell me honestly,” Shefen-kas urged. “Do I strike you as one who would hinder his own underlings through incompetence or neglect?”
“No,” Matthas said, glad to be asked a question easily answered. “You certainly don’t.” Gods curse you forever.
“Perhaps you need time to think on it?”
Words burst out. He couldn’t stop them. “I tried—didn’t you read that part in the transcript?” He wanted to swallow his tongue; perhaps he’d given away what hadn’t been given away yet. He knew the words were too familiar as well; he should have started with the proper title and obeisance, it should be a further degree of inferior-to-superior, he should never speak such a direct question ... I’m not used to talking to Imperators, he inwardly whined.
“You tried to arrange my assassination. Yes, I read that.”
Matthas stared; Shefen-kas shrugged with his shoulders. Matthas noticed the white through the stitching of the marya: casts. The only possible reason a Yeoli wouldn’t wave his arms; he’d wondered what hadn’t seemed quite right when Shefen-kas spoke.
“A hundred thousand Arkans have tried to kill me. Should I fear or resent one more? I can’t blame you; I’d have done the same. It was your duty.”
“But ...” Matthas tried to blink away amazement. “How can you ... I swore, but they didn’t make me repeat it under truth-drug. You didn’t even have me searched coming in here. I was the enemy, I tried to kill you, and now you want me to work for you. How can you trust me so much?”
“They’ll swear you in again, drugged. Policy.” Shefen-kas shrugged again, and gave a smile that was almost childishly ingenuous, with a flash of gold teeth. “But I know who to trust.”
Lixand put his hand into his mother’s as they walked up Flutterwing Lane, at the head of the wagon-train, to the House of the Sleeping Dragon. It was cold here, the cold of his fantasy cities. F’talezon. Ardas couldn’t pronounce it to save his life, but it was easy for Lixand; his tongue somehow remembered. He made a plume of steam in the air with his breath. “Mata, are we ... are we really Aitzas?”
“Ya, and far too dignified for snowball fights,” said Sova, shoving a fistful of snow down the back of Ardas’s coat, to his squeal.
“Ow! That white stuff is cold!” The manor was no smaller nor less rich than House Temonen, but in an utterly different style.
Megan smiled and put an arm each around the boys. “It’s not the same, but we’re wealthy enough—oh, no.”
From the gates ahead came a thunderous chorus of barking. Dee and Dah barked, puppy-shrill no longer, but close to the belling tone of full-grown greathounds. Inu led the pack.
Megan put her hands up, as always. “Inu, sit!” As always, he gently knocked her over and washed her face with a dinner-plate-sized tongue.
“Inu! Back, you son-of-a-bitch!” Shyll’s clear shout and Rilla’s laugh rose through the noise. Over it all, they could hear the baby crying.
Shyll gave Megan a hand up, and the hugging started—Shkai’ra picking up Rilla, then Shyll as well, then Shyll having to prove he could pick her up, and Sova rushing to hug Rilla ...
Ardas dropped back beside Lixand. “We sure have a lot of family now, don’t we, Ra—I-mean-Lixand,” he whispered.
“Yeah. But I think I could get used to it.”
The Arkan boy’s grin split his face. “Yeah. Me too.”
Shadow’s Son Page 43
