Tytiana

by Marc Secchia

  “Doing alright there, Furball?” she asked.

  Jakani had to bite his lip to restart his heart’s beating. Right. Totally insane. Who gave Helyon’s deadliest predator a friendly tickle behind the ears?

  Apparently, monster kitty enjoyed this treatment.

  “And now you’re jealous of a fluffy kitten?” he told himself, torn between disbelief and an admission of the truth. “Time to get a squeeze on reality, boy.”

  His ears itched. Spiders. Just the spiders.

  Meantime, the Choice of House Cyraxana, which was her official title, was likely causing an avaricious father apoplexy by her recklessness. High Master Juzzakarr had a reputation, too, for being slipperier than silk, having the touch of a deathly spider, and the heart of a feral Dragon. Jakani never wanted to meet her father. Ever.

  After checking beneath the bandages, the fearless heiress flicked back her mane of fiery hair, lifted her expensive skirts, and started toward the egg.

  Grrrrrr …

  She paused. “Slap a bolt of silk in it, Furball.”

  Tytiana started to move again.

  Grrrrrr!

  She stopped and spoke soothingly to the cat, but the tiger was having none of it – bristling and peeling its lips back from those impressive fangs. The egg was clearly out of bounds. Jakani could not watch. He could not not watch! Every time she so much as breathed in the wrong direction, the kitten began to spit and snarl in a fearsome display of protectiveness. Tytiana seemed undeterred, however. She had probably been spoon-fed luxuries all her life. She did not understand a ‘no’ that was not about to bite her in the backside. This ‘no’ would tear her throat out.

  They might be matched in temperament, but only one of them had the claws and the sabre teeth.

  Before he knew it, Jakani was in motion. She was testing the cat’s resolve one more time, lifting and lowering her hand to produce a corresponding rising and lowering growl from her charge.

  Now was not the hour for experimentation!

  “Don’t!” he gasped, falling against the cage.

  Things happened faster than he could credit, then. The cat thundered into a charge, knocking Tytiana sprawling as it sprang for him. Jakani jerked backward, but not before his cheek flared with pain. The girl screamed; the tiger pounded the wire mesh repeatedly, which bent and swayed as if a Dragon were inside trying to get out at him to eat him alive, but the cage held together. Somehow.

  A lifetime’s training in martial arts, and he sprawled on his backside?

  Perfect.

  Compounding his humiliation, the Choice of House Cyraxana came storming out of that cage like a Dragoness unleashed. Tytiana fastened the bolt and padlocked it with trembling hand, before continuing her storming progress until she loomed over him, her gorgeous features transformed by such a terrible scowl that his heart rate momentarily mistook her for the tiger at her back and took off like a speeding falcon once more.

  “You idiot! You scuttling flea on a scabrous baboon’s festering backside! Moron! Scum-peddling, thick-headed – you make a ralti sheep look like Helyon’s canniest trader! What do you have to say for yourself? Eh? Lost our stupid tongue somewhere on the Isle of Incredible Idiocy?”

  She fumed. He sat in the dirt, and wished he were eating it.

  “What under the suns were you thinking – not thinking – to yell like that? Whilst I was inside the cage, no less? Speak up, you clueless dolt!”

  “I –”

  “Forty freaking forms of fool!”

  “Well, I –”

  “Sack-sucking laggard! Are you staring at my leg?”

  “No.”

  “You are nothing but a –”

  “Let me speak!”

  “No, you will listen to me!”

  He barked, “Your safety!” She stared at him in apparent disbelief, panting, her exotic features flushed and furious and never more breathtaking. Her eyes were also unusually large, set off by the high, generous planes of her cheekbones. “Your safety, o Choice of House Cyraxana – that’s what I … stupidly. Obviously. F-F-Freaks’ sakes. I was just w-worried … about y-you …”

  He was stammering now; neither of them seemed capable of rejoinder. She seemed shocked; he did not understand. A hundred servants must leap to fulfil the slightest whim of this daughter of privilege. What could possibly be new about someone offering help?

  Her hand rose unexpectedly.

  Jakani automatically began to block the motion with his forearm, but she hesitated long enough for him to realise she had not meant to strike him. He dropped his arm again for fear of touching her.

  “Sorry,” he grunted.

  The depth of his disgrace seemed to have shackled him to the very dirt his assigned job would have him till for Tytiana. Jakani dropped his eyes, wishing his cheeks would not burn quite so fiercely. Oh, how she must savour his humiliation. Revel in it. Enjoy lording her power over –

  “You’re hurt.”

  A fingertip touched his cheek; not cool, but as hot as the blazing suns.

  He flinched as if her touch had branded him; indeed, fire seemed to radiate from that point of contact, singing through his bloodstream. Imagined, of course, but no less disconcerting for being illusory.

  Jakani stammered, “Don’t! You can’t – you mustn’t, it’s forbidden …”

  “Are you telling me what I might or might not do, boy?”

  The phrasing rang harshly upon his ear, but the smiling fires swirling in those vivid violet pools drowned him simultaneously. He spluttered the first thing that came to mind. “I wouldn’t dare.”

  Wasn’t that the truth!

  “Doth mine reputation precede me?”

  “As the finest aroma, o Choice of House –”

  “My name is Tytiana. As you no doubt already know. Even the orchards talk.” Again, the staggering, taboo-defying touch. He wanted to shout at her, so acute was his discomfort at the fires she ignited beneath his skin; juxtaposed with the gentleness of her fingertip exploration of his wound. She added, “That aroma of yours must have developed into a bouquet worthy of the name.”

  He began to shake his head.

  “Hold still! Aye. It’s laid open to the bone. We should clean and stitch this. Tiger claws have a way of carrying all sorts of nastiness.”

  “O Choice, you cannot –”

  “Silence! Stay there. No, come sit here.” Jakani did as he was bid. The merest additional squeak from his lips, however, lit her up like a bonfire. “Not a word! Which part of ‘silence’ did you not understand, you gormless dirt grubber? Honestly, the legs appear to function but the brain’s four moons short of a full sky. Sit! Stay!”

  Her quivering finger indicated the stool.

  Heavens raining fireballs, she was exquisite even when she was livid. Which she was, in Dragon-sized dollops. Jakani silently willed his heart to resume beating, and his eyes to behave and most definitely not linger upon the waterfall of sleek crimson fabric curving over her slim behind and cascading down her long, long legs as she leaned over a work table, and his tongue-tied folly to please, somehow, morph into a passable representation of actual intelligence.

  What he managed was some kind of swill of dazed incomprehension mingled with helpless admiration.

  “Oh, that’s me, woof woof,” he muttered beneath his breath.

  The stiffening of her body betrayed that she had overheard his insolent comment. She must have the hearing of a cat! If the ground could kindly have grown a mouth and swallowed him and the tall wooden stool whole, Jakani would have leaped down its gullet without delay and thanked it for a swift burial.

  Her forefinger wagged at him behind her back. “Name?”

  “Uh …”

  “Well, I can’t exactly go about saying –” she whistled piercingly “– here, boy!”

  No force above the Cloudlands could have withheld his snort of laughter. “No. Indeed!”

  In the background, the tiger paced up and down behind the wire mesh, still balefully
intent upon sizing up a Jakani-sized appetiser. He rapidly removed his gaze to … umm, right. Checking the fall of her hair. Again. Fra’anior, please send a Dragon to steal him away right now! He was supposed to come from an honourable family, where men were supposed to treat women respectfully and – his father’s favourite admonition – not ogle. Nor wonder about their legs.

  All Jakani could conclude was that his father’s wisdom had never met this woman. Rational thought had just flown off the Isle, and it showed no sign of returning. Worse, he felt unrepentant, Dragon-may-care, even … peaceful, as if the stars had just aligned to celebrate his embarkation upon a very strange flight of fate indeed.

  “So?” She whirled with a swab, tweezers and needle in hand.

  He attempted to be examining her toes, as a person of his station ought to when addressing a woman of her rank, and failed with spectacular flair.

  “Uh … I’m a Dirt Picker of the Third Class, o Choice of –” her eyebrows arched alarmingly “– o Tytiana the …. um, radiant,” he finished, with gratifying aplomb.

  Then, shock detonated in his chest as he apprehended his tongue’s betrayal.

  The silence grew claws.

  Chapter 2: Dirt Picker, Third Class

  TYTIANA WAS QUITE convinced her response should start with a wild yell, ‘How dare you insult a lady, you squealing porker!’ and proceed directly to violent evisceration followed by tossing his diseased guts on a bonfire. Chargrilled! Sickly scents of frying flesh! How dare he? Yet a golden glint lurking deep in his irises unaccountably dazzled her, scattering her thoughts to the winds. Her breathing suddenly felt fluttery; alarmed, but in a beguiling rather than a perilous way. Or, was he actually dangerous?

  Her nature was to seek answers. Facts. Logical progressions and structure. But her gaze kept leaping about like a frightened grasshopper, snatching at details without comprehension. Was it something about the tilt of his chin – how old was he? A young man? She could never quite tell with these smooth-skinned Easterners. His demeanour was confounding. Perhaps a quality of character, it surrounded him like an indefinable aura, exuding … something. Aye. Perfectly on the mark there, she was. Heat shot into her cheeks in a not unpleasant manner as Tytiana breathed in the earthy scent of this lamko’s long, scruffy black hair, which harboured at least three comfortable-looking spiders and a smattering of turquoise fertiliser sourced from none other than House Cyraxana’s own orchards. That fertiliser was a distinctive colour …

  Hold those Dragons!

  She clucked unhappily at her own woolly-headed blathering and bent to examine her soon-to-be-charbroiled victim more closely. Radiant! Radiant? Impudent scamp. He had some nerve!

  Mister clever-tongued Dirt Picker could be considered an unremarkable exemplar of his people group, long-ago immigrants from the Kingdom of Kaolili in the East, if one considered his rough worker’s garb, bare feet and generally disreputable appearance. Just look at that bruise encircling his neck. Tytiana was certain she could count four fingers on the right side, marked in vivid purple even upon his brown skin. His knuckles and forearms were heavily scarred. He probably brawled his way through the evenings like most of the serfs. She should not even be talking to this lowborn wretch. Put him to work. Order him around with a few choice kicks, and crack the brash lamko over the knuckles with her walking stick if he showed the slightest sign of laziness or rebelliousness.

  That was what she should do.

  Instead, Tytiana heard her voice soften as she said, “What did you say?”

  Not spoken like a proper aristocrat. No. Much more like a girl who would have given the Dragon’s share of her riches to know the truth. The admission of her own vulnerability was like a dagger twisted inside an old wound. Where had that sprung from?

  “The Red. The Red, I swear,” he spluttered.

  “Liar.”

  Jakani’s jaw clenched visibly and audibly. He stared through her. Mute. Every iota of his being quivered with fear and denial.

  She grated, “Tilt up your head. I can’t see properly in this light.”

  What drivel! The noon suns were high. They both knew the light was brilliant, certainly too much to bear if one gazed into the heavens for very long. In a second, his chin rose and tilted askance. She noted again his cheekily tufted eyebrows crowning depthless eyes with an intriguing angularity to their setting, so different to the rounder curvature of her own wide eyes; his bronzed jawline was definite yet sensitive, and a wink of white at the base of the cut upon his cheek reminded her fingers of what they ought to be doing, or not. Touching an untouchable. No wonder they both trembled.

  Dared she search again for those dancing flecks of gold?

  Why gold?

  What had sparked between them to make her feel as if the arboretum was swaying like a Dragonship caught in a storm? Her free hand scrabbled for her stick and knocked it over, forcing her to brace against the table as she leaned in close to swab the deep cut. She must get every scrap of dirt out. Focus! Tytiana willed her infirm knees to behave themselves this instant. Yet an unexpected, fire-forged hunger blossomed within her to once again behold that spark, like suns-light glinting off a hidden treasure, unexpectedly searing from the depths of his mysterious black irises.

  Holy Fra’anior, when had she come to think of lamko eyes as mysterious? Perhaps because she had never truly looked …

  His throat worked with a slight, audible clicking sound. “I am sorry, o Choice Tytiana, if my choice of words caused offence.”

  Disappointment cramped her fingers. As icily as stormy winter’s evening, she retorted, “I see. How is your pick of career working out for you, Dirt Picker, Third Class?”

  Aye, he dwelled at the bottom of the dung heap, Helyon Islanders would say.

  The young man chuckled dryly, but held very still. “Much better than my skill at telling lies, o Choice Tytiana. Or worse. It’s a matter of perspective.”

  Her fingers quivered so badly she had to take pause before resuming. Had he just … had he admitted he thought … no. Surely not. People thought she was a freak, an eyesore, with her mad hair and facial features rather more startling than comely. At least, years of various makeup women trying to turn her into ‘something presentable’ or, affecting a despairing air, ‘we’ll make your daughter a credit to your House, Master Juzzakarr’ had convinced her of that truth.

  And then, there was always the matter of her leg, severed three inches below the knee. The prosthetic foot. The lumpish leather harness that strapped the whole contraption to her left knee and thigh, atop a stump sock meant to reduce the inevitable chafing. Men despised disfigurement in a woman, didn’t they?

  Moreover, this malodorous serf dared to whisk the rug of her life’s foundations from beneath her extremely expensive slippers?

  She hissed, “You’re an immigrant?”

  “My father.”

  “Where was he from?”

  “The North-Central region of the Kingdom of Kaolili, I believe. I’ve never met my extended family,” he said. They both seemed suddenly bound to the banal; acutely aware of each other’s closeness, dancing a delicate, unspoken two-step that swept them about upon a melody of unknowable imperatives.

  Tytiana pressed a leather-bound journal into his hand. “This next part will hurt. Bite.”

  “Your notes? I assure you, the sacrifice is hardly –”

  “Boy! Shut it! You are worth far more than a couple of pages –”

  “You dare speak of my worth?” his snarl erupted, as shocking as it was feral. “What would a Choice of her House know about the worth of an immigrant, an insignificant Dirt Picker of the Third Class?”

  Tytiana replied with an incoherent wheeze.

  “Fra’anior curse this stupid, wagging plank in my mouth! Give me that.” Jakani snatched the journal from her numb hand, jammed it into his mouth and clamped his teeth upon it as though those were the very last words he wished to speak in his lifetime.

  Perhaps they ought to be.

&nbs
p; “My apologies, o Choice,” he mumbled between his clenched teeth.

  He seemed as shaken by his outburst as she was.

  The Choice of House Cyraxana would have been well within her rights to have this landless serf publicly thorn flogged for any reason, or none at all. No-one would have blinked an eyelid. The gap – the yawning canyon – between their stations, between what she realised was her absolute fiat and his lack of rights or recourse whatsoever, gave her licence to destroy his life at the flick of her all-powerful quill. Upon her say-so, her father would have this scabby, misbegotten Dirt Picker shipped to a freezing prison colony offshore of Herliss, where his fingers would freeze and crack as he stooped daily in search of precious meriatite, chipped from the poisonous depths of the mines. At a crook of her all-powerful finger, he could be clapped in irons and marched off to some cold black hole, never to see the suns again.

  Yet all she could see was the whiteness of her skin against his bronze. The colour of the oppressor exposed so starkly against a living, breathing background. Words hammered through her mind. Serf. Dirt Picker. Eastern lamko. Monkey. Mud grubber … did she not carelessly think all of these things? Tytiana listened to her shallow breathing, rasping in and soughing out as her mind seemed to shake as with an earthquake before tumbling into a realm of fresh perspectives.

  Truly, this was her? No longer.

  Using her forefinger as a spatula, she smeared a numbing herbal concoction either side of the cut. Next, she braced her right hand across his eye so that she could pinch shut the cut with her downward-angled thumb and forefinger, while she held the needle poised in her left hand.

  He began, “Doesn’t the numbing take a minute – mmurgh!”

  * * * *

  Jakani sank his teeth into the leather and somehow, by a miracle, managed to hold his composure and not try to tear free of her grip. He deserved worse. After his idiot tongue had just wagged itself into an early grave, what more could he suffer? Still, moisture brimmed beneath his eyelids, and as she worked the curved needle through the flesh followed up by gently tugging the gut thread along its necessary path, he shed a tear.