by Marc Secchia
Simpering toadies! Brainless flotilla of quacking, quisling ducks! Nonetheless, when her father made a circling gesture with his forefinger, Tytiana swivelled obediently to show off the dress, smiling graciously at the following round of even more insincere flattery. Really. Lay it on thicker, chumps! They could not wait to be rid of her, could they?
“Much more curvaceous than her mother,” said the High Master, touching his tongue to his lips as he stared down her neckline. Nausea roiled in her belly. Fight the fire … heavens raining fireballs! When had her father turned into a freaking pervert? “You’ll have the seamstresses alter the fit?”
“Of course, father,” said Zihaeri. A swift glance noted the white lines framing her sister’s smile. Zihaeri had most certainly noticed, and she was livid, too.
She would much rather the incident have been imagined than real!
“Very good. Now, my dears, I have not come all this way to the basement of my house to discuss ball gowns and feminine fripperies. No! I have come with news. Thrilling news of a most unexpected, delightful, and might I say profitable nature? No, Tytiana, no need to go pale like that. This is nothing to do with you.”
With one last, abhorrent glance that traversed her figure at studied length, Juzzakarr moved over to her sister. All Tytiana could think was, Please let that repulsive porker not be my real father! Gaah – nasty! She wanted to scrub the sensation of his eyes off her body. And, what was this news to do with her sister? Then, she caught her first glimpse of the scroll one of the Under-Masters was holding, and she gulped, going hot and cold all at once.
Juzzakarr purred, “O Under-Master of Administrative Affairs, would you do the honours?”
Under-Master Gantazar, with an oily formal bow and ostentatious ceremony, proffered the huge scroll to Zihaeri upon his upraised palms. “O Choice Zihaeri, I believe that this Avowal of Formal Escort is for you.”
A marriage proposal! Tytiana allowed this gasp its full compass. Well, it was tantamount to one. An Avowal was a serious matter which unequivocally opened negotiations between two Houses, leading to the engagement and then nuptials of a Young or High Master and a Choice.
Zihaeri paled, but held her nerve. “For me?”
Ha. Faker.
The scroll was massive! Three feet long and as thick as a Dragon’s talon, it rested in her sister’s small hands carrying a message of enormous import. Naturally, it was decorated in a manner fit to convey this impression with the utmost immodesty. A sheath of pure gold, three decorative strands intertwined, clasped its middle. The finest of young scrolleaf was sealed in no less than seven locations with diamond-infused wax in which further gemstones were set, creating the pattern of a blossoming fenturi tree – now, which House crest was that? A very fine white tassel fringed with spun gold hung from the end nearest her, and in extravagantly curling runic script embossed upon the scroll – was that somehow crafted from white gold? – she could make out the formal declaration that Zihaeri read aloud:
I, High Master Faran Faradar Amoyra Tal-Baran of the House Laxaran,
By This Avowal of Formal Escort,
Do Hereby Proclaim my True, Silken and Undying Devotion Toward
The Most Honourable Choice Zihaeri Ahlyaza Tal-Juzzakarr of the House Cyraxana.
House Laxaran! Tytiana gaped in amazement. The famously reclusive and influential House of White was making an offer for Zihaeri’s hand, and it was a match requested by the High Master himself, no less. He was – well, had the father not passed on three years ago? An image of a debonair, white-bearded aristocrat faded in her mind to be replaced by a younger image. Tall. Dashing. Manners like polished silver. Father could not possibly refuse this offer! It was beyond expectation and most certainly, beyond anything Zihaeri could have hoped for, given her purported market price.
Less than half of her own.
Inside the scroll would be the details of the first offer for Zihaeri’s hand, meant for her father’s eyes only. Tytiana had no doubt it would be generous. To make a paltry offer would be heinous, not to mention delivering an unforgivable insult. She could just not fathom how this had come about. What had she missed during her year away? How subtly had her sister acted to receive such an offer that was clearly both a delight and puzzlement to their father? He was not often caught flat-footed.
O Zihaeri, what a coup!
High Master Juzzakarr effected a bow no less oily than that of his Under-Master of Administrative Affairs. “May I have your response, honoured Choice Zihaeri?”
The other functionaries and relatives were here to act as witnesses to this exchange; the traditional dozen who would return to deliver the Choice’s response to the House of White, yea or nay, on the morrow.
Had she been the Tytiana of last year, she would have been seething. For how long had father been pressing her case, only for her to be soundly usurped by the purportedly less desirable Zihaeri? Yet, to her shock, all Tytiana could think was how her sister’s toes curled within her slippers. By no other outward sign did she betray her delight, but that reaction was enough for Tytiana to sigh inwardly and release that Dragon of jealousy to the winds, where it belonged. Oh, Zihaeri! O joy of joys! This was somehow right, even if deeply unexpected, and her own heart fizzed within her chest as she celebrated the import of this moment for Zihaeri. Her sister was a fine catch for any House – more than fine – but father had never by word nor deed suggested he agreed with that assessment. He had even sought to set the sisters against each other, she realised now.
No more comparisons. The elder would be married before the younger, in good order. This was a release for them both, in so many ways. If only … if she would …
Zihaeri made them all wait an unbearably long time as she pretended to give the scroll her deepest consideration. There could be but one answer – so Tytiana prayed! Then, her sister extended her right hand and touched the seven seals each one at a time, before she laid her fingers upon the embossed text. In a serene voice, she intoned:
“Honoured father, hear my response. I, Choice Zihaeri Ahlyaza Tal-Juzzakarr of the House Cyraxana, do by my own free will and with full gladness receive and accept this Avowal of Formal Escort by the Most Honourable High Master Faran Faradar Amoyra Tal-Baran of the House Laxaran, and hereby seal my intent by this my irrevocable vow. So shall it be.”
Juzzakarr let out a triumphant and decidedly boorish roar. The nine House functionaries and her three equally odious uncles applauded politely.
Tytiana threw her arms around her beloved sister’s neck, and kissed her cheek soundly. “From the bottom of my heart, congratulations!”
Zihaeri squealed, “I’m getting married!”
Chapter 12: Tiger Ambush
WHILE TYTIANA AND her sisters rode in a sturdy but luxurious carriage, Jakani trudged along in the mud toward the back of the column. He carried a large, clanking backpack stuffed with sufficient sacks and bottles hopefully to gather the four sackweight of varied hot spring salts Sokadan appeared to need for his artwork, and had already eaten more clay clods kicked up by the guards marching ahead of him than he cared to think about. Soaking overnight rains had made the trail to the hot springs treacherous, but the Choices could prattle away in the comfort of their cushioned, man-drawn carriage while the riffraff trudged along in the sludge behind.
Actually, he didn’t mind being riffraff as long as he was close to her. How low he had sunk. Shameless. Sad, sad, sad … but he no longer thought he was a nobody around the Choice. He was a Nikuko warrior. Still unsure of what that meant. To his parents’ manifest relief, he had finally come to understand a different face of honour. And, there was important news in the wind. Tytiana’s father had slipped off just before dawn in his private carriage. Marriage, they whispered. The eldest Choice of the House.
If so, the four girls ensconced in the carriage were giving nothing away. He strongly suspected the official announcement would be made next month at the Annual Choices’ Ball, after the rumours had circled the Island ten tho
usand times and more.
Please let Tytiana not be next. Please …
Please let me steal her future and bring her to live in a mud hut with me? Jakani flinched. How could he contemplate such a … sin? Was his desire not wickedness incarnate? A travesty never to be foisted upon the incomparable flame of his heart.
The high-wheeled carriage slithered more than trundled uphill into the interior of Helyon Island, preceded by a dozen fully armed soldiers, and trailed by a further three dozen. The carriage itself was drawn ahead by a dozen nenko men in leather harness, arranged along the traces in four linear teams of three, and a further four trudged behind to push where the going became tough. They would be earning their crust this day. His place was further back behind the supplies train, because apparently Choices could not go anywhere without carrying half their House with them. Probably fifteen changes of outfits apiece, parasols against the suns, and buckets of ice to cool their drinks, he supposed. How would they ever survive in the wilds, as his father had been teaching him for the last year? Jakani chuckled to himself. Certainly not without a nail file and a hairbrush. Oh no, that would be beyond belief. Imagine Tytiana with a fenturi spider in her hair …
She’d burn it right off and feed him barbecued spider for laughing at her.
Knowing that girl, they probably had no need of the Dragon escort wheeling lazily a mile overhead, either. No need to carry sparkstone with her around! She lit fires wherever she went – literally and figuratively. Well, her actual fires were not as searing as her temper. And there was the strange limitation of her healing ability he had noticed. Simple wounds had been restored with aplomb. Complex issues such as the flesh-eating ulcers that particularly affected children, not so much. To wield magic such as hers must demand an inordinate degree of control and knowledge.
Jakani reminded himself that he was supposed to look as hot and bothered as everyone else in the column. He muttered a token grumble or two. Those guards must be sweating rivers under their thick leather armour. Although the suns were not yet high, the heat was already intense, like a Dragon’s glare burning the nape of his neck. The two suns could only be told apart by looking through a thin cloth, or when conditions were right at suns-rise or suns-set for example, one could see Firstsun slightly preceding Secondsun as the twins dipped beneath the Cloudlands. For an hour they marched up a long, long incline toward the top of a ridge that backed onto House Cyraxana land. From the top it was another hour over the highlands to the first descent, through the orchards of the Green and Grey Houses and on down to the lower-lying hot springs.
Tytiana had taught him that Helyon was an ancient volcano, and that this thick ridge was actually the rim wall of the original caldera. It made sense therefore that the hot springs lay in the centre, where some heat and gases still escaped to the surface.
“Lamko! Hey, monkey! Get your lazy backside up to the carriage and help push.”
Jakani bowed automatically. “Aye. At once.”
The carriage had become deeply mired on the last and steepest incline of all. Common Isles sense could have told anyone that the answer was to lighten the load. However, he would also not be the first man to suggest Choice Tytiana and her sisters leap down into the mud, especially since the lip of a half-mile drop lay no more than two feet beyond the carriage’s left rear wheel. Now there was a spot of poor road building. Barely a one-foot wall for protection. The sturdy nenko were working to free the back wheels and to slip a few stones beneath them for additional grip. Nearing the group, Jakani chuckled to himself. Much redder and covered in mud, and they’d pass for lamko. What a demotion!
The men all cried out as the carriage suddenly lurched and slid sideways, toward the drop. Four men at the front were on their knees. The rest were churning at the mud, trying to gain some kind of footing. They looked like spiders mired in a pool of blood. Trapped against the danger-side of the carriage, one man slipped right to the edge, teetering … the rear left wheel clanked against the barrier, and he heard a child scream!
Jakani’s dutiful trot turned into a charge.
Shucking his backpack mid-stride, he slid on his knees beneath the back of the heavy carriage as he reached for the flailing nenko, snagged his belt, and yanked the fellow so hard to safety he skidded across the mud and toppled a couple of the soldiers. He sensed her fires. So close, the heat through the back of the carriage seemed palpable as he threw his weight and strength into the fray. Not that he weighed that much compared to a nenko, who were bred for their sturdiness and stamina, and used by the wealthy to draw carriages or tote formal litters between the estates, but he had this crazy fire-forged power that somehow always responded at moments of crisis. The retaining wall was crumbling under the weight! The carriage would topple over …
For several endless seconds the weight of the carriage’s momentum forced him backward as his feet slipped in the slick red mud like everyone else’s, the back wheel screeching against the wall, and then he felt rock beneath his heels. Dig deep! Brace!
He roared, “Together now! Heave!”
Nenko around him gasped as the inexorable slide stopped. He steadied the carriage again, adjusting his position. “With me, men!”
“Aye!” “Come on, you slackers!” “Don’t let a mud-monkey show us up!”
Almost, almost, he lost his temper. Jakani had lifted the whole carriage several inches clear of the ruts it had created when he remembered the danger, and he changed angles to begin to force the carriage uphill. His sinews creaked as he took up the strain. The men at the front bellowed in fright and surprise as they went from scrabbling backward in the mud to facing the prospect of being crushed as the carriage surged toward them instead. Nenko swarmed around him now, cursing and praising him with equal facility. Then those at the front harnesses took up the slack, their legs churning uphill through the mud, and abruptly the weight seemed little and the way short, until the carriage popped over the brow of the hill with ludicrous ease and creaked to a halt on a grassy patch beside a stand of hunch-backed conifers.
Jakani eased up. He should trot back and find his satchel – oh. One of the soldiers, a grizzled veteran missing two fingers of his left hand, passed it to him. “Nice work, boy.”
He nodded back respectfully.
If he had been mucky before, now he was filthy. He flicked off a few of the larger clods of sticky mud. No doubt the Choices would be –
“Out for a walk!” Tytiana ordered. “Come on, girls. It’s all downhill from here and I promise there’s no more mud. Well, maybe a bit.”
In a second, three blonde heads and a titian one popped out of the carriage. The girls all wore light rose-coloured walking dresses, as Jakani understood they were called, and carried pretty Eastern-style parasols made of … some kind of reed. Paper? Maybe that was it. Very odd substance. Far less durable than scrolleaf, so what was the point of that?
Now, the eldest was called Zihaeri, Tytiana was second in line, then came Quiraeli who was as delicately beautiful as a blossom, and lastly little Sariaki, not much older than his own sister, he judged. He had not noticed so keenly before, but now seeing the sisters together it was clear why Quiraeli was celebrated as the ‘classic’ Helyon beauty, while Tytiana was regarded as more exotic, an anomaly, the odd bolt in the shipment, as Islanders would say. The younger sister possessed not only features and build of unreasonable perfection, but owned a natural grace that would have artists sighing over her every move. In comparison, Tytiana was a quick-tempered flame, with her wild hair, vivid eyes slightly too large and slanted not to draw a second glance, and a generous mouth that he fervently wished would quirk more often into a smile.
Right now, she whirled with a scowl that angled her brows over violet pools of simmering anger.
Uh-oh. Somebody leash that Dragoness!
“Who lifted our carriage back there?” Tytiana demanded of the nenko crew. “And why did you allow us to experience such a perilous situation in the first instance? Who’s in charge here?”
<
br /> One of the nenko men said, “With respect, o Choice, the road should have been scouted beforehand. Conditions were not fit for the carriage.”
“Oh?”
“Aye. The accursed caroli – that boy – helped lift the carriage.”
Tytiana’s chin lifted. “Oh, you must mean my assistant.”
“Aye, the lamko filth.”
Jakani might have imagined he heard a crack of thunder in the distance, or perhaps that was Tytiana’s fury. “His name is Jakani. Next time, scout the pox-sucking road properly, you incompetent fool!”
* * * *
When summoned, the Dirt Picker came forward with a properly deferential bow and explained that the carriage had slipped on a difficult section, and he had merely stopped it until the nenko could gain their footing. Pressed, however, the old Jakani surfaced and in a deliberately thick lamko accent, he said:
“O Choice Tytiana, it seemed that when the safety of your family was threatened, my strength in the moment was that of ten men. I could only thank Fra’anior that none were injured. Even the man struck by the carriage was pulled to safety. And these are good men and loyal, o Choice. Please do not punish them for my tardiness to help.”
“I should punish you for your insolence, boy, save that you righted our carriage. Thank you for saving us.”
He bowed deeply, and then three times more as the sisters thanked him in turn.
As they walked off, Sariaki whispered, “Is that Mister Handsome? He’s sure dirty for a Mister Handsome, Tyti.”
“Sari – don’t.”
Sariaki giggled behind her hand, but Quiraeli just looked thoughtful.
It was a beautiful day for walking. Tytiana and Zihaeri walked a little behind their younger siblings, who had decided to skip ahead to pick from the yellow daisies and white anemones at the wayside. The soldiers gave them plenty of space, and so it was after a very long silence, that Zihaeri leaned over to whisper in her ear:
