She waved it off. "It only took me a few moments, really. Please don't think anything about it."
"Well," he said, bowing a bit. "Thanks again." He went off with the paper and began searching for the numbers and titles she had listed, and was soon poring over the books, lost in concentration. She noticed that he made notes, now and then, on a roll of paper he had brought with him.
On their way home that evening, Tsem asked Hezhi about Yen.
"Yen son of Chwen? Not a noble, then."
"No," Hezhi replied. "He's with the engineers. I've been helping him find some books he needs."
"He smiles a lot," Tsem noted. "Too much."
"You would smile a lot, too, if you were in the palace for the first time. You would be worried about who you might offend if you did not smile."
Tsem shrugged. "I suppose. You talk to him a lot, I think."
"Twice, Tsem. That isn't a lot."
Tsem was silent, and she realized that she might have hurt him, a little. She and Tsem hadn't spoken that much lately, and since D'en's disappearance he had been her best friend. He had never been quite like D'en, of course—Tsem was always reminding her that he was her servant, and that was somehow different from a friend even if you liked each other. Still, she had taken him for granted lately.
"Let's go to the fountain on the roof, Tsem. I want to look out over the city."
"Qey said we should come home early…" Tsem began, but Hezhi rolled her eyes at that.
"Come on, Tsem," she said, and changed their route. Soon they were winding through the abandoned wing.
"This could be dangerous," Tsem remarked. "If a ghost can attack you in the Hall of Moments, it can surely happen here, where the priests rarely come."
That gave Hezhi pause, but only for an instant. "We've been coming here for years, Tsem. It's never happened before."
"Things are different now, Princess."
They came to the foot of the stairway and started up. "I trust you to protect me," she told him.
"Is that why you sent me away when the priests came?" he asked. His voice was mild, but she heard bitterness there.
She looked down the stairs at him. "They were priests," she said. "I don't need protection from priests, do I?"
The line of Tsem's mouth was tight and flat; he had nothing to say to that.
Dusk painted Nhol in rust and pollen; the River flowed molten copper, painfully beautiful. Hezhi gazed out at the wonder of it.
"You go out into the city, don't you, Tsem?" she asked.
"Often, Princess. Qey sends me to buy spices and meat sometimes."
"Would it be possible for me to go with you, next time?"
Tsem shook his head. "Not outside of the walls. Not yet."
"When? When I move down the Hall of Moments?"
"Yes, then," Tsem said.
Hezhi nodded. It was what she suspected. She traced around the city with her finger, over the great ziggurat and its perpetual flow of water, along the thousands of tiny cabins that crowded the levee. "Will you take me down there, when I'm old enough?"
"Of course, if you wish it."
"Good."
She gazed off down the River and then up it, trying to imagine where he came from, how many leagues he flowed across before reaching Nhol. Were the forests in her dreams up there, up along the River? Desert, first, of course, more miles of it than she could imagine. The geography she had skimmed said the River was born in some mountain, far away, but it did not say what the mountain was like. It was named merely She'leng, "The Water Flows Out," and figured in many of the ancient legends. She had always pictured it as perfect, austere, a great bare stone, pointed like the mountains on the maps. She had of course never seen any mountain.
"Tsem," she explained quietly, "I sent you away because I don't want anything to happen to you. You're the only friend I have."
"My duty is to protect you, Princess," he replied.
"I know that. And you always have. But not against priests, Tsem. If you hurt a priest—if you even touched one without permission—they would torture you to death in the Leng Court and still they would do to me whatever they wanted."
"But they would pay," Tsem muttered. "By the River, you would cost them a high price."
"By the River? Do you think the River cares for me, Tsem? Whatever happens to me, it will be because the River makes it so. I am part of him, the way my father is, the way the priests are. Whatever comes to Nhol, the River brings it, does it not?"
Tsem did not respond, but he joined her at the parapet. The River had faded with the sun, gone from copper to mud, and soon enough he would catch the stars and moon, hold them in his turbid grasp. Hezhi wondered, idly, where the merchants lived, where Yen's house might be. Perhaps there, near where the ships clustered; houses stood there—not noble, but comfortably large. She almost asked Tsem if he knew, but refrained when she saw the reflective look on his face.
A moment later, Tsem's massive hand stroked her hair, a gentle movement. "Come, Princess," he said. "Supper will be cold and Qey will be colder."
"It's over, isn't it, Tsem?" she asked, surprised to find herself so near tears for no clear reason.
"What's over, Princess?"
"Childhood. I'm no longer a child, am I?"
Tsem smiled, as faintly as the sun's last rays. "You never were a child, Princess." He stroked her hair again. Her tears stayed where they were, back of her eyes. She and Tsem walked back home, together, as behind them the River faded to gray.
VII
The Monster in the Raven's Belly
Perkar revised his opinion of the previous night's darkness. A cave could be darker and most certainly was. He thought briefly of the bugs he had drowned in tar as a boy, wondered if having tar poured all over him would be this dark. But of course, the tar would be very hot, and any darkness it brought would be the least of his worries. Which was, in fact, their current situation. Lack of sight was discomforting—frightening—but they had other, more serious problems. It did not seem like the time or place to voice such thoughts.
"We'll have to light a torch," Apad muttered. "Piss, Perkar, why did you have to open your mouth?"
A cackle of laughter erupted right in Perkar's ear, and he could see again. The Lemeyi was crumpling against the wall, holding his belly.
"We'll have to light a torch," he shrieked gleefully, his voice pitched high and shrill. "We'll have to!" He howled on.
"Dung-eater!" Apad snarled, yanking his sword free. "Laugh at this!"
"Laugh at this!" the Lemeyi roared, waggling a finger at Apad. Apad growled inarticulately and sprang forward, his sword swinging high and overhand. Perkar stood as if frozen, a protest trying to get from his numbed brain to his lips. Apad was not joking or making a threat; murder was plain on his face.
He miscalculated his attack badly, however; doubtless he had never practiced swordplay in a narrow cave. The blade screeched in protest as it met with the low ceiling of the tunnel; sparks spattered onto the floor. Apad dropped the weapon; it clattered to the stone and he staggered, holding his wrist. The attack nearly killed the Lemeyi anyway; his chuckling became convulsions of hysteria, and Perkar thought that perhaps the creature had swallowed its own tongue; he watched incredulously as the Lemeyi's face changed from red to purple. Apad glowered, still nursing his wrist. Grimly he stepped to pick up his sword.
"No!" Perkar snapped at him. "No, we need him!"
"It's true, Apad," Eruka agreed.
Apad watched the Lemeyi—who was actually wiping tears from his eyes—disgust and hatred plain on his face. Nevertheless he nodded, retrieved his weapon, and after glaring at the nicked and dulled blade, returned it to its appliqued scabbard.