“Desantro said to me once: Never trust a Mal. It’s the first thing she learned. And on the way here, a man tried to cut my throat because I was a Mal.”
“They’ll trust you before they trust each other, Falmaree. That doesn’t mean they’ll love you. Besides, folk’re used to having Maulapam tell them what to do.”
Penhari slapped her hand on her thigh. “Then I’m going to be more than a rug you put over a stain, Tai. I’ve been reading for years about governance.” She laughed. “Fifty years I sit around sewing, now I learn how to sail a boat and it seems I’m to sail a state. You’re sure?”
“Sure? Nothing’s sure, but something has to be done.”
“Diyo, diyo. What we need at the start are Kumms to judge disputes and set law. You know these people
… the women… I want women as Kumms. Not Kassians, just ordinary women. All castes. Then… “
Kassian Tai laughed. “Slowly, slowly, Penhari Banadah. It’s only a few hours till dawn. Time enough for planning when you’ve got some sleep.”
Chapter 23. Juvalgrim Contemplates His Fate
Juvalgrim hitched a hip on the windowledge, looked down into the Fountain Court as he combed night-tangles out of his hair. “Father and son,” he murmured. “Touching, isn’t it.”
On the far side of the long narrow room Fitchon snorted. He filled a cup with hot, steaming tea, straightened the forks and spoons, shifted the vase with the half opened tashba bud so a petal with nibbles off the edge wouldn’t show. “Ready,” he said. “If you haven’t lost your appetite.”
In the Court the Prophet stood against the back wall with arms outstretched, leading the Iron Litany.
Before him, on their knees, the General, the Royal hosta, Cheoshim from the STRIKER bands, and a scattering of men from the city, slaves and workers from the Maulapam Sirmalas, chanted the responses in deep burring voices that made the water shake and hammered at the glass in the tower behind them.
Juvalgrim slipped off the sill, strolled to his dressing table, dropped the brush, and slipped a clip over his hair to keep it out of his mouth while he was eating. He leaned closer to the mirror, ran a finger along the deepening line between his nostril and the corner of his mouth. “It would make life much simpler if I grew a beard.”
Fitchon paused on his way into the next room, chuckled. “In competition with the Prophet?”
Juvalgrim straightened. “I’d keep it clean, at least, and free of crawlers.” He settled himself at his breakfast table which was set up near one of the outer windows. “Join me, Fitch; you can finish your work later.”
At the foot of the Mountain lay the shrunken, deserted River and the smoldering High City. In the Edge a building suddenly belched streamers of black smoke into the red streaks lingering from sunrise.
Fitchon spread jam on a piece of toast with a liberal hand, took a large bite out of the triangle.
Juvalgrim frowned at the tea in his cup, the gold-brown liquid shivering with the barely perceptible shake of his hand; the long nights were getting to him. And this business. It wasn’t going to be easy; the best he could think of was to approach it obliquely. “Have you ever wondered about your parents, Fitch?”
Fitchon’s lips twitched and his eyes narrowed as they always did when he was thinking up some sass or other, but he drew his napkin across his mouth and with the jam wiped away his flippancy. “Diyo. We all do, you know. But no one says anything.” He rubbed his thumb along the handle of the butterknife. “I always wondered…” His eyes lifted for an instant to meet Juvalgrim’s, dropped quickly.
“If I’d got you on one of my bedwarmers?”
Fitchon set the knife down, scratched at a smear of jam on his,napkin. “Diyo.”
Juvalgrim shook his head. “Sorry, Fitch, no way. I’m sterile as a stone, lots of activity but no results.” He ran his finger along his upper lip, amused and flattered by the disappointment Fitchon couldn’t hide. “Singularity, limp, it has its points.” He cut a piece of sausage, looked at it, laid his fork down. “We’ve been friends a long time, Fitch.”
His amber skin darkening with an uneasy flush, Fitchon fiddled with the napkin.
Juvalgrim’s shout of laughter was loud enough to shake the tashba petals. “Nayo nay, my friend, I’m not hustling you to my bed. Though I’ve no doubt gossip has put you there often enough.”
“Diyo, and got me a lot of perks even you didn’t know about, High One.” Fitchon leaned back, grinning-as much with relief as enjoyment.
“I told Reyna once you were a conniver from the womb.” Juvalgrim sobered, jabbed his thumb at the window. “Look at that, will you. Order of the day. What you can’t control, destroy.”
Fitchon scratched at his wrist, pulled his mouth into an upside-down curve. “Isn’t that much left to burn.”
“Maybe so, Fitch, but I’ve a proprietary interest in the tinder that’s left. One of these days I’m going to look down and there’ll be bundles of faggots under my feet and the Prophet dancing round me with a torch and a smug grin on his filthy face.”
“That can’t… nayo!” Fitchon slapped his hands on the table, hard enough to make the dishes jump. “We won’t let it happen.”
“Ghali-ghali, my friend, such passion. You’ve been thinking about it, haven’t you.”
“Nayo nay!”
“Diyo, mavi, or you wouldn’t be so quick to deny.”
“High One, you know we support you, us young ones. And a lot of the Primes. The Prophet wouldn’t dare…” -
“The Prophet does what he wants.” Juvalgrim shook his head. “Friends and allies, Fitch, they’ll run for shadow when the crunch comes. That doesn’t bother me, mavi, I’d do it myself. It’s you I’m worried about. We’re too tight. It’s made enemies for you.”
“Them! Jegging bigots, they’re jealous, that’s all.” He pushed his chair back and got to his feet. “I won’t listen to this, High One.”
“Whistling at the moon, mavi. I appreciate the effort, but I haven’t survived this long without keeping my eyes open even if I don’t like what I see. I recommend the practice.”
Fitchon’s shoulders jerked, he turned his back on Juvalgrim and pressed his forehead against the window ‘glass, his hands closed tightly about the edge of the sill.
“I’m sending you upRiver tomorrow. Quiambo Prime will take you in, put you to work in a corner somewhere, keep you out of sight until this is over.”
“Nayo!”
“Diyo, mavi. Either you walk onto that barge or I’ll have you carried on in chains.”
Fitchon pivoted, caught hold of the back of the chair where he’d been sitting, leaned tensely toward Juvalgrim. “Come with me, this scum you’re feeding and coddling, they’re not worth your life.”
“Scum, Fitch? You’ve a mother down there, perhaps even brothers.”
“Mother! She threw me away, I should care about her?”
“There are other mothers, mavi. Mine among them. I was born with a Mal face, but she was a slave. What choice did she have?”
“Ahhh! All that’s…” He waved his hands as he searched for words. “Air! Dream! Nothing! I don’t understand you. Druggers, thieves, cheats, lazy chuggs, can you deny that’s what they are?”
“What does that matter? Do they have to earn my attention?” Juvalgrirn leaned back, rested his hands on the slender arms of his chair. “Listen, mavi mavou, everyone else has someone or something to stand with them. Temple, Order, Family, Caste. Law and Obligation. My Scum have me.” He sighed. “And the foundling school has me and the acolytes and novices depend on me. It’s a heavy weight sometimes, but I,” he paused, his mouth twitching into a deprecating half smile, “I like it.” He looked at the pieces of sausage on his plate, wrinkled his nose, pushed away from the table.
“I know you do.” Fitchon’s grip tightened on the chairback. “Don’t send me away. You need me.”
“I need you alive.” Juvalgrim crossed the room to the wardrobe, paused with his hand on the knob. Over his shoulder he said, “The third way’s the best way, remember that, Fitch. When you see two bull saisai nose to nose, snorting and kicking dirt and blocking your path, go round them. One way or another. Slip and slide, Fitch, slip and slide and there you’ll be peacefully on your way while they’re locking horns and trying to trample each other.”