Bloodstone Part 22

"Our legends say our people fled from invaders," Keirith said carefully, "who cut down our tree-brothers and stole our children for sacrifice."

"And ours say that the people who lived here refused to let us build our temples and wors.h.i.+p our G.o.ds. When they attacked us, we fought back-and in the end, they left us in peace. Which story is true?" The Pajhit shrugged. "Both, no doubt."

He was always pointing out the similarities between their peoples, their languages, their legends. No matter what Keirith said-or how hotly he spoke-the Pajhit always had a calm, reasonable reply. And every morning at dawn, this calm, reasonable man cut the heart out of another captive and offered it to his hungry sun G.o.d.

The next evening, he bluntly asked, "What's going to happen to me?"

"That depends upon you."

"You want to touch my spirit. To have me touch yours. But I've already-"

"You've made it clear you won't allow that."

"Then why-?"

"Am I wasting my time with you?"

"It's not just because you enjoy finis.h.i.+ng all my sentences."

The Pajhit smiled. "When I was younger-before I became the priest of Heart of Sky-I was the Master of Zhiisti. I instructed the first-year apprentices."

"Did you enjoy it? Teaching?"

"Very much."

"So does my-" Keirith broke off. This time, the Pajhit waited. ". . . my father."

"Ah, yes. The Memory-Keeper. What was his name again?"

"You remember his name." The man remembered everything.

"Has Ennit always been a Memory-Keeper?"

"As long as I can remember."

The Pajhit chuckled. "Very good. I probe. You evade. I don't suppose you'd tell me if you have brothers or sisters."

Keirith considered. "One of each."

"And you are the eldest."

"How did . . . ?"

Because you just told him. In two words.

"I've lost track of the score," the Pajhit said. "Who's winning tonight?"

"Is that all this is to you? A game?"

The Pajhit's smile vanished. "No. But I'm willing to play by the rules you establish. For now."

It was easier with Hircha. She never asked any questions. But she was just as good at evasion as the Pajhit.

She was later than usual this morning, leaving him to sit in the garden and play with Niqia. Absently dangling the end of his khirta just out of reach of her questing paw, Keirith admitted that he looked forward to their lessons.

At first, Hircha had seemed as wary of him as he was of her. She'd told him that she was required to report everything he said and did, but as they grew more comfortable, he sometimes forgot her warning and found himself confiding in her. Just the frustration of being held here against his will, his anxiety about his fate. He never used the word fear; a man didn't let on such things to a girl. Still, he felt better when she confessed that she'd been scared during her first moons in Pilozhat. But when he'd asked about her capture, she'd abruptly changed the subject, leaving him to curse himself silently for his clumsiness.

He often felt clumsy around her. He'd never spent much time with girls-except Faelia. And she didn't count.

His khirta jerked in his hands as Niqia pounced. He tried to tug it free, but that only caused her to seize the fabric between her teeth. When he rose, she darted away.

"Niqia. Stop that."

She raced under another bench, leaving him to trail after her. He laughed, realizing how ridiculous he must look, down on his knees, one hand clinging to the taut length of flaxcloth, the other grabbing a fistful of material to keep the khirta from sliding off his hips. When he heard echoing laughter, he looked up to discover Hircha standing in the doorway. His face grew warm and he tugged hard enough at the flaxcloth to drag Niqia out of hiding. After a brief tussle-careful lest Niqia decide his fingers made a more tempting target than a strip of cloth-he managed to free himself.

"Stupid cat," he mumbled as he rewound his khirta and double knotted it at his waist.

"Silly boy." But her smile was kind. His face grew even warmer. "She'll never let you alone now. We'd best find another place for our lessons."

His heart raced at the unexpected opportunity to escape the confines of the Pajhit's chamber. "Is it allowed?"

"It's not like they won't be with us," she said, nodding toward the guards, just visible through the thin draperies.

To his dismay, she led him only a short way down the corridor and into an open-air courtyard. It held a few stone benches and a small "garden" composed entirely of different colored rocks, artfully arranged in a spiral.

"This is the priests' private garden," Hircha told him as she settled herself on one of the benches, "but the Pajhit has given us permission to use it as long as no one's here."

To call it private seemed an overstatement; anyone leaning on the railings above would have a perfect view of them.

"That floor has a dining hall and a cla.s.sroom for the male Zhiisti as well as their living quarters."

"Do the priestesses live there, too?"

"Their wing is on the other side of the hall where you were questioned."

"Where does the queen live?"

"In the north wing. Near the throne room. The king lives there, too. Not that you'd care." Her pointed look reminded him of his enthusiastic description of the queen. He pretended to examine the rock garden while he waited for his blush to subside.

As the lesson progressed, Hircha seemed distracted, idly tracing the pattern of the tiles with her toe, jumping up to brush her fingers against a pillar. Finally, he asked, "Is something wrong?"

"I'm just restless today."

"I don't think the queen is all that beautiful."

"What?"

"I mean, she is, but it's probably because she's so . . . different. From the women at home. And the girls." To his utter shame, his voice broke on the last word.

Hircha looked completely bewildered. Obviously, she hadn't been upset about the queen at all. Desperate, he said, "Can we go someplace? Anywhere. Just walk? We could practice at the same time."

Too late, he remembered her limp.

Of course, she doesn't want to walk. Idiot.

"We'll have to stay in the palace," she finally said.

Relief washed over him. "Of course. All right. That's fine."

Shut up!

Her mouth was pursed, as if she had tasted something bad-or was trying not to laugh at him.

Please, G.o.ds, let it be a bad taste in her mouth.

He was acting like a fool. This was his opportunity to observe details about the palace instead of shambling along, casting covert glances at a girl he barely knew-a girl he'd never have a chance to know. He could trust no one. Not the captives in the slave compound. Not the Pajhit with his lessons on cats and culture. Not this girl who reported everything he said and did-and whose thin lips would curl in disgust if she ever found out what had happened on the s.h.i.+p.

Watch, Keirith. Watch. Observe. Remember.

He s.h.i.+vered as they walked through the empty interrogation chamber; it was one place he never wished to see again. The pillared entrance led to a broad stairway. Beyond it was a huge courtyard, three or four times as wide as the marketplace he had glimpsed that first day. The walls of the palace rose around it, but to his left, he noticed another smaller courtyard. He shrank back when he saw the bearers and their curtained boxes coming through it.

"Are those the Jhevi?"

"Hard to say. They're rich, though. Only important visitors arrive in litters. The merchants use the west gate." Hircha pointed across the courtyard, but he saw nothing resembling a gate. "That's the administrative wing," she said, as she limped slowly down the steps. "The kitchen and storage rooms are on the ground floor. The one above is for the scribes, the potters, the metalworkers-"

"What are scribes?"

"They keep the accounts. The merchants . . . oh, it's easier if I show you."

She led him across the courtyard, but instead of going up the steps, she ducked into the dark pa.s.sageway beside them. Light streamed in from the larger entrance at the far end. That must be the gate.

Hircha came to a halt where a long corridor intersected the pa.s.sageway. A steady stream of slaves hurried past with sacks of grain, haunches of meat, bundles of fleece, and hides. The aroma of fresh-baked bread wafted toward him, along with the clamor of contending voices and the sound of something shattering on stone.

"The kitchen," Hircha said, observing the direction of his gaze.

They darted past the slaves, but when he neared the gate, Hircha grabbed his arm. Reluctantly, he stopped, watching the long line of men and animals waiting to enter the palace.

"You see those men with the donkeys?"

"Donkeys? That's what you call those wooden carts?"

"Nay, the animals with the sacks. If the load is very heavy, the merchants. .h.i.tch the donkeys to carts. The round things on the back of the cart-those are wheels."

Litters. Kitchen. Donkeys. Wheels. Every strange thing has a name.

Unlike the slave compound, this gate had no doors, although guards stood at attention on either side. The merchants, he noticed, did not use the kitchen corridor, but veered off into another that must parallel it.

Watch. Observe. Remember.

"When a merchant unloads his goods, they're weighed. A scribe writes down the weight of each sack or bundle. It looks like the scratches of a bird's claws to me, but they must know what it means."

So the Speaker had been a scribe. Imagine being able to record such information so that anyone-well, anyone who could read the bird scratches-understood. You could communicate with people hundreds of miles away.

"Is it always this busy?" he asked. The line of merchants seemed endless.

"Until midday. After that it's too hot to do much of anything."

"Which way is the city?" From here, he could see only a vast open expanse-fields, perhaps.

"To the south. Through the main gate."

She turned back toward the central courtyard. After a final hungry look at the gateway, Keirith followed. "And the adder pit?" he asked.

She waved vaguely in the direction of the north wing. So the adder pit was near the throne room. And the throne room was next to the chamber where he'd met the queen. His excitement grew with each new piece of information. To hide it, he asked, "Have you always been a translator?"

"Nay. I . . . mostly, I work in the kitchen."

"That seems a waste."

"I'm a member of the Zheron's household. He can use me any way he wishes."

He'd imagined she served the Pajhit. "The Zheron has a household?"

That closed look came over her face. "It's too hot to talk out here."

Obediently, he followed her back toward the priests' wing. "Do they question all the prisoners in there?"

"The hall of priests," she said, avoiding a direct answer. "Say it in Zherosi."

"Zala di Dozhiistos."

"Dozhiisti. You change the 'o' to an 'i' for the plural. So if we had two halls, it would be . . ."

"Zali di Dozhiisti." Keirith grimaced. "It twists your mouth up something awful," he said in the tribal tongue.

"Say it in Zherosi."

He did his best. His best provoked a giggle, which made the failure more bearable.

"You just said, 'You tie my tongue in bad.' "

"Well, it does tie my tongue in bad."

He glanced around, but no one was paying them any attention other than his two guards. So he hopped onto the first step and shouted, "Un." Then up to the next. "Bo. Traz. Uat." By the time he reached "Iev," he was panting. He slapped one of the ma.s.sive pillars that supported the roof and jerked his hand back. A splinter was embedded in his forefinger. Carefully, he ran his hand over the pillar. Beneath the russet-colored paint, he could feel the ridges of bark.

"They're made from tree trunks. Can you guess why they're wider at the top than at the bottom?"

Fine observer he was; he hadn't even noticed.