Beasts of tabat, p.23
Beasts of Tabat, page 23
Her fingers tremble, trapped in mine. Neither of us speaks.
Past the pools, we reach a promontory some forty feet across with an abrupt stretch downward to the rocks where the waves labor in endless agitation. Stone benches are scattered along the flat platform here.
I use my free hand to fumble in my pocket and take out the paper bag from the bakery. The rolls are still hot from the oven; when I break mine open, steam rises from the interior.
I turn, not facing the open sea, but the trembling light on the city’s edge signaling the morning, and gesture. “Behold, the sunrise!”
We both hold our breath as the sun ventures over the horizon to fling golden light across the terraces and the harbor’s mirror and, not satisfied with the effect, produces a number of flowery pink and purple clouds with which to ornament itself. One of the most beautiful sights I know.
I’ve never brought another person here, never shown anyone this. It was a private pleasure up till now, something that I hid and treasured. But something about Skye makes me want to share it.
The sunlight illuminates her smile, as beautiful as any cityscape could ever be.
I’d thought I would simply bring her here to show her the garden. Not to kiss her, not to take her in my arms.
I remind myself of my promise to Lucya. It stands between Skye and me; keeps me from reaching out as I would like to. More than would like. Is it only my imagination that I can feel the warmth of her?
She stands too near.
I lift a hand to brush a strand of hair from her face, and somehow the gesture turns into a caress. She closes her eyes at my touch, but I feel her shiver to her bones.
Everything is touched with light. The waves whisper encouragement. I haven’t felt this alive for so long.
The strength of my desire frightens me. I pull away.
She opens her eyes, searching my face for some clue as to what she should do, but I have no answer to give her.
That frightens me most of all.
* * *
All I can think of is Skye.
When Miche comes to call, I finally send him away. I have no need for him. Life is complicated enough without him in the mix, and Skye has already proven herself a little jealous.
He is unhappy with me, which I expect. But he takes it better than I thought he would.
As he is leaving, he says, “The boy, Teo. Have you thought again about sending him to the circus? It would be a good place for him, and he would learn more there than playing errand boy here.”
Perhaps he’s right, but I shake my head again.
He seems angrier with that than my dismissal, but he shrugs and says, “Let me know if you reconsider.”
* * *
Today Alberic is receiving visitors, and there is no reason for me to be here, other than his desire to show me off, like a dancing doll on a chain, his possession, his thing that will always do as he pleases.
His audience chamber is set with narrow high windows, the glass clear as crystal, free of the bubbles and impurities that those of us not of royal blood must live with. Snow swirls past, so thick that it seems as though it is all the world. It swallows up any other details that might be visible.
Fires roar in two fireplaces, one on either side of the high-backed throne on which he sits. It was created by a Duke three generations back, whose daughter later put it away. What does it say that Alberic found it in the storeroom where it had been set and pulled it out? He is so concerned with the trappings of office. Not for the first time, I wonder what he will do when all of this is no longer his.
He hears a few requests from the Merchants, but they do not truly need his permission to send an expedition past the Southern Isles to the land filled with snow and fire or eastward to the Stonelands. They are merely obeying custom. Even if he wanted to forbid these expeditions, he could not. And why would he want to? This is what has made Tabat so great, its Explorers moving out and bringing back so many things that the city has come to rely on. Like Dryad logs.
After all of this is done, a new group arrives. The Rose Kingdom has sent an envoy to accompany the healer Alberic requested. There is no reason for him to have a skilled healer; he is no more prone to disease than any other man, but he likes to think that he does have something that no one else has, and there are no other such healers in the city.
It must be nice, to have the world dance to your bidding from the day you are born. Perhaps this is why I wonder about Tabat’s future so much, because I am looking forward to seeing this change. Will it change enough to satisfy the slight itch of irritation and envy that his presence raises in me? I don’t know that it will. I have always been skilled at keeping a grudge alive.
I remember my journey to the Rose Kingdom. We came to its western edge and the port there, bordered on one side by the beginnings of the hedge, the forest of thorns created by magic long ago which surrounds the kingdom on three sides leaving it only approachable by the sea. I had gone to bargain for something Alberic claimed he needed, but which, as always, turned out to be a matter of whim. Still, I spent two months there, learning it and its ways. Adelina has written two accounts, as dry and full of historical fact, as though her scholarly writings were creeping into the penny-wide. Perhaps that is why she wishes to write another one, to see if she can make this one interesting.
I do not know if the healer knows what sort of place he has come to. He kneels at Alberic’s feet, and seems too young to have the skill he is said to possess. His head is shaven till you cannot distinguish the color of his hair, other than the fine gilt eyebrows and thin mustache that ornament his face. I do not know that the healer will do well here. The Rose Kingdom is so different and does not have the delineations and compartments of society that fill Tabat. Here he will be an anomaly.
Alberic turns to me. “Bella, you will take him to visit Milosh Della Rose.” Turning back to the healer, he says, “The Della Rose family knows more about plants than any other in the city, and their greenhouses are famed across the continent.”
I know that last part well, for Marta, Milosh’s daughter, told me it more than once.
This is not an oblivious moment on Alberic’s part. He is well aware that Marta and I parted badly, and it amuses him. There is a challenge in his eyes, asking if I intend to push back.
But he is the leader of Tabat, and I am sworn to the city. What will it be like, when someone else leads? I let that thought warm a smile for Alberic, and he smiles back, thinking I am acceding.
* * *
Every city has its own customs, and Tabat is no different. They grow from and are shaped by the circumstances around them, the history and the geography and what is plentiful or scarce, which exert a much greater influence than any individual ever will, even the Duke. One of the things Tabat has much of is clay, mined from the marshes north of us and processed in the Slumpers. That is where the great kilns roar day and night, baking clay into tiles and pottery, glazed green and blue and purple. And a very small portion of that clay is used to make the tiny marking tiles that are set in the doorway of any building that has been distinguished in some way by a particular denizen.
In this way history is kept, tiles whose color tells of famed Scholars or Government Officials or Generals or Explorers or even great Artists. At one point there was a particular tile that marked a Champion of Tabat, but did not distinguish between them. Ten years ago it was decided that I would have a unique tile, one that marked my presence, Bella Kanto’s presence and no one else’s. An honor given very few indeed. Only the rulers of Tabat have held that in the past. While he has never challenged me on it, I know that it grates on Alberic, and that he thinks it is not truly due me. That it was presumptuous for the tile makers to come up with the idea; that it was even more presumptuous of me to accept.
I have received many honors over the years, but few of them have thrilled me the way that tile does, though. There is something about seeing it set between the other tiles, and knowing that it will still be there for as long as the building stands.
I rarely thwart Alberic. In this, I did.
The Della Rose house’s entrance is ringed with tiles, including mine.
I never spent the night with Marta here, though I dined here more than once. Technically, they should not have set my tile in the entrance. It says something of Marta that it appeared after the first meal I shared with her. Perhaps her way of trying to mark me as hers, but that is something I have never allowed any lover.
I am tired of Alberic’s games, of dancing to his tune. I find myself almost looking forward to the elections, despite the chaos that I know that they will bring. At least I will be rid of him then.
I was irritated when Alberic directed me here, and I realize now that I have been discourteous to the healer. But when I turn to speak to him, he does not seem to have noticed. He looks around himself with curiosity and the serenity that the citizens of the Rose Kingdom all seem to possess. He is slender and slight of muscle, but moves gracefully. His robe is too thin to truly keep him warm, but he does not shiver. It is made of rough woven green silk, the color of a new leaf unfurling with bands of blue and red flowers along the seams, a style that almost makes me smile, recalling as it does my days there.
I say to him, “Do you know of this family and their work?”
He shakes his head, eyes downcast to the glaze of ice along the cobblestones. His shoes are thin leather, dyed to match his robe.
There is something odd about him. Something that reminds me of something I’d forgotten, but I cannot think what it might be. I shake that thought away, for surely my mind is playing tricks on me.
I say, “Each Merchant house takes its name from the wares that they have built their business on. Their family name is Della Rose, and their ancestors were the first to do business with your kingdom long ago.”
His eyebrow rises. “Then I would think I would have heard of them.” There is question in his tone.
I shake my head. “Tabat has been in existence for almost three centuries now. There is no wonder that you have not heard of something that happened so long ago. Nowadays all trade with the Rose Kingdom comes through the Merchant’s council rather than any individual family.”
I raise my hand to the door and knock out a brisk rat-tat-tat. Over my shoulder I say, “But they have maintained their interest in plants, although they deal in much more than roses now. Their greenhouses are without equal in this city. That is why the Duke wishes you to consult with them, so you know what plants you may draw upon.”
Before he can ask any other questions, the door swings open. I know the servant there, and he knows me, of course, and knows enough to raise his eyebrow in turn, clearly wondering what Marta will think of this and whether he should call her.
I say quickly, before he can ask that question aloud, “We are here to see Master Milosh.”
He nods and stands aside. I shake snow off my cloak and ice from my hair, wondering again how it is that the healer does not feel such cold. Perhaps he is a failed Rose Knight and has undergone their training. And even more importantly, undergone the process that they all undertake: the grafting of branches from the hedge into their flesh, until they are as much plant as Human. I have fought Rose Knights. They are among the most dangerous opponents I have ever faced, between the thorns along their arms and the thick armor that clings to their skin.
The healer looks around curiously as the servant departs to fetch the master of the house. The Della Roses are wealthy, and this house’s furnishings are the equal of any in the Duke’s Castle. The household sigil of flowers and leaves are woven into the carpet underneath my feet, thick and plushy and swallowing every sound. The furniture is ironwood, and smells of beeswax and lemons, as though newly polished.
Perhaps these are even finer than their counterparts in the ducal castle. Merchants are always given to show, for they count it advertisement for their house. I have learned this over years of dealing with them.
Milosh arrives, smiling at me. I find myself smiling back, despite my worries that Marta will appear at any moment. He is a kindly soul.
I introduce him to the healer and explain why I have brought him. Milosh nods and says, “Come, I will show you the greenhouses.” He looks at me with the same question the servant had in his eyes and I shake my head quickly. He tries not to smile but makes a surreptitious gesture, a flapping of his hand at me, that lets me know I am in the danger, as I suspect, of encountering Marta at any second and that I should flee.
Milosh knows that his daughter is thornier than any blossom in his greenhouses. Perhaps it even amuses him that she is capable of making a Gladiator flee.
And so I do flee, back out into the street and the cold and the ice.
Somehow, it does not surprise me when I find myself, yet again, before the gates of the Brides of Steel.
But it does surprise me to find Skye waiting there. As I approach, she says, “I knew that you were coming.”
Does she possess some magic, or have I become predictable?
I suspect it is the latter.
As we spar, I am distracted. Not by outside thoughts, but by Skye herself, the way her body bends and sways, the way I cannot help but imagine it under mine, my lips setting her alight, the way she might cry her pleasure out, or else bite her lip and keep it all inside. Finally, I say enough.
She says, “You’re off your game.”
I turn, surprised by the impudence. She bites her lip, but meets my eyes and says, “I thought that perhaps the baths might help.”
It amuses me to hear this. I’ve used this ploy myself, in the past. I know what she really wants or at least what I hope she really wants.
The silence as we descend to the baths confirms it. Normally I would see other girls down here, but for some odd reason, a reason that I think has much to do with Skye, no one is about. The baths are deserted, even though fresh flowers have been scattered on the surface of the smallest pool.
I say, “How much did it cost you to have them all clear away?”
She doesn’t pretend not to understand but instead says, “I’ll be doing other people’s chores for a month. And all of my spending money.”
I say, “Will it be worth it?”
She says, and this time her eyes meet mine, clear and direct and trusting enough to give me qualms, “I don’t know. Will it?”
I turn away and begin to prepare myself for bathing, stripping away the fighting armor, buying myself moments in which to think. This would make Lucya furious. If she finds us I do not know what the consequences will be. Usually I can predict how she might react, but she is angry enough about this, angry enough about all the times I have refused to step down, that I do not know what might happen, although I suspect the worst. I hear Skye behind me, stripping away her own clothes, then a pause. When I do not turn around, I hear the soft splash as she slips into the water.
When I turn, naked, she is watching me, but I cannot meet her eyes.
I am trembling. I do not know that I have ever trembled like this before. It is as though each place her eyes rest on my skin is set afire. No, not afire, that is a different kind of burning. There are no words I know for this.
There are no words I know for what I discover in her arms, there, dipping in and out of the water, where I kiss away the torchlight that adorns every inch of her skin.
* * *
We are lucky. Lucya does not discover us.
But I know that if this continues, that if we dare to do this again, she will, eventually. Perhaps not the next time, or even the time after that, but it is inevitable.
I do not know what to do about it. How can it be that I, Bella Kanto, the one who always knows the answers, am at such a loss?
* * *
I walk alone in a daze. I keep feeling the memory of kisses on my skin, a memory like a second touch, one that sends new shivers down my spine. And they are not shivers evoked by the cold wind that sweeps along the streets. I am feverish. I am consumed.
This happy haze sustains me all the way home. It buoys my step as I come in through the door, and lightens my heart, making me smile as I pause in the kitchen to steal a fish biscuit from the platter that Abernia keeps waiting there, exchanging a conspiratorial wink with Teo.
He says, “You have a visitor. Abernia showed her up to your sitting room.”
“Oh?” I say. “Who is it?”
He shakes his head. “The woman who sent the flowers, I think,” he says. Boyhood still tilts his voice high.
Armored, I go upstairs.
Marta says, “My father said you came to visit.” She sits posed in the armchair near the window. I am sure she is aware of the picture she makes. She is dressed well, and blue paint gilds her eyelids, her lips are red as though she has been biting them. I know the scent she wears; it is the one she thinks the most seductive.
I say, cautiously, “The Duke asked me to bring a visitor to see your father.” I curse Milosh for telling her, but perhaps that is unkind. Perhaps a servant told her and she simply went to confirm it with him. Either way, he could have lied to her. Although it may be asking too much for him to have any loyalty to me, we have been allies in the past against Marta’s temper tantrums.
It is as though she does not hear the words that leave my lips. She gazes at me with a touch of complacency. She doesn’t realize I know that the flowers hid a spell. She has deluded herself.
But for the first time, I understand why. How would I react if Skye were to turn me away? I would haunt her doorway. I would follow her. I would make her realize her error. This is what Marta is trying to do, so I only look at her, trying to figure out the words that will discourage her without snapping her heart in half.
But I am no good at this sort of thing. I see her register the expression on my face, see her process it, see the thoughts slide behind her eyes, the realization that everything she has convinced herself of is wrong. Entirely wrong. Then I see her fury rise at that mistake. Not directed at herself, of course, but at me, as though I am responsible for all of this. Somehow, I suppose that I am.
