Letters from Karchesa - Part 3
Title: Letters from Karchesa - Part 3
Description: A lonely traveler meets a young woman who may be able to convince him to do the impossible: return home. That is, if he doesn't fall in love with her first.
A/N: It's only between 2 years since I updated this... ^^;; Better late than never?
Part 3
Unlike Elyos, who detested traveling and considered Taelian culture far superior to all others, Zayven considered himself an expert traveler. When he wasn’t in the throes of soul-eating misery (or at least when he was succeeding at lying to himself about it), he viewed his journey thus far as an unending series of grand adventures. He was seeing sights the majority of his fellow Taelians would never have the opportunity to see, he had the money to do it in fine style, and he had the good sense to enjoy it to the fullest.
Then there were the days, like this one, when he couldn’t believe he had ever been stupid enough to leave Taelia. He leaned against a dirty stucco wall, feeling the sweat cascade down his face like the famed Rasovinese waterfalls. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that same icy spray cooling his overheated flesh, but all he could feel was the merciless glare of the Karchesan sun.
The heat and the omnipresent noise of the city were a lethal combination. His head throbbed, every word spoken in that still-unfamiliar language igniting a fresh spike of pain in his temples, and his stomach churned with dire warning. Either the overspiced ground meat he had consumed for his midday meal was disagreeing with him, or the liquor he had been steadily pouring down his throat the last several nights was finally, as Elyos always prophesied darkly, eating a hole through his gut.
Voices in dialogue with one another swirled around him continuously, a thick and snarled net as unwelcome as a woolly blanket in summer, but now one sounded shrilly in his ear. He groaned, trying to make sense of the chiding words. A moment later, something hard and knobbly prodded him in the shoulder.
Zayven opened his eyes to find a wizened old woman brandishing a straw broom at him with hostile intent.
“Move along now! Don’t you have anything better to do than lean against my doorway?”
With great effort, he managed to pull himself upright and shamble away from her strident voice and threatening broom handle.
“Go away! Shoo!” she called after him, and her screeching was followed up with a muttered, “Dirty foreigners.”
Zayven wiped his forehead with the cleanest part of his dust-streaked cuff that he could find. He was physically sick and emotionally exhausted. He was tired of alternately being ignored, just barely tolerated, or being stared at as if he were a dumb creature; he was tired of getting lost; he was tired of saying the wrong thing; he was tired of eating unfamiliar foods; and he was tired of being scolded and not understanding what he was doing wrong. Most of all, he was tired that everything in this damned place was not Taelia.
He was still a long ways from his lodgings, but he was ready to just sink down by the gutter and let a thief knife him for his purse. At least it would be quick if they hit the right spot. These were the cheerful thoughts passing through his mind when he heard new footsteps approach, and he tensed instinctively as fresh adrenaline coursed through his veins, beating back fatigue and pain.
“Zayven?”
He sighed in relief. It was still slightly jarring to hear the accented pronunciation of his name, but the tone of this voice, unlike the last, was friendly and vaguely familiar. He opened his eyes again, squinting to bring the stocky young man with floppy light brown hair and very white teeth into clearer focus.
“Are you all right?”
“I feel like death,” Zayven croaked before promptly leaning over and vomiting in the street.
He was saved from toppling into it by the other man’s bracing arm. “Come on. Let’s get you inside,” he said, shouldering aside two sets of rough fabric hangings as he half-carried, half-dragged Zayven indoors.
Zayven was deposited into a chair, nearly insensate from his ordeal and bewildered by the quick change from scorching sunlight to dark coolness. He heard the sounds of the other man moving around the small room before a wet cloth was pressed against his forehead and a clay cup held up to his lips.
“Drink this, it will help. Slowly, otherwise your stomach might have a repeat performance.”
He forced himself to slow his gulps of the mint-laced water into smaller sips. Gradually, his headache eased and his stomach settled. With his free hand, Zayven pushed up the cloth that covered his eyes until he could blink owlishly at his host, whom he now recognized as Ruven, one of the astronomer Kasimir’s friends that he had met the week before.
“Better?”
He nodded. “Much. Thank you for helping me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ruven said easily as he pulled up another chair and sat at the table. He picked up a handful of the smallest oranges Zayven had ever seen from a brightly-patterned bowl placed at the center of the table.
After he had deftly peeled and sectioned one of the fruits, he offered the handful to Zayven and started on another. “Here, have some of these. I think you have a touch of sunstroke, my friend. It’s very common among visitors who are not used to our summer weather to overexert themselves, but it’s nothing some water and rest won’t cure.”
Zayven took one of the sections, broke the paper-thin skin with his teeth, and let the tangy juice pour into his parched mouth. The aftertaste was faintly flowery, and this time he closed his eyes in delight rather than pain.
When he was feeling well enough to conduct a rational conversation, he thanked Ruven profusely. Insisting that it was nothing, Ruven finally distracted Zayven by introducing the subject of his university studies.
“My passion is much closer to home than Kasimir’s stars - I study mechanical engineering.” He watched Zayven closely to gauge his comprehension, waving his hands to illustrate. “Sometimes I work on large projects, like constructing bridges or dams, but I also like to work on a smaller scale. My current focus is on water pumps and parcel delivery systems that function within households or small compounds.”
Zayven’s curiosity was piqued by the mention of the delivery systems and asked for more details which Ruven obligingly supplied, gratified by Zayven’s genuine interest and informed comments.
“…so that is where things stand. Right now, I am stuck at the problem of how to make either the carrying tubes lighter or the support structures stronger. Perhaps I could use bronze or another alloy instead of iron, but depending on the mixture it could become prohibitively expensive… and I don’t want the supports to become so bulky that they are obtrusive.”
“You know, I helped build a small greenhouse on my brother’s estate,” Zayven said thoughtfully. “Part of the difficulty was finding something light enough to support all those glass panels.”
Ruven’s eyes lit up, and he jotted another line on the tablet already covered with scribbled notes.
“Perhaps I could stop by your laboratory and take a look at the apparatus?”
“Nothing would make me happier. But first, we should get you back to your lodgings and let you get some rest before I put you to work!”
Despite Zayven’s assurances that he was feeling much better and entirely capable of making his way back on his own, Ruven accompanied him to his doorstep. They continued their conversation along the way, punctuated by excited outbursts and frenzies of wild speculation of what might or might not work. Once Ruven was assured that Zayven was indeed sincerely interested in his project, they agreed to meet at the university in three days’ time.
*****
Seated at what had become one of his favorite coffeehouses, Zayven toiled industriously at a task he had put off for far too long. When he set down his quill at last and stretched his cramped fingers, he surveyed the densely-written pages with mixed feelings.
It was going to be a very thick letter, filled with instructions, descriptions, and details about Roshaven’s gardens. He had begun answering the steward’s question regarding the care of the new silver firs and the replanting of a section of the maze that had been ruined in the last ice storm, and then moved on to several issues he knew would need to be addressed over the next few months. Somewhere along the line, he’d gotten carried away and begun setting down his long-term vision for the grounds and the greenhouse, his pet project.
It had taken him substantial effort to keep his focus solely on the gardens, not on the shades of memories past that threatened to steal away his attention. He closed his ears to shouted challenges and taunts followed by boisterous laughter as two boys chased each other through a raked-over flowerbed, the older with hair bleached so pale by the summer sun that it was nearly white, the latter with a head of unruly red-gold curls. He chased away the image of Jaim’s flashing grin as he cantered past, keen to overtake him on the most difficult of the bridle paths. He buried the pain of red rose thorns digging into his palm as Kaspar and Minka walked out of the maze with shining eyes and kiss-swollen lips. All of these, and more, he cast to the back of his mind to keep company with the ugly demons of homesickness, loneliness, and regret.
With his own considerable experience, the expert gardeners they’d trained, and the information Zayven was conveying in this letter, the steward would be able to manage the gardens for at least the next five, possibly ten, years. This knowledge was both satisfying yet bittersweet, and Zayven drained his coffee to the dregs, wishing it was alcohol. But he had already drunk entirely too much over the past week, and he wanted a clear head when he met with Ruven again.
So instead, he pushed back his chair, gathered his things, and made his way to a particular corner of the Grand Market.
*****
Elyos watched in astonishment as a small procession of carts made their way to the door.
Zayven had returned from his daily explorations of the city with dirt stains on his clothes and fingers, but looking happier than he had in days. Immediately, he had rushed upstairs, too excited to provide coherent answers to Elyos’s questions, and begun noisily clearing out the rooftop terrace. The washerwoman, accustomed to hanging the drying laundry there, would not be pleased.
Halfway through his enthusiastic clattering and clanging, the plants had begun to arrive. Elyos cast a discriminating eye on the lot, all Karchesan desert plants. He still preferred the stately, well-shaped pines, delicate roses, and elegant ivies of Taelia, but he nursed a secret and grudging admiration for these lush, hardy desert plants that somehow found a way to survive in this intolerable climate.
Zayven knelt on the glazed tiles as he arranged the dazzling array of pots and planters. Many of the specimens bristled with needle-thin spines, but he seemed not to mind getting pricked as he looked up at Elyos, whistling cheerfully. “So, what do you think of our new garden?”
The older man just shook his head, resigned to such quicksilver changes in his life once he had embarked with the young man on this journey. “What are we going to do with them when we leave, Master Zayven?”
He clapped his hands to shake the dirt and tiny stones off his palms, and shrugged airily as if the thought had never occurred to him. “Give them away. Who could resist such beauty?”
Elyos smiled indulgently, having heard him say the exact same thing in the exact same tone to a debutante in a ballroom.
Still, this new development concerned him. This was the longest they had stayed in one place since leaving Taelia. They had both agreed that Karchesa, city of wonders, great crossroads, and jewel of the empire, was an ideal place to spend the rainy season, and Elyos did like being more settled. He also understood that Zayven’s personality was such that they could very well pick up and move on in another week or another month without much warning. But Karchesa might be different from all the other places they had been, places Zayven had alternately admired, disliked, or purportedly fallen in love with. He sensed that something about Karchesa had captured Zayven’s attention.
Elyos sighed. It wasn’t his place to question Zayven’s desires, and it wasn’t his duty to try to bring him home. He remembered Kaspar’s calm and steady gaze, and the single charge that had been given to him in the master’s deep, commanding voice. Look after him, Elyos. Keep him safe.
“Zayven.”
“Hmm?” This time, he didn’t look up, engrossed in repotting a succulent with such fine spines that a hazy nest of soft white hairs seemed to be suspended on top of it.
“You’ve received another letter from Master Jaim.”
*****
Arya was so happy that even her fellow scribes, with whom she was friendly but not chatty, noticed her elation.
“Good lesson?” her neighbor to the right, Nima, asked when there was a lull in between customers. They were seated in the marketplace again, sharing a basket of pastries Arya had bought from the bakery where Leela worked among them.
She nodded, and the youth to her left said enviously, “I wish my mentor was as pleased with my progress.”
Nima snickered. “Yes, what was it she told you? Your letters have all the grace of a wildebeest crashing through the grasslands, and if you were to become a scribe at this stage, you would use up enough ink to deplete the guild’s entire monthly allotment from the royal treasury?”
Arya giggled as the boy rolled his eyes, taking the teasing in good humor as he reached for another sugared dough twist to console himself.
“It will get easier,” she told him encouragingly, “and the fact that Mistress Luna accepted you as her student so early in your training speaks well to your prospects.”
“Easy for you to say,” Baez said, speaking thickly around a mouthful of dewberry jam filling. “I bet Master Artem never said anything like that to you.”
Arya smiled. “As a matter of fact, my first week as his apprentice, he said I must have the fingers of an elephant to have been so sloppy, and that a five year old child could have done better. I had to redo that particular assignment twenty-seven times. I was so sick of Tales of the Starcatchers afterwards, I don’t believe I’ve read it again since!”
She nodded at his incredulous expression, but was prevented from continuing their conversation when a man strode up to the stall and stopped abruptly in front of her, seemingly at random. Nima and Baez turned their attention back to their own desks, the latter brushing the last decadent sugar crystals from his still stubble-free chin.
“Good afternoon,” she greeted the new arrival. “What can I help you with today?”
He looked vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until he spoke that she remembered him - a one-time customer traveling from Taelia, corresponding with a friend back home. He didn’t seem to recognize her, however, as he carelessly dropped onto the cushions in front of her and held out a sealed envelope.
“I’d like to have this letter read and a response written.”
“Certainly.”
As she took the letter, Arya noticed the tiny grains of dirt embedded at the corners of his nails, small incongruities with his otherwise meticulously polished appearance. She picked up the slim little paper knife resting on her lap desk and deftly opened the envelope.
This time the words were written in Taelian rather than the universal script. Remembering his preferences, she read it aloud in Karchese, effortlessly performing the translation in her head.
“‘Zayven,
For a lazy man, you certainly have managed to visit an impressive number of cities and what seems like every market in each of those cities. What exactly am I supposed to do with the monkey from Hoberre? I can’t think he is very well-suited to the Taelian climate. If I were a lesser man, I would let him loose to wreak havoc in your precious greenhouse. On second thought, if the threat of such a possibility would bring you back, I am happy to be a lesser man.
Things at home are much the same. Mother’s taken her bed with her usual chest complaint, which means Tamsa and Rielle are hovering around, interfering with the household instead of being content with managing their own henpecked husbands, and badgering me about my marriage prospects. At least Elyn hasn’t shown any interest in my romantic life, but Roger Carsen is constantly making excuses to call and make cow-eyes at her in my presence. The nerve of the boy! I tell you, Zayven, three sisters are more than a man can handle. Why couldn’t I have had a brother, like you?
Speaking of your brother, Kaspar has asked me to officially take over the accounts for the estate now that Old Gerald Merton has retired, so I finally have a valid reason for my frequent trespassing. To tell the truth, I haven’t been spending as much time at Roshaven since you left. It’ll be nice to see the old place again.
With regards to your remarks about ‘beautiful hands,’ I can only assume you’ve discovered the Karchesan guild conventions. Dare I ask what color marks the hands you are admiring? Maroon, I presume?’”
Here Arya blushed, for that particular shade was associated with men and women of the night. However, she was able to continue without too noticeable a pause after clearing her throat. Zayven seemed undisturbed, but she couldn’t tell whether it was because he didn’t know the meaning of the color or because he knew but was entirely unembarrassed.
“‘What has happened to your handwriting? Somehow it’s become entirely legible. Of course, I jest. Why have you begun using scribes for your correspondence? You haven’t hurt yourself somehow, have you? Lost a hand in a duel or some ridiculous nonsense? Write soon so I don’t think you’re lying in a ditch somewhere. Better yet, come back to your senses and return to Taelia. We miss you.
-Jaim.’”
Zayven sat in silence for a few minutes, drumming his fingers on his thigh. It gave Arya the time to sharpen her quill, uncap a bottle of indigo ink, and check that the page at the top of her parchment stack was clean and unspoiled. To her right, Nima was handling some business correspondence for a local merchant, and Baez had started on recopying a playbill.
When Zayven cleared his throat, she looked up at him inquiringly and nodded to indicate that she was ready to begin. He dictated his response to her in an unhesitating stream of words.
“Jaim,
Nice try, but we’ve known each other since before you could walk (remember, I walked before you did) and you are not a lesser man. I have no fears for my greenhouse. The monkey, however, is another matter. If your sisters and young Roger are driving you to distraction, you surely have neither the time nor attention to entertain him properly. Why not ask Lord Petrus if he has room in his menagerie for a new tenant?
Congratulations on your new promotion. I’m certain your workload will multiply in the coming months as you have been the most capable bookkeeper around for ages. Roshaven is lucky to have you.
All my best to your mother. I would take to my bed too if I had to deal with you lot. Young Roger is harmless; he’s more likely to walk away with a broken heart than fair Elyn. Can she be fighting off suitors already? Only yesterday, she was still a little girl in a pinafore and double braids, tagging along and coming to all sorts of grief under our tender protection like falling into rivers and being pelted by horse chestnuts. I feel old, Jaim.
However, we are still far too young to succumb to the paralyzing grip of matrimony. You had better find some way of convincing your sisters of this fact, otherwise I have no doubt you’ll find yourself handfasted before spring. You should join me in Karchesa - we would have such grand adventures together, and you would be well out of reach of your matchmaking sisters.
I am shocked by the aspersions you have cast on my character. I assure you that my introduction to the guild conventions took place under purely academic circumstances. A member of the scribal guild, whose work you have so rightly admired, took pity on a hapless foreigner."
He winked at her, and Arya realized that he had remembered her after all. In the next moment, however, his gaze shifted and once again became distant and impersonal.
“In the interests of providing an honest account of my travels, I assure you the charms of the guild to which you have so indelicately alluded have not been exaggerated. It certainly gives the meaning of the phrase ‘getting caught red-handed’ a delicious twist. But I digress.
As you have probably guessed, I’m certainly not lying in a ditch now, but I may be after tonight. I have retained all my limbs, but it’s entirely impossible for me to return at this time. You see, I’ve made a vow to frequent every drinking establishment in the city. There are hundreds, and I’ve only been to twenty seven so far - I’ll be toasting you at the Laughing Camel tonight, which has a reputation for serving liquor that can fell a wild boar.
Zayven. That’s all,” he told her, but it wasn’t necessary. The finality in his voice was unmistakable. The tension in his shoulders and the unsmiling expression on his face were at odds with the jovial tone of his words.
Arya scattered sand on the page to dry the last of the gleaming letters, debating with herself. It wasn’t any of her business, and any apprentice scribe who hoped to have a chance at a promising career knew that one never commented on a customer’s correspondence.
She was surprised to hear herself say quietly, “You should be careful tonight.”
“Hm?” He seemed preoccupied but not offended.
“At the Laughing Camel,” she clarified. “It’s an establishment rife with pickpockets and charlatans who like to prey on foreigners, not to mention those that lurk in the alleyways waiting to part those who have had too much to drink from their purses.”
Zayven glanced at her, startled, but her long, dark lashes were lowered demurely as she concentrated on sealing the letter. “I thank you for the warning, but you needn’t worry. I’ll be going with friends, the only foreigner among them.”
He paused, then said slowly, “You speak as if you had some familiarity with the place… You can’t have been there before?”
She raised her chin boldly to meet his eyes, and for a moment, the memory of blonde hair and blue silk faded from his mind.
“It was on a dare,” Arya told him with a mischievous smile. “You’d be surprised at the pranks apprentices get up to after long afternoons of being cooped up indoors, copying the same thing over and over again.”
“Scribes lead much more exciting lives than I realized,” Zayven drawled as he took back Jaim’s letter from her without looking at it. His own response was consigned to a leather mail pouch containing correspondence that would be exiting Karchesa’s borders. “Perhaps I should rethink my profession.”
“And what is your profession?”
The humor faded from his eyes, and she regretted her question. “Well, I’m trying a few out at present. Wayward traveler, delinquent friend, errant brother, good-for-nothing idler. I’ll have to wait and see which sticks.”
*****
Description: A lonely traveler meets a young woman who may be able to convince him to do the impossible: return home. That is, if he doesn't fall in love with her first.
A/N: It's only between 2 years since I updated this... ^^;; Better late than never?
Part 3
Unlike Elyos, who detested traveling and considered Taelian culture far superior to all others, Zayven considered himself an expert traveler. When he wasn’t in the throes of soul-eating misery (or at least when he was succeeding at lying to himself about it), he viewed his journey thus far as an unending series of grand adventures. He was seeing sights the majority of his fellow Taelians would never have the opportunity to see, he had the money to do it in fine style, and he had the good sense to enjoy it to the fullest.
Then there were the days, like this one, when he couldn’t believe he had ever been stupid enough to leave Taelia. He leaned against a dirty stucco wall, feeling the sweat cascade down his face like the famed Rasovinese waterfalls. He closed his eyes and tried to imagine that same icy spray cooling his overheated flesh, but all he could feel was the merciless glare of the Karchesan sun.
The heat and the omnipresent noise of the city were a lethal combination. His head throbbed, every word spoken in that still-unfamiliar language igniting a fresh spike of pain in his temples, and his stomach churned with dire warning. Either the overspiced ground meat he had consumed for his midday meal was disagreeing with him, or the liquor he had been steadily pouring down his throat the last several nights was finally, as Elyos always prophesied darkly, eating a hole through his gut.
Voices in dialogue with one another swirled around him continuously, a thick and snarled net as unwelcome as a woolly blanket in summer, but now one sounded shrilly in his ear. He groaned, trying to make sense of the chiding words. A moment later, something hard and knobbly prodded him in the shoulder.
Zayven opened his eyes to find a wizened old woman brandishing a straw broom at him with hostile intent.
“Move along now! Don’t you have anything better to do than lean against my doorway?”
With great effort, he managed to pull himself upright and shamble away from her strident voice and threatening broom handle.
“Go away! Shoo!” she called after him, and her screeching was followed up with a muttered, “Dirty foreigners.”
Zayven wiped his forehead with the cleanest part of his dust-streaked cuff that he could find. He was physically sick and emotionally exhausted. He was tired of alternately being ignored, just barely tolerated, or being stared at as if he were a dumb creature; he was tired of getting lost; he was tired of saying the wrong thing; he was tired of eating unfamiliar foods; and he was tired of being scolded and not understanding what he was doing wrong. Most of all, he was tired that everything in this damned place was not Taelia.
He was still a long ways from his lodgings, but he was ready to just sink down by the gutter and let a thief knife him for his purse. At least it would be quick if they hit the right spot. These were the cheerful thoughts passing through his mind when he heard new footsteps approach, and he tensed instinctively as fresh adrenaline coursed through his veins, beating back fatigue and pain.
“Zayven?”
He sighed in relief. It was still slightly jarring to hear the accented pronunciation of his name, but the tone of this voice, unlike the last, was friendly and vaguely familiar. He opened his eyes again, squinting to bring the stocky young man with floppy light brown hair and very white teeth into clearer focus.
“Are you all right?”
“I feel like death,” Zayven croaked before promptly leaning over and vomiting in the street.
He was saved from toppling into it by the other man’s bracing arm. “Come on. Let’s get you inside,” he said, shouldering aside two sets of rough fabric hangings as he half-carried, half-dragged Zayven indoors.
Zayven was deposited into a chair, nearly insensate from his ordeal and bewildered by the quick change from scorching sunlight to dark coolness. He heard the sounds of the other man moving around the small room before a wet cloth was pressed against his forehead and a clay cup held up to his lips.
“Drink this, it will help. Slowly, otherwise your stomach might have a repeat performance.”
He forced himself to slow his gulps of the mint-laced water into smaller sips. Gradually, his headache eased and his stomach settled. With his free hand, Zayven pushed up the cloth that covered his eyes until he could blink owlishly at his host, whom he now recognized as Ruven, one of the astronomer Kasimir’s friends that he had met the week before.
“Better?”
He nodded. “Much. Thank you for helping me.”
“Don’t worry about it,” Ruven said easily as he pulled up another chair and sat at the table. He picked up a handful of the smallest oranges Zayven had ever seen from a brightly-patterned bowl placed at the center of the table.
After he had deftly peeled and sectioned one of the fruits, he offered the handful to Zayven and started on another. “Here, have some of these. I think you have a touch of sunstroke, my friend. It’s very common among visitors who are not used to our summer weather to overexert themselves, but it’s nothing some water and rest won’t cure.”
Zayven took one of the sections, broke the paper-thin skin with his teeth, and let the tangy juice pour into his parched mouth. The aftertaste was faintly flowery, and this time he closed his eyes in delight rather than pain.
When he was feeling well enough to conduct a rational conversation, he thanked Ruven profusely. Insisting that it was nothing, Ruven finally distracted Zayven by introducing the subject of his university studies.
“My passion is much closer to home than Kasimir’s stars - I study mechanical engineering.” He watched Zayven closely to gauge his comprehension, waving his hands to illustrate. “Sometimes I work on large projects, like constructing bridges or dams, but I also like to work on a smaller scale. My current focus is on water pumps and parcel delivery systems that function within households or small compounds.”
Zayven’s curiosity was piqued by the mention of the delivery systems and asked for more details which Ruven obligingly supplied, gratified by Zayven’s genuine interest and informed comments.
“…so that is where things stand. Right now, I am stuck at the problem of how to make either the carrying tubes lighter or the support structures stronger. Perhaps I could use bronze or another alloy instead of iron, but depending on the mixture it could become prohibitively expensive… and I don’t want the supports to become so bulky that they are obtrusive.”
“You know, I helped build a small greenhouse on my brother’s estate,” Zayven said thoughtfully. “Part of the difficulty was finding something light enough to support all those glass panels.”
Ruven’s eyes lit up, and he jotted another line on the tablet already covered with scribbled notes.
“Perhaps I could stop by your laboratory and take a look at the apparatus?”
“Nothing would make me happier. But first, we should get you back to your lodgings and let you get some rest before I put you to work!”
Despite Zayven’s assurances that he was feeling much better and entirely capable of making his way back on his own, Ruven accompanied him to his doorstep. They continued their conversation along the way, punctuated by excited outbursts and frenzies of wild speculation of what might or might not work. Once Ruven was assured that Zayven was indeed sincerely interested in his project, they agreed to meet at the university in three days’ time.
*****
Seated at what had become one of his favorite coffeehouses, Zayven toiled industriously at a task he had put off for far too long. When he set down his quill at last and stretched his cramped fingers, he surveyed the densely-written pages with mixed feelings.
It was going to be a very thick letter, filled with instructions, descriptions, and details about Roshaven’s gardens. He had begun answering the steward’s question regarding the care of the new silver firs and the replanting of a section of the maze that had been ruined in the last ice storm, and then moved on to several issues he knew would need to be addressed over the next few months. Somewhere along the line, he’d gotten carried away and begun setting down his long-term vision for the grounds and the greenhouse, his pet project.
It had taken him substantial effort to keep his focus solely on the gardens, not on the shades of memories past that threatened to steal away his attention. He closed his ears to shouted challenges and taunts followed by boisterous laughter as two boys chased each other through a raked-over flowerbed, the older with hair bleached so pale by the summer sun that it was nearly white, the latter with a head of unruly red-gold curls. He chased away the image of Jaim’s flashing grin as he cantered past, keen to overtake him on the most difficult of the bridle paths. He buried the pain of red rose thorns digging into his palm as Kaspar and Minka walked out of the maze with shining eyes and kiss-swollen lips. All of these, and more, he cast to the back of his mind to keep company with the ugly demons of homesickness, loneliness, and regret.
With his own considerable experience, the expert gardeners they’d trained, and the information Zayven was conveying in this letter, the steward would be able to manage the gardens for at least the next five, possibly ten, years. This knowledge was both satisfying yet bittersweet, and Zayven drained his coffee to the dregs, wishing it was alcohol. But he had already drunk entirely too much over the past week, and he wanted a clear head when he met with Ruven again.
So instead, he pushed back his chair, gathered his things, and made his way to a particular corner of the Grand Market.
*****
Elyos watched in astonishment as a small procession of carts made their way to the door.
Zayven had returned from his daily explorations of the city with dirt stains on his clothes and fingers, but looking happier than he had in days. Immediately, he had rushed upstairs, too excited to provide coherent answers to Elyos’s questions, and begun noisily clearing out the rooftop terrace. The washerwoman, accustomed to hanging the drying laundry there, would not be pleased.
Halfway through his enthusiastic clattering and clanging, the plants had begun to arrive. Elyos cast a discriminating eye on the lot, all Karchesan desert plants. He still preferred the stately, well-shaped pines, delicate roses, and elegant ivies of Taelia, but he nursed a secret and grudging admiration for these lush, hardy desert plants that somehow found a way to survive in this intolerable climate.
Zayven knelt on the glazed tiles as he arranged the dazzling array of pots and planters. Many of the specimens bristled with needle-thin spines, but he seemed not to mind getting pricked as he looked up at Elyos, whistling cheerfully. “So, what do you think of our new garden?”
The older man just shook his head, resigned to such quicksilver changes in his life once he had embarked with the young man on this journey. “What are we going to do with them when we leave, Master Zayven?”
He clapped his hands to shake the dirt and tiny stones off his palms, and shrugged airily as if the thought had never occurred to him. “Give them away. Who could resist such beauty?”
Elyos smiled indulgently, having heard him say the exact same thing in the exact same tone to a debutante in a ballroom.
Still, this new development concerned him. This was the longest they had stayed in one place since leaving Taelia. They had both agreed that Karchesa, city of wonders, great crossroads, and jewel of the empire, was an ideal place to spend the rainy season, and Elyos did like being more settled. He also understood that Zayven’s personality was such that they could very well pick up and move on in another week or another month without much warning. But Karchesa might be different from all the other places they had been, places Zayven had alternately admired, disliked, or purportedly fallen in love with. He sensed that something about Karchesa had captured Zayven’s attention.
Elyos sighed. It wasn’t his place to question Zayven’s desires, and it wasn’t his duty to try to bring him home. He remembered Kaspar’s calm and steady gaze, and the single charge that had been given to him in the master’s deep, commanding voice. Look after him, Elyos. Keep him safe.
“Zayven.”
“Hmm?” This time, he didn’t look up, engrossed in repotting a succulent with such fine spines that a hazy nest of soft white hairs seemed to be suspended on top of it.
“You’ve received another letter from Master Jaim.”
*****
Arya was so happy that even her fellow scribes, with whom she was friendly but not chatty, noticed her elation.
“Good lesson?” her neighbor to the right, Nima, asked when there was a lull in between customers. They were seated in the marketplace again, sharing a basket of pastries Arya had bought from the bakery where Leela worked among them.
She nodded, and the youth to her left said enviously, “I wish my mentor was as pleased with my progress.”
Nima snickered. “Yes, what was it she told you? Your letters have all the grace of a wildebeest crashing through the grasslands, and if you were to become a scribe at this stage, you would use up enough ink to deplete the guild’s entire monthly allotment from the royal treasury?”
Arya giggled as the boy rolled his eyes, taking the teasing in good humor as he reached for another sugared dough twist to console himself.
“It will get easier,” she told him encouragingly, “and the fact that Mistress Luna accepted you as her student so early in your training speaks well to your prospects.”
“Easy for you to say,” Baez said, speaking thickly around a mouthful of dewberry jam filling. “I bet Master Artem never said anything like that to you.”
Arya smiled. “As a matter of fact, my first week as his apprentice, he said I must have the fingers of an elephant to have been so sloppy, and that a five year old child could have done better. I had to redo that particular assignment twenty-seven times. I was so sick of Tales of the Starcatchers afterwards, I don’t believe I’ve read it again since!”
She nodded at his incredulous expression, but was prevented from continuing their conversation when a man strode up to the stall and stopped abruptly in front of her, seemingly at random. Nima and Baez turned their attention back to their own desks, the latter brushing the last decadent sugar crystals from his still stubble-free chin.
“Good afternoon,” she greeted the new arrival. “What can I help you with today?”
He looked vaguely familiar, but it wasn’t until he spoke that she remembered him - a one-time customer traveling from Taelia, corresponding with a friend back home. He didn’t seem to recognize her, however, as he carelessly dropped onto the cushions in front of her and held out a sealed envelope.
“I’d like to have this letter read and a response written.”
“Certainly.”
As she took the letter, Arya noticed the tiny grains of dirt embedded at the corners of his nails, small incongruities with his otherwise meticulously polished appearance. She picked up the slim little paper knife resting on her lap desk and deftly opened the envelope.
This time the words were written in Taelian rather than the universal script. Remembering his preferences, she read it aloud in Karchese, effortlessly performing the translation in her head.
“‘Zayven,
For a lazy man, you certainly have managed to visit an impressive number of cities and what seems like every market in each of those cities. What exactly am I supposed to do with the monkey from Hoberre? I can’t think he is very well-suited to the Taelian climate. If I were a lesser man, I would let him loose to wreak havoc in your precious greenhouse. On second thought, if the threat of such a possibility would bring you back, I am happy to be a lesser man.
Things at home are much the same. Mother’s taken her bed with her usual chest complaint, which means Tamsa and Rielle are hovering around, interfering with the household instead of being content with managing their own henpecked husbands, and badgering me about my marriage prospects. At least Elyn hasn’t shown any interest in my romantic life, but Roger Carsen is constantly making excuses to call and make cow-eyes at her in my presence. The nerve of the boy! I tell you, Zayven, three sisters are more than a man can handle. Why couldn’t I have had a brother, like you?
Speaking of your brother, Kaspar has asked me to officially take over the accounts for the estate now that Old Gerald Merton has retired, so I finally have a valid reason for my frequent trespassing. To tell the truth, I haven’t been spending as much time at Roshaven since you left. It’ll be nice to see the old place again.
With regards to your remarks about ‘beautiful hands,’ I can only assume you’ve discovered the Karchesan guild conventions. Dare I ask what color marks the hands you are admiring? Maroon, I presume?’”
Here Arya blushed, for that particular shade was associated with men and women of the night. However, she was able to continue without too noticeable a pause after clearing her throat. Zayven seemed undisturbed, but she couldn’t tell whether it was because he didn’t know the meaning of the color or because he knew but was entirely unembarrassed.
“‘What has happened to your handwriting? Somehow it’s become entirely legible. Of course, I jest. Why have you begun using scribes for your correspondence? You haven’t hurt yourself somehow, have you? Lost a hand in a duel or some ridiculous nonsense? Write soon so I don’t think you’re lying in a ditch somewhere. Better yet, come back to your senses and return to Taelia. We miss you.
-Jaim.’”
Zayven sat in silence for a few minutes, drumming his fingers on his thigh. It gave Arya the time to sharpen her quill, uncap a bottle of indigo ink, and check that the page at the top of her parchment stack was clean and unspoiled. To her right, Nima was handling some business correspondence for a local merchant, and Baez had started on recopying a playbill.
When Zayven cleared his throat, she looked up at him inquiringly and nodded to indicate that she was ready to begin. He dictated his response to her in an unhesitating stream of words.
“Jaim,
Nice try, but we’ve known each other since before you could walk (remember, I walked before you did) and you are not a lesser man. I have no fears for my greenhouse. The monkey, however, is another matter. If your sisters and young Roger are driving you to distraction, you surely have neither the time nor attention to entertain him properly. Why not ask Lord Petrus if he has room in his menagerie for a new tenant?
Congratulations on your new promotion. I’m certain your workload will multiply in the coming months as you have been the most capable bookkeeper around for ages. Roshaven is lucky to have you.
All my best to your mother. I would take to my bed too if I had to deal with you lot. Young Roger is harmless; he’s more likely to walk away with a broken heart than fair Elyn. Can she be fighting off suitors already? Only yesterday, she was still a little girl in a pinafore and double braids, tagging along and coming to all sorts of grief under our tender protection like falling into rivers and being pelted by horse chestnuts. I feel old, Jaim.
However, we are still far too young to succumb to the paralyzing grip of matrimony. You had better find some way of convincing your sisters of this fact, otherwise I have no doubt you’ll find yourself handfasted before spring. You should join me in Karchesa - we would have such grand adventures together, and you would be well out of reach of your matchmaking sisters.
I am shocked by the aspersions you have cast on my character. I assure you that my introduction to the guild conventions took place under purely academic circumstances. A member of the scribal guild, whose work you have so rightly admired, took pity on a hapless foreigner."
He winked at her, and Arya realized that he had remembered her after all. In the next moment, however, his gaze shifted and once again became distant and impersonal.
“In the interests of providing an honest account of my travels, I assure you the charms of the guild to which you have so indelicately alluded have not been exaggerated. It certainly gives the meaning of the phrase ‘getting caught red-handed’ a delicious twist. But I digress.
As you have probably guessed, I’m certainly not lying in a ditch now, but I may be after tonight. I have retained all my limbs, but it’s entirely impossible for me to return at this time. You see, I’ve made a vow to frequent every drinking establishment in the city. There are hundreds, and I’ve only been to twenty seven so far - I’ll be toasting you at the Laughing Camel tonight, which has a reputation for serving liquor that can fell a wild boar.
Zayven. That’s all,” he told her, but it wasn’t necessary. The finality in his voice was unmistakable. The tension in his shoulders and the unsmiling expression on his face were at odds with the jovial tone of his words.
Arya scattered sand on the page to dry the last of the gleaming letters, debating with herself. It wasn’t any of her business, and any apprentice scribe who hoped to have a chance at a promising career knew that one never commented on a customer’s correspondence.
She was surprised to hear herself say quietly, “You should be careful tonight.”
“Hm?” He seemed preoccupied but not offended.
“At the Laughing Camel,” she clarified. “It’s an establishment rife with pickpockets and charlatans who like to prey on foreigners, not to mention those that lurk in the alleyways waiting to part those who have had too much to drink from their purses.”
Zayven glanced at her, startled, but her long, dark lashes were lowered demurely as she concentrated on sealing the letter. “I thank you for the warning, but you needn’t worry. I’ll be going with friends, the only foreigner among them.”
He paused, then said slowly, “You speak as if you had some familiarity with the place… You can’t have been there before?”
She raised her chin boldly to meet his eyes, and for a moment, the memory of blonde hair and blue silk faded from his mind.
“It was on a dare,” Arya told him with a mischievous smile. “You’d be surprised at the pranks apprentices get up to after long afternoons of being cooped up indoors, copying the same thing over and over again.”
“Scribes lead much more exciting lives than I realized,” Zayven drawled as he took back Jaim’s letter from her without looking at it. His own response was consigned to a leather mail pouch containing correspondence that would be exiting Karchesa’s borders. “Perhaps I should rethink my profession.”
“And what is your profession?”
The humor faded from his eyes, and she regretted her question. “Well, I’m trying a few out at present. Wayward traveler, delinquent friend, errant brother, good-for-nothing idler. I’ll have to wait and see which sticks.”
*****