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Oruen's eyes narrowed. Afraid he was about to choose sides—and not hers—Alyea took a deep breath and, for Wian's sake, broke her promise to herself.
“I'll do more than speak to Wian's character. I present my own. Some years ago, Pieas took me by surprise as I walked in the town, and the bruises he left took days to fade.” And before the bruises had faded, Ethu had begun training her to make sure that such a thing never happened again; but she left that part silent.
The king's eyebrows came down into a sharp frown.
“I
do
recall those bruises,” Oruen said. “You wouldn't tell me where they came from.”
She tried not to flinch from his stare. “There was nothing you could do. He was in Ninnic's favor, and my family wasn't.”
There might have been the faintest flicker in his eyes, a hint of something she'd thought long gone; her heart turned over in her chest. A moment later Oruen's expression flattened again, and she looked away, jaw tight, and cursed herself for hoping.
“Are you claiming that Pieas raped you, Lady?” Eredion demanded.
“I am,” she said clearly, then took a gamble. “And I also ask for bloodright, which I will stand to myself.” It
sounded
impressive, and she was fairly sure that blood-right was just a first-blood duel; but as soon as she'd said it a bad feeling began to churn in her stomach.
Eredion studied her with narrowed eyes, calculating; and Pieas's grey face slowly regained its color and creased into an arrogant smile. “Bloodright under kingdom law, or under desert law?” Eredion said at last, cautiously.
“Kingdom,” Oruen said before Alyea could even open her mouth. Just as well; she hadn't been sure of the difference. “I'm sure Alyea wants no part of a desert holding beyond what she's already being granted.”
She nodded, agreeing fervently, glad he'd answered for her.
Eredion visibly relaxed. Pieas sneered.
“You have nothing to worry about,
s'a-ketan
,” the younger Sessin said. “She has no skill at arms.”
Eredion turned a black glare on his sister's son. “And how would you know that?”
Pieas scrambled to repair his mistake; before he managed two words, Eredion lifted a hand to cut him off.
“Lord Oruen,“ the elder Sessin said, directing a sober glance to the king, “if you're minded to allow this challenge, I'll stand on my authority as a lord of Sessin Family and permit it as well. I have to warn you both, in fairness, that I know Pieas as a skilled fighter with an unfortunate lack of scruples. I have little doubt as to the outcome.”
“I can't refuse her choice,” Oruen said dryly. “She knows what she's doing.”
“What about your placement of her as embassy head to Scratha fortress?” Eredion said suddenly. “That's a binding she'd be abandoning if she fell in challenge. That makes her choice illegal; she has to call a champion to represent her.” He looked deeply relieved at the thought.
Alyea kept her expression still with an effort. Fall in challenge? That didn't sound like a first-blood duel. Her hands tightened into fists.
“Unfortunately,” Oruen said, “she hasn't been sworn to that yet; you yourself asked for a delay.” He rubbed wearily at his eyes, and shot a sharp glance at Alyea.
The elder Sessin turned a bleak stare on Pieas. “You've been a concern to me for years, Pieas,” he said. “I've seen you get away with more than your due, and walk proud in the company of madmen and murderers your father would have shunned. I'm at the end of my tolerance for you. If she falls, I will claim my own right as lord of Sessin, and challenge you myself.”
Pieas stared at his uncle as if he couldn't believe his ears. “You would betray me like that?”
“You've already betrayed Sessin,” Eredion said roughly. “From Water's End to Bright Bay, good people turn away to avoid your path, while disgraceful men steer straight for you. You're putting a reputation to our name that we don't want and can't afford. I've tried to warn you, and you've refused to listen, so you have three choices. Kill Lady Alyea, and face me after. Submit yourself to Lord Oruen's punishment instead of taking up the challenge. Or run disowned into the deep desert, to make your own way as you will.”
Alyea stood frozen and trying to look placid; she hadn't expected such violent support from the elder Sessin, and the words
kill Lady Alyea
had locked her throat with horror.
Not
a first-blood duel, then. How could she have been so stupid?
The terrified look on Pieas's face suggested he wouldn't dare to go up against Eredion; two options remained. Which would prove more distasteful to him she couldn't guess.
The younger man's jaw worked for a moment; then he said, hoarsely, “I'd like a day to consider. May we . . . continue this along with the other discussion tomorrow night?”
“Certainly,” Oruen agreed, seeming relieved. The two Sessins departed, Eredion's hand clamped firmly on the younger man's shoulder.

“Wait a bit,” Oruen said as the door closed again. “Let them get some distance before you leave.”
“I had no intention of tagging their heels.” Alyea sat on the arm of a chair, studying the man across from her intently. “You look tired.”
“I am,” Oruen said, slumping back into the cushions of his chair and rubbing his dark eyes. “Gods, I'm tired. I begin to think I made a serious mistake, accepting this crown.”
Alyea said nothing. He wasn't about to abandon the throne, after all he'd gone through to place his rear end on it.
“Are you planning on your aqeyva training being enough to beat Pieas with?” Oruen said after a while. “Because you're an idiot if that's all you're counting on. Eredion's right; Pieas is a nasty piece of work.”
She shook her head, unwilling to admit the extent of her mistake. Even if blood-right had meant a simple duel, the move had been pure madness, more bluff than anything else, now that she thought back on it. What had she wanted?
For Oruen to stop her. For him to say—
—oh, gods, was she still that mad about him? He'd made it clear . . . or had he?
She couldn't resist finding out if that flicker of emotion, when he'd heard of Pieas's attack on her, had been real or imagined. “Why did you choose me for this?”
He had closed his eyes while she brooded; he opened them now and smiled. “Why not you?”
“I'm only eighteen,” she said as emotionlessly as she could. “You have men and women in your service with the dignity of age and the wisdom of years who could handle this much better. Just because you seduced me once is no reason to give me important assignments like this one. Or do you want me out from nearby, to avoid the reminder?”
His smile hadn't faded; he watched her with a fond, if exhausted, expression. “You're a relative unknown, where those more seasoned diplomats already have reputations and enemies among the desert Families. You also have no taint of having been under Ninnic's service, which in itself will ease tempers along the way.”
“I can't be the only one like that,” she said, hoping her expression didn't betray the sinking feeling in her stomach. He'd carefully ignored the unsubtle prompt. “And I'm certainly not the most diplomatic envoy you have to hand.”
“You're the only one I trust,” he told her. “Young, yes, but you're sharp, and you've proven your loyalty beyond any question. This position requires a tremendous amount of trust. Diplomacy you can learn. And a rough edge can be a help, sometimes, with the desert lords.”
She frowned at him. “Most girls my age are married already, with a child on their hip.”
“You've often said that idea bores you to screaming,” he countered. “Has that changed? I could find you a good husband within a day.”
“No,” she said. “It still bores me.” She grinned at him, finding her resentment suddenly sloughing off like water over hard ground. She'd been a fool to hope anything had changed. “All right, I'll do it.”
“Thank you,” he said. “Now, I need some sleep. We'll meet here again an hour after tomorrow's dinner ends.”

By the end of the next day, rumor had already flown round the palace: Pieas Sessin had departed without a word in the middle of the night.
“It's true,” Eredion said, his face dark with anger when presented with the question that evening after dinner. Alyea had arrived moments before the desert lord. “He's taken his horse, and those of his belongings that travel comfortably. I did not give him leave to go.”
“Where is he headed?” the king asked, his own expression hard.
“I don't know,” Eredion said. “I can't believe he'd be so foolish as to make his way back to the desert. I've sent a messenger-bird to Water's End, and to Sessin Family Fortress, warning them to hold him against my return if he shows up there.”
Oruen rubbed at his eyes briefly. “You must have some guess as to where he would go.”
“You likely have the same guess,” Eredion said. “The Stone Islands, to hunt Scratha.”
The king seemed unsurprised by the thought, and not particularly worried.
“Yes,” he said. “I've sent word to the dock captains already to watch for him, and messenger-birds to the coastal villages nearby. If Pieas tries to catch passage on a ship to the Stone Islands, we may not be able to stop him, but we'll know about it within a day.”
Eredion turned to Alyea. “I offer my apologies, and offer my services as some compensation. If you need anything, now or any day in the future, call on me. I'll do what I can to help.”
“Thank you,” she said, startled. “That's a generous offer.”
He displayed another brief, intense smile. “I know. I'm counting on you not to abuse it.”
“I won't,” she said, at the same time Oruen said: “She won't, Eredion.”
They all laughed, the tension easing, and leaned back in their chairs.
“Let's have some wine,” Oruen suggested. “I'd like to hear your thoughts, Eredion, on the posting I'm proposing to give to Alyea. You have experience she lacks, and she's doubtless interested in your advice.”
“She won't take advantage, maybe,” Eredion said wryly, “but you're transparent, Lord Oruen.”
“The desert Families keep themselves very private,” Oruen said with a shrug. “Do you blame me for being curious?”
“No,” Eredion said. “Not really. A good king should take every chance to learn about his people and allies, and I think you're the first good king this palace has seen for far too long.”
“Thank you,” Oruen said, sounding deeply flattered. “More wine?”
“Now you're trying to get me drunk so I'll spill Family secrets,” Eredion laughed, and held out his glass. “You'll find it harder than you think.”
Oruen just smiled.

Idisio quickly decided that learning to ride a horse would always be one of his least favorite memories. If, of course, he lived through it; after the fourth time the horse threw him, that began to seem highly unlikely. Either the falls would break something vital, the horse would step on something critical, or Scratha would lose the remnants of a short temper and throttle him.

“I should have stayed on the streets,” Idisio muttered, glaring nose to nose with his horse. It stared back with deceptively sleepy eyes.
“I should have left you there,” Scratha said. He rubbed at his eyes, glanced around, and turned his horse away from the road at a sharp angle. “Lead the horse,” he called back over his shoulder.
Idisio slogged over loose, sandy ground, walking-weed hitching at his ankles and legs. He spared a moment's weary gratitude that his master had allowed the time to change into more suitable traveling clothes before the disastrous riding lessons began. The sturdy linen of his new outfit had held up well so far, although Idisio suspected he'd be spending hours picking out the tiny green seeds.
If, of course, they ever got around to resting. Idisio stumbled, legs threatening to give way under him. It occurred to him, through a grey haze, that he wouldn't be standing, let alone walking, much longer.
“Sit down before you fall over,” Scratha said at last. “I'll come back for you.” He took the reins from Idisio's hand. Not caring whether he fell in the middle of a patch of walking-weed or blood ants, Idisio felt the ground come up under his body and was aware of nothing more for a while.
When his eyes were willing to open again, he found Scratha carrying him, cradling him like a child. Idisio mumbled incoherent protest, ashamed.
“Quiet,” Scratha said, astonishingly gentle, and Idisio's eyelids, like undeniable, heavy weights, slid closed again.

The next time he woke, accumulated aches and bruises hammered at Idisio before his eyes were fully open. The smell of smoke came next, and the unmistakable aroma of food; Idisio's stomach woke with a loud growl at that. A woman laughed nearby.

Idisio struggled to sit up and focus sleep-bleared vision. Scratha knelt beside him.
“Don't get up,” Scratha said. “Your feet are wrapped. I'll bring you some food, if you're of a mind to eat.”
Idisio nodded, and the woman laughed again. Blinking past Scratha, the boy saw an old woman sitting cross-legged by a low table; her hair was pure white, her face lined and weathered like a thick log after a sandstorm. With no stiffness to her movements, she reached to scoop food from a wooden platter into a wide-mouthed wooden bowl, then turned a sharp, bright glance his way.
Fine, wide glass windows spilled light across the plain wooden floors and low, desert-style furniture. Large, colorful sitting cushions surrounded the table; the old woman sat on a deep purple one, and Idisio had been laid out on a wide bench covered with several more. Tall, glazed earthenware vases stood around the room: some as tall as Idisio, and all with dried or fresh flowers in them. A squat cookstove hulked against one wall, large enough to give heat to the room in cold weather; shelves nearby held jars of vegetables, meats, jams, and jellies.
Glass
jars, and well-made; this woman had to be as wealthy as a desert lord herself, to have so many fine things.
“What's your name, boy?” the woman asked as Scratha squatted beside Idisio again, bowl of food in hand.
“Idisio,” he said, taking the bowl from his master. A hunk of fresh bread, a pile of folded eggs speckled with green and red herbs, and a thick wedge of sourfruit; the food from the palace kitchen seemed to have been years ago. Idisio tore through the food, casting aside all his lessons on manners, slowed only by gulps from the mug of cool water his master held out to him. The eggs were just cool enough to pick up without scorching his fingers, the sourfruit sun-warmed and fresher than any he'd ever tasted before; he wiped juice and crumbs from his chin, surprised to find the bowl empty, and looked up to see two amused faces watching him.
“He's a boy still, Cafad,” the woman said. “Give me that bowl again. He'll need more than that.”
Idisio almost dropped the bowl as Scratha reached for it; the desert lord grabbed it, his expression souring, and said, “Yes. She knows who I am and the truth of the situation.”
“I know
your
understanding of the situation,” the woman corrected, a touch sharply; her smile took some of the sting out of the words. “Give me the bowl already.”
She filled the bowl twice more before Idisio motioned that he'd had enough.
“I thank you, my lady.” Idisio wiped at his face again and burped. “That was marvelous.”
“You're welcome, Idisio,” she said. “And you needn't call me
lady
. I left that word behind me long ago. Azni will do fine.”
Now that his stomach had been filled, other pains, along with his bladder, began to command his attention again, even as Scratha asked, “How do you feel, boy?”
“He hurts everywhere,” the woman said before Idisio could answer, “and he thinks you're a damned fool for dragging him all over until his feet are blistered.”
“No,” Idisio said quickly, afraid of looking as if he agreed, “I mean, I hurt, but I . . . I don't think you're a fool, my lo . . . Master.” Or should it be 'my lord', since the woman knew Scratha's true identity? He couldn't decide, but as neither Scratha nor the strange woman seemed offended, he let it pass without further attempt at correction.
“Well, you ought to,” the old woman said. “Because he
is
a fool for it.”
“All right,” Scratha said sourly, reaching for a pail of water, a cloth, and a small jar that were all on the floor nearby. “Let be already.”
“I'll knock it in until I think you're actually listening,” she replied. “We haven't got there yet.”
Trying to divert the conversation and ease the dangerous tension hardening his master's jaw, Idisio said, “Where are we?”
Scratha reached out and flipped the blanket back from Idisio's feet, which were wrapped in linen bandages.
“We're in Azni's home,” he said unhelpfully, and began to unwind the wrappings. For all his rough temper, he kept his movements gentle and careful.
Azni snorted. “About six miles northeast of Bright Bay is the right answer, and little enough to give at that.”
“You value your privacy,” Scratha said.
The wrappings dropped in a pile to one side. Holding Idisio's ankle, Scratha raised the foot slightly, squinting as he examined it. With his free hand he dropped the piece of cloth into the pail of water, pulled it out, and squeezed. Water dribbled back into the pail; the sound reminded Idisio of his increasingly full bladder.
“The boy's not about to lead a horde of murderers to my home,” Azni retorted.
Scratha made a face and began dabbing at Idisio's foot with the damp cloth. Idisio tensed, expecting it to hurt, but felt only a faint tickling as his lord wiped away a layer of salve. Twice he hissed as the tickling shot into a sharp burning sensation; each time Scratha nodded without looking up. “No,” Scratha muttered under his breath as he worked, “I'm the only one likely to do that.”
Azni showed sharp hearing for her age; she said, in a much gentler voice, “You haven't yet, Cafad, and I don't expect you will.” The previous layer of salve wiped away, Scratha spread more over two small spots at the edges of Idisio's left foot and let it rest on the cushion again, not bothering with bandages. He started unwrapping Idisio's right foot.
“This time is different, Azni. I've offended the whole of Sessin, and Pieas is after me.”
“You don't know that,” she said.
He paused in his ministrations and looked over his shoulder at her. “Pieas Sessin fights if he farts and someone has the gall to smile. He's killed over a wrong word before, when that word involved his sister. And I threw the girl out into the street half-dressed and named her a whore to all within hearing.”
“And if you'd known she was Pieas's sister, would that have held you back?” Azni asked.
Scratha held still for a moment, looking at her, then turned back to unwrapping Idisio's foot. “No. I was too angry.”
“Done is done,” the old woman said. “You'll deal with what comes. Even Pieas Sessin isn't fool enough to breach my walls in hunt of you, Cafad. He'll wait for you to leave—if he even knows you've come this way.”
“I covered my tracks from the road, but he'll know soon enough I haven't gone to the Stone Islands,” Scratha said.
“If he has the wit to stop and ask the right questions,” Azni said, “which I doubt; and if he's angry, that's even less likely to happen. If he's mad enough to hunt a full desert lord in the first place, he'll go west to the harbor, which gives you days to clear my home. Stop worrying so.” Scratha wiped Idisio's foot with the damp cloth. The pressure in Idisio's bladder built steadily. “My lo . . . Master,” Idisio said, catching himself again at the last second, and hesitated, not sure how to put the matter while a woman of obvious status stood in the room.
The eunuch hadn't covered how to say
I have to take a piss
in front of a noblewoman.
“Almost done,” Scratha said without looking up. “Let's talk on something else, Azni.” He set Idisio's foot down and sat back.
“Fine,” the old woman said. “Go get the boy a chamber pot before he floods my floor. I don't want him walking yet.”
Idisio felt a deep heat climb into his face as Scratha stood and left the room without comment.
“I've raised children without benefit of servants,” the old woman said, smiling. “I'm not so easily embarrassed as all that.”
She did have the kindness, when Scratha returned, to leave the room while Idisio relieved himself.
“Master,” Idisio said after the chamber pot had been decently lidded again and pushed to one side, “who
is
she?” He decided that using the term 'my lord' might trip him up in the future; better to start using the 'proper' public term now and avoid, as much as possible, using actual names aloud. That seemed safe enough.
Scratha sighed and settled to the floor, leaning back against the wall with his long legs stretched before him. “She
used
to be Lady Azaniari Aerthraim,” he said. “She left her family and married Lord Regav Darden.”
Idisio's jaw loosened. The streets of Bright Bay called those two families dangerous. Darden had a reputation for ruthlessness and the Aerthraim raised caution from mystery. And they were supposedly as amicable with one another as fire and oil.
“After Lord Regav died,” Scratha said, smiling slightly at Idisio's stunned expression, “Azni decided that she'd had enough of living in the deep desert and moved here. I've stayed with her often in recent years. She's one of the few people I trust.” His expression darkened. “I've always been careful to keep that secret, to avoid drawing danger down on her.”
“I can take care of myself,” the lady in question said as she came back into the room. “Really, Cafad, after all I've taught you, don't you know any better than that?”
Idisio's master bent his head and said nothing.
“You need to rest, Cafad,” Azni said. “Go get some sleep. I'll bore your boy here back to his own rest, and teach him a few things he'll need to know if he's to play at taking care of you.” She smiled at Idisio.
“He hasn't slept at all,” she added in a loud whisper. “Worried over you, no doubt.”
Raising his head, Scratha rolled his eyes and heaved himself to his feet. “I had a lot to talk to you about, Azni,” he said. “Don't make it sound something it wasn't. This boy doesn't need any help with his ego.”
“Of course,” she said, tone bland, eyes bright with mischief.
He shook his head and snorted. “We leave in the morning,” he said, and left the room.
Azni smiled as she watched the tall man walk away, then turned to Idisio with a brisk motion. “Now, tell me about yourself. Everything. I know Cafad didn't even bother asking your name; typical of him. I tore him raw over that. Even servants deserve respect, especially if they have to put up with someone like Cafad.”
“That's all right,
s'a
,” Idisio said, feeling clumsy and awkward. Ancient as she seemed, she still had a graceful and cool demeanor that he'd never been faced with before. “I mean, I'm used to not accounting for much.”
He wished he hadn't said it as soon as the words were out; her gaze sharpened instantly, like a blacktail hawk about to drop on a mouse.
“Cafad said he caught you trying to steal from him,” she said. “You're a street-thief, then?”
Idisio nodded, feeling the color rising to his face again. He couldn't stand to meet her stare any longer. “I never knew my parents. Some beggar-thieves raised me, but they never pretended to be related. They were always clear they'd found me as an abandoned infant.”
He bit his lip at the prickling pain of that—and at the recurring vision of a pair of wild grey eyes staring into his. Why had that been so vivid an image? And why did he feel it was important? He shrugged and turned his attention to talking.
“The street thieves waved me around, when I was a baby, to get sympathy and coin from the nobles; when I grew too old for that I took up thieving myself. I've been living the streets my whole life.” He grimaced, wondering why he was babbling so much to a near-stranger, then knew: to avoid thinking about those haunted grey eyes.
She said nothing for a while. He could feel that intent stare burning into him. At last she said, “You've been used for more than sympathy.”
“I grew up on the streets, whaddya think?” he started to say, intending it as a hard-edged warning to back off; found his voice choking off into unexpected hoarseness and then silence halfway through. He shut his eyes, tears prickling against his eyelids; biting his tongue hard held them back.
“Yeah,” he husked after a moment.
“Idisio,” Azni said, “I'm not prying, and I'm not offering pity. Life is what it is, ugly and bitter and sweet and fine all together. I've been through my own rough times, and so has Cafad. But we probably had more support than you ever dreamed of knowing. You surviving this long means you have more strength, in some ways, than many people. Keep that in mind, if Cafad ever tries to intimidate you. And remember this, too: he's not as hard-hearted as he tries to act.”
She drew a breath, lightened her tone, and began to talk of less serious things. Idisio, relieved, let himself be drawn back out into conversation and even shared some of the funnier stories from his life on the streets.
They talked for what the remainder of the day, until a fire had to be set in the stove and bowls of stew ladled out of the large pot. They talked by candlelight as they ate, as she cleaned up, and by the time Idisio dropped back to sleep on his pallet, his head spun from the things he'd learned. Politics and family ties, blood oaths and noble secrets and gossip, and, woven in here and there, casual comments on the best way to mend clothes, cook food, and ride a horse.
A few words from her had explained more about that than hours of his master's cursing and admonitions. He also had a better idea of what it had meant for Scratha to change his name and take to the road, with his true name in official disgrace and his true person in the king's service. If he'd simply gone traveling as Lord Cafad Scratha, with his desert holding empty and unprotected, desert law would have given rights to any who chose to occupy it for a year's time. He could have come home to find himself homeless. But by placing his land in the king's hands and his true name in temporary public disgrace, the king himself had to keep the holding open for Scratha, whether this journey took months or years.
As even a temporary holder of a desert fortress, whatever the legal fiction involved, the king had just acquired certain rights and the other desert families certain obligations. The traditional independence of the desert families from the actual kingdom had just developed a small but significant political vulnerability.
“He’s always been rash,” Azni sighed. “Rash and quicktempered and hard to reason with. He regrets afterwards, but never remembers long enough for next time. Your worst task, Idisio, will be keeping his temper under hand and him out of trouble. I don't think he really has any notion what he's done, choosing to travel as nothing more than a court researcher. He has no idea what it's like, not being treated as a noble. He thinks he does. He really, truly, doesn't.”
She shook her head slowly. They went on to other topics, and finally she declared herself too tired to talk further. She left the room with a gracious goodnight and a lit candle by his pallet; he blew it out and settled back on his cushions soon after.