The Quartered Sea (19 page)

She stood at the foot of the bed, and at her command the first woman slipped an arm behind his shoulders and tucked pillows behind him until his upper body reclined at an angle. Her breasts were soft and heated against his shoulder and he could feel her nipples through the thin fabric of her shift. His ears began to burn as he realized he was responding.

A sarcastic comment from the woman at the foot of the bed took care of that.

Smiling, the woman who'd lifted him placed a cup to his mouth.

He hadn't realized how thirsty he was until the cool water splashed against his lips. Eyes half closed, he gratefully drained the cup and sank back into his pillows exhausted by the effort of so much swallowing. An imperious thumb pried one eye open again. He had barely time to recognize the woman from the end of the bed before he found his head pushed forward and the back of his skull undergoing a close examination. When her touch sent shards of pain bouncing around behind his eyes, he found strength enough to wrap his fingers about her wrist.

She effortless broke his grip and said something to her companion, the musical tones of the strange language making it no less clearly a command.

The other woman knelt and touched his chest, drawing his gaze to her face. "Ochoa," she declared, fingertips denting the fabric between her breasts. Then she touched his chest again, lifting both brows in an obvious question as she did.

It took him a moment to remember how to work his mouth. "B… Bene… dikt." His eyes widened at the sound of his voice and all at once he realized what it meant. "I'm not… dead."

Ochoa patted his chest encouragingly.

If he wasn't dead, perhaps there were others! Ignoring the pain, he jerked his head from side to side. The silence hadn't lied. The room was large and empty of all but his bed. No other beds. No other…

A firm grip on his chin stopped his movement, and a sharp admonishment held him in place.

Ochoa, still kneeling by his side, made it quite clear that he was to remain still.

Benedikt caught her gaze and held it, hoping to make her understand by intensity alone what he needed to know. "Am I… the only one?" When she frowned, clearly confused, he repeated the question. He hadn't realized he was crying until, shaking her head, she reached out and traced the path of a tear down his cheek.

Something cold was shoved under his fingers. Cold and flat and round. Gulping air, he blinked away tears enough to see. On one side, the queen's profile. On the other, the crowned ship. With the coin safe within the cage of his fingers, Benedikt sagged back against the pillows and deep water claimed him again.

"You don't really believe he'd have tied your life to the stranger's?" Ochoa asked, stepping back so that the other woman would cross the threshold first. "To Bene Dikt's?"

"If it was the gracious one's will…"

"Imixara!"

"However," the Tul's personal physician continued, moving through her outer room to the herbarium, "I believe in this instance he was merely making certain I understood how important the stranger is to him."

"And do you?"

"I understand the gracious one wants the stranger to live."

Accepting the reproof in the physician's voice, Ochoa bowed her head and murmured an apology. "Do you believe he's one of Tulpayotee's warriors, come to challenge the change?"

Imixara, who, arms crossed, had been scanning the contents of the woven shelves, turned to face her favorite assistant. "No, I do not. Would one of Tulpayotee's warriors have taken an injury that made his eyes so sensitive to light."

"If he is to work against Xaantalicta in the darkness…"

"The stranger is a
man
and not a very old one at that, given his little display earlier."

"Not exactly a little display," Ochoa observed, beginning to grin.

The two women locked eyes, and neither could repress a snicker.

"Yes, well, at least our young giant is proportional." Crushing a dried leaf between thumb and forefinger, Imixara shook her head and moved onto the next rack of shelves where she began dropping leaves and the occasional flower into a small basket. "You're not pronouncing his name correctly. It's Benedikt, one word. He paused only to catch his breath."

"Are you sure?"

"I
have
heard the effects of injury before."

Ochoa murmured another apology. "When will you tell the gracious one that the stranger, Bene…" Caught in the pause, she rushed to finish before Imixara thought she was being deliberately defiant."… dikt, is awake."

"Not until he can stay awake for the duration of the tul's interest. Meanwhile, make an infusion." The basket of herbs changed hands. "Have him drink a cup cold every time he awakes. If he indicates hunger, he may have clear broth. Under no circumstances is he to rise to relieve himself. Continue using the gourds." A bell rang in the distance. "If the tul doesn't need me after I've checked his fluids, I'll drop in to look at Benedikt this evening." She paused and leaned back out of the alcove that separated her rooms from the hall. "And for glory's sake, shave him. He's a man, not an animal."

"Shave how much of him?" Ochoa asked with some concern. The young stranger was quite definitely the hairest man she'd ever seen.

Imixara stopped in mid step. "Good question. Shave his face. The tul can decide himself if he wants the hair removed from other places."

"Does he? Good." Gathering up the folds of his robe in one hand, Tul Altun crossed to the bed and stared down at the young man lying in it. "You are certain he is nothing more than he seems?"

"I am certain he is a young man, gracious one." Imixara shrugged, both hands lifting to cup the air. "More than that he will have to tell you himself."

"Fine. See to it that he can."

"Yes, gracious one."

The tul smiled down at the golden-haired, golden-skinned, pale-eyed stranger. "It
is
possible that Tulpayotee gave one of his warriors a man's form to better assess the strength of his followers."

"It is possible, gracious one." Twenty-four years of practice kept Imixara's voice respectfully neutral.

"Benedikt." Tul Altun lingered over the unusual name and smiled when the pale eyes widened. "We'll have much to speak of, you and I. Learn quickly."

Suddenly chilled in spite of the damp heat lying across him like a blanket, Benedikt watched Tul Altun leave the room and listened, frozen in place, until the sound of his footsteps faded away. Ochoa had named his visitor before he arrived—although whether it was title, name or a combination, Benedikt wasn't sure—and had made it unmistakably clear that he was her lord and the lord of a great deal more besides. Whether she was warning him to beware or only behave, she needn't have bothered. Benedikt had seen the kind of easy arrogance Tul Altun exhibited in only one other person. Bannon. An ex-Imperial assassin who knew, bone deep, that he could bring an unpreventable death to everyone around him.

I have plans for you.

Those might not have been Tul Altun's exact words, but Benedikt would have had to have been deaf not to have heard the meaning. Even a non-bard would have understood.

Physical and cultural differences made it difficult for Benedikt to judge the other man's exact age by appearance alone, but unless he'd had voice training, tone and timbre put him between twenty and thirty. He wasn't much taller than the women. While he seemed to be carrying no excess flesh, neither was there much muscle apparent through the opening of the loose, multicolored coat, similar to the healer's but finer and cut long enough to drag behind him on the floor.

Ochoa wore a single braid, the Healer between ten and twenty, their lord many, many more. It had probably taken Tul Altun's barber hours to weave the tiny, perfect plaits and fix a green feather in each. The braids, Benedikt concluded had to be a status symbol—only the very rich and powerful could afford to waste that kind of time. It made sense; back in Shkoder the wealthy wore clothing they couldn't get into without the help of servers. Here, wherever here turned out to be, where it was far too hot to be laced into anything, hair clearly served the same function.

Reminded of the heat, he realized how thirsty he was and reached for the mug of water beside his bed, thankful that for the last couple of days Ochoa had let him out of bed to use a pot. When he could walk to a privy, he'd be more thankful still. When he could walk on out of here…

And go where?

Perhaps he could convince Tul Altun to give him a ship.

I have plans for you.

Perhaps fish would sing. Benedikt couldn't decide if Tul Altun's expression had been speculative or predatory. Not that it much mattered.

He sagged back against the pillow and wondered,
What next? What do I do
?

What would Bannon do ?

"No, you're too valuable to me to be wasted as Benedikt's tutor." Imixara pulled a braid forward and stroked the dove's feather laced into it. "We must find someone born to the house—the tul won't want him to pick up a common accent. We need someone young so that he can believe he has a friend—that belief may be useful to the tul later. It had better be someone male just in case they get very friendly—the tul won't want any golden bastards toddling about." The tul's personal physician glanced up as Ochoa made an indeterminate noise and smiled. "Were you planning to comfort him yourself? Try to remember what herbs to use and when to use them."

"I'm not saying I want to comfort him," Ochoa protested. "I'm not saying I haven't thought about it," she quickly added to cut off the other woman's incredulous response, "but he's young enough to be my son."

"Your son still works with Bon Kytee?"

"He does."

Imixara glanced up at the circular calender. "Xaantalicta will hide her face in two days. The Bons have to be back to the house for the service. Find out if Bon Kytee has returned and, if he has, inform him that I speak with the tul's voice and I have another position for your son."

"You'd do that for my son?"

"No, foolish one, I would do that for you. I have no children of my own to bring to the tul's attention, why should I not advance your son's position in the house?"

Ochoa leaned forward and gently kissed the other woman's cheek above her physician's tattoo. "And it will irritate the glory out of Bon Kytee."

"That
had
occurred to me."

* * *

Language lessons began with Benedikt reclining against his pillows and Xhojee, Ochoa's son kneeling beside the low platform of the bed. His teacher was a year younger—determined by the simple process of banging chests and holding up fingers—and had answered, just by entering the room, the question of where the kigh had brought him ashore.

He wore only high sandals and a short unbleached skirt, belted with multicolor netting threaded with shells. There were netting bands on both wrists as well. Like his mother and the healer and the lord, he had thick, dark hair, drawn back and then split into two short braids. He had no hair on his legs or his arms or his chest. What he
did
have in the center of his chest was a dark drawing, somehow set right into the skin.

The dark sailor had worn "patterns drawn in darkness etched above his heart."

Benedikt clutched the queen's coin and tried not to weep. He had reached the land of the dark sailor, but there would be no answers, no wonders returning back across the sea to delight Her Majesty.