A Mischief in the Woodwork

CHAPTER 19

The Shackled Road of Friendship

“Why in the gods' names, minda?” was Tanen's reaction, as he came upon me. It seemed, for lack of a better name to call me, he had adopted the Serbaen term for the purpose. With it, he managed to charm and mock at once, and not tread on the personal weight of my real name. “If you happen upon a ball and chain in the rubble, you do not apply it to your limbs unless you can also boast miraculously coming into possession of the matching key somewhere in the same vicinity. That is surely a rule of thumb.”

I stood in sheepish disarray for him finding me this way, and not being able to denounce the theory. I could not explain otherwise. I could not explain anything.

The long road home stretched out behind me. The toppled gate to the city was under my feet. In truth, I had waited for him here, for a very specific and most inconvenient reason:

The anchor fastened to me.

I had done my best, wrestling with it over the rubble. I had dragged it, even carried it. But I was spent, and my ankle was bloody. My arms trembled from the cumbersome burden, and the muscles in my leg were pulled in every way, like weeds taken to with a vengeance.

“I don't suppose you at least feel inclined to conjure an excuse for your presence here today?” he inquired of my silence. “Or was this contraption merely the overdue failed attempt to keep you contained at Manor Dorn?”

“Exceptionally funny,” I acknowledged dryly. “But never mind. If you would just–”

“Dear gods. Is that blood on your ankle?”

Suddenly he was kneeling, and inspecting the sullied appendage. A self-conscious shift took me, but I winced in regret of the movement, and jerked still.

His upward glance fed empathy at my contorted face, and his hands were gentle as he turned back to the source of my pain. “Honestly, Avante... You would not do this, would you?” He was flourishing a handkerchief, wrapping it around my flesh on the inner side of the strangling metal clasp. When his eyes returned to mine, they were earnest, conspiratorial. “Is this mischief?”

He meant: had the city done this to me?

Perhaps. In a manner of speaking, and yet – no. There had been a woman. But what of her to him? No one for the blissfully ignorant to reckon with. He need not know, and I could not name her on my tongue. My tongue would not hear of it, and could not in fact recall the precise taste of it. Had she been the stuff of cinnamon? Earth? Heaven?

Had she in fact been real at all?

People could well go mad in this city. I was aware of such things.

“I cannot explain it,” I said. “But that would be its closest name.”

“Better to have stayed where you were put,” Tanen advised. “Or do you think it pays to go into the city more than necessary?”

I would not blush, but my cheeks wished, for once, I might humor them. They clamored, their small bloody fists pounding against the smooth walls of my flesh. “It is not your business when it is necessary for me.”

“And she, the spy, demands privacy,” he smirked as he stood.

His face would have been perfect to slap on its way up. It wanted to be slapped.

I was disappointed that I did not. How I could have brought the blood to his own smooth cheeks. It might even have looked lovely next to his sea-splashed eyes.

The perfect touch.

“And you, the one who ought to be shackled to the ground,” I observed in defiance. “Any justice worth its salt would give you the anchor, climbing all over the the city as you were, with its unstable architecture. Is sport so unthinkable really necessary by nature, Mr. Nysim? At least I did not warrant this.”

“If you must know, I happened–”

“I must not. Thank you,” I refused, managing to turn away with an acceptable amount of indifference. “I'd just as soon be spared the nature of your endeavors.”

“You don't want to like me,” he said, halfway between a conclusion and an accusation.

“You can hardly win my affections with a straggly old nest.”

“I beg your pardon. It's a token of some consequence.”

“It's a gimmick. And I would not have even seen your efforts, given the secrecy of the operation. Unspeakable efforts. Hardly worth it, don't you think? Going to the trouble? Please, don't scale the un-scalable on my account.”

“I do everything the best that I might, minda. I had a list; if I am able, I will quest to attain every item on that given list. I said I would get what you asked.”

I had no precise response at the ready for that.

“I know,” he said; “One redeeming quality is hardly sufficient on the long road to a man's redemption.” And he stooped to seize the bauble weighing me down, the most natural motion for him. I did not even have to ask.

Perhaps he was a gentleman after all.

But many of the lords who kept slaves were gentlemen. That was, after all, where gentlemen had been bred and born.

He was only noble as far as he had been trained.

Still, I hesitated, unable to simply march forth like a queen who had expected no less. I would not go as far as to say that I was humbled, on all accounts, but I could appreciate a thing. I could be pleasantly surprised by it, and reduced to a momentary state of courtesy in turn.

I swallowed, coming to terms with the situation.

“Come on,” he prompted, and put the crude anchor under an arm, starting forward. “You have lullabies to sing.”

“They're not lullabies,” I protested

“No? What are they?”

“For one thing, I do not sing things to sleep. I sing them awake,” I differentiated perhaps a bit self-importantly.

“Oh. I beg your pardon. Not lullabies. What is it called instead... The thing that roosters do... Cock-a-doodling?”

I stared at him indignantly.

“No? Have I gotten my waking-up songs mixed up as badly as my going-to-sleep ones?”

“I like to think I don't crow, either, Mr. Nysim. Thank you.”

“Whatever you say, Siren.”

Siren.

The look I gave him in response to that, I couldn't even classify. Who had given him the right to come up with names for me? Especially ones so...flattering and disgruntling?

He had given me a nickname. I resented that.

I couldn't afford to like it.

I scuffed after him, keeping my peace. I was not on confident terms with what I might exchange with him should I pursue conversation in our present context.

“I'll get that nest,” he stated after we walked in silence for a time, wanting to make it known he wouldn't let it rest.

“You may do as you please,” I replied, not letting myself look at him. I cared about the path in front of me. Not his escapades.

“Aye,” he confirmed. “And one day, Siren, it might just please you too. Watch out.”

My face flamed – but in anger or unaccustomed flattery, I could not tell. I opened my mouth, but he did not allow me to rebuke;

“Don't bother,” he dissuaded. “You don't crow, remember? I'd hate this to be the day that pretty things stopped coming out of your mouth. Stick to what you do. Your calling becomes you.”

I was just as surprised by the genuine compliment that I found my retort dissipated on my lips anyway. I tasted its ghost, turning it over in my mouth, swallowing the new flavor uncertainly. The next glance I cast in Tanen's direction was a sidelong one, quizzical and slightly wry, and most assuredly stealthy. He did not catch it. It was over, really, before it could catch itself. A flicker of uncertain groundwork. Who was to say what would come of it. But as we made our way toward the home that I was loathe to share, the slave-despiser carried my shackles, the burden casually hefted under one arm, his antics temporarily eclipsed in my interest.

And an eclipse was a thing of both black and white.

A clash in perfect harmony.