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Cafad Scratha seemed to draw himself upright and compact, all at once.
The king said, “She claims you threw her into the street half-naked, bellowing that she was a whore.”
“It's a good name,” Scratha said. “She's Sessin.”
“She admits she should have told you,” the king said. “She was afraid of your obsession.”
“
Obsession?
”
“That's what it's been named,” the king said, “and I agree. The girl did nothing, by her account, that gave cause to humiliate her like that. Can you give a good reason?”
Scratha looked mutinous. “She's Sessin. I'll have nothing to do with that family.”
“You're a fool.” The king sat down with a heavy sigh. “I have to do something about this, Cafad. I won't alienate my strongest supporters for your pride.”
“Your strongest supporters?” Scratha said, and while his volume stayed low, his tone was anything but mild. “Sessin's a family of cowards. Their
support
means nothing. Less than nothing. I wouldn't let one of their asp-jacaus near me, much less one of their women.”
If there had been any point to running, Idisio would already have been edging towards the door. He stood very still and hoped they wouldn't notice his continuing presence.
“I
know
Sessin was involved in my family's destruction,” Scratha said, “and gods save them when I find the proof to present to a desert court. And I will. I'll find it! And then you'll see—”
“Enough,” the king said, raising a hand. “None of the desert families had anything to do with your family's slaughter. I won't believe such a thing, and neither should you. You're wasting your life on this. Find a good woman, of whatever family or line. Fill your fortress with the laughter of children instead of the wailing of ghosts.”
Scratha stood mute and straight, a hard line to his jaw and a darkness in his eyes.
The king looked at that grim, silent refusal and slowly shook his head. “I had hoped to talk you into apologizing to Nissa. I see that won't happen.”
“No, Lord Oruen,” Scratha said. “That will never happen.”
“Sessin isn't the only family you've upset lately, Cafad.”
“That's desert lord business, Lord Oruen, and none of yours.”
“You've brought your squabbles into Bright Bay, so it's now become my business,” the king said just as sharply. He stood, and his tone changed to one of authority, one he might have used in front of a full audience in his throne room. “I have a task for you, Cafad Scratha.”
Idisio could feel roses and silks rapidly fading beyond any chance of his reach. He'd be lucky to live out his life in a dungeon alongside the man he'd foolishly claimed as lord. Twice in one day, intuition had failed him, and each time more disastrously.
“The royal library has been decimated since the time of Initin the Red,” the king went on. “I am of a mind to restock it. An accounting of the kingdom is sorely needed: history, current affairs, culture, religions, beliefs, and so on. Without such a guide, I'll be hard put to pull order from the chaos I've been left. You're a man of learning and intelligence; I place you in charge of compiling a modern history of this kingdom. I want tales of how the last two hundred years have affected the rest of the kingdom, especially the northern half.”
Scratha opened his mouth to speak, eyes narrowing.
The king stopped him with another imperious gesture. ”Arason is of special interest to me, but be very careful; they're a bit touchy at the moment.“
The two men locked stares.
“This
task
of yours will take years, if I agree to do it,” Scratha said. “If.”
“You'll do this, Cafad Scratha,“ the king said. “Or lose your access to Bright Bay for the rest of your life.”
Scratha stared, seeming more puzzled than angry, for another moment, then shrugged and gave a sharp nod. “I'll do the job.”
The king smiled without joy and shook a small silver hand bell. At the faint tinkling sound, a servant stepped through a side door half-hidden behind draperies, and stood, attentive and silent, waiting instruction.
“Settle Lord Scratha and his servant in a guest room,” the king directed. “When they're ready, take them to see the steward regarding supplies and two horses.”
“I only need one horse, Lord Oruen,” Scratha said stiffly.
“What about your servant? Is he to run at your stirrup? Take two, and a pack-mule if you need one.”
Scratha turned a glare on Idisio.
“I don't know that I'll need a servant on this journey,” he said after a moment, turning a markedly more polite glance to the king. “I'll move faster traveling alone, and I'm used to doing for myself. Taking this one on was . . . a whim. I'll find another place for him, before I leave.”
Intuition prodding him hard, Idisio gave in, hoping for better results this time, and matched the desert lord's quick recovery with his own before the king could speak.
“My lord, I'm no whim. Just the other day you said you couldn't do without me! And I really don't know what I'd do without you.”
“Take your servant along,” the king ordered before Scratha could speak. “He'll come in handy, and he seems devoted to you: not something to toss aside lightly.”
“Indeed,” Scratha said.
Idisio shivered at the ice held in that single word, and wondered whether he'd made a very bad mistake after all.

The wall crashed up behind Idisio, and his breath thumped from his lungs at the impact. Idisio rolled away from Scratha's reaching hand and scrambled to his feet. Settling into a crouch, weight on his toes, he kept his eyes fixed on Scratha.

“Wait,” he said, knowing it wouldn't do any good. “Wait, my lord, please. . . .”
The man fairly steamed with fury. Idisio didn't think Scratha would dare to kill him, since they both had the king's notice now, but he suspected a hefty helping of bruises for his insolence loomed in the near future.
Idisio let the plea hang in the air and watched with intense relief as the madness slowly faded from Scratha's eyes, leaving behind a simpler and safer version of that anger.
“I'll ask you again,” Scratha said. “
Who sent you?
”
What the king had said helped Idisio understand the desert lord's obsession, but made a convincing reply no easier to craft.
“Nobody, my lord,” Idisio said. “I'm just a simple street thief. I made a mistake, trying for your pocket.”
“A nd a s a
simple street thief
you nailed yourself to my side in front of the king?” Scratha demanded.
Idisio lifted his hands in a helpless gesture. “It's a better life than scrounging half-bits for a living, my lord; can you blame me for trying?”
“I don't believe you.”
Idisio shrugged and straightened. “Will you take my service, my lord, or am I out on the streets again? If I go back on the street now, after walking into the palace by your side, I'll be dead by nightfall.” An outright lie, which was dangerous with a desert lord; but it would resonate with the man's paranoid fears.
Scratha stared at him, anger easing further, and finally said, “Very well.”
Idisio let out a very quiet sigh of relief through barely parted lips.
“Get your belongings, then, and meet me back here,” Scratha said, turning away.
Idisio thought back over his small, carefully hidden cache of possessions; nothing there worth the trip to gather. A small dagger, a ragged shirt, a worn pair of sandals, a handful of coin that looked pitiful next to what he hoped to make now—if Scratha intended to pay him as a servant rather than use him as a slave. It seemed worth the risk.
“I have nothing to get, my lord.”
“Sit quietly, then.”
The noble knelt at a low wooden desk, pulled a quill, ink, and three pieces of parchment from the shallow drawers as though he'd known they were there, and began to write. Not being able to read, Idisio could only guess; one looked like a list, the other like a letter to someone. Judging by the frequent pauses, a good deal of thought was going into the writing of both. The third took less time.
Idisio sank to the floor while Scratha wrote, grateful for the chance to rest. His bare feet were scuffed and aching from walking over so much unaccustomed stone.
He normally kept to the sand and dirt paths of the city, but almost all of the trip to and through the Palace had been on paved roads and along hard stone corridors.
“Here's your first task, then,
servant
,” Scratha said at last, rolling up two of the papers, note inside the list, and fastening a silk ribbon tightly around them. The longer letter he folded and pushed to one side. “Go with that man waiting outside and take these to the steward. They're just supply lists and directions on what we'll need,” he added, sounding impatient, as if Idisio had questioned him.
Idisio stood, feeling the weight on his feet as if he were made of lead more than flesh. “You're not going, my lord?”
“No. I have other . . . tasks to do.”

The steward was a thin, sharp-faced man of no readily-apparent bloodline and a sour demeanor. He stared at Idisio as if examining a particularly nasty bug.
“Eh . . . the servant to Lord Scratha,
s'e
,” the steward's secretary murmured, then withdrew hastily.
The disdain on the steward's face intensified.
“No surprise,” he said, not standing, “that he'd take on such as you.” He held out a thin-boned hand on which veins looped and sprawled prominently against paper-dry skin. “Give me the list, then, don't stand there like a fool.”
Idisio stood silent, gaze on the floor, as the steward snapped the rolls open with quick gestures.
“I see,” the steward said, his voice considerably colder than it had been. “Boy, look at me.”
Idisio raised his gaze slowly.
“Do you know what this letter says, boy?”
“No,
s'e
. I can't read, and my lord said nothing of it.”
“Kind of him, to send you with a handful of chaos and say nothing to you of it,” the steward said. “Typical of him, in fact.”
He leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes, seeming exasperated.
“The man's got no idea of palace politics, none at all—and not much notion of how to play his own land's games, either. He said
nothing
of this to you? Are you lying to me, boy?”
“No,
s'e
, I wouldn't dare.”
“I believe that, at least.” The steward sighed and stood. “Come with me. I'll send a servant along with the supplies by the end of the day. No doubt your hasty young fool of a desert lord will want to leave first thing in the morning. Not that I said that, mind you,” he added with a glare.
“No,
s'e
.
S'e
?” Idisio decided to chance his customary brashness. “What did the letter say?”
“Instructions to clean you up, and no surprise. You stink.”

Cleaning him up, as it turned out, involved a thorough scrubbing by a fat old palace eunuch who only gave over the brush when Idisio threatened to shove it somewhere unpleasant, and only retreated farther than arm's length when satisfied that Idisio really would clean himself.

Idisio emerged feeling very raw and sour, especially when he found his old clothes gone. In their place lay the silks he'd wished for, spread out ruby and white on the wide clothes-stool, and a pair of dark softsoled boots. He stared at them in dismay. The outfit might be suited to court, but certainly not the open road. He could imagine the state they'd be in after a tenday.

He suspected the steward of having a grim joke at his expense. “
S'ii
,” he started, turning to the eunuch to protest, but the man had slipped from the room already. There was nothing for it but to put the clothes on. Once dressed, Idisio stood very still, wide-eyed at how
smooth
the silk felt against scrubbed-raw skin. It felt like walking in a continual bath of cool water, and the way the fabric flowed over his body was heady and arousing. He swallowed hard and finally managed to subdue the reaction; it took him a bit longer to walk across the room and back without it recurring.
A long mirror leaned against one wall; he went to it hesitantly. He'd had a chance to look in burnished-metal mirrors, and once a real Sessin glass hand-mirror, but never his whole body at once.
Idisio knew he didn't qualify as handsome. He'd been laughed at and taunted by too many girls for that to be a hope. What stared back at him from the glass, however, wasn't as ugly as he'd expected.
He almost had the wide face of a born southerner, but free of dirt it showed a much lighter color than Lord Scratha's. His nose was far too snubbed to be true southerner, and his eyes, a clear bright grey, were unusually wide and round. His hair, washed, brushed, and tied back, turned out to be a fine shade of deep brown and as silky as the clothes he wore. His eyes shifted between grey-blue and grey-green as he studied himself, tilting his head this way and that. Standing straight in the fine new clothes, he could have passed for some noble's bastard down from the north.
Idisio hovered between shock and revelation: nobility weren't
born
looking one way and street-scum born another. They were all the same. Put a noble's son in rags and run him through the sand and dust of the back streets for a day, and he'd look like Idisio had that morning. Noble blood attracted girls. The way he looked now, maybe they wouldn't laugh at him any more.
It took him a while more to calm himself after
that
thought.
Finally, fairly sure he wouldn't embarrass himself, he took a guess at the door he thought opened to the hall and looked out. The eunuch sat on a wide stool just outside, and a guard stood to the other side of the door. They both glanced at him as he stepped out.
“Much better,” the eunuch said, favoring Idisio with a faint smile.
The guard grunted, returned his attention to front, and said nothing.
“Sorry I took so long,
s'ii
,” Idisio said.
The eunuch's smile widened just a bit. “I understand,” he said, standing. “Back in the room, boy. I've been asked to teach you some manners so you don't disgrace your lord at dinner tonight.”
“At. . . .” Idisio stared, suddenly horror-struck at the implication. Needing manners, not disgracing his lord, meant he'd be at a formal dinner, a noble's dinner, more than likely with the king attending. The notion scared him silly. “At
dinner?
”
The guard made another small noise, his mouth twitching slightly in what might have been amusement or scorn.
“It would be rude beyond measure, as your lord is staying at the palace, not to join the king at table,” the eunuch said calmly. “You have a bit over two hours left before the call. I expect I'll only need one.”