Heirs of the Blade_ Shadows of the Apt_ Book Seven - Adiran Tchaikovsky [50]
Amnon regarded her quizzically. ‘Why would anyone devise such a thing?’
‘But you have a plan,’ Praeda insisted. ‘If we just walk in, well . . .’ She swallowed, tilted her chin up. ‘I’ll shave my head. Then we’ll be locals. Will that be enough?’
‘Perhaps. As you say, I have a plan.’
Before dusk they had trekked through a mile of farmland, tracing an erratic path of roads and irrigation dykes to reach one specific farmhouse out of dozens. There were a few Khanaphir about, who watched them arrive, more of caution in their eyes than curiosity. At the door, a broad-shouldered old man met them, nodding at Amnon as though he was a tax collector.
‘I’d expected it,’ was all he said, and he plainly recognized the former First Soldier. ‘Inside, then, you might as well. Food?’
‘If you have spare,’ Amnon said with careful deference. He had to stoop some way to get under the lintel, Praeda trailing after him.
Most of the house consisted of a single room, where a long table had already been set. A woman of the old man’s years was bustling about it now, rearranging the places to find space for two more. She glanced from Amnon to Praeda, her dark eyes unreadable. Praeda realized that she herself had never seen a peasant home belonging to the Khanaphir, what with living out of an embassy and being the honoured guest of the Ministers. She had assumed that the foundation on which Khanaphir rested must be crushed down by its weight, impoverished and sullen – deprived as they were of anything like Collegium’s enlightenment and standard of living. Instead, the inside of the farmhouse was surprisingly well furnished, chairs and table all finely carved and clearly ancient, and the walls liberally adorned with those baffling carvings. Even these Khanaphir peasants lived neck-deep in history, she saw, and they bore their servitude with stubborn pride.
The Beetle-kinden they had seen outside now trooped in to take their places, and Praeda found that she and Amnon were directed towards the table’s head, sitting at the right hand of the old man. She guessed that it was the senior pair that owned and ran the farm, and the rest were hirelings and farmhands. The fare itself consisted of some kind of thick soup, flat bread, and some fish that had been pickled to within an inch of its life at some point in its distant past.
There was little conversation around the table, and even Amnon said nothing, just ate dutifully as though he was only a labourer himself. Nobody commented that an ex-First Soldier had just turned up out of nowhere, with a foreign woman. Praeda suspected that they were all buzzing with questions, but that it was not in their nature to ask them, and the presence of strangers had killed off any other kind of talk.
At last, as the meal was drawing to a close, Amnon grunted, ‘Need to get into the city. Going that way?’
‘What sort of question is that?’ The old man’s expression was openly disparaging. ‘Market, you well know. What of it?’
‘Room on the cart for two more?’ Amnon said, not even looking at the farmer.
This was greeted by an exasperated sigh. ‘Then you’ll work, load and unload, for I need all the hands I have, and you’ll leave two men sitting idle here, if you have your way.’ Both his tone and expression stated, clear as day, that Amnon had been personally sent by the Masters to inconvenience him.
Instead of rallying at this, Amnon’s head sank even lower and he shrugged, not in any way the man that Praeda knew. She looked about the table, but nobody met her eyes.
‘Excuse me,’ she said at last, almost relishing the shocked silence that greeted her words, ‘but you do know this is the First Soldier? That he saved Khanaphes from the Many of Nem?’
For a long while she thought that nobody would respond, that she had killed off all chance of anyone in this house ever saying anything again, but then the old man snorted with derision.
‘Was First Soldier. And who ever heard of such