On Fire's Wings - Christie Golden [67]
To end the awkwardness, Jashemi rumpled her hair as he had done when she was younger. She giggled, and when she looked up at him, it was with the old affection.
Good. Very good.
“You are to harvest herbs,” Jashemi said, indicating her tools. “It should not take long. Do you have time for a game of Shamizan?”
“I always have time to win against you,” she replied with an engaging smirk.
He grinned back. All was well between them, again.
As always, time with Kevla, however brief, buoyed Jashemi. But when he ran lightly up the stairs to his room, he overheard something that bled delight out of him. His parents, their voices raised in argument.
He had known for many years that his parents were bound by law and clan tradition, but not by love. He had accepted that, and the older he grew, the more he saw that such was the norm. But ever since Yeshi’s second child had been born so ominously marked, there had been a gulf between the khashima and her family. There were few arguments between her and Jashemi for the simple reason that they barely spoke. But khashim and khashima could not indulge in such an easy solution, and over the years, the strife had escalated.
Unaware that he did so, Jashemi ducked his head, as if trying to pull his ears into his body so that he could not hear. His shoulders hunched and he quickened his pace. He could not understand the words, but he did not need to. The tone, especially his mother’s, was sufficient.
The sick discomfort turned to anger. His time with Kevla was so rare and so precious, and all the joy it had brought him had been chased away by those sharp, raised voices. He could think of nothing worse they could have done to him.
Kevla, too, was not unaware of the growing tensions between the great lord and the great lady. Although she was no longer one of Yeshi’s handmaidens, servants gossiped, and sometimes her duties took her within hearing of Yeshi’s once-melodious, now-harsh voice. At such times, she made haste to finish whatever duty she had been charged with; to cross Yeshi’s path when she was speaking so would be to invite disaster. She thought back to her suspicions that Yeshi was taking lovers, and wondered if it were still so.
It was a searingly hot morning as Kevla prepared a basket to take to Asha. The young healer preferred to have his meals delivered to him at daybreak and midday, joining the other servants only for the evening meal. She was heading out to his hut when she heard raised voices. Or rather, a raised voice—Yeshi’s. She ducked back into a corridor as the mistress of the household stormed past.
“Foolish girl!” Kevla jumped at the sharp crack of palm striking flesh. “This stain will never come out!”
“Yes, it will, great lady, if I have to scrub it until my fingers bleed.” Sharu, the little five-score, fear and pleading in her voice. Kevla felt a stab of pity for the girl.
“As if blood on the cloth will make it better. You are clumsy and lazy. Your five years of service are over, why are you still here troubling me so! Go to Tahmu and get your last score and leave this house by nightfall.”
A sharp intake of breath and a little sob. “Great lady, I beg you, give me a chance to—”
“Another word from that ugly little mouth and I will have you beaten as well.”
Silence. Quick, angry footsteps. A soft cry, a sniffle, and then slow, bare footsteps in the opposite direction.
Although Sharu had been Yeshi’s spy and taken Kevla’s place, Kevla could not find it in her to resent the girl. She was just trying to survive. Kevla, who had danced on a street corner extolling the sexual skills of her own mother, could understand that. She had no idea what Sharu had done to so offend Yeshi, but expected that it was no great crime.
Deep in thought, she made her way to Asha’s hut. She placed the basket of roasted fowl, bread and dates on a small stone, rapped on the door, and walked slowly back to the House. An idea was taking shape.