The Totem-Maker (part twenty-one)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Three

I Am the Cause

(part twenty-one)

I eased to my feet and faced the windows, the unlit alley.

“Leave the shutters open.”

Madla had spoken over my head, not to trouble me. Her woman returned once, cradling a candle flame. She lifted the cloth from the untouched supper dish, added a spice-scented bun, and left Cime’s slaves alone.

I thought of these women…looking over rooftops at stars, listening to hoofbeats, dim voices, lowering my gaze to see lamplight flare in a downstairs room. I ought to have kept a blank mind, let the gods speak. Let them pity me with wisdom. But I thought then of my master, how deeply in defiance of ordinary rules I was, whether forgiven…

Or whether, of less value than Lom, I was held at fault. I might be held unlucky, unsafe to keep, as I had in my old home.

Cime I heard speak, shouting for Mumas. The growing light of torches made plain he had gathered his household knights, and they had concealed themselves in the dark lanes. They had surrounded Mumas, but allowed him to enter his home.

He came out. I saw by the light of his doorway, his hand tremble. He flung a purse to the foot of the steps, where Cime gripped his sword unsheathed.

“I suppose the slave is dead. I wish it had been the other. But there, my honored Lord Cime, my purchase. Or, if you won’t take my gold, you may choose a slave of mine.”

They faced each other, silent; Mumas bold in his terror, Cime quivering with insult.

“There is no recompense for what you’ve done.”

Cime stooped, hurled the purse, striking Mumas in the belly. A ripple of speech passed the ranks of his knights. They wondered—among themselves, but for their lord’s ears—if by this he meant challenge. If he would order them into the house to take blood vengeance.

But Cime was Lady Nyma’s son; he was the Emperor’s tax collector, and he could not.

Lom was dead. I knew this, crouching to him again.

Challenge, I thought of it.

I thought of the law, under which I had no right of being. But the Balancers, who stalk the guilty, stand on where human justice fails.

Tell me, I asked them, am I wrong?

Come the morning, I left Madla’s counting room.

Lom would be sent for burning. With no ceremony I knew of, that a friend, a brother or sister, at the death of a slave was called to perform.

For strength I ate the food set out the night before.

22

I Am the Cause

The Totem-Maker (part twenty-two)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)