The Totem-Maker (part forty-six)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Six

A First Road

(part forty-six)

A messenger, cantering aside the ranks, met my eyes—from a distance, which suggested nothing to me. He carried a bundle; he steered with his legs, as men who fight with spear and bow learn. He halted and caught Cuerpha by an ear.

My pony expected well of people, a contented beast, rare to startle. I stood and patted his neck. “How may I serve you, Mero?”

The messenger gave me the bundle, and pointed to the fort.

As I mounted, the scavengers made noises of playgoers, scattered clapping, a whistle or two. For theater I lifted my hat to them. The scavengers broke into song. Cuerpha’s hooves clipped past soldiers who frowned; to convey my respects, I unfurled the cloth…banner, flag…

Garment, possibly.

We circled from earthwork to earthwork. The general would disperse his legions here; the paved road served to the limit of them. But our country was at peace. The earthworks had posted no archers, no sentries.

Wosogo sent his seal-bearer with two other bearers, one of the Prince’s banner, one the Emperor’s. We halted, waiting in our saddles, while a ceremonial parley began.

“Charmer,” a man said to me. You will not suppose I had been paid a compliment. The name was given to accosters at temples, who flung bad fortunes and collected gold to undo them; to most it meant charlatan.

“Mero,” I said once more. “How may I serve you?”

“Prepare yourself. You are to see the general.”

The general called me Charmer also. He wanted the chore of greeting done. “I will give you what you need. You will ask for whatever lacks.”

“Am I…?”

I spoke to myself. Seated in my chamber, I had been sorting tiles, discarding broken tablets. But curiosity had the best of me, and in this indoor light I unrolled my gift. A high-collared cape seemed more certainly the thing I’d brandished as a flag. I had insulted my hosts.

I knew that every office-holder wore his or her dignity in capes, sashes, robes. The general had said I was to dine on his couch. The great ones reclined, dining, in suirmats alone, to glut in comfort, letting juices fall as they would.

“…expected to wear it now?”

“Call me Jute. I am your servant.”

She entered, with paleness and tightly closed lips, where a knock would have spared her embarrassment.

“Please join the conversation,” I said. “Are you my guide to the general’s couch?”

“If I am told you wish it.”

I offput my servant much, I could see. I’d wanted to wear the cape, hoping I was gauche. Hoping for a bit of fun…but I began to think. Few in a fort who serve are not soldiers of low rank. This woman must suffer at every beck and call.

“Jute, what have you seen of custom at table, in this house?”

50

The Mustering Grounds

The Totem-Maker (part forty-seven)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)