The Totem-Maker (part one hundred)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Ten

Crafter Becomes Maker

(part one hundred)

“No, Vlan. Will you take the place I held, and let me sit at your feet? That will be more fitting.” I led the way. “I ask to be given a mission. I hope neither to anger the Zhatabe, nor be made a fool by him. I know nothing of his honor. If I am told what the Prince and Emperor would agree to, rather than war-making, I will carry that message. I will tell the Zhatabe it is their wish, it cannot be mine. If I am told none of your secrets, you mighty lords, shall I suppose myself the child? Am I to charm our enemy, is he to find me precious? Shall he wish to keep me?”

This seemed at once a genuine danger. The Peddler could speak to the Zhatabe; I could not. The Peddler could make a gift of the Prince’s offering, my servitude in exchange for open gates. If I were let well out on the road, with a long journey’s provision, I might forgo the Citadel, make my own way…

A picture rose of my shedding this go-between, captaining my own company. A narrow pass, a need for one leader of the party to ride at the rear…

I blamed this temptation on the totem.

We do business with those who are helpful and useful; they need not be best-loved. But I found it truth, and better faced before any such pass materialized. I, too, could be left behind. I saw the Peddler’s upper hand would be my weakness.

And this I might remedy. “Lord Ei. The Peddler is known to you.”

Lord Ei sat stony at our table; he had not ventured to his garden expecting to be interviewed, only to see me with his own eyes.

“Hush,” he said.

I heard the descent of a man using a stick. Others, in softer shoes and bearing weapons came after—but as good household knights they held back, slipping into places of vantage.

Wosogo stood. Lord Ei did not. I stood…

While, if choosing the rank of servant, I ought to have crouched and studied the earth. Jute’s intended was not greatly old; he might have fallen, even, some years shy of his bride. He was lamed, but not otherwise battle-weathered—an accident, or a bad birth. His face was not handsome, but humorous.

“Ho! I see you transformed, Lord Ei!”

Lord Ei made a noise. “Why do you say so?”

“Well, disappoint me if you must. We ought all to humble ourselves, and dress as pilgrims to a harsh god’s shrine. The Totem-Maker can shed no light on your ignorance, I warrant? Now what of mine, Oracle? Tell me a fortune.”

“Your name, then, and the day and hour of your birth. Me, you may call Nur-Elom.”

As taller people were prone to do, he put a hand on me. “Me, you may call Tnoch.”

104

The Recalcitrant One

The Totem-Maker (part one hundred one)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)