The Totem-Maker (part one hundred forty-one)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Thirteen

The Citadel

(part one hundred forty-one)

A person in livery came walking, two child servants beating his path with fans of woven feathers, and blowing warnings through reed whistles. Their labor fluttered hems and head-coverings; they struck gently and blew piercing notes at those slow to stir from preoccupation.

When to the crowd it dawned that this green-clad retainer sought the Totem-Maker, their movements gained the shape of an audience, clearing the street with good vantage in mind.

The eyes sped past my own and found Castor’s. Above my head, Castor corrected this with a face of scorn. The retainer then shooed the children behind him, strode to lodge a staff in the dirt, and with this prop, half-knelt.

“Will the Totem-Maker honor my master, who is Tanka Torin, priest of Chosi A’ra, and be lodged under his roof this night?”

“I will,” I said.

“The Totem-Maker accepts the hospitality of Tanka Torin!”

Castor spoke, producing a carrying voice, with the effect of the Vestalites stationed tier by tier at religious plays, whose duty is to sing again the words, to the far heights of the amphitheaters.

For this disgrace, he gained me a smattering of applause. I heard much low chatter.

“Please stand,” I told the envoy of Tanka Torin.

He faced me and I faced him. This encompassed all I could guess of a grand visitor’s duty. To be humble, as Castor advised, was my choice; and to be polite, as both habits serve to illuminate vanity and rudeness in others.

“What is your name?” I said at last. “You may address me as Nur-Elom.”

I saw him digest Jute’s old insult, and saw by this, that he knew my first language.

“Of fame, across the sea, was a landholder Patas Lom,” he said. “Came word many years past, that the fiery wrath of a god, worshipped by…”

“The people,” I supplied, “of the great city of Monsecchers. Chosi A’ra I presume the ancient father I myself worship as Ami. Ami has no jealousy of Lotoq, but calls him son. Lotoq is the patron god of my destiny. The city of this Patas Lom, who kept slaves, was destroyed, and lies buried forever.”

“Ah. These things are well to know. I am Torin’s blood son, Serdik.”

“Serdik, I have a question for you.”

One of the children had taken the reins of my pony; one, too small for the burden, offered to carry Castor’s bundle on her head. With a pat in lieu of it, he ushered her before him, and walked last. He might vanish again into the shops, or the tents at the back of them. I hoped Serdik would carry on being helpful, and his respectful way of answering what was asked, furnish to Castor an example.

“What gift is proper for me to give the zhatabe?”

“No, there is none. They accept nothing.”

“But I bring a very great gift. One I have been told kings will barter for. Shall I say on the street? I have four totems.”

“With Torin you may speak of totems. I confess, I cannot picture one, and I would suffer to my grave such ignorance.”

145

The Citadel

The Totem-Maker (part one)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)