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A Tale in Cairhien - Asha'man Jostayn & Shiemi Telmur
Asha'man Jostayn and Shiemi Telamur
…Upon the clarification that the relation between Cairhien and a foreign nation is directly related to the relations between its own Houses, one can conjecture that Cairhien in its state will never hope to acquire a reputable
economic status unless it dispels the civic unrest—
Laying aside his feather-topped pen, Jostayn rested his elbows on the mahogany wood of his bureau-top and rubbed his eyes with his digits, as if that would somehow rid him of the lacerating migraine that throbbed at his temples and shot through his
eye sockets. Glancing up at the small clock sitting at the far mantelpiece he saw that it was nearly a quarter of an hour until midnight, if his aching sights were doing him justice.
He was lucky to have a clock in his own office, considering the complicated gadgets were expensive and a rare acquisition, but upon coming to Cairhien a few years ago he had been able to find himself one from Rand al’Thor’s somewhat recently
instated institution of arts and sciences—the one set up in the Barthanes’ manor. A place to pique the interest, that, though he’d frequented it only a handful of times. Staring down at the half-filled piece of parchment sans expression, Jostayn
picked up his pen from where he’d discarded it, brushed the sharp nib into the inkwell, and paused with the tip suspended over the spot he had left off…
—that currently plagues its population. As all nations’ cases are unique, Cairhien must be scrutinized with a fastidious eye, and when measures have been taken to pare its history in search for any indication of the factor that marked out this
nation from others, it can be easily stated that the ideology known as The Great Game has had the most drastic and traceable impact. Some say The Great Game is more than a mere ideology but a way of life, and whether this statement has validity to
it there is certainty that The Great Game has always controlled the—
The what? The strings of government? The pulse of society? Resisting the urge to rub his eyes again he squeezed them shut for a moment instead, clutching his pen upright in his fist as he considered the flow of words that would follow up on that
statement. Daes Dae’mar. Why must it always return to that? Among the scripts of chapters he had already inscribed on stacks of parchment—at the present neatly bound and tucked into a filing shelf, accredited to his reliable secretaries—Daes
Dae’mar was mentioned far too many times for his likes, dominating his writing so thoroughly that he was almost afraid the whole thing was becoming redundant.
But it was true. Cairhien was the Great Game, and the Great Game was Cairhien. One couldn’t possibly hope to write a book touching on Cairhienin sociology and not speak of the nation’s core…well…religion. He had to admit, it was fairly
ironic; he had hated the Land of the Sun so much that he had decided to write a book on it.
—pulse of society. Even in 976 NE when Damodred offended the Aiel and initiated the first Aiel War, The Great Game had been the cause of the infamous event, just as it is the cause of the governmental disunity today. If the government does not
work as a singular unit the nation cannot maintain economical stability, and if motives different from working to improve the nation’s per capita emerge within the section—
Jostayn gazed down flatly at the few sentences he had just scrawled out and restrained from marking a huge ‘X’ through the entirety of it all. Who was he kidding? Cairhien hardly had anything that could earn the title, ‘government’, though
considering the nation currently didn’t have a king upon its much esteemed Sun Throne that was understandable enough. It was rumored the Dragon Reborn had plans to appoint a throne-warmer, a topic they had pestered him about—though subtly enough,
to be sure—countless times in the past, but if so, it seemed the lucky candidate loathed to expose himself just yet. It certainly was an interesting topic to speculate, and even Jostayn had wondered many times whether al’Thor would choose a
successor from among this rabble of lords, the suspicious lot who would question a gift if it was sent to them on their nameday. Dipping the pen into the inkwell again, Jostayn brought it close to the paper.
Rap, rap. “Ambassador?”
Frowning as he lifted the nib of his pen from where it had bled through the paper—a blotch and a rip, of all misfortunes—Jostayn laid it aside and lifted his gaze to the door. “Yes, Hera? Come in.” He looked at the clock and saw that it was
precisely twelve o’clock, midnight. The door swung open and a long-limbed, red-haired woman stepped in, delivering a crisp salute. She was one of his secretaries, a Dedicated with the Sword glimmering at her collar, working with him in Cairhien as
a Communiqué.
There were several others like her here as well, and they sorted his paperwork, organized files, and aided with political actions he was forced to take during the course of time; they weren’t here hour per hour, but the various men and women
following the ambassadorial curricula took shifts to repeatedly return to his villa for the expanse of a few days, then to switch in returning to the Black Tower headquarters for training other than track experience. It was an effective agenda, and
he had been more than pleased at the arrangements when they had first been introduced to him years ago.
“You have a visitor,” Hera said, her expression astute despite the lateness of the hour. And speaking of the hour… The announcement made Jostayn drum a finger on the tabletop in contemplative thought, though after a moment he scraped his
cushioned chair back and stood, stomping his booted feet to see if any sort of circulation would return to them. What sort of person would bring about a visit now, as unannounced previously as it was?
“Your coat, Ambassador?” His secretary reached for the black garment hanging upon a rack, but Jostayn declined it with a shake to his head; whoever had taken the pains to bother him at this time of the night would receive no hearty welcome shot
with courtesies from him, and besides, he was tired. Definitely not in the mood to wear a stiffly starched piece of garment with pins prickling at the collar, no. The black shirt he was wearing would do, and if his visitor had a problem with
that, they could go straight back to the rain whence they had come. The raining season was tenaciously upon them, and had been for months, now.
“I didn’t even know you were still here,” he told the Dedicated as they both exited the room, “You really should return to the Black Tower and catch a few winks of sleep. A couple of hours and they will be coming to wake you up.” He remembered
those days, when he had had to begin a fresh day of training and channeling at the break of dawn, or sometimes when the sky was still a murky shade of grey. The barracks had been full of initiates stumbling out half-asleep from their rooms, though
the worst had been cured of that when an Asha’man stormed in and hurled icy cold water in their sleep-glazed faces. The reminiscence nearly made him smile.
“But you’re still working, Asha’man,” the red-haired woman answered, blinking, “And my shift continues for a few days yet. I’ll be returning here tomorrow….well, today, with Asha’man Mikel Corrigin.” Ah. Again, proof that his mind was churning much
slower than usual, due to the prickling of wariness; in normal circumstances he would have known when Hera was due to leave and how many more days she was working for her shift; he had, however, remembered for his morning’s agenda the meeting he
was to hold with his colleague, which was always a good sign. It was a bit puzzling why he should feel so tired, really, considering it wasn’t even so overripe an hour. The source of the viscous state of his mind must have been the extra
sword practice he had fitted into yesterday’s already busy schedule, he decided.
“Then return here today, but for now go get some rest,” he said, wishing he could take his own advice, “I’ll make that a command if I have to. I think,” he commented wryly as they entered his parlor, “I can cope five hours without anyone
supervising my affairs.” Rosy tints bloomed at her otherwise pale cheeks at that, but Jostayn cut off whatever protest about to spill out of the Dedicated’s mouth with a raised hand. “What I’m concerned with is whether you’re getting enough rest,
Hera. Light knows you work enough for two men. Go get some sleep, Dedicated, and no, you don’t need to escort our fine visitor in—that’s the servants’ job. Where are they, anyway?” Likely they were slumbering peacefully in their cozy little rooms.
“Never mind. Go, Hera. Go. Sleep.” The woman’s features twisted with reluctance, but he waved her on and with another salute she left to channel a gateway back home. It was when Jostayn was heading out through his anteroom and towards the front
door that he realized Hera had left the visitor outside. Brilliant.
Likely having assumed he wouldn’t receive any guests at this insane hour of the night. Can’t blame her, exactly. He considered this scenario, in which a visitor awaited him on the other side of the door, made more disgruntled by the minute
as he stood in the pelting onslaught of rain… Stifling an exasperated exhalation of breath, Jostayn stiffened his expression and reached for the ornate door handle that consisted of silver and brass swirls, pounded together in an intricate design;
Cairhienin were infamous for their stringent insistence for stark lack of décor and impeccably straight lines, true, but Jostayn’s villa alone had been able to escape that particular unwritten rule. There were numerous furnishings within the house
that could have belonged anywhere in flamboyant Arad Doman, or illustrious Tear. Not surprising, since they had been purchased there.
All other idle thought—initiated by the haziness clouding his head due to lack of sleep, really; he was not normally a man to keep his train of thoughts on a loose leash—fled out of the recesses of his skull, however, as the next few moments came
to pass. The door flung open to reveal a sodden, travel-ridden woman with coppery skin and undoubtedly beautiful features, her dark gaze direct in a graceful way and emanating distinct confidence even through the sheets of rain that fell between
them. If the fact that his visitor was a woman surprised him, who this woman was surprised him more.
This was Shiemi Telamur, his first secretary who had vanished without warning one day, three years ago, and failed to return. Until now.
“I see your hospitality skills have gone down the drain,” she said with a sly, accosting smile as she stepped closer to the man she had served as an Ambassador, once upon a lifetime. An eternity ago. “Is this how things are
run, now, sir? You drown people half to death by making them wait half an hour? In the rain?” Allowing a shiver to wrack her spine she hugged her pack closer to herself, glad for the thousandth time that it was waterproof; else what sorry
condition would her clothes be of by now? “I don’t recall you having so many appointments at this time of the hour— Did you take so long on purpose, then?”
“No,” the Asha’man answered bluntly, and Shiemi restrained from letting out a small sigh, satisfying herself with a shiver instead. She wondered sometimes whether the man simply had no sense of humor, or if she had committed some terrible evil
in his eyes that required him to hold an eternal grudge against her person. But really, since the first day they had ever met—which had been in an inn nestled in the quaint little town adjacent to the Black Tower—the only sort of demeanor he
had revealed to her was a doggedly aloof attitude that all but screamed of formality, and as much as she had tried in the past she had never been able to crack through his odd iron defenses. She found it perfectly intriguing—still did. A
man who didn’t prostrate before her, blubbering with fervent words that he would do her every bidding! Well….Tyaoris had somehow become immune, as well.
“But you certainly don’t have the right to voice your complaints about a man compelling you to wait, my lady, when you’ve clearly disturbed him in such impractical hours in the first place.”
Shiemi blinked up at the man before her. As implacable as ever. “You’ve got a point there,” she admitted with a small frown, then dashed a furtive glance over her shoulder.
A pause, and then, “Why don’t you come in.” Ah, excellent. She’d half been afraid he’d never utter the words, that he would ruthlessly force her to brave the cold world outside on her own. Who knew what these unpredictable Asha’man would do?
Directing the man a wry smile she glided past him as he held the door apart for her, and sighed with pleasure as she reveled in the warmth and comfort the enclosure of the walls provided her. A second later she started as something thick and
heavy fell upon her shoulders, but when she turned she realized that Delegate Roen had come up from behind and had draped her with the large cloak taken from the coat-rack near the door. “You’ll probably want that,” he said as they walked into
his solar and over to his arrangement of black leather couches; as he inclined casually into one of them, she found herself feeling an overpowering sense of utter gratefulness. For the cloak.
“Well, it hasn’t changed so much, here, Ambassador.” she commented lightly as she followed suit and sank into the opposite pouf with the heavy woolen garment huddled about her. Her gaze followed the line of bronze torches lining the wall—at the
moment brightly lit—to the solitary painting sophisticatedly gracing the wall above the hearth of undressed stone. The painting was, to her amusement, the one she herself had helped pick out years ago, back when the Asha’man had newly moved
into his Cairhienin estate to take up residence in the nation in which he would be fulfilling his ambassadorial duties. Since the man had been entirely indifferent as to what his furnishings consisted of, it had been up to her to pick out the
main of it, including the model of the couches they were lounging in, for example, along with the round table of exquisite glass that sat placidly between them. Why, she thought with a secretive smile, I could even claim this
monstrosity of a house as halfway mine.
“No…,” the delegate agreed, scanning their surroundings as if seeing them properly for the first time, but when he turned his attention to her again his sable eyes were direct and most disturbingly knowing. Beyond him, the wide window that all
but made up that far wall was a uniform inky black of night sky, dotted here and there with faint lights from the houses and streets of Cairhien sprawled out below. An incongruent thought, but Shiemi wondered whether all Cairhienin were crazy
to stay up so late in the night. A fork of lightning in the remote distance caused a flash of blinding light, and a few seconds following it came the rumble of thunder. Just like a few hours ago, she thought, and involuntarily shuddered.
“So,” Delegate Roen said in his deep bass, “Why are you here?” Blunt and to the point. And somehow more formidable and impersonal than she remembered, but she should have fathomed so much time out in the field had altered him somehow. Needless
to say, she had encountered changes as well. Changes, she thought with a laugh, An understatement.
The ambassador’s expression didn’t shift, but she had the sudden feeling he considered her rude and ill-mannered. But of course, that was to be expected out of a Cairhienin ambassador whose query had just been laughed at. “I’m here, Delegate
Roen, because…” Faltering off as a sense of sudden uneasiness wormed into her stomach, she frowned. Because my ambitions whisper in my ear. Because I am all but itching to expand my puissance, and Cairhien’s a fresh victim to uncoil my
network in. But on a far more practical note, I’m here because I’ve nowhere else to go. I must use you, my dear Asha’man. The lies came on her tongue easily, as did the façade of vulnerable helplessness she summoned up for herself. “If you
must know, Ambassador… Well, yes, I suppose you must.” She made herself exhale a small outtake of breath, and she was pleased to hear the tremble in it, no matter that it was only her shivering. The man could have kindled a fire, at least, if
it wasn’t too much trouble to his almighty person!
“It was a cold and wet evening, as you can well presume. I had taken lodge in The Weighted Dice, which is an inn in Tremonsien. I was supping with my….I suppose you could call, right-hand man. Machin, he is called, and he was my bodyguard…”
He didn’t know what he should be more astounded at, the alarming progression of her tale, or the mere fact that she had acquired a bodyguard. Exactly who was this Domani woman who had worked beneath him, once? “…A
stocky man who has a vicious scar going across here—” Shiemi traced her finger diagonally across the length of her face. “—but I have his loyalties and no one will attempt to raise a finger against me unless they are mad. They’ll be
required to plow through him first, which is near impossible. To continue, on the third evening of our arrival Machin and I were eating supper, and I received a summons…” Jostayn watched her as she continued, her coppery features framed in
damp, clinging strands of ebon hair—though even in such a bedraggled state she looked rather pleasing to the eye—, a slender bare forearm peeping out from the coat to hold its heavy folds against her, and an image of the narrative began to
formulate inside his head.
Shift.
The flickering flames upon the dry logs in the hearth cackled with a soothing serenity, and the warmth it cast into the room was a relieving contrast from the sheets of rain that slashed down outside. Save the door and hearth that were set
into opposite sides, the walls surrounding the chamber were unembellished and pale cream in hue.
A round table with moderate gild carved into its curved legs sat in the middle with a smattering of chairs around it, although only two were pulled up in current. Two soup bowls sat on the tabletop, as well as two cups of water, two sets of
cutlery, two plates heaped with steaming food.
A man and a woman were dining.
The man was slumped over, one of his arms casually laying against the surface of the table while he propped the other up on his elbow. He was shoveling stew into his mouth, and every once in a while he paused to peer at the metallic spoon
he held out as if to locate hidden enemies there.
In truth he was thinking, pondering which route he would choose for him and the lady to travel to the capital in the least amount of time, and debating to himself whether he should wait until the rains lessened. Now and then he glanced up
at the woman as if waiting for her to speak.
The woman spoke.
“The salt, please, Machin.”
Motion over the tabletop as the man’s thick arm snaked out towards the little glass vial, and soon enough the woman was absently sprinkling salt over the congealed potatoes of her stew. Silence prevailed once more.
The woman had smooth, bronze skin and a lush crop of black hair cascading down her neck and back, and her slender legs hardly concealed by the opaque dress draping her from neck to foot were gracefully crossed beneath the table. Her toe
twitched occasionally from the boisterous melody drifting up from the common below.
“Machin, are the innkeeper’s strongmen still stationed at the back doors?”
“Yes.”
“Well, I suppose an inn needs to protect itself at night. You’ve prepared our saddlebags?”
“Yes.”
“Good. We’ll be off as soon as I finish this stew—”
The door crashed open and shapes spilled forth, short Cairhienin guards with strapped swords and bowl-cut hair.
“Light,” the woman swore, and the man half made to draw his own sword, but the space within the room was much too confined and both parties knew it was a fruitless attempt. Scuffle or no, they soon found themselves on their feet and
surrounded.
“There has been a man found near the stables of the establishment,” the guard in charge declared crisply, “A big fellow with pale hair, employed to keep this inn safe.” His tone was flat. “He’s dead.”
As the man named Machin and the lady he served were herded out of the room, down the stairs, and into the rain where the stables gawked out at them, the Cairhienin officer took continuance, “One of the stableboys admitted to seeing someone.
Someone whose description fits you.” His finger jabbed directly at Machin’s chest.
“Therefore my pardons for the crude treatment, my lady, but you and your man will have to answer to the town authorities immediately.” He looked away as if dismissing them. “It won’t be too far. Tremonsien isn’t big.”
There was hardly a chance to raise up a protest at this injustice, and because of this only one option remained open to them in the hectic hour. Only one option remained to him.
A moment later Machin was moving, steel flashing and cutting through a hundred droplets of rain, and perhaps in their shock that he would dare retaliate, the guards were taken aback. In that instance of an opening Machin shoved the woman
towards where her bags lay nearby, and grabbing them she found herself dashing through, rain pelting at her back as she ran the length of the streets and abandoned the uproar behind her.
When she was over the rise and the noises had faded to give way to the steady pattering of rain, she slowed and looked behind, but there was no sign of Machin in the swarthy darkness. Thunder rumbled above.
Shift.
“And then you came here,” Jostayn speculated as he thumbed his chin in thought, and then he dropped his hand, allowing incredulity to flit across
his features a moment or two. “You walked all the way to the capital from Tremonsien?” He leaned back in his chair. “I suppose I’ll tell you not to attempt convincing me you made that journey in the course of tonight. That’s very much
impossible short of you suddenly sprouting the ability to touch the True Source and Skimming here, but in my memory, you very distinctly could not channel.” He blinked.
“I hope that last wasn’t conveyed as offending, my lady. It wasn’t my intent for it to sound so.” Her laugh was a low, throaty sound, and he couldn’t decide whether she was laughing at him or out of pure, undiluted mirth. He certainly wasn’t used
to being laughed at, and here she had done it twice in the expanse of a few short minutes.
“I’m no Asha’man, Ambassador. I don’t poke holes in the air and leap from place to place like you do.” She paused, and he thought he might have seen her expression dim into something unrecognizable—incomprehensive to him, in any case—, but it may
have been a trick of the light. “I’m no Aes Sedai either,” she murmured a second later, and then raised her gaze to meet his once more, “I’ve taken no offense, Ambassador. I cannot channel, and that’s all there is to it. I can’t for the life of me
decide whether that counts as a blessing or a curse.” She gave him a coy smile, and then her features again faded into seriousness. “It took me nearly two days to reach here. Not entirely walking, else it would have taken longer. There were
travelers with their wagons who were willing to give me rides.” When there were Cairhienin guards looking for her? Somehow, everything seems to have loose ends.
“I was hoping….you could do something, Ambassador. It is why I came to you in the night, because news might have spread here and guards might be looking for me. A word from you, and…”
Of course. Precisely what he had suspected from the beginning.
“This Machin of yours,” he cut in, “He killed the man, did he not?” He raised his hand when the woman opened her mouth in indignation. “Unless you can prove to me he didn’t, Lady Shiemi, I can’t help you with that. It would hardly be
justifiable if I cancelled all charges against you simply because you used to be my secretary.” He rose to his feet in a gesture of finality. “The infraction shouldn’t be seen as major, since the death of a common man isn’t regarded as much,
especially here in Cairhien—although that particular public opinion has changed a little since the Dragon’s arrival. Still, if you let me take you to the authorities now you should be allowed to go without excessive harm done. A fine, mayhap, for
the family of the dead man if he had any. Your own….retainer, of course, would be hung for murder. But considering the circumstances, you would be let off lightly enough. On the morrow…” He stopped, leaving the sentence trailing.
The woman was on her knees.
“Please,” she pleaded in her low tones, her face etched with distress and desperation, but the image wasn’t quite right. It could have been because the great woolen cloak had slid off her frame when she had made for the floor, and that left her
draped in her still sopping dress that clung to her and shamelessly melded to her form even more than her Domani garb had the right to. Light, but it was….inappropriate. To say in the least. “Please, Ambassador.” It could have been because
of her eyes, a swarthy dark but glinting amber in the light, glittering and incongruent to the helplessness portrayed on the rest of her face. The eyes belied her a cat in the skin of a mouse.
“If you think you can—,” he began, then drew a deep breath. When he continued once more, his face was carved stone. “Lady Shiemi. You must understand that I allow nothing but justice. Therefore, I will ask you the question again, and this time in
high hopes that you will answer in truth. Did your man kill?” Her face was unreadable.
There was a short pause before she spoke, and what she spoke would have rendered him gaping had he been anything but an Asha’man. “Beneath the Light and by my hope of rebirth and salvation, I do swear that Machin and I are innocent of the charges
placed against us.” I am getting too suspicious, he thought, staring at her—the face only—, the Great Game is poisoning my mind even as I coddle my hatred against it. Could it be true? He had thought he had the knack of seeing through
facades and lies, but Shiemi Telamur had just proven him wrong. With the uttering of that oath it was eminent that his immunity to the suspicion-wreathed mindset of Daes Dae’mar was dispassionately failing, Light help him. It sat
disturbingly on his mind that he had just been proven that he was only Cairhienin, and Cairhienin had no hopes but to be Cairhienin.
In the silence that stretched, Shiemi studied the ambassador’s physiognomy, from the carved planes of his strong jaw to the decisive, firm set of his mouth. Odd, odd man. Any other fool of the particular gender toward whom she
all but surrendered in such a vulnerable fashion would have been stammering and overwhelmed, but Asha’man Jostayn didn’t even flicker his stoic gaze towards her body. Not even once! And it wasn’t that she was found wanting on her part; she knew
exactly the extent of her beauty and just what she was capable of, having witnessed far too many times in the past what sort of reactions her luscious self exacted. What, was he made of stone? She wondered, for a passing moment, whether there was a
secret unknown to her concerning the state of his manly extremities.
But his silence wedged in a sliver of doubt in her set of mind. She had been so….certain that the said oath was strong enough to overcome any reluctance the dutiful and scrupulous delegate might have had over agreeing to her request, or terms,
as she saw it; she hated to see herself as anything near helpless. Had it been too sudden, too overdone? Perhaps a lesser oath might have accomplished the part? None of it was of any import to her; he could have asked her to accompany the voiced
one with ninety-nine others and she might have done it without a dent to her moral integrity, since, after all, one particular set of oaths preceded all others and made them null. A barrage of excuses crowded the tip of her tongue, ready as arsenal
to be used had Delegate Roen voiced something. Anything. But this silence unsettled her and began to corrode into her stock of confidence.
A second more, and it might have. “Well. You’ve surprised me worse in the past.” The ambassador turned his back and walked towards the window to gaze out towards a sight unperceivable to her. “Rise, Lady Telamur. That….It…is unbefitting your
station.” She rose gracefully without her stately pride fazed in the least; calmly smoothing the clinging folds of her skirts, she assumed the thick coat around her shoulders once more. “Under that oath…,” Delegate Roen continued, unperturbed as
rock again. He turned to face her only when he was certain she was properly covered once more—and that somehow amused her. “…you solidify your innocence. I will question you no more.” A pause. “I will only ask that you will overlook my earlier
doubt. I was….rash in my judgment.”
“I’ve taken no offense, Ambassador,” she said by way of reply, her tone in every way as grave as that of the man’s, albeit her eyes were quite something else. Sultry mirth glimmering in her hazel irises belied her opinion on the situation, she was
sure. How did one lead a life so….serious?
The dark-haired Asha’man inclined his head. “On that note I will certainly carry out your request. I will look into the matter tomorrow, and a word to the authorities will soon get your name cleared up. And that of your man,” the delegate added,
“Unless the magistrate in Tremonsien has already dealt with him. Penalty for that kind of offense is hanging, and if they’ve already acted on the charges I’m afraid it’s too late.” He certainly didn’t sound afraid, or even regretful, for
that matter. “But justice is regarded very stringently in Cairhien. When it is known that you and your man are innocent of your charges, they will pay you a handsome sum of money in grievance of your man’s death and their error. It used to be that
retainers are not compensated for in such a way, but with the Dragon’s new laws nobility and the common folk stand on nearly the same scale.” As if she had wanted to know Cairhien’s very history. “So do not worry, Lady Telamur. Whatever this Machin
was worth, you will get much of it back in addition to the clearance of your name. Is that alright?”
No, it was not alright. Whatever strange notions this….Asha’man held about the value of a man’s life—or the lack thereof, rather—, Machin had meant more than a mere common footpad, as he seemed to make of him. A bodyguard she had labeled him as,
and a bodyguard he had been, one as full of strength and fidelity as they were capable of being. But they all must have a certain time of expiry; men oftentimes had to be replaced and freshly recruited. She could only feel a sense of regret for the
loss, and an annoyance towards the tedious fact that she would have to start anew the progress of finding an able guard. Machin, you big man, I always thought you were as tough as roots. You dare die on me like this?
“I can only be grateful,” she spoke, her tones as earnest as she could make it, “that you are willing to help me, Ambassador. It is….it is a relief.” She let her eyes, widened with false uncertainty, roam her surroundings a moment as if searching
the walls for an answer to an unspoken query. Thankfully, Delegate Roen seemed to receive the oblique cue and spoke the right words.
“It is late, and I suppose you will need lodging for the night.”
Brilliant observation, she was tempted to point out. “That would be most appreciated, Ambassador.”
“Until the charges against you are cleared, my establishments can provide your accommodations for lodging. Blacknest Hall—” as was called Delegate Roen’s residence; a sly humor of the Cairhienin folks who had issued it to him in the beginning,
“—certainly has no superfluity of visitors.”
“I was….actually harboring the notion of a lengthier stay, Delegate Roen,” Shiemi spoke, meeting the ambassador’s eyes apologetically, “if that wouldn’t be too imposing a request.”
“A lengthier stay?”
“That night, Machin and I had been planning to travel here to Cairhien, because I had received a summons, if you recall me mentioning. An invitation, if you will.” And because the Asha’man didn’t ask for further clarification, she gave none. “I
plan to stay long in Cairhien, Ambassador. I have heard it to be a fascinating city, and my previous—and brief—visits have sparked my curiosity to know and experience more.” To get involved in the politics. To expand her social status. To gather
power.
“And in Tremonsien you simply assumed—foremost that I would still even be here—that I would provide you lodge?”
She burst out into low peals of laughter. “I obviously cannot predict the workings of your complicated mind, Ambassador,” she said lightly, brimming with amusement, “But I thought it worth the chance to ask.” A not exactly wicked grin. “I’m not
exactly a stranger to the workings of Daes Dae’mar, sir. If you recall, I used to observe at your side the way you struggled through the deciphering of the code and intrigue.” The corners of her lips curled as she regarded the man in her
habitual smoky-eyed manner. “I knew that if you turned me away, you would have to deal with the buzzing speculation and suspicion of the good Cairhienin nobles— I am, you know, not entirely low-ranked.” Of course not. She was now tactfully
flaunting that she was a lady of fair esteem, and outlandish ladies were seldom treated with indifference, especially in this intrigue-hungry land. She loved this place.
The ambassador, in turn, looked at her with a chagrined expression. “Of course,” he agreed, “You are well versed in the way things are run here. I don’t believe,” he added with a certain narrowing to his dark eyes, “that the cause is entirely the
fact that you were…‘by my side’ for a short while. Someday, Lady Telamur, I would very much like to know the history behind the three years you have spent away after you left my service. There are, in fact, many things I would like to know. For
example, where the man Morde has left to, without you by his side.” Unaware that uncanny ice had suddenly gripped Shiemi’s bowels at the mention of the name, the ambassador moved towards the door to the hall. “But such things are for a
postponed time. I pray you’ll forgive me for keeping you in your damp garments for so long. I’ll show you where the guestrooms are located on the second floor—”
“There’s no need, Ambassador,” Shiemi said as she picked up her carpetbag and made her way towards where the man stood. Reaching him, she directed him yet another amused smile. “You forget, again, that I used to live here. Had my company been so
onerous that you would forget so much?” With that she turned and walked on, somehow managing to appear stately and graceful even in a thick coat of bulky wool and a capacious bag clutched in both hands.
Part 2
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