LITMIR.BIZ

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      And Tellurith, I could shake her, leaves me stuck with—him. Not enough he has to help me dress and shave and even eat. He heaves me on the blasted wagon. When things go wrong and I try to swing a pick for them—if the ribs catch, he has to pick me up!

      I can bear with that. I can bear his nursemaiding. I can bear to sleep with him. But gods above, how dare the dung-eating bastard slip in and sleep with her!

      I could swipe his head off. I could cut his guts out. I could kill him. One good kick in the throat.

      But the look on her face. When they finally came in. Hand in hand. With that whore smirking from ear to ear. And Tellurith—not worried for once. That smile. That look.

      Oh, gods, it hurts.

      * * *

      The Diaspora. Week 2.

      Journal kept by Sarth

      In the Mother’s name, if I must endure exile, have I to suffer barbarity as well? Am I not perpetually unbalanced by a man who acts like a House-head and looks like an injured boy? Have I not the right, after shepherding him from every piece of mischief in the day’s march, to offer comfort to my own wife? And if, for the opulence of an upper level Tower room, with its cushions and rugs and drapes, the elegant artistry, the leisured music and conversation, all by the glow of the qherrique, I can substitute only a quick cold tumble in the dark, must I bear a ruffian’s tantrums at its end?

      Bad enough when he refused to sleep between us that night. No explanation. No manners about it either. Mother, he could use a spell in the Tower. Worse when Tellurith went off early, without a word, so I had to help him dress. And when I offered it, he tore the shirt out of my hands.

      I am Tower-bred. I said only, “What is it, Alkhes?”

      “You slime!”

      “What?”

      “Bed her while I can’t—slip off with her—you cheating thief!”

      No time for bewilderment, less for shock. Had he been whole, I would already have died. As he started for me, I said, “So predictable. Your only art.”

      “You—!”

      “And for me, one hand will be enough.”

      It stopped him like a fist. Tellurith says I have a stiletto tongue.

      “You might consider,” I was less angry but just as ashamed of myself, “what Tellurith wants.”

      He was trying to get his breath. As if I had struck him in good truth.

      “Will it please her, if you kick my face in? If we go brawling like a pair of dogs? Do you ever think about what she feels? Did you consider how she felt, last night?”

      His lips moved, and nothing came out. If those eyes get any bigger, I was thinking, I will drown.

      Blessed Mother, why did you curse me with Tower training? Why do I lack a soldier’s cruelty? A soldier’s callousness?

      I took the long step forward to grasp his shoulder and said, “I mean the news Desis brought.”

      There must be discipline in soldiery after all. He was still linen-white, but the lips, however stiffly, could move.

      “What news?”

      “The Iskans. The village. They’re traditionalists.”

      “What?”

      “That means women rule. There’ll be a matriarch.”

      I might as well have told him camels could fly.

      “So,” I said patiently, “she may well doubt folk who’ve decided to pull the Tower down. To let the men out. And put two of them in the Ruand’s tent.”

      The lips moved. Maybe it was, “Oh.”

      “Don’t you think, last night, Tellurith might have been a little—concerned—about that?”

      The eyes had got bigger. Too big, far too black. I am a total fool as well as Tower-bred. I put both hands on his shoulders as if he were a compatriot, a cousin, a new young bridegroom. A friend.

      “I didn’t mean to distress you.” At that moment, it was the truth. “I was thinking about her.”

      He put the good hand to his side. There are times I have seen Tellurith do that. With just such a look on her face.

      “I’m sorry.” Sometimes it is easier than you would imagine. “Now and then my words are sharp.”

      His breath jerked, almost as if shaken into a laugh. Then he took the hand away. Looked up in my eyes and said, “No. You were right.”

      I tightened my grip. Fine-twisted muscle, slender bones, steely tendons. Frail as his soldier’s pride. His exile’s confidence.

      “I have to—”

      He stopped. Took another sip of breath.

      “We have to—sort this out.”

      I let go. Sort what out? I wanted to say. You are an outlander, a killer, a barbarian. In Amberlight, no decent woman would put you in her Tower.

      But we were not in Amberlight.

      And you, said another, more accusing voice, have Tower skills, if he does not.

      And you promised Tellurith: I’ll try.

      “You are there for the woman,” I said. “That is what I learned. What she wants, when she wants. Be ready, be waiting. Be patient. Learn to read her wish. Learn about her friends, her work. Remember that they matter more to her. Never ask. Never importune. Always, put the woman first.”

      Teach to learn, Sethar used to say, wisest of men, in my own youth. I seemed only to have struck this one dumb.

      I picked up the shirt. He caught and checked my hand. The eyes were alive now. Enormous, but no longer dazed, sparking like midnight qherrique.

      “You’re telling me this—you’re not telling me this because it’s what you want. But to explain how it was. Because you don’t understand me. But you do understand yourself.”

      “No,” he read my eyes, “let me try . . . I was raised outside Amberlight. It’s—the quickest way to say it is: men come first.”

      He produced a bleak little smile. “Yes, reverse everything you said. Well, almost everything. Women out here do have more freedom than you. But men . . .”

      He paused, and frowned. “It doesn’t reverse properly. Because Tellurith’s always shared. But men out here—don’t share.”

      I let the shirt fall. He gave a quick, jerky nod.

      “I didn’t expect—I didn’t think I’d feel like that. I never meant to—unload it on you. On anyone. It just—hurt too much.”

      He thought she was his property. No, he had been taught she was his property. His sole property. So his response, instilled as mine, had been the opposite.

      “I thought I could handle it. But . . .”

      I put a finger to his lips. Warmth, breath, the soul of him, alive under my touch.

      “Let me try. It was a knee-kick, both sides.” The jerk the physicians tap out to test if your nerves are sound. “We were both at fault.”

      His eyes spoke. I pressed the finger tight. Now, something within me said. You took one step to save yourself and another to rescue him. Take a third, for us both. For us all.

      “I don’t understand you, yet. But I promised Tellurith. I will try.”

      I took my hand away. He blinked.

      “Try?”

      “To make this—us—work.”

      Something happened to his face. Then he put his own

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