“When the green banner falls, the word is to go out,” Martien repeated, himself in shock. He had heard so often of this day; he had thought it would never come to pass.
“I may have been a great fool,” said Tharius Don. “A weak, prideful fool. Medman tried to tell me. …”
“Oh, well, Mendicants,” Martien said, trying to comfort him.
“Yes. Mendicants. They tell us what we don’t want to hear, so we don’t hear. Oh, another thing, Martien. Send word through my secret channels to Queen Fibji that Mitiar is conspiring with the Thraish to wipe out the Noor. This slavewoman Jhilt may have already told her, but I won’t take that chance. Nothing may come of Gendra’s plotting, but the Queen must be warned, if she’ll believe me. Tell her also that General Jondrigar is on his way to her. To beg her pardon. She may not believe that, either.”
“Queen Fibji?”
“She is somewhere near Split River Pass. She’s been journeying toward it for some time now. I don’t know why. Perhaps she planned another visit to the Chancery.” He fell silent, drinking the last of the soup, half-choking on it, a sickness in his stomach at the unaccustomed food. “Half the world is at Split River Pass. The crusade. The general. Fibji. And soon, according to the message I have received, the Thraish.”
He stood up, staggering a little. Martien looked at him with concern and offered a supporting arm, which Tharius shrugged away.
“It’s all right, Martien. I’ve been forcibly recalled to myself. Late in life to be taught a lesson like this, but not too late, perhaps. Go now. I trust you to see to everything.”
He watched his trusted friend go out, thinking he would not see him again, remembering the flat harp music, the flame-bird, Kessie.
“I am thankful,” he told himself resolutely. “Thankful that if I have misjudged, I will have an opportunity not to betray myself, my cause, and those whose lives have been given to it.” It was a kind of litany, though he did not think of it in those terms. When the room had steadied around him a little, he went up the endless stairs to make his preparations, wondering what kind of ceremony it was the Thraish planned at Split River Pass and how he could comfort and heal Pamra Don when it was over.
Watching Medoor Babji and Eenzie the Clown today. They were washing their hair on the deck, flinging water about, dancing in their small clothes like festival whirlers, making all the men stand there with their mouths open. Some of the men lusting, I’m sure, we’ve been so long from shore. Medoor Babji has sent all her birds away, and it’s as though someone took a heavy burden from her, for she laughs, giddy, like a child, and she comes teasing me during the daytime and inviting me up to the owner-house roof after dark. Sometimes I go, too.
I’m careful not to talk about Pamra Don. I did that once, to Babji’s hurt, so I’ll not do it again. Still, each time there is happiness with Babji, it makes me ache for Pamra. At first I thought it meant I would rather it was Pamra, but that isn’t so. If it was Pamra, it would be all tears and pain and sadness instead of this joyousness, and I’m not so silly as to wish that for myself. But I can wish it for Pamra herself, and that’s where the hurt is.
Times like this, it would be nice to believe in gods somewhere who took care of things. I could pray, “See to Pamra. Give her joy. Take away whatever the pain is that festers in her.”
But there isn’t a god to do that. I still love her. I feel unfaithful to her, too, in a strange kind of way, as though it’s wrong for me to have pleasure or take joy in life. Good sense tells me that’s a wrong kind of feeling. Death lies that way, and I’m no death courier.
So, I’ll try to put her and all her pain away, somewhere inside in a protected place. I won’t throw it away, or forget it, but I can’t go on waving it about like a banner, either, to make Medoor Babji cry. So, I’ll keep it. Quietly. Until I don’t have to anymore.