“I am ashamed,” said Chaikhe, “to be so when you need me most, I am ashamed.”
This was ritual and truth at the same time, for it was proper for a katasathe to show shame before an orithain-tak, and Chimele had made clear to her a more than casual irritation. (“You are a person of kutikkase,” Chimele remembered saying to her: it had bitterly embarrassed the gentle Chaikhe, who prided herself on her chanokhia, but it was truly an unfortunate time for the nas-katasakke to go off on an emotional bent.)
“Later might have been more appropriate,” said Chimele. “But come, Chaikhe. I did not call you here to harm you.”
And while Chaikhe still maintained that posture of submission, Chimele came to her and took her by the hands. Then only did Chaikhe straighten and venture to look her in the eyes.
“We are sra,” said Chimele to her and to the others, “and we have always been close.” With a gesture she offered them to sit and herself assumed a plain chair among them. They looked confused; she did not find that surprising.
“Mejakh has been given a ship,” she said softly. “You know that she wanted it so. She had honor once. I debated it much, considering the present situation, but it seemed right to do. She is e-takkhe and henceforth arrhei-nasul.”
“Hail Mejakh,” said Ashakh in a low voice, “for she truly meant to kill you, Chimele, and her takhhenois was almost strong enough to try it.”
“I perceive your disapproval.”
“I am takkhe. I agree to your decisions in this matter. At least there is no probability that she will seek union with either Tashavodh or Tejef.”
“I hope that she will approach Mijanothe and that they will see fit to take her. I am relieved to be rid of her, and anxious at once that she may attempt some private vaikka on Tejef. But to destroy her without Khasif’s consent would have provoked difficulty with him and weakened the nasul. My alternatives were limited. She made herself e-takkhe. What else could I have done?”
Of course there was nothing else. The nasithi were both uncomfortable and unhappy, but they put forward no opposition.
“Mijanothe and Tashavodh have been advised of Mejakh’s irresponsible condition,” Chimele continued, “and I have warned Khasif. Rakhi, I want her position constantly monitored. Apply what encouragement you may toward her joining Mijanothe or departing this star altogether.”
“Be assured I shall,” said Rakhi.
“We have bitter choices ahead in the matter of Tejef. You know that Daniel has been lost. Against the arastiethe of Ashanome, Khasif himself has now become expendable.”
“Have you something in mind, Chimele,” asked Ashakh, frowning, “or are you finally asking advice?”
“I have something in mind, but it is not a pleasant choice. You are all, like Khasif, expendable.”
“And shall we die?” asked Rakhi somewhat wryly. “Chimele, I am a lazy fellow, I admit it. I have little m’melakhia and the pursuit of vaikka is too much excitement for my tastes—”
The nasithi smiled gently, for it was high exaggeration, and Rakhi was exceedingly takkhe.
“—so, well, but if we are doomed,” Rakhi said, “need we be uncomfortable in the process? Perhaps a transfer earthward at the moment of oblivion would suffice. Or if not, perhaps Chimele will honor us with her confidence.”
“No,” said Chimele, “no, Rakhi, a warning is all you are due at the moment. But”—her face became quite earnest—”I regret it. What I must do, I will do, even to the last of you.”
‘Then I will go down first,” said Ashakh, “because I know that Rakhi would indeed be miserable; and because I do not want Chaikhe to go at all. Omit her from your reckoning, Chimele. She is katasathe and carries a life; Ashanome has single lives enough for you to spend.”
“Inconvenient as this condition is,” said Chimele, “still Chaikhe will serve me when I require; but your request to go first I will gladly honor, and I will not treat Chaikhe recklessly.”
“It is not my wish,” said poor Chaikhe, “but I will give up my child to the dhis this day if it will advantage Ashanome.”