Rest as a Profession

Keth remained outside the alcove.

Near enough to hear them. Far enough that the space still belonged to Maeril and Rishi.

“What may the house bring you to drink?”

“Wine,” Maeril said.

Rishi looked at her.

“It is permitted, paid for, and civilized. I intend to encourage all three.”

Keth’s mouth curved. “Red, white, sweet, or dry?”

Maeril considered the matter as seriously as she had considered the giant camp. “Red. Something that has never seen a roadside pot.”

“A modest standard. We can meet it.”

Keth turned to Rishi.

Rishi looked at his open hands and drew one slow breath.

“Strong rum. Water. Mint tea.”

Maeril stared.

Keth inclined his head. “In that order?”

Rishi thought about it. “Yes.”

“Excellent.”

“This is only the second time I have seen him choose to drink,” Maeril told Keth. “Please understand the historical weight of the occasion.”

Keth bowed his head to Rishi. “I will instruct the rum to conduct itself.”

He withdrew.

For several minutes, no one wanted anything from them.

Maeril rested her head against the cushion. Beside her, Rishi listened to the strings and low voices beyond the lattice with his hands open on his knees.

No cry for help.

No one bleeding.

The tension stayed in his shoulders. Little by little, it lost its work.

Keth returned with a tray in both hands and folded garments over one arm.

He set down red wine, a small cup of dark rum, water, and a covered pot breathing bright mint.

“The rum has been warned.”

Rishi inclined his head with such solemn gratitude that Maeril bit the inside of her lip.

Keth laid two bundles of linen beside the tray. “For peace between your bodies and the furniture.”

Soft green for Maeril. Pale cream for Rishi. A dark sash lay between them, with two pairs of thin-soled slippers beneath.

Maeril touched the green cloth. It slipped cool and weightless through her fingers.

“Oh.”

“The road may wait outside,” Keth said.

“My road has become very attached to me.”

“It may retrieve you tomorrow.”

Rishi looked from the cream linen to his stained robe. “I can remain as I am.”

“You may,” Keth said. “You need not.”

Maeril stood. “The road will wait outside.”

Keth indicated the painted screen. “There is room behind it.”

He turned his attention toward the main room.

Maeril changed where she stood.

She set aside cloak, robe, belt, pouches, and boots stiff with old mud. Rishi picked up the rum and studied it with sudden devotion.

The green linen settled softly over her body. She tied the sash around her waist and tail, then pulled the road ties from her hair. A tangle caught in the circlet’s braided metal and pulled at her scalp when she tried to lift it.

“Rish? A hand.”

He set down the rum. She tipped her head while he worked the strands loose, then guided the band clear of her horns. Maeril took it from him and rubbed the dust from the silver and gold with her kerchief. She inspected the green stone before laying it on a clean fold of the cloth beside her pouch, well clear of the cups.

Her hair fell loose over the linen. Her bare toes curled into the carpet.

Maeril raised both arms. “Well?”

Rishi let himself look. He met her eyes.

“You look beautiful.”

Her smile began.

“And less argued with by the road.”

Her smile stopped.

“You were doing so well.”

“I panicked.”

“Yes.” She softened. “I noticed.”

Maeril held the cream linen out to him.

Rishi considered refusing again. Then he took the bundle and went behind the screen.

When he returned, pale cloth fell loose over his shoulders and ended above his bare ankles. He had kept the red cord at his wrist. He carried his folded robe as carefully as if the road remained inside it.

Keth received both sets of clothes over one arm. “We will brush and air these. Anything torn?”

“Only my ego,” Maeril said.

“We have limited success repairing that.”

“Begin with the robe.”

“As you wish.”

He waited while Maeril tasted the wine.

Her eyes narrowed.

“Well?” Keth asked.

“This wine has opinions.”

“Favorable ones?”

“Expensive ones.”

“Then it is behaving correctly.”

Rishi drank the rum with care. His face held its discipline. His ears did not.

Maeril hid her smile behind the wine.

Keth placed the mint tea within reach of Rishi’s hand. “I will be nearby if wanted and absent if not.”

He left with their road clothes.

Music moved beyond the lattice. The wine warmed Maeril’s throat. Rishi drank water after the rum and wrapped both hands around the mint tea when it had steeped.

Later, Keth brought flatbread hot from the oven, lentils fragrant with garlic and cumin, ripe fruit touched with honey, soft cheese, and clear golden broth.

The broth looked too delicate to trust.

Maeril tasted it and closed her eyes.

Rishi waited. “Is it good?”

“This broth has not been punished.”

“Is that good?”

“It is holy.”

He accepted her theology.

They ate slowly until appetite overtook caution.

Beyond the lattice, a companion passed with one sleeve pinned high. Fresh ink curled over her forearm in leaves and waves.

Rishi followed the marks until she disappeared behind a screen.

“You want a tattoo,” Maeril said.

He looked down into the mint tea. “Yes.”

“What kind?”

“Something chosen. Written into me because I asked for it. Something that answers what was written before.”

Maeril’s gaze went to the pale linen over his ribs.

“An answer.”

Rishi lifted his eyes. “Yes.”

“Who could make it?”

“I have heard of a dabus in Sigil who tattoos as if skin were another kind of wall.”

Maeril stared. “Of course. An impossible artist in a city most maps refuse to include.”

“It would need to be well done.”

“Naturally.” She drank her wine. “What would it be?”

“I do not know. Something that moves with breath and stance. Hands. Back. Feet.”

“Feet?”

“A monk stands before he strikes. And before he heals.”

Maeril studied his shoulders beneath the pale cloth, his wrists and hands around the cup, his bare ankles.

“A becoming,” she said.

Something opened in his face. “Yes.”

The house carried the silence for them.

Maeril watched a dancer turn beside the hearth.

“I have one too.”

“A tattoo?”

“A difficult dream.”

Rishi waited.

“The green path. I know fragments. Herbs, words, the hawk. Some are mine. Too much comes from books written by people who preferred forests on a page.”

“You want roots beneath your feet.”

“The Wealdath.” Maeril rubbed one thumb along her clean sleeve. “There are old laws there. Old power. I can feel their shape before I can read them.”

Rishi looked at her hands. “I heard you on the ridge. Watched them breathe more easily. You have begun.”

“Barely.”

“Enough to matter.”

Maeril sighed. “Monks are dangerous when encouraging.”

His mouth almost moved. “I will encourage carefully.”

“You will not.”

The music changed before he could answer. Strings settled around a slow drumbeat. Couples gathered near the hearth.

Maeril stood, lifted the circlet from its cloth, and settled it above her brow, sweeping her loose hair clear of the band. Then she offered Rishi her hand.

“No,” he said.

“I have not asked.”

“You were about to.”

“We do not have to.”

He looked from her hand to the open floor. “Is it trustworthy?”

“No floor is trustworthy. This one is well supervised.”

Rishi took her hand.

Their first steps did not agree. His hand rested too lightly at her waist, and he watched their feet as if the floor had confirmed his suspicions.

“Look at me,” Maeril said.

“I am trying not to step on you.”

“I will tell you if you succeed.”

“That is not comforting.”

“Good.”

He followed the pressure of her fingers, the turn of her shoulder, the timing of her breath. His hand steadied against her waist. His eyes lifted to hers.

“There are many beautiful women here,” Maeril said.

“Yes.”

Her brows rose. “Dangerous path, monk.”

Rishi considered this while turning half a beat late.

“There is only one I came with.”

Maeril missed the next step.

As the turn slowed, she leaned closer.

“The pass was almost worth it.”

“Almost?”

“I refuse to flatter giants.”

The music carried them on.