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Scratha made a neutral noise and went on: “There's a . . . a ranking system, the
thio
, in the desert. Someone with Yuer's background and birth . . . I can understand his bitterness. He always wanted to be a desert lord, but even the Aerthraim wouldn't stretch that far, and they'll accept people into their family that no other desert family would touch.”

“He was essentially banished,” the noble said. “He'd given certain young ladies of station some . . . difficulty.”
“Rape?” Riss said. Her voice trembled.
“No,” Scratha said. “That would have gotten him a much more severe punishment. No, Yuer had a tendency to get drunk and say excessively rude things to nobles, especially women. He became such a disgrace that his case came before a Conclave. Everyone agreed that sending him to the northlands would be best; there would be less temptation for his outbursts. He seems to have gained some self-control, at least. Control enough to undercut a two-hundred-year-old agreement between desert and kingdom,” he added. “I still want to know how that happened.”
They walked in silence for a while.
“Where's Red?” Idisio said suddenly.
Riss laughed. “You don't listen so well, do you? We've already been over that.”
“I was thinking about something else,” Idisio said.
“I told the sailor where to look and who to speak to,” Scratha said, cutting Riss short as she began to say something. “I gave him the words to use and a letter giving him my support. What he finds or doesn't find is up to him now. That's as far as I could go, Idisio. He's no longer our concern.”
“Thank you, my lord,” he said, and meant it wholeheartedly.
Scratha nodded without replying.
“Oh, don't be mean,” Riss said a few moments later and grinned at Idisio. “Your lord's not telling you that he asked the sailor to send word if he found his answers.”
Idisio shot a startled glance at Scratha; the man smiled, gaze still straight ahead.
“True,” he said. “I'll admit I'd like to know, myself. I feel that there's something important about the boy, and I've always gone with my hunches.” He slanted a quick look at Idisio.
“So have I,” Idisio said, and felt a new energy come into his step.

The journey to the top of the Wall took two full days of climbing, with no inn along the way. Halfway up they came to a plateau where exhausted travelers could collapse; aching all over, Idisio promptly did so, heedless of being stepped on or over by man or beast.
At the end of the second day of climbing, they crested the final turn of stair to level ground. The ground wasn't the pure sand Idisio had expected, but a hard, cracked mixture of pebbly dirt strewn across an uneven surface. A long building, flung wide and low across the ground and more window than wall, sat on a rare platform of solid rock. Out front stood a brightly painted sign, taller than Idisio and wider than he could stretch his arms, marked with a simple line drawing of a man climbing steep stairs. The awkward lettering read

In the distance, a rough spire of wind-scoured rock hunched against the gathering dark. Idisio stopped, staring at it; something seemed both menacing and familiar about the formation. Before he could place what bothered him about the distant rock, Scratha prodded his shoulder and Riss his back, and he stumbled on with them, tangling up his feet momentarily. The challenge of keeping his balance without catapulting into the ground distracted him as they climbed a low stair to a raised courtyard, where waist-high stone walls flanked by tall greenery blocked his view of the outside.

As they passed through the inn's wide courtyard, Idisio glanced up: feathery tops of sand-grass and desert bamboo nodded together high overhead, forming a screen against daytime sun. This late in the evening, with the sun already a low shimmer against the western horizon, chunky stone lanterns were being lit.

Nobody spoke as they walked through the striations of afternoon shade turning into evening shadow. Riss had been subdued for some time, but Idisio didn't think it came from the long climb. Something else seemed to be troubling her, but exhaustion stopped him from asking questions.

Beyond the courtyard lay a wide room with a scattering of low, desert-style tables. Red and blue sitting cushions leaned in tall piles against the walls, some still bright and new-looking, but most faded and worn. A wide, waist-high table at the far end of the room looked to be covered with plates of food.

Idisio suspected he would have charged over a bed of hot rocks for a promise of sitting down at the end, and Riss probably would have been trying to knock him out of her way. Even Scratha moved more slowly than usual.

Scratha settled on his cushion, waited until they were all seated, and said, “Customs differ here. Before we move another step, there are a few things we need to settle. First of all: Idisio. You're my servant. Servant to a desert lord means you have status.”

“Thio,” Idisio said.
“Good. You have been listening. Yes, you have thio. If I send you on an errand, whether that be fetching water or carrying a message or bedding a woman, you do it. You don't question. And if someone gets in your way, you tell them I sent you and to argue it with me.”
Idisio stared at his lord. “Bedding a woman?” he said in disbelief.
Scratha's expression held no humor. “It's been known to happen,” he said. “Politics, Idisio. It's not a nice world you've put yourself into.” His manner softened. “I won't ask that of you. But I've known other lords to order that, and more. Watch yourself. You're probably in more danger than I am, here. Nobody will attack me directly, but you're both vulnerable. And ignorant.”
He paused. “I didn't want to bring either of you along, remember. I was willing to risk Idisio because he's quick on his feet and with his wits. But you wouldn't listen, and I could see Idisio didn't want to leave you behind.”
The last comment was obviously directed at Riss. She shot Idisio a startled glance. He felt his face turning a deep crimson and tried desperately to think of something that would change his expression to a cool aloofness.
“That's another thing,” Scratha went on before they could speak. “Honesty. I'll tell you this right now: by all the gods do
not
try to lie to anyone here. You don't know who's a desert lord, who's a ha'ra'ha, who's trained in aqeyva. Best to say nothing but truth, and as little of that as you can. Believe me, if I catch either of you in even a small lie here, I'll thrash you bloody myself.”
Embarrassment gave way to fear: Idisio stared into his lord's dark, dark stare and had absolutely no doubt of Scratha's deadly sincerity.
“Riss is going to have to be my servant as well, for the time being,” Scratha went on. “She needs the status. You're going to have to get along, Idisio. No more childish sniping and pride contests. On either side,” he added, shooting an equally intense glance at Riss, who had been starting to smile.
Her smile slid away. “Yes, my lord,” she said meekly.
“If you're going to accept being my servant,” he said, “you have to accept that you
will
obey every single one of my commands, no matter how distasteful you may find them. Is that a problem?”
“I'm not walking back down that bloody stair,” Idisio said, surprising himself. He bit his lip but met his lord's gaze steadily.
“Good,” Scratha said, and looked back at Riss.
“I'll obey, my lord,” Riss said.
Scratha nodded. “There's a truth for you to tell, Riss,” he said. “One you've been avoiding. It's time for Idisio to know.”
Riss opened her mouth, seeming about to protest.
“That's an order. Resolve it before we move on.” He met her glare, steady and grim, until she retreated to studying the table again. “There's always the option of leaving,” he added. “But if you go, there's only one path: back down the Wall. I won't have either of you wandering loose up here.”
He sighed. “Plates are on the food table. Help yourselves. I'll pay when we're done eating.” He stood in a graceful unfolding of long legs and stalked away.
In the long, awkward silence that followed, Idisio felt like scrambling to his feet and diving for the food as a distraction, but he didn't want to be the first to move. Riss seemed similarly frozen in place.
“Oh, hells,” she said at last. “Idisio, look at me.”
Her tone suggested a willingness to wrench his neck permanently upright if he didn't do as ordered. He met her steady stare, doing his best not to flinch or look away.
“What do you know about dasta, Idisio?”
He shook his head. “Not much. I know it's some sort of . . . I mean, I've heard it's used for, uhm, for. . . .” He fumbled to find words that weren't too embarrassing, and failed.
“It's a highly addictive aphrodisiac,” Riss said bluntly. “Southern whorehouses use it to make sure their women are docile. There are boys in the trade, too.”
“I know,” Idisio said. A wave of dizziness and a sense of screaming rage swept over him briefly; then it passed. He blinked and focused on Riss again. She didn't seem to have noticed anything.
“Karic fed me dasta about once a week for over a year,” she said. Her lips tightened. “I never realized until I overheard him talking that night. I'd never heard of dasta before.” She cleared her throat and looked away. “I realized pretty fast I was addicted.”
“I gathered as much,” he said.
Her expression became fierce. “It's an
aphrodisiac
addiction,” she said, almost snarling. “One of the things you want when the craving hits is sex, because that's always been part of the experience, and you think that can stop the hurt of not having the drug.”
He stared at her, at a loss for words.
“Lord Scratha explained all that, one night when you were asleep early, and asked what I wanted to do. He said I could bed him if I needed to, or you if you'd agree; I didn't want another man to touch me just then. He said he understood and that he'd do what he could to help me without that.” She spoke rapidly now, as if trying to get it over with.
Idisio's jaw loosened. He opened and shut his mouth like a landed fish several times, conflicting thoughts and emotions rushing through him.
“He said you could take me to bed? Oh, gods,” he added instantly, utterly mortified, and covered his face with both hands. “I'm sorry, Riss, I didn't mean to say that. Oh, gods.”
To his surprise, she laughed. Not a joyful laugh; more a weary acknowledgment of a painful truth. “Yes. And I thought about it. But I was so hurt and so angry . . . that just wasn't an option. Just explaining it all to you was more than I could handle. That's why I spent so much time in my cabin, on the ship. I still . . . I still crave. . . .” She stopped, cleared her throat. “But I can handle it now.” Her stare dared him to question that statement.
“Yeah,” Idisio said, numb. She'd thought about going to bed with him? He spoke to cover the awkward silence, and made it worse: “Well, that's all right.”
He dropped his face back into the safe darkness of his palms for a moment, feeling like the world's biggest idiot, then made himself look up and face her.
“I meant. . . .” He fumbled for words, and quickly gave up. “Sorry.”
Her grin had more real humor in it this time. “I understand,” she said, and looked away, giving him a chance to recover. “Looks like Lord Scratha found some other people to talk to.”
Idisio looked across the room. Scratha had settled at a table with three other men, all dressed in desert robes, dark and hawk-faced.
“Giving us time to talk it out,” Idisio said.
“Really,” Riss said, deadpan; he shot her a startled glance and she grinned. She stood. “Let's go get some food.”
Idisio jumped at that suggestion; it gave him something to do with his hands besides twisting them nervously and something to do with his mouth other than gape. They filled their plates and applied themselves to their food in silence. Idisio was chewing over more than the food on his plate, and had nothing to say until he'd sorted it all out. Riss had an almost serene expression on her face, as if she'd said everything that needed saying and felt content to leave it at that.
“Honesty,” he said at last, tentatively. She glanced at him. Idisio poked at a ball of rice until it fell apart, revealing a strange grey paste inside. “It's not easy.”
He fell silent again, not sure how to present his own truth, but knowing he needed to.
“I think that's called
quba
,” Riss said quietly, pointing at the dismantled rice ball. “It's a paste made from cactus peppers.” She picked one up from her own plate and popped it into her mouth.
“I've been. . . .” Idisio started, and took refuge from speech with a bite of the quba.
A moment later he began coughing, his mouth and throat on fire. Riss reached across the table, lifted his goblet, and pressed it on him. He gulped at it gratefully. The liquid tasted like a strong, warm tea; in other circumstances Idisio would have called it bland. At the moment it tasted wonderful.
“I grew up on the streets,” he said once he had his breath back, and told the rest in a rush, before he could lose his courage. He used as few words as he could and left out the most humiliating parts; still, Riss looked horrified by the time he finished.
“I'm sorry, Idisio,” she said. “I've been thinking you wouldn't understand what I went through.”
“Not the dasta,” he said. “I never had to deal with that. But the . . . what they did . . . yeah. I have some idea.” He took another bite of the rice, more carefully this time, and washed it down with a sip of tea.
“That's why you were so fierce about that sailor's child,” Riss said. “Wanting to save him from life on the streets, if that's where he is.”
Idisio started to nod, and the dizziness came back, a distant humming in his ears and a shrill howl of fury. His vision greyed for a moment, and he had to blink hard and rub his eyes to focus again.
Riss' stare had turned sharp and thoughtful.
“I'm just tired,” Idisio said, offering a tight smile. Judging from the twitch of her mouth, she didn't believe him, but she let it go. They went back to eating in silence.
Their plates were empty by the time Scratha returned to their table. He stood over them, looking down, and said, “I've arranged lodging for the night. If you're done eating, let's go.”
As Idisio stood, aches and stiffness from the long climb made themselves known. He rolled his head in an attempt to loosen the muscles and dropped into a deep leg stretch when his calves started to cramp. He straightened to find them watching him with amusement.
“You looked awfully silly,” Riss said. “I thought you were having some sort of seizure for a moment.”
He shrugged, refusing to apologize, and followed them out of the room. Scratha steered them through a different doorway than the one through which they'd entered; it led to a long hallway with wide, arched openings on one side that let in air and sunlight. Doors were spaced along the solid wall. Scratha stopped at the third door and touched the surface with his fingers.
“Servant quarters,” he said, then pointed to the next door. “My quarters. There's a connecting door if you need me. I'd advise not wandering around alone. Get some rest. We've a long way to go tomorrow, and you'll need your wits.”
He walked away. Idisio stared after him dumbly, took a half-step to follow, and stopped again. Scratha opened the next door and stepped into the room without looking back. His door shut.
“Oh, for the love of the gods,” Riss said. She opened their door, put a hand in the small of Idisio's back, and propelled him inside. The room smelled of sharp and bitter things Idisio had no name for, but seemed clean.
“Bitewood and pepper,” Riss noted, sniffing, and looked pleased. “There won't be any bugs here.”
Idisio grinned, startled at that bit of domesticity from Riss of all people.
“What?” she said, catching his expression. “Stables need to stay free of bugs too, you know.”
Floor to ceiling, brightly colored silk hangings covered the walls; Idisio guessed the connecting door to Scratha's room lay behind one of the draperies, but didn't bother looking for it. Four wide, thick cushions lay on the floor, each one easily large enough to serve as a mattress for a man Scratha's size.
The other furnishings took up almost all the remaining space in the small room: a low desk with a kneeling pad, a washbasin, and a chamber pot. A wide window covered by a light curtain of woven reeds allowed the vague evening breeze to drift through the room.
Idisio sat on one of the cushions, determined to act casual and relaxed. Riss lifted one cushion on top of another, then pointed at him.
“Lie face down,” she said, moving her hand to indicate the cushions.
“Huh?”
“You're stiff and sore,” she said. “We both are. You first. I'll work you loose.”
“Uh,” he said, his calm act completely shattered.
“Come on, I won't bite. I promise. Lie down.”
Idisio cast an assessing look at Riss' expression and obeyed; at least he would be
face
down.
Riss's fingers dug into his back with surprising strength.
“Working around horses,” she said as she kneaded and rubbed, finding every sore spot and stiff area, “you learn about keeping them fit and moving easily. No great stretch to move that to people.”
“Great,” Idisio said, the words muffled by fabric, “now I'm a horse.”
Riss made a whinnying sound, and they started laughing.
By the time Riss finished working his back and legs, Idisio was grinning like an idiot. He'd never expected to feel so comfortable around a girl, let alone this one, but Riss kept up a steady stream of banter, encouraging him to join in.
Riss insisted on explaining what she was doing so that he could rub her down next, but when that moment came, Idisio found himself too terrified to lift a hand. She made a disgusted noise, pushed the mats apart, then stretched out, pulling a light blanket over herself without a word. “I'm sorry,” Idisio said lamely.
After a moment, she sat up and looked at him.
“I'm not really mad,” she said. “I guess I should take it as a compliment, that you're afraid to touch me in case you're overcome by lust.”
Idisio gaped, shaken and wordless at her bluntness.
“It's all right,” she said. “Go to sleep.” She leaned over and turned down the lamp. The darkness, pressing in close and hot, silenced any more attempts to apologize; he found his bed mat and lay down without another word.
It took him a long, aching time to fall asleep.