Shadows, стр. 13

Chapter 6

Imsurmik

Under the dangerous light of R’Bak’s approaching Sear, only white clothing made sense, with “white” being relative. The common people wore thin, cheaply woven robes that might once have been considered white but had long since become a pattern of muddy browns after years of sweat and dust. Most couldn’t afford extra clothing, and, even in the cooler years, washing was a luxurious waste of time and water. The custom of face painting had evolved, which had even reached the court of the F’ahdn, where nobles and hangers-on seeking their ruler’s favor each had their own unique design.

In contrast to the worn garments typical in the Outer City, Yukannak’s robe shone in the sunlight that came in through a high window. He remained motionless and aloof as his face was painted. As the satrap’s silci to the F’ahdn of Imsurmik, he needed to project the power and authority of his master. That meant he’d been able, in advance of his visit, to commission the city’s most skilled weavers to fashion his robes using their best cloth and to have cobblers make him several pairs of the peculiar local boots. Held tight by strap-over ties, their heavy soles allowed for easy travel on hard surfaces like the city streets, as well as the rocky outlying areas.

To further signify his importance, Yukannak had ordered red and blue stitching along the hems and collars of the robes and embossed scrollwork on the boots. Such extravagances showed he could afford flourishes beyond the reach of common people, as befit a man of his stature. Brand new and never worn, these richly adorned garments spoke of wealth even more than did his paint.

Inspecting his reflection in a burnished disc of steel, he turned his face from side to side to make certain the mask of intricately painted lines and geometric shapes maintained its symmetry in all respects. He wasn’t sure how the fashion had evolved in Imsurmik and a few other cities, since most people of the region relied on too-thin clothing and facial coverings to ward off skin damage from the harsh suns, but he was glad it had. Facial coverings and such were considered rude by the upper class, suited only to the primitive villagers and farmers. Paint colors and designs also marked distinctions—often subtle—between the classes. The cost of some colors, such as the gold and silver so prominent on Yukannak’s face, was more than most commoners earned in a year. The white on Subitorni’s J’Stull guards wasn’t as expensive as his colors, but it wasn’t cheap, either.

“Your work here is satisfactory,” he said to the mature woman standing to one side, brush in hand. He was careful not to put too much approval into his words. “Tell your master I approve.”

“I have no master, lord; I am not a slave.”

Yukannak stood and reached for his robe. The woman had painted her own face in a uniform brown, the least expensive color to use, which showed cracks near the temples. Despite her skill at masking, she obviously wallowed in poverty like most of the city. Cracked paint indicated a base that could flake off, leaving the skin below exposed to the killing sunlight. Yukannak approved of not allowing the woman to use better quality paint for her own face; it showed that the F’ahdn knew how to keep his people under control. It also gave Yukannak a possible wedge to drive home.

“Perhaps not yet,” he said, finally responding to her statement. “But such matters are prone to fast changes for those who forget their place.”

“My apologies, lord.”

She bowed her head and backed away, staring at the floor, but he could tell she wasn’t really chastened.

“Be careful then,” he said in a more compassionate tone. Servants always knew secrets they shouldn’t, and he needed as many informants as he could develop. He now doubted there were listening devices in his quarters, but he dropped his voice anyway. “I have heard the F’ahdn has the Bleeding Black and blames you. That seems unfair to me; if he did not approve of your work, he would not have hired your services. To blame you after the fact seems like something the satrap should know about, and, as you know, I am the silci in this region.”

The woman hesitated. Yukannak knew she was smart enough not to believe him at face value.

“Thank you,” she said eventually. “I put all of my skill into my work, lord. But I am beneath the notice of one such as you, or the satrap.”

“Nonsense. What is your name?”

“Nomi.”

“Well, Nomi, the satrap cares for all his people, as do I. I am here as the eyes and ears of my people and the satrap, and I only seek the truth. If the F’ahdn is blaming others for things that are not their fault…” He stopped, letting Nomi’s imagination fill in the rest. “Consider me a sympathetic ear, Nomi. Come to me with anything that troubles you; can you do that?”

“I can, lord.”

“Good. And if I have questions for you, will you do the same for me?”

“Questions?”

The smile he gave her was well practiced: reassuring yet with