#78 - Will We Do?

“Ahrimaz.” It was Limyé calling, tapping on the door.

“Would you come out please?  Didara and Jagunjagun and Ologbon hope you would accompany them when the present themselves to your brother and your country.”

“It’s not my country and he’s not my brother,” Ahrimaz snarled into his pillows.  He pulled another over his head trying not to hear the healer.

“Of course,” Limyé said.  “But they are your friends.”

“Scorching flaming arseholes of God!” Ahrimaz flung the bedding onto the floor, onto the dogs, staggering over them as they lunged up to their feet, tangling everything into a floundering mass of feather bed and canine distress.  He managed to lunge over them, palms slapping the wall by the door to save his balance and he yanked the door open. “If I do this will you just drowning, ash eating leave me alone you icicle-dicked HEALER!”

The Imaryan was perfectly turned out, as always, braid neat, robe freshly washed and pressed, smelling faintly of laundry soap and the iron, and Ahrimaz felt like a great, hairy, stinking and unkempt barbarian in front of him, hair needing a wash and plastered across his face, his beard uncombed and getting long enough that he could see the edges of it without straining hard.  Unlaced sleep shirt stained with sweat and… nothing on his nethers, the shirt barely keeping him decent and covered, even as cold air swirled up underneath.

The dogs managed to get themselves untangled and barreled out of the room, thinking that it was feeding time, bounding away down the hall.  Heylia had sauntered out of the animal door in the wall an hour ago.

“Until you wish to speak to me again, certainly.  However, I find you using the curse words and insulting names more associated with the Innéan Goddess quite encouraging.”

Ahrimaz turned his back on the man, pulling the nightshirt tight around himself.  “I’ll get dressed… something from HIS closet I presume?”

“He wouldn’t grudge you it, I assure you,” Limyé said quietly.

“WELL I DO!”  He was shaking.  “I’ll wear something and come out to the hall.”

“There will be something to eat, Ahrimaz.  And a cup of malik to warm you.”

“I don’t want food.  Or malik.”

“What good does your—“

“DON’T YOU SCORCHING SAY IT!”

 

They stood in silence for a time and in the distance a training shout and a ragged volley of fire from what, in Ahrimaz’s world, had been the walled gun range.  Knowing these people it was probably open and everybody and their pets could just wander into danger.  He shook his head.

“I’ll eat.”

“I’ll let you put yourself together.  Didara said that she’ll be wearing gold nails if that’s important to you.”

He could hear and feel her happy rumbles through his feet though he wasn’t sure that Limyé could.  He was astonished that he could, two floors up, and realized that their conversation had actually coloured his dreams.  He nodded, head down, and waited until Limyé closed the door gently.

**

He turned around, trying to move normally rather than like a broken toy and suddenly found his eyes full of tears.  He wanted Kinouraé.  He wanted the old man there like he wanted his next breath.  “Kin…”  he savagely scrubbed his hands over his eyes, flung the night shirt onto the rug.  So what if he’d have to tidy up after himself like a peasant. At least he wouldn’t be crawling around a dungeon floor cleaning up the mess with his tongue.

He drew in a deep breath and managed to open the wardrobe door without ripping it off its hinges or cracking the wood.  Then he stood and stared at his counterpart’s wardrobe.  What there was of it.

A dozen knitted sweaters.  He recognized some of them that he’d already been given, downstairs.  Only three pairs of stockings?  What, one to wear, one to wash and one for emergencies like runs or stains?  Of course. A weeks worth of small clothes.  Four shirts, two cotton, one silk, one linen.

Likewise four breeches.  Two black, one buff, one blue. Two brocade coats, one gold with red lining, one blue with silver lining.  “Knowing him they’re probably reversible,” he muttered to himself. “For economy.  Scorching bastard.”  And there were a dozen vests, each one more wildly embroidered than the next. Eye-scorching combinations of reds and blues and greens and some even with gold thread.  Apparently vests were an indulgence of his.

There were the filthy things in the saddle-bags, sitting at the end of the bed, but those were rough woven wool for winter work.  The boots, sitting forlorn at the door were stained with mud and water and road salt.  At least they salted the roads somewhat after plowing.  They needed cleaning badly.

He bent to look down at the bottom of the wardrobe and found slippers, a pair of buckled shoes that were black with red heels, and another pair of boots, though they were not riding boots and of sueded leather.  A shallow box under the shoes was labelled ‘Summer Things’.  And the last drawer had a small jewel box with a scattering of small gold rings, earrings that he could not wear because his ears were not pierced, and a heavy chain in silver and green and blue enamel.  Not an Aeono confirmation chain in solid gold with rubies and diamonds, but one that had silver ice tigers and albino lions with sapphire blue eyes.  “Liryen.”

He swallowed hard, grabbed the silk shirt, the velvet black breeches, a vest that was more red than anything else, smalls, stockings and he seized the red and gold coat and soft boots before padding downstairs to try and get clean fast.

“Commmmminnnnnng,” he rumbled as he cleared the stairs, hoping that Didara could hear him, even as her calling him came through the stone more clearly downstairs.

Nothing to shave with.  He raked his wet hair back, tried to tug his familiar/unfamiliar clothing straight over damp skin and managed to stamp into the boots and out to the hall.  It was still cold enough that his hair froze in the dash across to the hall and he said ‘I’m here” as he closed the sliding door behind himself.

He slipped into the hall itself and stopped.  “My gods, Didara! Jagunjagun! You’re astonishingly beautiful!”

Didara crossed her front legs coquettishly, curled her trunk up and trumpeted, just a little.  Her tusks were uncovered and polished, glittering in rainbow gems that were rivaled in brightness by a silver chain and mirror crown, the silver bells rippling down her gently flapping ears chiming sweetly.  Her neck band was white lace with rose cut diamonds blazing along the flaring ends.  Even the tuft of her tail had ribbons with mirrors on and her nails were painted gold.

Jagunjagun was painted with black streaks and lightning bolts, his scars… not just the recent wounds in his armpit, but older badges of honour on his trunk and chest… painted gold. He carried a carved ivory tusk/staff at the ready.  Ologbon in black silk, quilted jacket and turban with a scarlet feather rising from a gold gemstone, also carried an ivory tusk. Jagunjagun laughed and it came out as a trumpet, echoing Didara.

“Well, brother iti-igi, will we do as ambassadors to your little brother and his people?”