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Chapter 5, Part 4
No, not moving. I had seen a weapon swung once, bright steel in sunlight, shock of wind. Shame moved with that finality, such that no one would have dared intercept him. Through those open doors into the sun- and shadow- and petal-strewn courtyard, to the side of the elderly Ai-Naidari whom, without asking consent or giving warning, he touched intimately on the face, turning his cheek so he could look at his eyes.
Then with fingers sped by experience and gentled by something I could not so easily name, he worked the plate of the gag free and threw it from him, droplets of spittle darkening the stone. He untied the bindings, feet first, then arms and neck, until at last the stranger rolled limp into his arms, cradled there as tenderly as any child in his father's arms.
I am no judge of injuries. Whipping is something reserved for great offense, and I have never seen it done. But our skin is frail, aunera. We do not weather injury well, and in our elders it is far worse.
"Send for a Physician," Shame said, curt—without Abasement... to a lord! Who nevertheless inclined his head and said, "It will be done." And faltered, for none of us could speak further, confronted by that tableau. I thought to paint it once: the stygian folds of Shame's robes, his dark head bent over the thin, wintry gold of the elder's body. The streaks of blood. The too-red petals, the moving shadows over their faces as the branches of the ornamental trees swayed in the Gate-wind. But all of that, you must understand, was merely visual ornament over the thing that held us transfixed: the way Shame held an Ai-Naidari, giving himself entirely to that embrace, so careful of another's frailty.
I had seen his brusqueness and his humor. The expression of his compassion was shattering. We speak amongst ourselves of esar: of the quality that makes one a compelling leader. It is something applied to those above the Wall of Birth, for it is their duty to lead, and in their ascension rituals they are required to name their esar and so give us some hint of the tenor of their reign. But it did not occur to me until that moment, in Qenain's courtyard, that those of us beneath the Wall might also have esar of our own... not until I felt in my heart that a man who could show such naked compassion could lead me anywhere and gladly would I follow.
I understood then, a little... what it took to be accepted as Shame to Kherishdar, what such a man would have to inspire. For without love, there can be no shame.
What compelled me to look away, I will never know; ancestors know it was hard to tear my eyes away. But I did, and in so doing caught the expression on the face of Qenain's lord before it fled. In his eyes, in his ears so tensely pointed forth they trembled, I sensed a terrible excitement, far too passionate for what we witnessed. We are not opposed to passion, aunera, but there is a time and place... and too much passion, we always consider with wariness. Passion here? Confronted with this scene worthy of pity and awe? Was surely inappropriate.
Perhaps I espied wrong. At the time, I prayed it.
In silence then, both the lord and I waited for the Physician, who arrived not long after in great haste. He joined Shame in the courtyard and they spoke briefly—the curt speech of two professionals exchanging information—and then Shame released the elder to the Physician's care. As he rose, the Physician said, "Osulkedi—your expertise may be needed. I do not have much call, healing wounds such as these."
The lord interjected then. "He will be staying, Physician. You may consult him if you require."
Shame glanced at him, and glad I was his eyes were not leveled at me, for I would not have liked to be pierced by them. He bent down once more to touch the elder's shoulder, then rejoined us.
"For," the lord finished, seeking—seeking!—Shame's gaze again, to the point of bending his head in an attempt to meet his eyes, "if the Correction does not take, and it may not, surely you will know how it is to be amended."
"Are you so certain of failure, then?" Shame asked.
"I cannot know!" the lord said. "These Corrections from the Book, they work, but to be sure they lack a certain subtlety. They have no nuance, you understand? A Correction should have nuance, particularly for those more apt to understand it. Complicated men need complicated Corrections."
I wondered if he had gone mad, for to my ears the lord babbled... and when I looked closely, I found the stole draped off his shoulder trembling, as if beneath it his body shook. This was not lost on Shame either, no doubt, for he regarded the lord with the force of his coronal stare, and beneath it the lord's tremor increased.
If I had not known better, I would have thought that he was enjoying it.
Shame looked away then, and the lord of Qenain took that as a signal to lead us into the house personally, as if we were guests well above the Wall of Birth. Ajan trailed us at a polite distance. "Please, come this way and I shall have quarters prepared for you. I see I erred... how could I have thought of turning you away! I am but the most callow of instruments. I have so much to learn." "Forgive me, sir," I said, carefully Abased—I was no Shame to speak above my station—"but do you have so many in need of Correction that you require... ah... more understanding than you already have? Surely the Book is sufficient for most Houses."
"Oh, but it is a most vexing situation," the lord said with a sigh. "The senior overseer of our laboratory—the man I have just whipped, you will understand—refuses to work. And because he refuses, the rest of the laboratory workers also begin to lag and grumble, and soon enough I will have a revolt. And then who will do the research?"
Surprised, I said, "It is a serious thing, to refuse one's work. Did he give no reason?"
"None I understood," the lord said, mournful. "But the work must be done."
"Of course," I said, wondering what could possibly have driven the senior overseer to such a thing.
"Here you may wait," the lord said, bringing us to a solar. "The rooms will be prepared..." He trailed off and smiled. "Ahh, there you are, my dear."
The room was a beautiful, round with half its circumference empaneled in long narrow windows with black fretwork, the faceted edges slicing rainbows from the light and spangling the room with them. But for all the loveliness of the room, it receded in view of the Decoration who lay recumbent on the center divan.
She was gray as brume entirely, a light velvety color from toes to ear-tips, with a wealth of gray curls that darkened ever-so-slightly at their tips. And her limbs: such an elegance, and so perfect in proportion! But beauty, even supernal beauty, is not unusual in the fathriked, who are chosen for it. It was her face that set her apart, for even in repose there was a sweet wickedness in the curve of her lips. And when she opened her eyes, a shock: they were bright as flame, orange with flecks of scarlet, and as impish as her smile.
It was hard, hard not to stare at her. It was a little like trying not to turn one's face toward the sun.
The lord held out a hand to her and she rose, stretching languorously, unhurried despite his summons. She came to him, stepping over a sleeping hunting beast, and slipped her hand into his, lifting her chin. Her only ornament was a single jeweled collar, rose pearls on watered white gold.
"My Decoration," the lord said, introducing her to us. "My only Decoration... for as you can see, I need no other."
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