Page 53 of Something Human

“He may,” he said.

The letter began: Gunthanaruth Son of Durguruth, Supreme Headman of the Luth, to Adares Doriades Phyleros, Archon of Tios, greetings.

In accordance with the ancient custom of your people and ours, we send you this tribute of one hundred horses, fifty casks of mead, fifty drinking-horns, and fifty jars of soap. May they be the first of many tokens of friendship exchanged between our people.

We are at present settled in our summer village, where we hope to receive you at our hearth before the next autumn rain. There we will drink together in true friendship as is proper.

Farewell.

“Read it over to me,” Gunthanaruth said.

Rus read out what he had written, translating as he went.

Suthus had delegated the handling of the whole tribute business to him, saying, “You seem to know more about the matter than I.” Rus couldn’t be sure there wasn’t a touch of suspicion in that, but if there was, Suthus seemed content to let him play whatever game he was playing.

“Good, good,” said Gunthanaruth. “I like the sound of the beginning, where you wrote out his whole title—clever of you to know it. Mine’s still longer, isn’t it?” He looked over Rus’s shoulder at the writing-tablet, waving a finger vaguely at the words.

“It is,” said Rus, and didn’t explain that what he had added was the archon’s full name, not a title. He hoped he had spelled it correctly.

“He wasn’t what I expected at all, you know.” Gunthanaruth sat back, stroking his moustache thoughtfully. “Young fellow.”

“Yes. Ah. Yes?”

“Yes. Well, older than you, I suppose. Tall … ” He shrugged.

Rus looked at him for a moment, waiting. You can’t even say the word “handsome,” he thought. You’re thinking it—you noticed, of course, because how could you not—but you won’t say it because you can’t.

“Of course they were all different than I expected,” Gunthanaruth went on. “More manly. When Suthus told me they were like the Kossians in their ways, I expected an easy victory over a gang of soft half-men—but they were tougher than I thought to find them. Well, you recall.”

I wish Suthus had told me that, Rus thought, and then wondered if that was true. If he had known the Phemians lived and thought and even spoke like Kossians, he would have been even more reluctant to fight them—and he had never been enthusiastic—but then, if he had found a way to stay behind, the best thing that had happened in his life would not have happened.

“I rather liked their clothes,” said Gunthanaruth. “Didn’t think they looked womanly at all, actually.”

That reminded Rus of Kuth saying the Kossians didn’t respect their women. Neither did the Luth, really, when you scratched beneath the surface. You didn’t use “womanly” as an insult for men if you truly esteemed women. It made him sad to think about.

The headman recalled himself to the topic at hand. “You’re sure they won’t be insulted by the soap?”

“Insulted, my lord? No, I’m sure not.”

Puzzled, though, he hoped. Intrigued enough, he hoped, to take up the Luth headman’s bizarre invitation to drink at his hearth. One of them, at least.

He wrote, “By the hand of Lachan Rusanarath Kahar” at the bottom of the letter. He didn’t know if Phemian archons read their own correspondence, but even if they did, other people—secretaries and councillors and things—surely read it too. He didn’t dare add any more personal message. He didn’t think he had ever mentioned his family name to Adares, or said that “Rus” was short for anything.

It didn’t matter. If Adares wanted to come to the Luth lands, as he had once told Rus he did—if, perhaps, he wanted to see the place all the more now because it was where Rus had lived, and he thought Rus was dead—then, when he found the opportunity amid the demands of his position, he would come. If he didn’t, he wouldn’t. And it had been six months since their three days in the temple. (It had taken some time to make all that soap.) He might be married by now.

Six weeks passed. The chill of winter was gone from the air, wildflowers were beginning to bloom in the mountain meadows, and the villages were full of life again. It was Rus’s favourite time of year. They painted the new pattern on the kahar hall, and repaired the leaks in the roof, and Rus organized lessons for the votive boys. Suthus travelled with several of the omen-readers to the village that had reported strange signs, and Rus was left in charge.

One morning, when he was sitting outside the kahar hall with Hath and a couple of the votive boys, repairing spears and discussing the plans for the first hunt of the year, Kuth and Genet’s son came by with a message.

“There are visitors coming to the headman’s hall—an outrider just got in—and I’m to tell you they want to see a mask dance tonight at the feast.”

“A mask dance?” Rus repeated. “It’s not the season for that.”

The boy shrugged. “That’s what he said. I’m to return to say if you can do it or not.”

“Of course we can do it,” Rus said. “Tell him—tell him it will be our honour.”

He looked across at Hath as the boy skipped away. “I didn’t have a choice, did I?”