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Beyond that was another, more private room, where Evemer assisted his lord in taking down his hair and replacing his clothes with a thin white dressing gown of the softest, finest cotton, little more than an underlayer. “Are you taking your weapons in?” Kadou asked.
Evemer was reflexively appalled at the thought of violating the standard of care with which he treated his weapons—the baths were always thick with humidity at the very least, even if they weren’t foggy with steam, and regular exposure to such conditions would be bad for both the leather of the sheaths and the steel of the blades.
But . . .Washis lord safe here, truly? Was Evemer confident enough to take that gamble? Or would it be better to make an exception, just this once, and violate his standards of how carefully he kept his weapons in favor of maintaining the standards with which he served his lord?
It didn’t sitcomfortablywith him, but the answer was inarguable. He lingered over the thought as he changed into bathing robes, although he was fairly certain that Kadou would not require (or even allow) attendance. Still, it was unhygienic to wear outside clothes into the bathing chambers, and even if it weren’t, it would be unpleasant to go around for the rest of the evening in a damp, clammy uniform.
He appreciated that Kadou had not pressed him for a quick answer, had given him time to think, so that finally Evemer could say, “Yes, my lord, I am,” without any inner conflict as he belted his sword back on over his bathing robes.
The first chamber of the baths proper, the washing room, was cavernous. It was bisected by a waterfall and an artificial brook several feet wide, spanned by a wooden footbridge. The room was elegantly set about with ferns and potted plants; the floor was covered with glistening green tiles in the shape of leaves, and the walls with stunning mosaics of ferocious jungle animals, glittering with gold and copper and brass in the dim, pinkish light of sunset that came through the skylights and the flickering light of the lamps. Like the bathhouse at the kahyalar’s dormitories—which was even more cavernous by far—the floor was warm, heated from beneath by steam pipes. (On Evemer’s floor plan, the list of potential dangers in the room included but were not limited to: slipping and hitting one’s head on the tiles; assailants hiding beneath the footbridge or in the plants or coming in through the skylight; drowning in the artificial brook.)
“Are we in agreement about what will happen if Siranos comes in?” Kadou said, not meeting his eyes.
“I will make him leave immediately, my lord,” Evemer said, already vigilant for intruders or assailants—though Siranos would likely come in through the door rather than the skylight.
“Not like Tadek would, though.”
“No, my lord.” Tadek probably couldn’t pick Siranos up bodily and haul him out the door.
Kadou took his first wash, or what passed for it, by simply stepping under the waterfall for the length of a held breath. He proceeded immediately to the steam room, as wet and bedraggled as a half-drowned cat, the fabric of his white bathing robe sticking to his skin.
The steam room was even more beautiful than the washing room, with tall slender pillars supporting a domed ceiling painted Mahisti blue with a fantastic array of stars and constellations in gold and silver leaf. The floor was a mosaic in shades of blue as well: long, swirling, abstract curls that could have been stylized water currents or gusts of wind. Kadou sat in the steam in one of the wall alcoves for a full fifteen minutes. Evemer’s floor plan said that the wall alcoves could hide assailants, but that the primary listed dangers of this room were slipping on the tiles (of course), heat exhaustion, or lingering coughs from the excess of moisture in the air.
“Are you annoyed?” Kadou said suddenly.
Evemer jolted. “My lord?” He’d been busy glaring at the door.
“I’m sorry if this is taking a long time.”
“My lord,” he said. Then, remembering again Kadou’s request for him to say what he meant—a difficult habit to form so far—he added, “I would be watching over you regardless of the location, my lord.”
Evemer jolted again when the door creaked open and Derya, the kahya he’d asked to mind the furnaces, stuck çir head in. “Sorry to disturb you, Highness,” çe said. “Did you require anything else?”
“No, thank you.”
Derya eyed Evemer disapprovingly, as if standing and glaring at the door was insufficient service in some way. “Would you like assistance washing your hair, Highness?” çe asked pointedly.
Evemer flared hot, as much with the implied criticism of his work (criticism that wascorrect,to his shame) as with the image of Derya touching his lord, and the tension of remembering that the other kahyalar might not be as trustworthy as Evemer had thought they were this morning, and the ideaagainthat it was much more likely that an assailant would just walk in through the door.
Kadou opened his mouth to reply. “He would not,” Evemer snapped. “Leave us.”
Derya raised çir eyebrows. “Call me if you need anything, then,” çe said, and shut the door.
“Well,” Kadou said mildly.
“I don’t know Derya,” Evemer said.
“Çe got approval from Eozena.”
“The commander could be wrong. Idon’t know Derya.” He could still feel the bruises in his gut where he’d been punched the night before, and those lists on the floor plan he’d been given flashed again through his mind.
No strangers. Not today, and not here. Not even if they were a kahya.
Kadou conspicuously did not sigh, but gazed steadily at Evemer. Eventually he nodded. “All right. I don’t mind washing my hair myself.”
Evemer felt another pang of shame—he ought to offer his help. He ought to offer. If he were truly committed to the prevention of another nervous attack, he would offer whatever his lord required. And he knew that Kadou was calmed by touch—warmtouch, he corrected himself firmly, remembering how Kadou had flinched the night before at the touch of the cold washcloth when Evemer had tried to wipe the blood from his face.
He ought to offer. He knew he ought to. But Evemer was . . . not accustomed to touch.
