4 - I'm Not Saying Yes

The fourth person gave Kyrus better directions even though none of the houses were numbered or named. If there were something as sensible as a street name to look for it would be easier than ‘turn left at the next crossroads, angle right, count three houses and dodge down this alley...’ Mentally he threw up his hands. It worked for them.

A house near the tree line, on the edge of town, had someone working outside. A load of bucked up logs had been dumped in the side yard, only half were split. The man swinging the axe should be able to tell him where he could find the War Master.

Dark hair, pale skin, like all Milari. Lean and muscular like most Milari - they made a point of training almost everyone for war, even the women, barbarians that they were. A slight hitch as he swung the axe - an old wound? He wore only a wool sweater despite the cutting wind. Well, he was working so he must be warm enough. Kyrus waited politely until he turned, pulled off his hat though he left the scarf modestly in place and asked in his best Milar. “Excuse me, --” These people had no word for ‘sir’; he’d had to use the Lainz. “—Naser, but could you tell me where to find the Surdeniliarch?” He had to be careful not to let his low birth paint the words in his mouth, but speak as though his father had taught him. He reminded himself again not to let any gutter speech slide into his mouth no matter whom he was addressing.

“You’re looking for the Surdeniliarch?” The man just repeated his question. Perhaps he was mentally defective. Kyrus nodded.

“You’ve found him then.”

This is the man so feared? This is the man who practically single-handedly stopped my country from conquering his? This man is the war-leader the known world talks about? I thought he’d be taller. But then he looks at me as if he could see into my soul. Yes. If you were dishonest you’d hate that gaze. Obviously not a mental defective.

Kyrus reached up and slowly pulled his scarf down to bare his face. For my argument, he has to see my naked face. He saw my father’s. The man’s gray eyes widened in shock and the axe sagged in his hands, then he shook his head like a horse throwing off a fly. Why is he so startled? Do I look so much like my father? He visibly seized control of himself. Surely that can’t be because of me?

Then he thought, ‘oh’, ‘oh, no’ dropped his pack and touched heels of his hands to forehead, fingertips to mouth and crossed his hands on his breast. He hadn’t meant to be disrespectful. It was the minimum due anyone higher in station and to forget to offer it to someone as exalted, as this man, would have gotten him Exposed at home. Oh sweet Dark, I’ve offended their version of a King.

Kyrus repeated the salaam and was about to offer it on his knees when he stopped. The Surdeniliarch had closed his eyes and had a pained look on his face, one hand raised to stop him.

“Resplendence? Have I offended you? My abject --”

“-- Stop,” the War Master said, opening his eyes. “I am no Resplendence. I am only myself. I have this problem with Lainz. I understand you need to finish that salaam but don’t call me anything like ‘Resplendence’. Call me by name if you can.”

The icy fear that had leapt up into his throat faded somewhat. Of course. Milari weren’t like that.

“Of course, Il --” he just couldn’t do it. He had to have something more respectful than a plain name on his tongue addressing this man. “Naser. My name is Kyrus.” He’d had a long time to rehearse this in his head so it wasn’t too shaky. The Milari Surdeniliarch was known for admiring plain speech, so he forced it out, even in the face of that gray stare. “You were forced to kill my father Kyrus Talain.”

“Your father.”

“Yes, Naser. He never knew of me.” The War Master set the axe down as he listened, still gazing steadily at him. “And Naser, since my father never had the chance to know me, to teach me, I’ve come to you to ask if you would teach me to be a warrior.”

He blinked, surprised. “I’ve never taught anyone.” Then he looked up at the sky. “I want to talk about this, but I have to get this bit of wood split up. There’s another axe against my neighbor’s door. Do you know how?"

“Yes, Naser.” Oltarios, his old patron, – who’d taught him polite Milari among other things --- had taught him that particular skill as well.

“Good. You can help me here and we’ll get in to talk faster with both of us splitting -- before it starts snowing.”

It was bright sun now, about an hour off setting. How could he tell it was going to snow? Kyrus shrugged and nodded. It is Milar in the winter, it is always snowing.

He set his pack down by the door and fetched the axe, a single-bit, light, long in the haft. He preferred that over a heavy head and a shorter handle. He was careful to set his scarf back across his face before he started. It was so raw to have a naked face, so wrong.

As he brought the axe over to the woodpile a number of old fears chased through his head, just as they had when he’d first conceived of this idea, to get Vania to teach him.   That the Surdeniliarch had to teach him.

Maybe he’ll just kill me as too much of a problem. Or maybe he’s expecting me to try and kill him? A wood axe is just as effective a weapon as a battleaxe. I mean... I want to bury this in his body for my father’s sake. If he’s expecting me to try he could say it was an honorable fight because I was armed and attacked him. It was all too convoluted and in the short walk back from the neighbor’s he’d worked himself into a wild confusion that he had to struggle to suppress. Maybe he just wants to get the wood done faster, like he said.

And that was what happened as far as Kyrus could see. If there was any strain in the man, he certainly wasn’t showing it, not by so much as tension in his hands on his own axe. And for an odd, surreal half an hour, Kyrus worked beside the War Master, torn between his hatred and struggling to impress the man with his diligence. It helped that he could throw his confusion into the stubborn damnoak they were splitting, feeling only satisfaction when a tough chunk sprang into two or even three pieces.

Between the two of them they were done long before the light went. As he worked he could feel the Milar looking, could feel him watching, like a pressure on his skin. As he worked he was able to smother most of his resentment and think of him without the weight of hatred.

The Surdeniliarch was, as Oltarios would have said, easy on the eyes. He was fit. Kyrus could see that in how he moved, even with the bulky clothing, and the fact that he could split wood faster than he could. He found himself speeding up, to try and match him, breaking a light sweat even in the cold.

He reconsidered how he could pay for lessons if he could convince Ilaxindal; more than just chores? To be honest he’d thought that he would need to offer his body as partial payment, but now it seemed a better idea. It wouldn’t be a bad way at all, considering. He isn’t like some of the clients I took on to fund my trip here. I quite like the way he looks, if he just hadn’t done what he did...I’ve never hated a client before, but he’s not disgusting. And he has a better reputation than those terrified, hidden old men who could never admit their urges for fear of being Exposed.

He smiled a bit at the hypocrisy in his own land where no man was supposed to crave sex with other men, on pain of exposure, but where a thriving business of male whores flourished in the Basin; right under everyone’s nose but steadfastly invisible.   Of  course it was usually just a token few hours nowadays, since the Immutable had softened the punishment, whereas in Radiance Hannuman’s day it had meant a death sentence.

Then, finally, the Surdeniliarch set his axe down under the eave and gathered up an armload. “Come inside; once the wood box is full, we’ll talk. I’m not saying yes.”