Council of Shaftal the day after. They discussed the nearness of spring, the way Basdowners thought about things, and Zanja’s peculiar life history. It was an enormous relief to have such an ordinary conversation.
Seth eventually remembered the topic with which their conversation had begun and said, “I think the Watfielders will keep coming for a few nights, anyway. They’ll get more organized, and work in shifts, so no one stays up the entire night. A butcher, a greengrocer, those are the instigators, and they’re organized sorts of people.”
Zanja had licked her fingers, licked her plate, and now looked consideringly at the pies. “We’ll have a few days of rest, then,” she said. “I wonder if those assassins just intended to make it impossible for us to sleep.”
“Dogs!” said Seth.
“What?”
“Watchdogs. A couple of good watchdogs posted outside will forewarn the Paladins that someone is coming. Karis will learn to trust them, and to heed their voices in her sleep. That would be enough, wouldn’t it? She doesn’t need to be protected, does she? Doesn’t she just need to know she can’t be taken by surprise again?”
“We’ve never had dogs,” Zanja said, sounding rather astonished. “Can you find out from that butcher or greengrocer where to get some?”
“I’ll find out from somebody.” Seth felt much better, and suddenly quite tired. “But now I’m going to bed.”
As Seth located and climbed the building’s various oddly located, crazily constructed staircases, she mulled over a puzzle: Was it possible that large problems were just massive accumulations of unresolved small problems? Was it possible that what was needed was just an awful lot of ordinary solutions all at once? A circle of drunken people singing lullabies, some watchdogs, and a slice of dried-apple pie—surely that wasn’t all Shaftal needed. Yet she fell asleep in that lovely room, untroubled for once.
Karis had awakened late and then remained in bed for another hour, trying to eat the tea and pastries Zanja had brought her on a tray, while Leeba crawled over, jumped upon, and danced around her. Lately her parents called her “Hay Child” and “Ink Child,” nicknames that memorialized two recent occasions of spectacular dirtiness, both of which Zanja had missed due to being dead. After she came back to life again, she found that her daughter had not yet outgrown the old nickname, “Little Hurricane.” Leeba could not be still, and never ceased to wreak havoc.
“I hate this bedroom,” Leeba declared.
Karis had gotten covered with crumbs without eating anything, and now her plate lay on the floor, filled with bits of shredded bread. She asked, “Why do you hate it?”
“It’s blue.”
“Zanja hates it, too.”
This strategy diverted Leeba’s attention to Zanja, who was painting glyphs with an ink brush on strips of crisp linen to make funeral flags.
“Let me help!” Leeba demanded, for the fourteenth time.
“Keep away from this table, Little Hurricane, or I’ll tie you up and put you in the storeroom with the kegs of cider.”
“You will not!”
“Then I’ll send you away to live with the rabbits in the woods.”
“You will not!”
Zanja dipped the brush in ink and began the first stroke of a new glyph, watching Leeba from the corner of her eye, poised to stabilize the table with one hand while lifting the brush out of reach with the other. “Then I’ll give you a pair of red wings and make you fly away with the birds.”
Leeba looked startled. “Karis! Zanja can’t do that, can she?”
Karis had managed to take several swallows of tea. “Zanja hates this room, too,” she reminded her.
“Why do you hate this room?” Leeba asked, diverted back to Zanja again.
“Because there’s something wrong with the floor.”
Karis said, “The entire house is wrong! Sometimes I wonder if, having fixed everything, it would still be wrong in a way that can’t be fixed.”
That
Seth eventually remembered the topic with which their conversation had begun and said, “I think the Watfielders will keep coming for a few nights, anyway. They’ll get more organized, and work in shifts, so no one stays up the entire night. A butcher, a greengrocer, those are the instigators, and they’re organized sorts of people.”
Zanja had licked her fingers, licked her plate, and now looked consideringly at the pies. “We’ll have a few days of rest, then,” she said. “I wonder if those assassins just intended to make it impossible for us to sleep.”
“Dogs!” said Seth.
“What?”
“Watchdogs. A couple of good watchdogs posted outside will forewarn the Paladins that someone is coming. Karis will learn to trust them, and to heed their voices in her sleep. That would be enough, wouldn’t it? She doesn’t need to be protected, does she? Doesn’t she just need to know she can’t be taken by surprise again?”
“We’ve never had dogs,” Zanja said, sounding rather astonished. “Can you find out from that butcher or greengrocer where to get some?”
“I’ll find out from somebody.” Seth felt much better, and suddenly quite tired. “But now I’m going to bed.”
As Seth located and climbed the building’s various oddly located, crazily constructed staircases, she mulled over a puzzle: Was it possible that large problems were just massive accumulations of unresolved small problems? Was it possible that what was needed was just an awful lot of ordinary solutions all at once? A circle of drunken people singing lullabies, some watchdogs, and a slice of dried-apple pie—surely that wasn’t all Shaftal needed. Yet she fell asleep in that lovely room, untroubled for once.
Karis had awakened late and then remained in bed for another hour, trying to eat the tea and pastries Zanja had brought her on a tray, while Leeba crawled over, jumped upon, and danced around her. Lately her parents called her “Hay Child” and “Ink Child,” nicknames that memorialized two recent occasions of spectacular dirtiness, both of which Zanja had missed due to being dead. After she came back to life again, she found that her daughter had not yet outgrown the old nickname, “Little Hurricane.” Leeba could not be still, and never ceased to wreak havoc.
“I hate this bedroom,” Leeba declared.
Karis had gotten covered with crumbs without eating anything, and now her plate lay on the floor, filled with bits of shredded bread. She asked, “Why do you hate it?”
“It’s blue.”
“Zanja hates it, too.”
This strategy diverted Leeba’s attention to Zanja, who was painting glyphs with an ink brush on strips of crisp linen to make funeral flags.
“Let me help!” Leeba demanded, for the fourteenth time.
“Keep away from this table, Little Hurricane, or I’ll tie you up and put you in the storeroom with the kegs of cider.”
“You will not!”
“Then I’ll send you away to live with the rabbits in the woods.”
“You will not!”
Zanja dipped the brush in ink and began the first stroke of a new glyph, watching Leeba from the corner of her eye, poised to stabilize the table with one hand while lifting the brush out of reach with the other. “Then I’ll give you a pair of red wings and make you fly away with the birds.”
Leeba looked startled. “Karis! Zanja can’t do that, can she?”
Karis had managed to take several swallows of tea. “Zanja hates this room, too,” she reminded her.
“Why do you hate this room?” Leeba asked, diverted back to Zanja again.
“Because there’s something wrong with the floor.”
Karis said, “The entire house is wrong! Sometimes I wonder if, having fixed everything, it would still be wrong in a way that can’t be fixed.”
That
Similar Books
