no different than sitting on Lord Escrissar’s doorsill, except the door was in front of her, not behind.
“Have you been waiting long?”
The doors hadn’t opened, the young man hadn’t come through them, and she nearly leapt out of her skin at the sound of his voice.
“Did I frighten you?”
She shook her head. Surprise was one thing, fright another, and she knew the difference well enough. He’d surprised her, but he wasn’t frightening. With his lithe limbs and radiant tan, he could have been one of the august emerita’s slaves, if his cheeks hadn’t been as flawless as the rest of him. As he was, with those unmarked cheeks and wearing little more than his long, dark hair and a length of bleached linen wound around his body, she took him for eleganta, like herself.
“Who are you waiting for?” he asked, standing in front her and offering his hand.
Without answering the question, she accepted help she didn’t need. He was stronger than Mahtra expected, leaving her with the sense of being set down on her feet rather than lifted up to them. Indeed, there seemed something subtly amiss in all his aspects, not a disguise, but not quite natural either. He was like no one she’d known, as different as she was, herself.
In the space of a heartbeat, Mahtra decided that the eleganta was made, not born. That he was what the makers meant when they called her a mistake.
“I am waiting for your lord, King Hamanu,” she answered slowly and with all her courage.
“Ah, everybody waits for Hamanu. You may wait a long time.”
He led her toward the bench where she sat down again, though he did not sit beside her.
“What will you tell him when he gets here?—If he gets here.”
“If I tell you, will you tell me about the makers?”
The young man cocked his head, staring at her through crooked amber eyes, but Mahtra wasn’t fooled. She’d been right to bargain; he could answer her questions. He was the makers’ perfect creation, not chased across the barrens, but sent to Urik’s king instead.
“Those makers,” he said after a moment, confirming her suspicions and her hopes. “It’s been a very long time, but I can tell you a little about them… after you tell me what you’re going to tell Hamanu.”
What he’d just told her was enough: a very long time. Made folk didn’t grow up. She hadn’t changed in the seven years she could remember. He hadn’t changed in a very long time. They weren’t like Father or the august emerita; they didn’t grow old.
Mahtra began her story at the august emerita’s beginning and this seemed to satisfy her made companion, though he interrupted, not because he hadn’t understood, but with questions: How long had Gomer been selling her cinnabar beads? What did Henthoren look like and had she ever met any other elven market enforcers? Did she know the punishment for evading Hamanu’s wards was death by evisceration?
She hadn’t, and decided not to ask what evisceration was. He didn’t tell her, either, and that convinced her that he wasn’t skimming words from her mind, but understood her as Mika had.
When she had finished, he told her that the water-filled tavern was Urik’s most precious treasure. “All Hamanu’s might and power would blow away with the sand if anything fouled that water-hoard. He will reward you well for this warning.”
Reward? What did Mahtra want with a reward? Father and Mika were gone. She had only herself to take care of, and she didn’t need a reward for that. “I want to kill them,” she said, surprising herself with the venom and anger in her voice. “I want to kill Kakzim.”
A dark eyebrow arched gracefully, giving Mahtra a clearer view of a dark amber eye. His face was, if anything, more expressive than a born-human face, which told her what the makers could have done, if they hadn’t made mistakes with her.
“Would you? Hamanu’s infinitesimal mercy takes many forms. If you wish vengeance, Hamanu can arrange that, too.”
The eleganta smiled then, a perfect, full-lipped smile that sent a chill down Mahtra’s spine, and she thought she would take whatever reward the Lion-King offered, leaving the vengeance to others. His smile faded, and she asked for his side of their bargain.
“Tell me about the makers—you promised.”
“They are very old; they were old when the Dragon was born, older still when he was made—”
Behind her mask, Mahtra gasped with surprise: one life, both born and made!