wives, one after the other, and they had given him over twenty children—twenty-four by some counts, twenty-five by others. They had all lived in a ramshackle house built of little more than driftwood and brushsticks. Then the old man had died and the family immediately scattered throughout Fossa. Some eventually came back to Cadere Row and built new houses there, giving the street its name, but the old house was never again occupied.
“I went to see the family house once, when I was little,” Mustar said. “Thought it would be a good place to play. But the roof had fallen in, and the walls had turned white and splintered. All the life had gone out of it. It was only an old abandoned house but it frightened me. Later I learned the old man’s sons had argued over who was to inherit it, and in the end decided that since no one could agree on who should have it, it was to be left uninhabited. This place feels like that. There was so much life here once, Arathé. Can’t you feel it? I can imagine the Father’s two special children playing in the room with the large objects. Or all three sitting together, Father, Son and Daughter, watching the mist from the pool making wonderful patterns. I imagine I can hear faint laughter at the edges of my ears. And when the children were grown, I see them in this room with their Father, sitting on their three chairs, making decisions together, guiding, influencing the world of men.” He closed his eyes. “Then arguments. Disagreements over what should be done and who should do it. Two children trying to grow up, to become independent of a proud and powerful father.”
Now Mustar was talking of his own childhood, Arathé knew. His father, Halieutes, had been the Fisher of Fossa before Noetos and had won widespread renown. Of course, he might just as well have been describing her own formative years.
“It must have been difficult growing up in the shadow of such a great man,” she signed, and he nodded, unconscious of how she had read his meaning.
“It was, I think. And the Son and Daughter would have contended with their Father, wanting to prove themselves to him, until they could no longer stand it. I feel their anger and frustration, Arathé. I feel the cliffs crowding in on me. The House of the Gods would have become a prison. I hear the arguing, the reasoned voice of the Father, the words that make perfect logical sense even as they stifle the life out of you. Then one day things went too far and the children left in anger, only to return in strength to drive their hated Father from this place.”
“You sound like you sympathise with them,” she said.
“Of course I do. No matter how bad they’ve become, there must have been a point when the Father might have done something to make things turn out differently.”
“So how did you turn out so well?”
He opened his eyes, his dark brown eyes, and turned to her. “You think I’ve turned out well?”
“I—”
“Arathé, you never saw what I did with the cliff-girls. Nothing they didn’t want, to be sure, but I did it anyway, knowing it was wrong. Women, they… ” He struggled for words, and waved his hands desperately at himself, obviously thinking he was not communicating his meaning. She nodded to him to continue.
“There was a woman in cabin class on the Conch. An older woman, travelling alone. She made a suggestion to me.” His face coloured, and suddenly Arathé didn’t want to hear any more. “I moved in with her for the best part of a week. She… I… Arathé, I’m sorry. I’m not a good person.”
Her heart plummeted. There was no reason why this should matter, but it did.
“Why do you apologise to me?” she signed. “I am not your father or your sister. And you are not Keppia. You haven’t killed people for fun or possessed others. You’re not trying to break apart the world so you can prolong your hateful life. So you slept with a woman who desired you. Where is the harm?”
His look was full of helplessness and something else. “It would be harmful,” he said quietly, “if it hurt someone I hoped might desire me.” Then he turned away.
Her chest flooded with renewed hurt. “Oh,” she said, a grunt more than a word. To be desired and not pitied… Oh, Alkuon, not today. Not