I once overheard Thaeto and his friends argue about governance. They were talking about Ibimendi, which used to be a kind of winter camp for people who wandered back and forth across the mountains. When Hasra reached out and conquered it whichever Lady Daturi had been ruling at the time insisted that it become more like a normal city. She installed her own people to rule it, and the wandering tribes were pushed west into the Sand Hills. Some say that they joined up with the People of Skies and Visions. Others say that they were all cursed by the Witch of Lake Haunt. There’s even a rumor that they founded a new and secret city somewhere in Ibimendi Gap. But Thaeto’s friends weren’t arguing about the fate of the tribes, or if they were, it was in a very roundabout way. One of them asked what would happen if Hasra simply disappeared. Would Ibimendi return to being what it was, or would the city that we know today continue on without much interruption? Thaeto thought that things would continue as they were, but when I asked Nolio his opinion later, he said that cities have ghosts just like people do, and are haunted by a past that never really goes away. A very romantic notion, as one would expect from Nolio, and an idea that I was relying on.
If any person was the living embodiment of Old Rahasabahst, it was Yahtem Ahneth. Her house was near the estuary, tucked into a fold of Jehaijae Hill. At one time the rising sun would have shown directly on its roofs, but the city obscured it until midday so that it only knew the sun at its zenith, making it a place for those who preferred to hide in the shadows. It wasn’t exactly a wineshop and it wasn’t exactly an inn. No one paid for anything at Yahtem Ahneth’s house. But things found their way there. Nolio once compared the house to a shed where you put tools that you’re not using and then forget that they’re there. To go to her house was, often, to rediscover something, and the finding of objects that you don’t know you’ve lost is always a delight. Also, she made milk sweets in her kitchen, so the boys would often pester me to take them to visit her when they were little.
Vaenahma and I set off, leaving the quay and walking along the river. Arahabast Hill rose to our left, and at its peak we could see the dull outline of the palace walls. They seemed somehow diminished in the rain, as if the stones and mortar were being thinned and the distance between the royal court and the rest of us wearing away. I saw guards standing on the parapets in the same sunken postures as the guards on the quay the night before. Hopefully the Sasturi were in the barracks, and these poor souls would be relieved of their burdens when their watch ended. I mentioned this to Vaenahma, and they said, “If the White Cats allow it.”
That gave me pause. But they were right. If the King’s Guard was restored to its senses, they would challenge the White Cats. Yet how could Oesair prevent it? No one bars the Sasturi from their doors. Then I remembered what Martiveht had said about Rahasabahst Weaver’s Guild being hopelessly corrupt. Maybe Oesair wouldn’t have to lock the doors to keep the Sasturi away. He could simply slip them some coin, and they would abandon the palace to its own devices. In some places the Weaver’s Guilds and the royalty live together in blissful cooperation. In other places they oppose each other with destructive vehemence. In Rahasabahst they had mostly been indifferent to each other until that moment. Indifference can be more dangerous than acrimony.
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We arrived at Yahtem Ahneth’s door and found that she had many visitors. It was a good time for staying in the shadows. Vaenahma paused uncertainly on the threshold of the low entrance tunnel, and I was reminded that they had never visited here before. It is a place that is really only known to the natives.
As a house, it is like many others. An entrance tunnel leads you through the outer wing to a courtyard that is surrounded by the rest of the house. Yahtem Ahneth is not rich, so there is no second courtyard at the back. You enter and find yourself in a garden. She doesn’t trouble with fountains or statuary, and she doesn’t fill the courtyard with crushed stones to keep the weeds at bay. Instead, she allows every shade loving plant to run wild across the ground, and you pick your way over strands of ivy and banks of fern to the little tables that wobble uncertainly on the uneven earth. The hems of our robes were very wet by the time we found a free seat.
There are no servants and no slaves. It is the custom of the house for people to see to each other’s needs. Our table was next to one occupied by a fat little man whom I knew to be a cutpurse, but he smiled affably when we sat down and asked us what we would like. Someone else had no doubt done this for him when he arrived. I asked for a cup of hot cider and a plate of pickled fish with black bread. It hadn’t been long since I had eaten, but I knew that Vaenahma wouldn’t order for themself. When the food came they ate ravenously but tried to disguise it by going slowly, spreading the herbed butter on the bread with little ritualistic swirls and arranging the fish very daintily. There was lemon and dill as well, and a piece of tarharjad root that you could grate on top if you liked. Vaenahma tried this and then disdained it. It is an acquired taste.
The cider was good and I sipped and let it steam my face and looked around at the people. No one was drunk, as Yahtem Ahneth had outlawed drunkenness after the crimes of Harloen the Sot. He had been a very polite drunkard, and his killing of her grandson and been done sorrowfully, or so I was told. I had been called to the house on the night of the crime. Her grandson’s little corpse had lain peacefully in a bed of ferns. The only sign of violence was a thread of blood that ran from one ear down onto the fronds. Harloen had picked up a meat skewer and jabbed it through the boy’s ear into his brain. When we finally caught him in the Sunken Rooms he had seemed more bemused than guilty. He had wanted to know what would happen, that was all. He hadn’t really meant to kill the boy, but he had been indifferent to the possibility of the child’s death. His drunkenness had stolen his reason, or replaced it with a terrible curiosity and a refusal to believe that the world was real. I felt no guilt over bringing him to the executioner.
Yahtem Ahneth came into the courtyard. She was holding a rather beautiful glazed bowl and she paused in the doorway of her chambers and held it out. Someone in the corner let out a gasp and came forward to claim it. A smile flickered over Yahtem’s face. It was a very lively face, but self-contained, like a guard at a party. Her eyes were very sad. They had been sad since her grandson died. Unshed tears lingered, making them gleam. Looking at her I waxed poetic. It seemed to me that she was the perfect symbol for our poor city. Baffling and generous and forever grieving.
