And suddenly it seemed to him that it might actually be enough, what he had done with his life thus far. That the look in this woman's eyes spoke to a level of pain he'd caused-an unfair burden, perhaps, but how did fairness enter into life? — and he could die here, after all, accepting it from her, in this place. He had never expected to grow old.
He said, "Left side. A stab wound, broken ribs around it."
All he had wanted to do once, long ago, was race horses.
She nodded, biting at her lower lip thoughtfully, a single line across her brow. "How unfortunate. I have a knife."
"I did see that."
"If I wished to hurt you very, very much before you died…?"
"You would stab me here," he said, and showed her. There was blood, in any case. It could be seen welling through the blue tunic.
She looked at him. "You wish to die?"
He considered it then. "Not really, no. But I would not want to live if it caused you so much grief"
She drew a breath then. Courage and pain and a kind of… madness. That fierce, never-before-seen glinting in her eye. "You can't imagine I'd be long behind you."
He closed his eyes again, opened them. "Thenai's, there is… so much wrong in that. But I am prepared for whatever you desire."
The knife still did not move. "You should have lied to me, just now. When I asked."
So small he had been, that first time his father let him sit astride a stallion. They'd had to lift him up, his legs sticking out almost straight when he was seated on the big horse. Laughter at that. Then a sudden silence from the men around them, when the animal grew still under the touch of the child on its back. In Soriyya. Far away. Long ago.
A lifetime. He shook his head. "You shouldn't have asked," he said. It was truth, he would not lie.
She drew back the blade then. He was looking straight into her eyes, at what was-so terribly-revealed there when another lifetime's composure fell entirely away.
And because he was doing so, almost falling into her gaze, entangled in her and in memory, oblivious even to the hard upward movement of the small hand that held the knife, he didn't see the swift-striding man come from behind her then and seize her by the wrist, screening the gesture with his own body.
He twisted. The knife fell.
She made no sound, after the first sharp whimper of shock.
"My lady," said Crescens of the Greens, "forgive me."
She looked at him. Scortius looked at him. The three of them stood alone in a huge, dim space. Crescens said, "No man who ever lived is worth what this would mean to you. Put up your hood, please, my lady. There will be people here very soon. If he has offended, there are so many of us who will deal with that."
It was uncanny-and the memory was to stay with Scortius-how swiftly her face changed, how the conduit to a kind of fever in her soul slammed shut to the world as Thenai's looked at the Greens" charioteer. She didn't even give any sign that her wrist was paining her, though it had to be. He had moved very fast, twisted hard.
"You misunderstand," she murmured. And even smiled. A perfect court smile, detached and meaningless. The iron bars of control crashing down again. Scortius actually shivered, seeing it, hearing her voice change. He was aware of the rapid thread of his pulse. A moment ago he had actually expected…
She put up her hood. Said: "It seems my wayward stepson played a role in our mutual friend's injury. He has told my husband a version of the tale. It is not believed. Before we punish the boy-the Senator is furious, of course-I wanted to ascertain from Scortius himself just what took place. It involved a knife, you see, and an allegation of a stabbing."
It was nonsense. Words spoken to have words spoken. A tale that could not possibly hold, unless one wished to allow it to hold. Crescens of the Greens might be a brawling, hard man on the track and in the taverns and the in Green compound, and he'd only been a single year in Sarantium, but he was First of the Greens, had been invited to court by now, spent a winter in the aristocratic circles the leading racers came to know. He'd have seen his share of bedrooms, too, Scortius thought.
The man knew what this was, how to conduct himself.
His apology was passionate, immediate-and brief, for there were loud sounds now in the southern tunnels. "You must allow me," said Crescens, "to call upon you, I beg, to more fully express my contrition. I appear to have blundered like an untutored provincial. My lady, I am ashamed." He looked over. "And I must return to the sands, while you should-if I may urge you-allow your escort to take you from this space, which will be no place at all for a lady in a moment."
They could hear rolling wheels and boisterous laughter around the dark curve of the largest tunnel. Scortius had said nothing, had not even moved. The knife lay on the ground. He bent now, carefully, and picked it up with his right hand. Gave it back to Thenai's. Their fingers touched.
She smiled, a smile thin as river ice in the north when the winter's freezing has not yet made it safe. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you both." She looked over her shoulder. The Bassanid doctor had stayed where he was through all of this. Now he came forward, impeccably grave.
He looked at Scortius first. His own charge. "You understand your coming here… alters things?"
"I do," Scortius said. "I am very sorry."
His physician nodded. "With this," said the Bassanid, "I will not contend." There was a blunt finality to his tone.
"I understand," said Scortius. "I am grateful for all you have done until now."
The doctor turned away. "May I escort you, my lady? You mentioned a cooling drink?"
"I did," she said. Thank you, yes." She looked at the Bassanid thoughtfully for a moment as if considering new information, and then turned back to Scortius. "I expect you to win this race," she murmured. "From what my son tells me, our dear Crescens has won sufficiently in your absence."
And with that, she turned and went away with the physician, towards the stairs and the concession booths and stalls on the level above them.
The two charioteers stood alone, looked at each other.
"What was he talking about?" Crescens jerked his chin towards the receding figure of the physician.
"Disclaiming responsibility if I kill myself."
"Ah."
"They do that in Bassania. You needed a piss?"
The Green rider nodded. "Always do, after lunch."
"I know."
"Saw you. Came to say hello. Saw the knife. You're bleeding."
"I know."
"Are you… back for good?"
Scortius hesitated. "Probably not yet. I recover quickly, mind you. Or I used to."
Crescens smiled sourly. "We all used to." His turn to hesitate. People would be emerging any moment now. They both knew it. "She couldn't possibly have hurt you unless you let her."
"Yes, well, that's… Tell me, how's your new trace horse?"
Crescens looked at him a moment, then nodded his head in acceptance. "I like him. Your young driver…"
"Taras."
"Taras. Bastard has the makings of a racer. I didn't see it last year." He grinned, wolfishly. "I'm planning to break his heart this spring."
"Of course you are."
The Green rider's smile deepened. "You wanted a lovely appearance all by yourself, didn't you? Returning hero, walking across the sand alone? By Heladikos, what an entrance!"
Scortius's expression was wry. "I'd thought of it."
But he was really thinking about the woman, images interwoven with memories of his childhood, amazingly, and the feeling he'd had looking into her eyes just before the knife moved. You should have lied to me. He had been about to let her stab him. Crescens was right. An other-worldly mood, a state of being she had shaped, with those glittering eyes, in the dusty half-light. It seemed a dream already, only moments after. He didn't think the dream was going to go away.