Someone obligingly found him for Del. He was in a corner trying to get up from the floor. I didn't think I'd done the damage; I hadn't seen him for quite a while. At some point the man with friends had simply become another target of opportunity.
Herakleio sat up at last, slumping against the wall. One side of his face was marred by a streak of blood; wine-soaked hair adhered stickily to the other cheek. He peeled it off gingerly, as if afraid skin might accompany it. His eyes found me, glowered angrily. I acknowledged him with a friendly wave. He spat blood from a cut lip, then managed to notice Del standing inside the winehouse door with the lamp in her hand.
That got him off the floor. He rose, stood against the wall, stared at her uncomprehendingly.
He must have missed her entrance. And the smashing of the first lamp over the man's head. Now he saw her standing straight and tall in the midst of chaos, pure and pristine against the backdrop of unlighted night. Lamp-glow feasted on her hair, the bleached linen tunic, pale arms, glinted off brass rings adorning the sash that belted her waist. It painted her face into the hard and splendid serenity of a woman unafraid to walk the edge of the blade, to step inside the fire.
Ah, well, she has that effect on me, too.
"Herakleio," she said again.
He seemed oddly dazed. "Yes?"
"You are to come home."
There was no man alive in that winehouse who would not have answered that cool command, could he understand it; nor any who blamed Herakleio for answering. They were silent as he picked his way across the debris, paused before her briefly, then walked out of the wine-house. I had no doubt we would find him waiting in the molah-cart once we got there.
I stood up, shook out my clothing, brushed off my hands, followed Herakleio outside. What Del did with the lamp I couldn't say, but when she came out the light remained behind.
Except for the wash of it still caught in silken hair.
TWENTY-ONE
SIMONIDES, WHO had not spent most of the night seeking, finding, and fighting Herakleio, rousted me from bed at dawn. I expected a murmured protest from Del, for her to burrow back under the light covers, until I realized I was alone. Which made me even grumpier.
I sat up and bestowed upon Simonides my most disgruntled scowl. "What?"
"The metri sends to say you are to attend her at once."
"Of course she does," I muttered. "She got a full night's sleep."
"At once," Simonides repeated.
I reflected there likely were two meanings for "at once" in the world: the metri's, and mine. Rich, powerful people concerned with appearances generally believe the rest of us are as concerned and will thus take time to take appropriate actions-which means their version of "at once" is different from everyone else's. But since I wasn't rich or powerful, I didn't feel bound to abide by her expectations. Which meant she'd see me as I was.
"Fine," I said, and climbed out from under the covers.
Simonides opened his mouth to say more-probably something to do with my general dishevelment in mood and person-but I brushed by him and stomped into the corridor.
Ihe metri received me in the domed hall. I found my senses marveling again, albeit distractedly, at the fit of stone to stone, tile to tile, the flow of arches and angles, the splendid murals. Then I fastened my attention on the woman who was, or was not, my grandmother. And realized that she as much as the house was made of stone and arches and angles, and the mortar of self-control.
If she was offended by my appearance-wrinkled, stained, slept-in trousers; the string of claws around my neck; nothing else but uncombed hair, bruises, and stubble-she offered no reaction. She merely sat quietly in the single chair with her hands folded in her lap.
"There has been an accounting," she said.
As I'm sure she knew, there are many types of accountings in this world. I waited for her to explain which one this was.
"The winehouse sent it up this morning."
Ah. That kind of accounting. The owner was fast with his figures. Then again, he'd probably started tallying costs the minute the first winejar was flung.
I waited longer, anticipating a discussion of Herakleio's continued failings and her expectations of my plans to correct them as soon as humanly possible.
Instead she said, "I shall be extending your term of service."
There are times I can be as cool and calm as Del. Or the metri. This was not one of them.
Alarm bells went off. Noisily.
I hate alarm bells. And so I told her explicitly that I was under no "term of service," nor had any intention of being held accountable for the damage done to the wine-house by her relative, nor would pay a single whatever-the-lowest-coin-of-the-island-was when I had been on her business in the first place bringing her errant heir home. At her request.
"I shall be extending your term of service," she repeated, "to cover the cost of the damages for which you are responsible-"
"How in hoolies am I responsible?"
"-and to further educate Herakleio in the proper ways of manhood." She fixed me with a cold stare. "That was neither proper manhood nor acceptable behavior."
"Well, then I guess I'm not the man for the job," I shot back. "We might as well just call it off right now. And you can find someone else."
She arched expressive brows. "And how then shall you discharge your debt to me?"
"In the South," I began with careful precision, "such things are often settled in the circle. If you would care to hire a sword-dancer to contest this debt, I will be more than happy to meet him in the circle."
"Her," she said.
"What?"
"Her," she repeated.
"Who her-?" And then I understood.
I don't know how much of what I said the metri understood-likely none of it, since it was a polyglot of languages and none of it polite-but the tone was clear enough.
Finally I ran out of breath. "No," I said simply.
"She has already agreed."
"Del agreed to this?"
"She explained that sword-dancers dance for coin and debt dischargement as well as for honor."
"Doesn't matter," I said crisply, refusing to acknowledge her accuracy. "I'm not going into the circle against Del."
Not ever again. Never.
"She has agreed."
"I don't care."
"You yourself suggested I hire a sword-dancer to contest the debt. So I have done. And now your part is to meet her." She smiled faintly. "Happily, I believe you said."
"I won't do it."
"Then you have no choice but to agree to my extension of the term of your service."
"I have every choice," I retorted. "I refute your reasoning, to begin with-I did not personally, as far as I know, break a single table, or even a lamp; fingers, maybe, and a jaw or two, but the winehouse owner can't exactly charge me for that, now, can he?"
"Discharge the debt in coin, or accept additional service with me." She gestured regret and helplessness. "What I ask is not unfair. It does not approach usury."
"Maybe slavery."
She disapproved. "Hardly that."
I shook my head. "I could walk out of here today, right this minute, and get the hoolies off this gods-cursed island." Which was beginning to sound like the only possible course of action.
"And have you learned to swim?"
I frowned. "What has swimming to do with it?"
"How do you propose to get off this gods-cursed island if you cannot swim?"
"Little matter of boats," I answered. "You know-things that float."
"But none of them will float for you."
"Unless you have somehow contrived to sink all of them, I suspect I'll find one that'll float for me."
"You have no coin."
"I'll work for my passage."