“How else should it be?” asked Cleton. He selected a tunic and let Urt drape the garment over his shoulders. “That’s the natural order of things.”
Very softly, so that I alone heard him, Urt said, “Perhaps.” Then louder: “But what if the aeldors held those taxes for themselves? What if the Lord Protector and the koryphon received no tithe?”
“That,” said Cleton, coldly now, “would be sedition. And rightly punished as such.”
“It would surely be punished,” Urt agreed, which was not a full agreement. “But-a supposition only, of course-what should happen did the aeldors withdraw their support?”
“Chaos!” Cleton snapped. “By the God, the Sky Lords would overwhelm us did all not work together. Dharbek would collapse.”
“I speak only of this College,” said Urt, carefully. “That the goodwill of an aeldor is worth more than a fisherman’s.”
Or, the Changed’s. He did not have to say it. I recognized his gist; I felt surprise that he commanded such a grasp of the webwork of politics and privilege that underpinned decisions. I said, “You think I might be punished whilst Cleton goes free.”
“I think the good opinion of Master Cleton’s father likely carries a greater weight than does yours,” he said. And coughed a small laugh that might have been apologetic, “Whilst mine carries none at all.”
“You’re Changed,” Cleton said.
He was smiling as he took up his purse, weighing the coin therein, happily oblivious of Urt’s discomfort or my reservations. “Well,” he said, “if I cannot persuade you to join me, I shall be on my way. Do I give Thais your regards?”
I said, “No,” and he shrugged, and waved, and strode from the chamber.
The door closed behind him and Urt said, “Do you require anything?”
And I answered, “Yes. I’d talk with you, if you will.”
His expression was entirely bland as he said, “I am at your command. I am your servant.”
“You are my friend,” I said. “Or at least, I hope you are.”
“Yes, I am.” His expression shifted-I grew moment by moment more adept in its translation-and I saw apology in his eyes. “Forgive me, Daviot. Sometimes …”
His lean shoulders rose and fell. I ventured to finish for him: “Sometimes the attitude of Truemen is offensive. I apologize for Cleton.”
That elicited a brief smile. “How should you apologize for another?” he murmured.
I shrugged in turn and said, “On behalf of my kind.”
“Your kind is rare,” he said. “Cleton’s the more common.”
I nodded, not knowing what to say: it was the truth. I compromised with, “He means no ill.”
“No.” Urt looked a moment out the window, then returned his gaze to me. “Few do.”
There was something hidden behind his response; something sad in his voice and in his eyes. I rose from the bed and crossed to the ale keg. I filled two mugs, passing him one and motioning for him to sit.
“You’re a strange fellow, Daviot,” he murmured. “Why do you show me such kindness?”
It had not occurred to me that I did: I treated him as felt natural to me. I frowned and said, “How else should I deal with you?”
He said, “As do other Truemen.”
“You’re my friend,” I said.
He laughed at that, and raised his mug in toast, and said, “Yes. Perhaps someday I shall have the chance to prove it you.”
“You have already,” I told him, and what had begun as an answering smile froze on my lips. “You proved it in carrying my messages to Rwyan.” I sought to conceal my sudden misery behind my tankard.
Urt said, “I’m sorry for what happened.” And paused a moment before adding, “But I meant in a greater way than as courier.”
“No service could be greater,” I said.
“Perhaps.”
He smiled, but I thought the expression was now designed to allay further inquiry. I asked, “How, perhaps?”
He shook his head and sipped his ale. “Does the opportunity come, you shall know,” he said.
“Do you explain now?” I asked.
His lips closed, pursing. His eyes grew dark: unfathomable, and he shook his head. “No, I cannot. And I presume on our friendship to ask that you inquire no further.”
I was intrigued. I forgot my misery as I sensed some mystery here. There was such hint in what he said of things unknown, unsuspected, of areas of knowledge beyond my ken, I was mightily tempted to press him. There was also, on his face and in his voice, a warning-that he would not speak, and that did I demand explanation, our friendship should be threatened. It was valuable to me, that friendship, and so I respected his wishes. I nodded and made some gesture of acceptance. “Do you so wish,” I said.
He smiled with unfeigned pleasure and said, “Thank you, Daviot.”
And I, in my youth, heard such warmth in those three simple words, I was embarrassed. I think I blushed. I know I said, “I’d not pry, my friend,” and sought to turn our conversation onto safer ground. “What do you think will happen to me? To us? Shall I be allowed to stay?”
Urt paused again, then said, “I suspect you will. Likely there’ll be some small punishment-you’ll be confined longer to the College grounds; something of that sort. But it’s common knowledge you’re considered too good a Mnemonikos that you’ll be let go.” “You’re very confident,” I said.
He grinned and answered, “We Changed hear much. There’s some advantage in our situation, for Truemen seem to think we’ve not ears, or memories, but we’ve both; and servants talk.”
“And you?” I asked.
He did not immediately answer but rose and took my mug for refilling with his own, which in itself was a compliment-a measure of his confidence in my sympathy. I awaited his reply. It seemed all the foreboding I had felt, the shiftings of his face, his recklessness, coalesced in his answer, and as he gave it, I felt a fresh weight added to my burden of unhappiness.
“It is rumored I shall be sent away.” He raised a hand to silence my instinctive protest. “To argue it would be pointless; I ask that you accept. Do you argue, you can only make your own situation worse.”
I felt new pain. Not so fierce as at Rwyan’s departure, but still hurtful. I asked, “Where?”
Urt shrugged. “Likely the Border Cities,” he said.
I raised my hand, half minded to dash my mug to the floor. There was such certainty in his voice, I could not doubt but that he had this information from the servants of the tutors, the warden, the master; from that network of anonymous Changed that moved unnoticed through human society. Was I the only Trueman to see their faces, to perceive them as beings in their own right, to credit them with emotions, with sentience? Resentment grew, allied with frustration and new-seeded anger.
Urt said mildly, “Do you shatter that mug I must clean the floor again.”
I snarled and lowered my hand. I said, “That’s not fair.”