Followed by Fros(38)

He pulled out one of the chairs and sat, then reached into his heavy bag. I chose a spot on the bed across from him.

“Here,” he said, handing me a thick hardbound book. I took it, surprised at its weight. “These are Dideh Bab’s earlier works, before he was acclaimed.”

My mouth formed an O as I ran my gloved fingers over the title, embossed into the front cover along with the outline of a bird. “Imad was willing to part with this?”

“It is my copy,” he said, pulling a second book from his bag. Another hardcover, but covered in black cloth, with no title that I could see. “This is old Hraric,” he explained, opening the front cover. On it had been written a sort of code in fine, slanted penmanship, scrawled with deep blue ink. “The Dideh Bab is . . . a thick read, but this will help you translate.”

I accepted the book, smiling. “I . . . thank you. I’ll take good care of them; I promise.”

He glanced at the tattered volume at the end of my bed and smirked.

“Really,” I insisted. “I . . . didn’t have a safe place . . . for that one.”

“Prince Imad will have to build you a shelf.” He glanced around. “Though I’m not sure where you would put it. This room is more decoration than sense.”

“It is, isn’t it?” I laughed.

He smirked again, a sort of half smile that tugged on the left edge of his lips. Then he stood and shrugged on his coat.

“Thank you for coming,” I said, though I was disappointed he was going so soon.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, sitting back down. “It’s cold in here.”

“Oh. Oh!” I hurried to my fire and poured some extra oil on it. Removing my right glove, I rearranged the coals and tried to fan up a bright flame.

“I think it’s warmer over here,” I said, gesturing to the red chair.

Lo shook his head, his earrings glinting. “This is fine, thank you.”

I paused, staring at him. He had never said that to me before—thank you.

He raised an eyebrow.

“Sorry. May I ask you an odd question?”

He waited.

“Prince Imad,” I said. “If he is the prince, why doesn’t he wear more earrings? They’re a sign of wealth, correct? I’ve seen merchants with so many their ears touch their shoulders.”

“It is because our sheikh is a good man,” Lo said, his eyes following me as I retook my place on the bed. “He knows he has more wealth than any one man could ask, but he does not feel the need to exploit it.”

“And yours?” I asked, counting the rings in his ear. Six of them, looped through with a gold chain.

He touched the rings with his fingertips. “The first three were given to me when I joined the king’s guard,” he said. “The others when I became captain of the prince’s.”

“The king, is he doing well?”

“As well as can be expected. His passing will not be long now.”

I nodded, and a moment of silence fell between us.

“Why did you become a soldier?” I asked.

He leaned back in his chair and folded his arms. “Why did you become the Svara Idyah? You still haven’t given me an answer.”

The question caught me off guard. I shivered.

Lo let out a long breath. “About sixteen years ago, when I was thirteen, Undah-hi raiders attacked Zareed, Djmal and Kittat included. I did not think such a thing was right, so I signed up for the militia.”

“Militia?” I asked, wide-eyed. “They take soldiers so young?”

His mouth formed a wry twist. “They did not know how young I was until I was old enough.”

I nodded. “And . . . your siblings, who passed away. Was it from . . . ?”

“One, yes,” he said. “The other from childbirth.”

“I’m sorry.”

“What of yours?” he asked, tapping his fingers against his arm. “Or is that a secret as well?”

“I have one sister, Marrine, who’s younger than me. Almost sixteen now,” I said, staring at the seams of my gloves, tracing each stitch with my thumb. “As far as I know, she is well.” I hesitated. “She was sick, when I left. The cold . . . it—”

“It is all right,” Lo interrupted, perhaps due to impatience, but I thought it for the quiver in my voice as I spoke of my sister, whom I had so often mistreated. “I did not come here to pry into the details of your life.”

I glanced up at him.

“Numbers, with your handtalk,” he said, unfolding his arms and going through digits zero through nine on his fingers. “What if they are unspecified quantities? What then?”

I smiled, relieved to change the subject. “Then you make your best guess and wiggle it,” I said. I formed nine by touching my thumb and pinky together, and shook my hand back and forth. “There are a lot of men in the army,” I said. I then flattened my hand, palm toward Lo, and curved my thumb inward, the sign for zero. “There are very few men in my bedroom.”

Lo laughed, more heartily than I had ever heard him do so, and the rare, rich sound of it warmed me, in a manner of speaking. In truth, I licked my teeth to coax them to stop chattering.

“That is smart,” he said. “You surprise me.”