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Authors: Carolyn Ives Gilman
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Folk.
“Factor Goran,” he greeted the prisoner. He had decided to use an Inning title to avoid acknowledging Goran’s real station; but now that he heard it, it sounded absurd. To cover his unease, Joffrey spoke forcefully: “May I welcome you again to Tornabay.” It sounded more like an order than a greeting.
The old man did not move from the doorway. Putting on a more urbane tone, Joffrey said, “I see they have already supplied you with proper clothing. Breakfast will be served shortly. If there is anything else we can provide, please ask.”
Still the prisoner did not speak. His prolonged silence was beginning to seem disrespectful. Perhaps the old man did not realize he was in the presence of the commander of the Fourth Fleet’s Northern Squadron; perhaps he did not care.
“Please come in and sit down,” Joffrey said stiffly.
Goran turned his strange, silver eyes on Joffrey. “Why have I been brought back here?” His tone held none of the arrogance Joffrey had expected, only resignation.
“For your own protection, Factor Goran,” Joffrey answered. “We feared that unscrupulous people would try to use you for bad causes.”
“I have managed to prevent that for forty years,” Goran pointed out wearily.
“In uneasy times, extra caution is needed.”
“Is this an uneasy time?”
Was it possible, Joffrey wondered, that the man did not know of the impending Inning occupation of the outer chains? If so, best to keep him ignorant. “The isles are as quiet as always,” he said. “We merely wish to keep them that way.”
“I see,” Goran said.
Joffrey was finding he had to prevent himself from falling back on the old superstitions he had learned from his mother. In spite of all his Inning education and years in the navy, Joffrey felt a secret fascination at facing a man who had been born to give his lifeblood for the isles. There was a more familiar excitement as well—the knowledge of political power in his control. In the Forsakens, this meek old man could create kingdoms.
He showed Goran to the table where a samovar of tea sat waiting. The servants entered with breakfast almost as soon as they sat down. There were five courses to the meal; Goran stared as the servants set them out in gleaming dishes, and Joffrey had to invite him to help himself. He did so awkwardly, picking up the linen napkin and the heavy silver utensils as if they were outlandish and strange. “Your pardon,” he murmured to the Commodore’s curious look. “I have not touched a fork in thirty years.”
“Your exile must have been harsher than anyone intended,” Joffrey said, helping himself to smoked mackerel and hot scones. “I’m sure they never meant you to leave behind civilization altogether.”
“I didn’t,” Goran replied. “But I did leave forks behind.”
As he reached out to set down a serving dish, Joffrey glimpsed his lean arm, covered with a patchwork of white scars from elbow to wrist. Joffrey caught himself staring.
The old man saw his gaze, but made no effort to hide his mutilated arm. Instead, he gazed at it, as if the sight transported him somewhere else. Joffrey, watching closely, realized the old man was struggling with some intense emotion. He wondered in alarm if the stories might be true, and Lashnurai separated from their bandhotai could pine away to death.
When the meal was cleared away, they sat together over some rich imported tea. Goran awkwardly cradled the translucent porcelain cup in his large, hardened hands, his face still tense with the effort to keep his emotions under control. Joffrey realized now that his guest was not silent from artifice or pride, but because he could not trust himself to speak.
In a casual tone Joffrey said, “I thought the Heir of Gilgen did not need to perform ordinary dhota.”
Goran seemed to be steeling himself to answer. “That is true. The Black Mask did not compel me. I chose to give dhota, of my own free will.”
Chose
it? Joffrey
“Factor Goran,” he greeted the prisoner. He had decided to use an Inning title to avoid acknowledging Goran’s real station; but now that he heard it, it sounded absurd. To cover his unease, Joffrey spoke forcefully: “May I welcome you again to Tornabay.” It sounded more like an order than a greeting.
The old man did not move from the doorway. Putting on a more urbane tone, Joffrey said, “I see they have already supplied you with proper clothing. Breakfast will be served shortly. If there is anything else we can provide, please ask.”
Still the prisoner did not speak. His prolonged silence was beginning to seem disrespectful. Perhaps the old man did not realize he was in the presence of the commander of the Fourth Fleet’s Northern Squadron; perhaps he did not care.
“Please come in and sit down,” Joffrey said stiffly.
Goran turned his strange, silver eyes on Joffrey. “Why have I been brought back here?” His tone held none of the arrogance Joffrey had expected, only resignation.
“For your own protection, Factor Goran,” Joffrey answered. “We feared that unscrupulous people would try to use you for bad causes.”
“I have managed to prevent that for forty years,” Goran pointed out wearily.
“In uneasy times, extra caution is needed.”
“Is this an uneasy time?”
Was it possible, Joffrey wondered, that the man did not know of the impending Inning occupation of the outer chains? If so, best to keep him ignorant. “The isles are as quiet as always,” he said. “We merely wish to keep them that way.”
“I see,” Goran said.
Joffrey was finding he had to prevent himself from falling back on the old superstitions he had learned from his mother. In spite of all his Inning education and years in the navy, Joffrey felt a secret fascination at facing a man who had been born to give his lifeblood for the isles. There was a more familiar excitement as well—the knowledge of political power in his control. In the Forsakens, this meek old man could create kingdoms.
He showed Goran to the table where a samovar of tea sat waiting. The servants entered with breakfast almost as soon as they sat down. There were five courses to the meal; Goran stared as the servants set them out in gleaming dishes, and Joffrey had to invite him to help himself. He did so awkwardly, picking up the linen napkin and the heavy silver utensils as if they were outlandish and strange. “Your pardon,” he murmured to the Commodore’s curious look. “I have not touched a fork in thirty years.”
“Your exile must have been harsher than anyone intended,” Joffrey said, helping himself to smoked mackerel and hot scones. “I’m sure they never meant you to leave behind civilization altogether.”
“I didn’t,” Goran replied. “But I did leave forks behind.”
As he reached out to set down a serving dish, Joffrey glimpsed his lean arm, covered with a patchwork of white scars from elbow to wrist. Joffrey caught himself staring.
The old man saw his gaze, but made no effort to hide his mutilated arm. Instead, he gazed at it, as if the sight transported him somewhere else. Joffrey, watching closely, realized the old man was struggling with some intense emotion. He wondered in alarm if the stories might be true, and Lashnurai separated from their bandhotai could pine away to death.
When the meal was cleared away, they sat together over some rich imported tea. Goran awkwardly cradled the translucent porcelain cup in his large, hardened hands, his face still tense with the effort to keep his emotions under control. Joffrey realized now that his guest was not silent from artifice or pride, but because he could not trust himself to speak.
In a casual tone Joffrey said, “I thought the Heir of Gilgen did not need to perform ordinary dhota.”
Goran seemed to be steeling himself to answer. “That is true. The Black Mask did not compel me. I chose to give dhota, of my own free will.”
Chose
it? Joffrey
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