I’m afraid I have been rude to no purpose.”
“But you would be rude to a purpose?” she asked.
He blinked. “Well . . . of course. Even my enemies would grant me that.”
“Then I say we have that in common, Rafe Fenton. I am Ixkaab Balam, and I’m here to trade for . . . two ounces of saffron from your family. At least, that’s what I estimate. Any help you could give me on the matter of dressing forty hares I will appreciate.”
“What the devil would I know of dressing hares? I’m a philosopher, madam. An acolyte to the ancient pursuit of higher knowledge. We don’t generally concern ourselves with mundane affairs of the common man.” He turned to one of the closed doors—presumably his father’s—and hurled: “Particularly those related to trading and spices and feasts!”
Kaab muttered some choice words in her own language, and turned to the trembling chain of servants who had followed the Fenton scion into the room.
“Would you please tell his man of business about the saffron?” she asked in their general direction.
“He’ll be back soon, miss,” said the maid who had opened the door. “But I expect you’ll be needing at least four and a half or five ounces, for that many hares. If you’d like to do them in the Tremontaine style.”
Kaab bestowed the maid with her most brilliant smile. “That is perfect. I thank you very much for your helpful information. Now I will sit here and await the man of business.”
She selected the nearest leather chair and sat upon it. A very tiny embalmed head rested on a raised display cushion to her right. She did her best to ignore it.
Rafe sighed like a north wind, turned to her in a slouch, and regarded her under lowered lids.
“I expect this all-important feast is your fault.”
“You expect correctly.”
“You’re the long-lost daughter.”
“I’ve never been lost in my life!”
“It’s a colloquial expression. And really, never?”
Kaab allowed herself a direct look. “I am a first daughter of a first daughter of the Balam. I have been trained from birth to the service. I do not get lost.” For very long, she amended internally, for honesty’s sake. Confusing left and north didn’t count. Nor did a few dizzy, ill-fated nights in the company of the brilliant Citlali.
“Lucky you,” he said.
Kaab hadn’t felt lucky for seven months, but she couldn’t very well contradict him. And perhaps he was right—she was alive, which was more than she could say for the relatives who had accompanied her on the mission.
“Why do you say so?”
He gave the shut door another moody glance, and then cracked a bitter, self-deprecating smile. “Because you wish to do that which you have been born into. I am the first son of a trading family, and I wish to dedicate my life to science. My family is . . . merely tolerant. As if the movements of the very stars in the heavens are a delirium, a fever that will pass if they spoil me enough.”
“I’m sure they have spoiled you sufficiently,” she said dryly.
Rafe didn’t catch the sarcasm. “They don’t bother to understand a damned thing about my world! Take today. Father summons me home to attend your blasted feast—no offense intended—and this week of all weeks is when we must protest the Board of Governors before they vote to ruin the very institutions of higher learning! There are rumors that they’ll meet at least once this week, and if I’m not on hand for the protests, I will never forgive myself.”
Kaab knew that she should ask him about these protests and learn more of the local political situation, but the unquestioning arrogance of his manner made her itch to bait him, just a little.
“You’re very important, then?”
Now Rafe noticed. “I’m—” He frowned at her. “Aren’t you the little princess.”
Kaab widened her eyes. “Do princesses here carry two pounds of Caana chocolate to make trades with the spoiled sons of spice merchants?”
Rafe’s bottom lip trembled even as the rest of his face struggled with outrage. His lip got the better of him and he let out a sweet, rueful chuckle. “Well, you’re interesting, at least. What was that you said about two pounds of chocolate?”
Kaab lifted her bag to her lap and loosened the drawstring enough for the rich, bitter aroma of processed cocoa to drift in his direction. He swallowed.
“Five ounces of saffron, you said?”
She nodded. “And the hares.”
“We’re spice merchants, not butchers!”
“I’m sure you can manage it. Are you not a merchant’s son?”
He looked at her sourly. “A scholar. As I said.”
“I can,” she said delicately, “of course, wait for his man of business . . .”
He looked again at the bag, with its very valuable chocolate. Even more valuable, she gathered, to a scholar looking for status and leverage over his colleagues, than to an established merchant who regularly bought from her family.
Rafe Fenton nodded with sudden determination. “I’ll help you. This business might be significantly beneath me, but”—he cocked his head and gave her a little grin—“I can certainly get you forty goddamned hares. Do we have a deal?”
Kaab automatically put her hand over her heart. He did the same and they exchanged bows. Only when she met his eyes again did she remember that these people clasped hands to make agreements. He tilted his head in that way he had, as if to say don’t underestimate me. She laughed.
“I could come to like you, Rafe Fenton. I don’t like everyone.”
“Well neither do I, Princess Balam. Indeed, I’d lay good odds that I’m even more accomplished in the art of making enemies than you are.”
Kaab quite believed him.
• • •
Visits home generally never netted Rafe more than a throat raw from arguing (not yelling, as his father loved to put it in that infuriatingly soft way of his) and a strong desire for strong wine, a strong man, and a bed sturdy enough to enjoy them. Depending on how impossible the visit, he had been known to forgo the latter in favor of whatever hard surface lay handy and tolerate Joshua—his best friend and long-suffering roommate—pulling the splinters from his chest the following morning. After receiving his father’s summons to the bosom of the Fenton merchant empire, he’d spent the morning in the pub with Joshua, alternating complaints about the Board of Governors’ proposed bylaw change with even more vociferous condemnations of the petty concerns of the so-aptly-termed petty merchant class.
“Thank the gods they won’t actually vote until next month. Imagine, letting the professors dictate which students’ committees they’ll sit on! Choosing one’s own
