what he’d wanted to prove to Sedric? That he could put him right back where he’d been, all those years ago?
Their first encounter had happened at a Trader gathering, at a winter wedding. The bride had been seventeen, and the young husband-to-be had been his friend Prittus, an older neighbour who had tutored him in the Chalcedean language that his father had insisted he must learn. He had always been kind and patient with Sedric, their lessons much more social and enjoyable than the ciphering and history and basic navigation lessons that he received from his other tutor. The other tutor was a shared master, hired by a group of Trader families to instruct their sons. That man was an ogre, and his fellow students alternated between coarse mockery of one another and sarcastic comments on Sedric’s precise recitations and reports. He hated attending those classes, dreaded the snubbing and mockery of the other pupils. It was a wonder he had learned anything there. But Prittus had been different. He’d been a teacher who cared, one who found readings for his pupil that interested him. He’d treasured his hours with Prittus.
So he’d watched Prittus make his wedding promises in a sullen gloom of disappointment. He’d have no time to tutor Sedric now; he’d be following his father into the spice trade and he’d have all the concerns of a young man with his own household. Sedric’s sole island of company was sinking back into his sea of isolation.
Prittus had stood tall in his simple green Trader robe, the candlelight waking glints in his gleaming black hair. The vows spoken, he turned to the girl at his side and looked down into her face with that smile that Sedric had come to know so well. The girl’s face lit with a rosy blush of joy. He put his hands out and the girl set her small fingers in his; Sedric had to turn aside, choking with jealousy over all he could never hope to possess. The couple turned to face their guests and the applause washed around them like the breaking waves of a gentle sea.
Sedric had not clapped. When the applause ended, he’d finished the glass of sparkling wine he held, and set the glass down on the edge of one of the laden feast tables. The room swirled with smiling, talking people, all eager to wish the young couple well. Close to the door, a handful of young men were speaking in deep good-humoured voices to one another. He caught a leering reference to the night that awaited Prittus, and the round of bawdy chuckles that followed it. He’d made an excuse as he pushed past them to the door and left the crowded Traders’ Concourse to go outside for some air. He didn’t even bother with his coat; he wanted to feel the wind on his face. He wanted to be cold. It would match his mood.
A storm was threatening, one that couldn’t make up its mind between icy rain and wet, driven flakes of snow. The wind gusted and died, and then spat sleet again. The thick clouds were making late afternoon into early evening. He didn’t care. He’d left the shelter of the large porch of the Concourse, strolled past the line of waiting carriages and well-bundled drivers. He’d gone walking in the deepening twilight on the meticulously groomed grounds that surrounded the Concourse.
The gardens were desolate and deserted this time of year. Most of the trees had lost their leaves, and the unimpeded wind blew sharply. Fallen leaves littered the gravel paths. There was a stand of evergreens at the edge of a herb garden that had gone to seed. He headed instinctively toward the protection of the grove. In the circle of their shelter, the wind could barely find him. He turned his eyes up to the cold winter sky and tried to find a single star through the overcast. He couldn’t. He lowered his face and wiped rain from his cheeks.
‘Weeping at a wedding? What a sentimental fool you are.’
He’d turned in shock. He hadn’t imagined anyone else would be out in this weather. It was even more of a shock to realize that the man was Hest, and that he must have followed him. He’d been a part of the group of men by the door. Sedric knew his name and his reputation, but little more than that. The wealthy and popular young Trader moved in a social circle several notches higher than Sedric’s orbit. He wondered why he had followed him out into the night. His long deep-blue cloak was nearly black in the dimming light. The collar was turned up high, framing his face.
‘It’s just rain. I came outside to clear my head of a little too much wine.’
Hest listened to him silently, head cocked mockingly. He raised his sculpted brows in a rebuke for his lie.
‘I’m not weeping,’ Sedric added defensively.
‘Aren’t you?’ Hest came toward Sedric through the wet snow. It was definitely snow now. Big flakes of it spangled the tall man’s dark hair. ‘I saw you watching the happy couple and thought to myself, now there’s a spurned lover, watching his dreams stroll off without him.’
Sedric watched his approach warily. ‘I hardly know her,’ he said. ‘Prittus was my tutor. I’m just here to wish him well.’
‘As we all are,’ Hest agreed smoothly. ‘Our dear friend Prittus enters a new stage of his life now. He takes on the duties of a husbandman. And his loving friends, though we wish him well, will see far less of him now.’ The light was waning from the sky and the shadows of the evergreens made the winter afternoon even darker. The fading light took the colours with it; Hest’s face was a study of planes and shadows. He was smiling. He narrow lips were chiselled into a fine smile as he asked him, ‘And what did Prittus tutor you in?’
‘Chalcedean. My father says that every Trader needs to speak Chalcedean well, without an accent. Prittus speaks it like a native; he had a Chalcedean tutor.’
Hest stopped, not even an arm’s length away. ‘Chalcedean?’ His smile grew wider, baring even teeth. ‘Yes. I agree with your father. Every Trader should know Chalcedean. Some say they will always be our enemies. I say, that is a good reason to learn as much as we can about them. Not just their language, but their customs. Ancient enemies or not, they will be our partners as we buy and sell goods. They’ll cheat the man who is vulnerable to them. But you’ll need more than just the language. A man can speak the language of a place, but if he lacks knowledge of the customs, he will always betray himself as a foreigner. And thus not be accepted. Don’t you agree?’
‘I suppose. Yes.’ The tall Trader was drunk, Sedric decided. He had come close enough that Sedric could smell the spirits on his breath.
His dark eyes roved over Sedric’s face in a disconcerting way. He licked his lips and said, ‘So. Let me hear your accent. Say something in Chalcedean.’
‘What?’
‘That’s not Chalcedean.’ Hest grinned. ‘Try again.’
‘What would you like me to say?’ Sedric felt trapped. Was the man mocking him or trying to make his acquaintance? His conversation walked a knife’s edge between taunting and friendliness.
‘That would be good. Yes. Say, “Please, sir, what would you like?”’
It took him a moment to parse it in his mind. When he spoke, the words came smoothly, but Hest shook his head and made a sad mouth. ‘Oh, dear. Not like that. You need to open your mouth more. They’re a very voluble people.’
‘What?’
‘Say it again, but open your mouth more. Purse your lips out.’
It was mockery. Sedric was certain of it now. He made his words brisk. ‘I’m cold. I’m going back to the Traders’ Concourse now.’
But as he strode past him, Hest’s hand had shot out suddenly and gripped Sedric’s left shoulder. He’d tugged him sharply, spinning the smaller man so that Sedric almost collided with him. ‘Say it again,’ he urged him pleasantly. ‘In any language you like. Say, “Please,
