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possessions; nothing there worth the trip to gather. A small dagger, a ragged shirt, a worn pair of sandals, a handful of coin that looked pitiful next to what he hoped to make now—if Scratha intended to pay him as a servant rather than use him as a slave. It seemed worth the risk.

“I have nothing to get, my lord.”

“Sit quietly, then.”

The noble knelt at a low wooden desk, pulled a quill, ink, and three pieces of parchment from the shallow drawers as though he'd known they were there, and began to write. Not being able to read, Idisio could only guess; one looked like a list, the other like a letter to someone. Judging by the frequent pauses, a good deal of thought was going into the writing of both. The third took less time.

Idisio sank to the floor while Scratha wrote, grateful for the chance to rest. His bare feet were scuffed and aching from walking over so much unaccustomed stone.

He normally kept to the sand and dirt paths of the city, but almost all of the trip to and through the Palace had been on paved roads and along hard stone corridors.

“Here's your first task, then, servant ,” Scratha said at last, rolling up two of the papers, note inside the list, and fastening a silk ribbon tightly around them. The longer letter he folded and pushed to one side. “Go with that man waiting outside and take these to the steward. They're just supply lists and directions on what we'll need,” he added, sounding impatient, as if Idisio had questioned him.

Idisio stood, feeling the weight on his feet as if he were made of lead more than flesh. “You're not going, my lord?”

“No. I have other . . . tasks to do.”
     
     
    The steward was a thin, sharp-faced man of no readily-apparent bloodline and a sour demeanor. He stared at Idisio as if examining a particularly nasty bug.

“Eh . . . the servant to Lord Scratha, s'e ,” the steward's secretary murmured, then withdrew hastily.

The disdain on the steward's face intensified.

“No surprise,” he said, not standing, “that he'd take on such as you.” He held out a thin-boned hand on which veins looped and sprawled prominently against paper-dry skin. “Give me the list, then, don't stand there like a fool.”

Idisio stood silent, gaze on the floor, as the steward snapped the rolls open with quick gestures.

“I see,” the steward said, his voice considerably colder than it had been. “Boy, look at me.”

Idisio raised his gaze slowly.

“Do you know what this letter says, boy?”

“No, s'e . I can't read, and my lord said nothing of it.”

“Kind of him, to send you with a handful of chaos and say nothing to you of it,” the steward said. “Typical of him, in fact.”

He leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his eyes, seeming exasperated.

“The man's got no idea of palace politics, none at all—and not much notion of how to play his own land's games, either. He said nothing of this to you? Are you lying to me, boy?”

“No, s'e , I wouldn't dare.”

“I believe that, at least.” The steward sighed and stood. “Come with me. I'll send a servant along with the supplies by the end of the day. No doubt your hasty young fool of a desert lord will want to leave first thing in the morning. Not that I said that, mind you,” he added with a glare.

“No, s'e . S'e ?” Idisio decided to chance his customary brashness. “What did the letter say?”

“Instructions to clean you up, and no surprise. You stink.”
     
     
    Cleaning him up, as it turned out, involved a thorough scrubbing by a fat old palace eunuch who only gave over the brush when Idisio threatened to shove it somewhere unpleasant, and only retreated farther than arm's length when satisfied that Idisio really would clean himself.
    Idisio emerged feeling very raw and sour, especially when he found his old clothes gone. In their place lay the silks he'd wished for, spread out ruby and white on the wide clothes-stool, and a pair of dark softsoled boots. He stared at them in