“Your father was among the leaders of the rebellion, correct?”
I licked my lips, suddenly dry. “More than that. Haneaith Tearshan killed Arlo Peridion.”
A heavy silence fell on the tent.
After a while, Myar Mal asked, “What happened then?”
I shrugged. “Our people created our own state and pledged fealty to Dahls.”
“With no repercussions?” inquired a man with a slight tan on his forehead and pale cheeks and chin, giving an impression of a recently shaved beard.
“No,” answered another vessár, a woman for a change. She was old, her hair completely white and her face marked with deep furrows. If appearance was anything to go by, she could have been around when it happened. “It was the very beginning of Mespana. We probably didn’t have resources to challenge, as Aldait Han said, a couple of thousand people. Especially since they didn’t want to fight us.”
“And Tarviss didn’t call for retribution?” asked the half-tanned guy.
“They were rebuffed,” replied the elder man. “We couldn’t extradite all the rebels, and we refused to let the Tarvissian army into our worlds.”
“What about Karlan Peridion?” demanded Myar Mal, putting an end to the disruption.
“He is Arlo’s son,” I explained. “He was a child at the time of the revolution, so he was spared and adopted by one of the peon families.”
“Did you know him personally?”
I shrugged, too late realizing this gesture probably meant nothing to the Dahlsi. “He was raised among us, but he was never one of us. He’s faithful to the old Tarvissian class system.”
“What does that mean?”
I snorted. “He’s a noble, I’m a peon. He wouldn’t speak to me unless to give me an order.”
“I guess that didn’t sit well with your… community.”
I took a moment to consider the question. I couldn’t say from experience—I was born after the rebellion, when he had already been “put into place” and never wondered what that meant. But when I was growing up, he was a sulky, moody youngster who always kept to himself. We often bumped into each other while trying to avoid everyone else. Only by speaking with older children did I learn that the first few times he had tried to boss others around, he was beaten to a pulp. So, he stopped commanding and, soon after, stopped talking to anyone other than his group of cronies.
But the Dahlsi didn’t have to know that.
“He was free to leave at any point,” I stated instead.
“Did he?”
“I don’t know,” I said, feeling a pang of annoyance. “I wasn’t interested in his whereabouts when I was living in Nes Peridion—and certainly not after I joined Mespana.”
Then I recalled the clothing he wore in Montak Mansion. Although of a familiar cut, it was of better quality than anything I’d ever seen: a shirt of blue silk and a green jyat embroidered with black and white beads. I thought he must’ve gotten it off world, perhaps even in Tarviss itself. But when I opened my mouth to say that, the next question was already being asked.
“What about the others? Did you recognize anyone else?”
I huffed, slightly annoyed at the interruption. “Arasha Meralith, Kiraes Auridion, Taneem Kiovar,” I listed. While Peridion occupied most of my attention, I had managed to look around a bit. “They were children of the courtiers of old Peridion. Spared, like Karlan.”
And following his lead like dogs.
“And, I guess, they were of a higher class and didn’t mingle with you,” said Innam Ar-Leig acridly.
I had no problem recognizing him: he was the vessár of the First Cohort, responsible for training fresh recruits. It’d been a few cycles since I joined in, but the sheer sound of his voice still made my skin crawl.
“You guessed right,” I replied equally inimically.
My thoughts briefly turned to the surrounding area, burned to ashes. The rebels’ provenance made it clear why it had been so easy for them to destroy the livelihoods of people who called Maurir home. They didn’t give a shit about us.
There could be other reasons. They could seek revenge for old Peridion—and their own parents who had died by his side. Or wish to restore the old order—and nowhere was it as broken as on farming worlds. The Tarvissi in cities also came from the lower classes, but they were free people: merchants and craftsmen, sometimes soldiers. Us, peons, on the other hand, belonged to our lords. Leaving wasn’t an option. So, those of us who lived here, in Maurir or Nes Peridion or any other world in Meon, were either rebels or runaways. And nobles couldn’t stand that.
“Do everyone in the Mansion come from Nes Peridion?” asked the elder guy who spoke earlier.
“I don’t know, Vessár. Despite what you may think, I don’t recognize all the Tarvissi in Meon.” Belatedly I thought I should probably keep my annoyance in check while speaking to my superiors.
“No one expects you to,” reassured Myar Mal. He paused for a while, then said, “I apologize. For putting you through this. I wasn’t… familiar with the conflicts within the Tarvissian community.” He went silent, apparently awaiting an answer.
But what could I say? Everything I felt in the last couple of hours—anxiety, fear, betrayal, relief, and anxiety again—was still fresh in my mind, still raw, twisting and coiling and knotting into a big ball that seemed like sheer exhaustion.
And he didn’t apologize for lying to me.
I shifted uncomfortably. “It’s all right,” I murmured.
For a moment, he remained silent, like he expected me to say something else. Nothing came to my mind.
Finally, he started talking, pausing frequently, and if it had been anyone else, I would have thought he was hesitating. “I do appreciate what you did for us today. I know it must have been hard for you. To face your kin like that.”
The tip of the knife flashed before my eyes and I snapped them shut. I didn’t feel any particular kinship with those assholes. But truth be told, I never felt any particular kinship with anyone, save for my closest family.
“If
