Post by Seek on Dec 17, 2013 23:14:37 GMT 10
Title: Trickster's Bargain
Rating: PG-13
For: Ankhiale
Prompt: 5. Sarai fix-it fic: TC built her up as a really good potential queen candidate, and TQ seemed to go out of its way to tear her down.
Summary: Sarai makes a bargain. She does not quite expect the consequences.
Notes and Warnings: This is a fic, but probably not the one you were expecting
-
Avoiding Aly was child’s play, Sarai thought, a term that was strangely appropriate, given Aly seemed to think it was all a game.
Games that got raka killed.
“I want out,” she said, aloud.
The slave in the room continued polishing the vase. She was dark-skinned, but not raka—her greying hair was fuzzy and short-shorn, and most tellingly of all, she wore an eyepatch. Sarai did not have the Sight, but she was observant and she knew most of the slaves on the Balitang estate. She did not know this one. She had never known this one, despite her recent appearance on the Balitang grounds.
The tales spoke of the goddess who played tricks on people.
“My lady?”
“I know who you are,” Sarai repeated. She’d heard the tales—the gods choosing a vessel to act through in Carthak, the patron goddess of Carthak herself appearing when the new emperor appealed to her. Zaimid had told her some of them. “I want to bargain.”
Rats streamed out from under the furnishings; Sarai held her tongue and did not scream as they crawled over her feet, seeming to inspect her. The slave straightened up, a walking stick appearing in a hand. She cackled with delight. “Sharp eyes indeed, dearie.”
“You are her. The—” her tongue seemed to lock in her mouth.
“None of that now,” said the Graveyard Hag. “My brother has been…interested in the Islands lately, and things like names tend to draw the attention of my family.” She cackled, as though she’d made a joke. If she had, Sarai couldn’t follow it. “Most interesting. You are the one who made the offerings with young Hetnim. What a charming boy—he knows the way to an old lady’s heart.”
“Yes,” Sarai said. “I want to bargain,” she repeated.
“With a trickster?” Her expression grew sly. “Or the trickster of your Islands, hmm?”
“What has he done for us?” Sarai demanded. “My people are getting killed, and none of us knows the game he’s playing. With you…I remember. Zaimid told me the stories. A farmer bargained with you, so he could kill a noble who murdered his wife. You make bargains, and you stand at the crossroads. And sometimes, you offer a third way where none existed.”
The Graveyard Hag produced a leather dice cup. It rattled; Sarai looked inside it. The dice were carved bone, yellowing. She grinned, gap-toothed. “You have heard much, girlie. And my brother’s been boasting. Thinks he’s got the best trick yet, and that the rest of us ‘lesser tricksters’ can go hang. Roll the bones with me?”
The dice spilled out onto the ground.
The Graveyard Hag said, “I offer you a home away from your home. I offer you the throne of the Copper Islands.”
“And the catch?”
“Patience,” the Graveyard Hag said. “You’ll have to wait for it, dearie. And you’ll have to work for it.”
“I’ll do it.”
“In Carthak.”
Sarai bit her lip. She’d promised Winna, she thought, but all of that fell away with the sharpness of luarin brutality and raka anger and the tangled, tangled mess they’d made of her home. She loved Zaimid; they’d spoken, once or twice of running away from all of this. It had always been in jest; he had offered, but she could’ve never agreed. Until now.
“Is that your price?”
“It is. Oh, don’t look at me like that. My brother’s gotten too cocky of late. He could stand being taken down a peg or two.” Sarai thought that the Trickster probably wasn’t the only one who could do with that. She didn’t say it. “And I think you’ll make things…interesting in Carthak.”
She grinned; her teeth the yellow of the dice.
“Have we a bargain, dearie?”
Sarai nodded. “We do.”
-
The letter came, five years after Mequen was born. After years of surviving the smiles and hidden daggers and poisons of Carthaki politics. As Zaimid had said, almost sardonically, Carthaki politics had rules within rules, and sometimes it gave him a headache keeping track of it all. The Emperor Kaddar and his Tortallan wife, Kalasin, had many, many enemies.
She read the letter. A bloody rebellion in the Copper Islands, and although it had been put down, many heads had rolled when they’d attempted to occupy what was now being called the Bloody Throne.
Sarai held the letter in trembling hands, and said aloud, “She was fourteen.”
“When she chose,” Zaimid said. “She was nineteen.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sarai whispered. A part of her would always see her sister as she was: all of fourteen years old and already too wise, too knowing. And at the same time, thrust into a role too big for her. She was fourteen, and she’d inherited a mess.
I did this to her, she thought. Perhaps, had she known…
She read the letter again. Taybur Sibigat, head of Dove’s guard had signed it.
“Are you…?” Zaimid asked. He left the question hanging.
She closed her eyes. “I want to,” she said, firmly. “I’ll be damned if I let Dove’s kingdom fall apart while I do nothing. They’re still my people, Zaimid.”
His thumbs traced the taut muscles of her back, and she sighed, relaxing beneath his touch. “Then we go,” he said, firmly. “Taybur is right. You’re the only clear candidate left. Otherwise, it falls to civil war.”
“Then we go,” Sarai whispered, heartsore, weary.
-
The Graveyard Hag grinned, and rattled the bones.
Rating: PG-13
For: Ankhiale
Prompt: 5. Sarai fix-it fic: TC built her up as a really good potential queen candidate, and TQ seemed to go out of its way to tear her down.
Summary: Sarai makes a bargain. She does not quite expect the consequences.
Notes and Warnings: This is a fic, but probably not the one you were expecting
-
Avoiding Aly was child’s play, Sarai thought, a term that was strangely appropriate, given Aly seemed to think it was all a game.
Games that got raka killed.
“I want out,” she said, aloud.
The slave in the room continued polishing the vase. She was dark-skinned, but not raka—her greying hair was fuzzy and short-shorn, and most tellingly of all, she wore an eyepatch. Sarai did not have the Sight, but she was observant and she knew most of the slaves on the Balitang estate. She did not know this one. She had never known this one, despite her recent appearance on the Balitang grounds.
The tales spoke of the goddess who played tricks on people.
“My lady?”
“I know who you are,” Sarai repeated. She’d heard the tales—the gods choosing a vessel to act through in Carthak, the patron goddess of Carthak herself appearing when the new emperor appealed to her. Zaimid had told her some of them. “I want to bargain.”
Rats streamed out from under the furnishings; Sarai held her tongue and did not scream as they crawled over her feet, seeming to inspect her. The slave straightened up, a walking stick appearing in a hand. She cackled with delight. “Sharp eyes indeed, dearie.”
“You are her. The—” her tongue seemed to lock in her mouth.
“None of that now,” said the Graveyard Hag. “My brother has been…interested in the Islands lately, and things like names tend to draw the attention of my family.” She cackled, as though she’d made a joke. If she had, Sarai couldn’t follow it. “Most interesting. You are the one who made the offerings with young Hetnim. What a charming boy—he knows the way to an old lady’s heart.”
“Yes,” Sarai said. “I want to bargain,” she repeated.
“With a trickster?” Her expression grew sly. “Or the trickster of your Islands, hmm?”
“What has he done for us?” Sarai demanded. “My people are getting killed, and none of us knows the game he’s playing. With you…I remember. Zaimid told me the stories. A farmer bargained with you, so he could kill a noble who murdered his wife. You make bargains, and you stand at the crossroads. And sometimes, you offer a third way where none existed.”
The Graveyard Hag produced a leather dice cup. It rattled; Sarai looked inside it. The dice were carved bone, yellowing. She grinned, gap-toothed. “You have heard much, girlie. And my brother’s been boasting. Thinks he’s got the best trick yet, and that the rest of us ‘lesser tricksters’ can go hang. Roll the bones with me?”
The dice spilled out onto the ground.
The Graveyard Hag said, “I offer you a home away from your home. I offer you the throne of the Copper Islands.”
“And the catch?”
“Patience,” the Graveyard Hag said. “You’ll have to wait for it, dearie. And you’ll have to work for it.”
“I’ll do it.”
“In Carthak.”
Sarai bit her lip. She’d promised Winna, she thought, but all of that fell away with the sharpness of luarin brutality and raka anger and the tangled, tangled mess they’d made of her home. She loved Zaimid; they’d spoken, once or twice of running away from all of this. It had always been in jest; he had offered, but she could’ve never agreed. Until now.
“Is that your price?”
“It is. Oh, don’t look at me like that. My brother’s gotten too cocky of late. He could stand being taken down a peg or two.” Sarai thought that the Trickster probably wasn’t the only one who could do with that. She didn’t say it. “And I think you’ll make things…interesting in Carthak.”
She grinned; her teeth the yellow of the dice.
“Have we a bargain, dearie?”
Sarai nodded. “We do.”
-
The letter came, five years after Mequen was born. After years of surviving the smiles and hidden daggers and poisons of Carthaki politics. As Zaimid had said, almost sardonically, Carthaki politics had rules within rules, and sometimes it gave him a headache keeping track of it all. The Emperor Kaddar and his Tortallan wife, Kalasin, had many, many enemies.
She read the letter. A bloody rebellion in the Copper Islands, and although it had been put down, many heads had rolled when they’d attempted to occupy what was now being called the Bloody Throne.
Sarai held the letter in trembling hands, and said aloud, “She was fourteen.”
“When she chose,” Zaimid said. “She was nineteen.”
“It doesn’t matter,” Sarai whispered. A part of her would always see her sister as she was: all of fourteen years old and already too wise, too knowing. And at the same time, thrust into a role too big for her. She was fourteen, and she’d inherited a mess.
I did this to her, she thought. Perhaps, had she known…
She read the letter again. Taybur Sibigat, head of Dove’s guard had signed it.
“Are you…?” Zaimid asked. He left the question hanging.
She closed her eyes. “I want to,” she said, firmly. “I’ll be damned if I let Dove’s kingdom fall apart while I do nothing. They’re still my people, Zaimid.”
His thumbs traced the taut muscles of her back, and she sighed, relaxing beneath his touch. “Then we go,” he said, firmly. “Taybur is right. You’re the only clear candidate left. Otherwise, it falls to civil war.”
“Then we go,” Sarai whispered, heartsore, weary.
-
The Graveyard Hag grinned, and rattled the bones.