Tanith Lee - Claidi Journals 01 Read Online Free Page A

his hair looked like golden flames itself. The dark grey coat was swinging loose. He wore white under it, and boots that were a darker white. But mainly, he was young. Older than me (did I say I’m about halfway through sixteen?). Eighteen maybe, nineteen.
    In what some of them call my Age-Group.
    Despite that, the thing that is making this so hard to describe is that he had a gleam to him, a polish to him. I used to polish this floor, but life had polished this man. B e in g alive. Living . And he glowed.
    He came from the unknown outside places, the Hell known as the Waste.
    And I’d never thought anything that came from there could look any good. Terrifying, yes; revolting, probably. But not glowing and handsome, packed with energy, and this kind of easy pridefulness. With hair like melted sun.
    One of the princes—Shawb—had risen and now walked along the raised part of the hall, where the royalty were all sitting, until he came to the area just before the Old Ladies’ chairs. Shawb turned swiftly and nodded to them. (Armingat cackled. Corris looked hungry for trouble. Jizania was unreadable.) Then Shawb stared down long and hard at the prisoner.
    “You speak, I understand, the language of the House.”
    The prisoner shrugged slightly. “Among others.”
    “That doesn’t interest me.”
     
    “Nor me, really,” replied the prisoner.
    I liked his voice. It was clear and had a faint accent of something or other. I liked his cheek, too.
    Shawb didn’t.
    “This isn’t a joke. You’re in a bad situation. Didn’t you realize?”
    “Well, after your men fired on me and brought my craft down, I had an idea or two about it.” The Guards growled. Shawb scowled.
    “Your name?”
    The prisoner half turned. He put a hand in a pocket of his coat, and at once a hundred knives and rifles were scraping up at menacing angles. But out of the pocket he took only a clean white handkerchief, very laundered.
    “Nemian,” he said. “That’s my name.” And then he walked straight across the space they’d stood him in, right up to the (unguarded) table and chairs of the Old Ladies. He laid the handkerchief in front of Jizania Tiger.
    During this, Shawb was shouting and the lined-up Guards broke ranks, and I heard the rifles clicking and clacking, getting ready to fire. I’d dropped the fan I was supposed to wave and put both my fists over my mouth. What a hopeless gesture. But I didn’t know I’d done it until afterward.
    It was Jizania Tiger who held up her topazed hand.
    “All right. What do you want, young man.?” she asked in her excellent voice.
    “To give you this, madam.”
    “What is it? The rag you wipe your nose on?”
    Nemian laughed. I liked his laugh. So did she. A carved little smile moved her lips.
    “Of course it isn’t, madam. It’s a flower from the Waste. You might care for it.” Shawb bawled, “Don’t touch the muck—it may be poisonous.”
    But Jizania said, “Not everything in the Waste is bad.”
    I’d never heard anyone say that before. (It was then I noticed my fists clamped over my mouth and took them down.)
    She’d unwrapped the handkerchief and lifted up the flower. It really was one. It was fresh and firm, with big juicy green leaves, and the color of the flower head was crimson.
    “Oh, yes,” said Jizania. As if she knew these flowers, although I’d swear there are none in the Garden, and so it must have come from the Waste. :
    And the Waste was hell-on-earth. So everyone had always said.
    Nemian turned from Jizania with a bow. He looked around at all of us. He was smiling and unfussed even though I now saw there was a streak of blood across his forehead. His eyes looked tired. I felt sorry about his eyes. I liked their color, but I couldn’t remember what it was—only the shape, and the shadow.
     
    He said, “I’m on a search, a quest for something. I might have liked to visit your wonderful gardens, but alternatively I could have just gone elsewhere, if you’d