Charity and Tradition
After Zahir had largely made peace with the fact that Mahmud was to be imprisoned for life while his cousin was dead, he found that his time in the desert passed in a peculiar fashion. His days, spent studying and attending the banquets in the evenings, seemed to go by in a pleasantly slow manner, but the days accumulated into a week more swiftly than he would have liked.
Before he knew it, the month of fasting had drawn to a close, and the royal entourage went through the excruciatingly prolonged process of packing their belongings and getting in everybody else's way that heralded their final departure from Persopolis.
"If only half the unnecessary, fawning courtiers who came down here with the king and queen returned with us, we could make double the time," muttered a disgruntled Zahir under his breath to Trevor, as the progress rode out of the desert city at last. "Also, if most nobles didn't bring a castle's worth of clothes with them, we could double our time again."
"When that happens, you can call me the emperor of Carthak." Mischievously, Trevor grinned. "It's best not to waste your wishes on things that will never come true."
"What are you wishing for, then?" Zahir wanted to know, discovering that Trevor's humor was, as usual, a balm for his frustration.
"That we'll arrive at the Royal Palace some time prior to Midwinter," answered Trevor, his grin blossoming into a full-fledged smile. "If you ask me, that's a reasonable goal to set, and my mentor, a very wise man, always says that the first step in achieving any goal is to set a reasonable one."
"That's funny," observed Zahir, snickering. "My knightmaster always says that the first step in achieving anything is creating an ethnically diverse team to tackle the problem."
"Does he really?" Dubiously, Trevor arched an eyebrow.
"No," Zahir admitted, his smirk increasing, "but it sounds like something a progressive would say. I mean, progressives honestly think that ethnic diversity has solved more problems than it has caused when anyone over the age of five who gave the issue any thought would know that a million crises would have been averted if everybody remained with their own cultural group on their own land."
"I think that the problems start when more than one cultural group claims a territory as their own," Trevor remarked, shaking his head. "Besides, I see nothing wrong with integrating various ethnic groups into a country's government."
"Even when those being integrated are mere token nods to political correctness?" snorted Zahir. "You don't find that a tad insulting to your higher order thinking skills? I sure do, despite the fact that I am a Bazhir, and so am not supposed to have any higher order thinking capabilities to offend at all."
"I refuse to spend my life taking umbrage at that which is not intended to be insulting," replied Trevor. "I would suggest that for your own happiness you institute a similar policy."
"I forgot for a moment that I was dealing with a diplomat," Zahir scoffed, rolling his eyes. "Next time, I shall have to run my response by the Joint Committee of Verbosity for further wordification before attempting to speak to you, since plainly we are not talking the same language."
"I am but a lowly diplomat-in-training." Here, Trevor attempted a graceful half-bow that almost caused him to topple off his horse in a most ungainly manner. "My woeful inexperience is apparent in the offense I unwittingly heaped upon you."
"Oh, be quiet," grumbled Zahir. "If you aren't going to say anything useful, keep your mouth shut. Don't yatter on for several minutes saying nothing at all, and don't talk all day at the expense of actually accomplishing anything. Mithros, the world would be a better place if all diplomats had to learn that."
"We do learn that," Trevor insisted, his gaze earnest. "Unfortunately, Zahir, this world is filled with people who have differing opinions on how things should be done. Those various opinions deserved to be heard, and compromises need to be made before anything can be done."
"Well, compromises could be reached and opinions could be heard much faster if diplomats followed the novel concept of actually saying what they mean instead of dancing endlessly around issues," muttered Zahir stubbornly, refusing to be outsmarted.
"Many wars would start if diplomats began saying exactly what they felt or thought," Trevor pointed out. "Bluntness miffs many individuals."
"Only because they aren't accustomed to honesty, and only because the truth is too hideous for them to bear, although that hardly makes the truth a lie or the person who points out the blatant lack of beauty responsible for the ugliness, does it?" responded Zahir tersely.
"I suppose one could make that argument, yes," Trevor said.
"Don't do that," mumbled Zahir, burying himself in his cloak, as a frigid gust of wind tore through him. During the time he and Trevor had been conversing, the progress had left the sandy desert for muddy roads surrounded by barren trees and dead plants. As far as he was concerned, there was no point leaving the desert for a landscape that would not awaken until spring, especially when that landscape was considerably colder than the desert. Of course, he supposed that he should be grateful that the mud road wasn't yet coated in a slippery sheen of snow and ice.
"Do what?" asked Trevor, his forehead furrowing in puzzlement.
"Don't agree with me in that tone that suggests that you are still right, but you are only agreeing with me because you are the bigger person," Zahir muttered testily, wishing that his teeth weren't chattering, as that made him sound more pathetic than authoritative. "It makes winning an argument with you a very unsatisfactory experience."
"If I may humbly state that I believe the problem lies with your belief that in order to win an argument with me, you must defeat me, when, in reality, it is entirely possible for us both to win the same argument," commented Trevor affably.
"You can't do anything humbly," Zahir groused, wrinkling his nose, and not caring if he was being the donkey who accused the rooster of having too large a head. "That's just your problem. Anyway, it's absolute nonsense that both of us can win the same argument. If there is a winner, then there has to be a loser."
"That's assuming there is only one correct answer," Trevor pointed out, his tone amiable. "For many things, there are many valid answers, and, thus, multiple people can be right."
Zahir was about to grumble that took all the glory out of a victory, but he was cut off when his companion, jabbing his finger down the lane eagerly, exclaimed, "We're approaching the village where we are to eat at the inn. Splendid. I was just starting to get hungry."
"No doubt you'll lose your appetite as soon as you catch sight of the food," snickered Zahir, who was in a foul temper because, since he had chosen today to make up the day of fasting he had missed when Nadir attacked his village, he hadn't eaten breakfast and he wouldn't be consuming the midday meal, either.
"If you followed the rule of etiquette that dictates that if one can't say anything nice at all, one shouldn't say anything, you would never talk at all, Zahir," observed Trevor with a heartiness that somehow removed any sting his words otherwise might have possessed.
As he established as much, the entourage rode into the village, which was no more than a collection of ramshackle huts that appeared in imminent danger of being swept up by a mighty gust of wind. Most of the huts had no doors to keep out the harsh winter weather, many of the thatch roofs had holes in them, and the structures that had windows covered them with animal hides rather than glass.
Looking around the obviously impoverished village, Zahir swallowed hard. Truth be told, he wasn't used to seeing poverty like this. Although there were poor and rich families among the Bazhir, the distinctions between them were not as painfully apparent as they were in the rest of Tortall. Among his people, everyone lived in tents, instead of a minority of people dwelling in magnificent castles while most beings huddled in miserable shacks.
Among the Bazhir, the chiefs did not hold themselves above those they led in the manner that the Tortollan nobles separated themselves from the common masses in their fiefs. Tribes were so small that chiefs could never forget that every member was intertwined in a complex, important web, and the nightly communion with the Voice ensured that the leader of the Bazhir always remembered that they were one.
Glancing around at the hovels around him as he approached the inn, which was the largest building as well as the one in the best repair, Zahir felt guilty about complaining about the quality of the food those in the monarchs' train would be offered. After all, at least they would be provided with something to eat, unlike the many Tortallans who feared starvation in the winter and had to worry about where their next meal would come from…
It was a luxury, indeed, to be able to gripe about the taste or texture of the food you were given, he rebuked himself as he trailed Trevor into the inn. No wonder one of the many reasons the Bazhir participated in the month of fasting was to remind themselves of what it was like to not have their basic needs met and to emphasize just how much they took for granted in their day to day existence…
While he was engrossed in his ruminations, he absently sank onto a bench across from Trevor and a pockmarked serving girl placed a steaming bowl of lamb stew in front of him along with a plate of thickly buttered bread. As the heady aroma of the stew deluged his nostrils, he realized with a start that the cook at this inn must have actually known how to prepare food and had probably made the best meal he could for the monarchs. It was a pity that Zahir had to refrain from eating something that smelled so delicious, but, then again, he supposed his sacrifice would have little value if he didn't deprive himself of something that mattered to him.
"Your stew is losing more liquid to evaporation than to your eating it," Trevor remarked after a moment when Zahir failed to pick up his spoon.
"I won't be eating until after sunset tonight," explained Zahir, ignoring his growling stomach. "I accidentally ate before the sun went down one day during the month of fasting, and I want to make up for that day now."
"When did you become so religious?" Trevor asked, amused.
"I'm not religious, but rather honorable." Zahir's lips thinned. "Trevor, I made a promise to myself that I would not eat during the day for a month. Since I broke that vow to myself, I must atone for that now. A man has nothing if he doesn't have his word, and he can't trust anyone if he lies to himself."
"Well, it's most ill-bred to eat while your companion doesn't." Sighing, Trevor put down his spoon. "That means I shall have to abstain from eating, too, even though it does seem a pity to waste such tasty lamb stew."
"We don't have to waste it," gasped Zahir, leaning forward in excitement as a wonderful idea surged through his brain like lightning darting across a sky during a summer thunderstorm. "We'll give our food to some destitute villager who needs it more."
"My mother always said that I should be the change that I wish to see in the world. Still, how will we decide which villager to give our food to?" Trevor wanted to know, as the pair of them rose, clutching their dishes of bread and stew.
"We'll give the food to whichever poor villager we see first." As they crossed the crowded inn and wrapped their cloaks about them once more, Zahir shrugged. "In a place like this, anyone can benefit from any food we offer, and it is nearly impossible to determine who needs our help the most."
"I suppose that's true," agreed Trevor, his voice grim as they left the inn, stepping out into the cold wind that buffeted them instantly, as though attempting to force them back indoors.
For a short time, the two of them walked down the muddy lane, hoping to spot a villager brave enough to be outdoors on a day as nasty as this one, and fearing that they would have to resort to walking up to doorless huts if they didn't. Finally, to their relief, they saw a flaxen-haired girl wrapped in a fur coat that was too small for her hunched over like a crone, gathering tinder from a woodpile.
"Good afternoon," Trevor called, navigating a twisting course through the mud puddles over to the girl with Zahir at his side. "It's a rather chilly day, isn't it?"
"Ma told me that if I talk to strangers she'll wear me out." Without bothering to glance up at them, the girl continued to dump wood into her threadbare apron, which she was using like a sack.
"You've already spoken to us," Zahir informed her dryly, holding out his bread and stew. "Now you might as well take the food we're offering you back to your family."
"Ma says never to accept food from strangers, 'cause it might be poisoned." Warily, the girl looked up at him, her face pinched like a prune before its time from being forced to see so much death and survive so much deprivation. Studying her, Zahir understood with a surge of shock that northern nobles didn't just try to crush the Bazhir—they also attempted to destroy their own serfs.
"Why would we want to poison you?" Zahir made his voice gruff, because he sensed somehow that this girl wouldn't know how to handle softness after spending all of her life surrounded by roughness. "You aren't important enough for anyone to trouble with that."
"I ain't important enough for you to be givin' me your food, neither," argued the girl, her eyes narrowing. "What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing," Zahir educated her brusquely. "It's fit for a king, or it should be given that His Majesty is eating the same stew and bread in the inn right now."
"Why are you handin' it out to me, then?" demanded the girl.
"We're fasting, or going without food to strengthen our relationship with the divine," Trevor said, smiling disarmingly at her.
"It must be nice to be able to choose not to eat," the girl muttered under her breath, but at last she lowered her defenses enough to take the dishes from their outstretched hands. "Well, Ma always says that even though you shouldn't beg, you also shouldn't refuse charity when there is little enough of it in the world as it is."
"Your ma sounds like a very wise woman," observed Trevor, bowing courteously to her.
"That ain't what she says." Offering a tentative grin that made her finally appear a bit like a child, the girl curtsied awkwardly. "She is always mumblin' that she isn't smart enough to be the village idiot."
"Only the greatest sages among us realize their own ignorance, while the fools among us blunder around mistakenly believing they know everything, and by my pitiful attempt at sounding intelligent, we can all discern that I am nothing more than a very pompous fool," replied Trevor, his beam growing so that it extended from ear to ear. Watching him, Zahir suspected that his friend was pleased at charming this hard country girl.
"Are you fool enough to be wantin' to come into our house?" the girl inquired.
Although the question was directed toward Trevor, Zahir intervened. "I'm afraid that the king and queen will be ready to leave soon, so we shouldn't stick around."
"In that case, I'll be switchin' the food to our own dishes so you two can be on your way," responded the girl. With that, she spun on her heel and disappeared into her family's hovel, her apronful of wood slung over her shoulders and the dishes balanced on her palms.
For a few moments, Zahir and Trevor stood, their cloaks billowing behind them in the wind, outside the shack, waiting silently for the girl to return with the inn's plates and bowls.
When she handed them back the dishes, scrubbed clean, Zahir couldn't refrain from staring at the pristine pottery. Catching sight of him gawking down at the clean plates and bowls, the girl glowered at him, and established curtly, "We're poor, but we ain't savages. We've got soap and water, and we know how to wash dishes better than most nobles."
"Of course you aren't savages," murmured Zahir, rubbing his thumb over the rim of the bowl he was clutching. "You're human, which means that, just like the rest of us, you sometimes act like animals."
"Humph. As long as we are agreed that my family ain't any more savage than anyone else, that's fine I suppose," pronounced the girl, lifting her nose into the air and disappearing into her hut once more without another word.
Caught by surprise by her abrupt dismissal of them, Zahir and Trevor remained motionless for a couple of seconds. Then, recovering themselves, they made their way back to the inn. While they did so, Trevor commented, "We never learned her name."
"She never learned ours, either." Zahir shrugged. "It doesn't matter as odds are a million to one that we'll never meet again in this lifetime."
"All the same, I should like to think of her as Nell," stated Trevor in a hushed tone. "I always thought Nell was a beautiful name, and, if I had a sister, I would love it if she were called that."
"Nell," Zahir repeated, swirling the letters around in his mouth and tasting them as though they were spices. "Yes, I suppose it is a rather nice name-simple, but pretty."
As he spoke, they entered the inn, where most of the royal progress was still finishing their meals. When they passed King Jonathan and Queen Thayet, Zahir's knightmaster rested a staying hand on his arm, asking, "Where were you, Zahir?"
It was on the tip of Zahir's tongue to claim that he had visited the privy, but nobody ever went to the privy with dishes full of food and returned with them empty. Besides, that would be a lie, and an honorable Bazhir didn't tell falsehoods. After all, lies were disgraceful, and they definitely shouldn't be spread in order to cover up for an act of charity that wasn't really shameful…
"Trevor and I went for a walk, Your Majesty," Zahir answered irascibly. "I wasn't aware that was against the law."
"Insubordination to your monarch is against many laws." King Jonathan's grip on his arm tightened. "You also have failed to truly answer my question, Squire."
"Very well." Zahir's lips pressed together tetchily. "I went out to give my meal to some poor family who needed it more. Do you have a problem with that, sire?"
"No." His knightmaster arched an eyebrow. "Apparently, it is you who has the issues with that."
"What makes you say that, Your Majesty?" Zahir scowled, wishing that his knightmaster would make sense for once.
"You wouldn't have been so evasive if you weren't ashamed of what you did." The king's eyes riveted on Zahir's. "It seems that you are still embarrassed by your own compassion."
"I'm not humiliated," protested Zahir vehemently, his cheeks flaming. "I just don't desire to brag about what I did, and I don't want you to think for one moment that I did it to make you proud of me, sire, because that would make giving the food to that impoverished family about me. That would be all wrong, since it was meant to be about them, and the last thing an act of charity should become is a selfish ego boost."
"It's fine to be pleased yourself when you've done the right thing, just as it is acceptable to be cross with yourself when you do an immoral one," King Jonathan told him gently. "Giving your meal to the poor was something you can feel proud about."
"Yes, Your Majesty," muttered Zahir, although he thought that he had done nothing worth bragging about. After all, the family would be as hungry tomorrow as they had been the week before, and he was responsible for turning a blind eye to the suffering that most commoners, whether in the country or in the city, living in Tortall endured. In fact, he knew that the only way he was able to eat every night was by not contemplating the masses who did without supper, and staring that stark truth in the face made him ponder whether every food he placed in his mouth would taste like sawdust to him from now on.
To drag his mind away from such remorseful ruminations, he went on fervently, "It's not fair that these villagers are spending the winter in rundown shacks fearing that they'll starve when the nobles who live here didn't work half as hard as the peasants did but get to feast in their castle all winter, anyway."
"It's not just, although the law, unfortunately, doesn't prevent it." His knightmaster sighed. "However, social orders can't be overturned overnight, or mayhem would result, and you starving yourself in protest will hardly feed the peasants."
"Among the Bazhir, it's different." Furiously, Zahir shook his head. "Our chiefs have honor. We care about and suffer with our people, instead of exploiting them."
"Strictly speaking, the rules of fealty should ensure that the nobles conduct themselves with a concern for the wellbeing of their people, just as the code of honor among the Bazhir is intended to guarantee that chiefs focus on the needs of their people," King Jonathan reminded him. "That being said, just as some Bazhir chiefs ignore the code of honor, some nobles pay attention only to the rules of fealty that pertain to what they are owed, rather than what they owe."
"You should be able to make the chiefs and the nobles act honorably, sire," Zahir burst out. "You're the king."
"As I've explained to you before, Squire, that doesn't mean that I can or should change everything," pointed out his knightmaster wryly.
"I don't want you to change anything." Mulishly, Zahir folded his arms across his chest.
"Progressives always associate better with change when really better is going back to the way things were. Better is restoring the sense of duty and honor people used to have. Tradition only works if people let it and actually do what is demanded of them."
"I can't turn back time, Zahir, and I certainly do not have the power to return us all to some romantic days that may never have existed outside of your imagination," the king declared pointedly.
Flushing, Zahir snarled, "I don't have an imagination half as active as Your Majesty's wild imagination seems to believe I do."
Fortunately, his words were masked by the chaos that ensued as the progress exited the inn and mounted their horses en masse. When they left the building, Zahir discovered that a faint powder of snow that melted like sugar when it hit the ground had started to fall.
As they rode north, the size and density of the descending flakes increased, so, by the time that an hour had passed, Zahir's cloak was soaked through, and the boughs of trees near the roads were bent with a heavy burden of snow and ice. Looking at the icicles that were shimmering like mirages in the sparse winter sunlight that managed to shine through the leaden clouds, he noted inwardly that such scenery would be very attractive if only the wind blowing snow into his eyes didn't make admiring the environment a bit of a challenge.
Then, before he could process what was happening, a freezing meteorite rammed into his cheeks. Cursing, he rubbed the melting snow from his face, and snapped at Trevor, "Diplomats shouldn't throw snowballs."
"They shouldn't, but diplomats-in-training should." Playfully, Trevor nudged Zahir's shoulder.
"That is absolute rubbish," snorted Zahir, collecting snow from a branch, wadding it into a ball, and launching the missile at Trevor before the other boy could dodge. "Training should prepare you for real life."
"Then consider this training for real life." Trevor tossed another snowball at Zahir, who ducked smoothly, ignoring his mount's whinny of aggravation with his immature pursuits. "You'll have to survive worse in battle, you know."
For ten minutes, they shot snowballs and taunts at each other until they were both breathless. Their cheeks as crimson as holly berries, they lapsed into a companionable quiet until Zahir panted, "I never realized there was anything good about winter before, but I haven't done something that fun in a long time."
"Surely you got into snowball fights with fellow pages during training?" Shooting Zahir a sidelong glance, Trevor cocked his head.
"Pages are much too busy to waste time with such frivolity," stated Zahir sharply. "Lord Wyldon didn't mind fistfights because they honed our combat skills, but he would have chopped of the head of anyone caught in a snowball fight. Snowball fights are most undignified, after all."
"Snowball fights, sledding, and days of for excessive amounts of snow were common enough at the university," remarked Trevor. "I suppose at the university we were permitted more freedom to be young, since we weren't being prepared to die for Crown and country in a few years. If you want to teach someone to be a warrior who will survive in a battle, there must be a lot of information to cram into a timeframe that can't help but be too short."
Shaking his head to clear it of gruesome images of gory fates he and his yearmates could meet, Zahir said in a disjointed fashion, "Thanks for being my friend, Trevor. You're cheerfulness and serenity really have helped me see things in a new light, and I appreciate that."
"You've assisted in my development, as well." Trevor's eyes locked on his, and somehow Zahir knew that the other teenager wasn't engaging in a tactful lie. "I would never have given my meal to a poor peasant family tonight if it weren't for you. Your passion, sense of justice, and dedication to honor are a valuable example to me."
"Apparently they are nothing more than delusional byproducts of my overactive imagination," grumbled Zahir, recalling his conversation with his knightmaster.
"My desire for peace is nothing more than a delusional byproduct of my overactive imagination." Trevor's lips quirked upward in a slight grin. "You and I both like to fight the losing battles nobody else will, because we are convinced that's the only way we'll ever improve anything."