Page 60 of A Trade of Blood

I did as she bade, stalking off into the vast, sprawling estate. There were actually many homes located on the Burav grounds—high servants, advisers, other kin—but Jalin Burav’s house was positioned quite far away from the main house, tucked into a distant corner and quite inaccessible.

I made note of this. Jalin was the only son of Burilis Burav—yet from his house alone, he had no wish to be close to the family.

The house itself was a cozy, comfortable thing, hidden behind high hedges, draped in blooming vines and shadowed by a leaning tree. The cottage’s chambers smelled strongly of tea, and were filled with books, paintings, sketches, and little boxes of stones he apparently found interesting. Most of the sketches were of landscapes and urhosi cattle. However, these were not like the other images I’d seen during my time here, where the cows were grim, savage trophies: these depictions were much softer, more thoughtful, more…kind,in short. That was the only word for it: when you looked at the rich, dark eyes of the creatures on his parchments, so innocent and soulful, you could feel nothing but kindness for them.

I recalled what the servant Kozder had said of him:He struggled under the weight of being his father’s only son. And he disliked the cattle trade, and many thought him too weak forit.

I studied another drawing, this one of an urhosi calf contentedly suckling at its mother’s teat. I noted how the little beast’s eye rolled up in its head with drunken pleasure, and the way the mother’s neck arched down so she could regard her infant.

Weakness, no. Unless sympathy was a weakness in this place, which might beso.

I found only two things of note in the house. First was the sheer number of mood-adjusting reagents in his bedroom: there wereyurtin tinctures for anxieties, anja powders for sleep, tinis for fears, and much more. The boy must have walked about with his head percolating all day. Perhaps this was how he dealt with the stress.

Then, yet again, it happened.

I felt my memories move within me, rubbing up against the walls of my skull like a beast attempting to scratch its hide.

A voice in my mind:You know these treatments. Are these not given to engravers, eventually, as their afflictions grow?

I grimaced and pressed the heel of my palm to my brow.Be silent. Be silent, damn you…

A twist in my thoughts, as if bemused:You, too, shall take these cures—should you survive long enough, thatis.

Then the strange, trembling in my mind receded, and blessed silence filled the space behind my eyes. I took a breath of relief.

Yet I noted…my memories had spoken with a familiar voice. A woman’s voice. Not Ana’s, but…

No. No, I had lost it. With a shake of my head, I steeled myself and continued my search.

The second notable thing was a drawing I found that was quite different from his sketches of the cattle. For one, it had been carefully placed on his desk. Yet more, it depicted not cows, but a tree, tall and beautifully rendered with long, slender leaves. Each branch was heavy with fruit of a kind I did not know—were they pears, or pomegranates, or figs?—yet there, in the corner, was a symbol I knew all too well: two spheres, separated by a vertical line.

My eyes quaked, and I heard Velona Armenta’s voice in my memories:It is the sign of Master Gaddar! The tree bearing fruit, for he was lord of all orchards!

I picked up the drawing, folded it carefully, and placed it in my pocket.

—

When I returnedto the burned house I couldn’t find any sign of Ana. I was forced to flag down a custodus, who gave me a rather shameful glance and led me to a large Orbiis trunk set on the lawn.

“I see,” I said, sighing. “Thank you, I can manage from here.”

I gave the trunk three quick knocks.

“Din?” said Ana’s voice from within. “Are you done already? Titan’s taint, that didn’t take long…”

I unlatched the trunk, and Ana popped up like a bewitched corpse from its grave. I glanced about somewhat shamedly: she had a fondness for getting into small, secluded places to have a think, and while I had come to tolerate this eccentricity, it was likely quite disturbing to the custodi.

I reported on what I’d found, and she nodded along. “So! We have nothing of note…save this sketch Jalin made of a fruit tree and a Daljeni symbol.”

“So it seems, ma’am,” I said. “Though I found little of worth in that house. He kept no treasures, nor luxuries. He seemed an artistic, gentle soul.”

“And a tremendouslybotheredsoul, too!” said Ana. She pursed her lips. “Din—there was something Castus said to you once, about Burilis Burav and his children. Please recall it for me.”

I frowned, searched my mind for the memory, and then found it: “But I’ve worked in the flensing halls of my family. My mother obliges us to do this, you see—for the Buravs do this to their own boy, out of the belief it makes him strong,and she will be damned if we don’t do the same.”

“Can you,” mused Ana, “imagine Jalin Burav bearing such work well?”

“In the flensing halls? No.”