2: A ROTTED FRUIT
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Two days since Xaltorath started a Hellmarch in the Capital
Brother Qown paused, his voice breaking.
“Tea might soothe your throat better than cider,” Janel said.
The priest nodded. “You’re right. I’ll go check the kitchen.” He gave Kihrin a polite nod as he passed.
The resulting silence left Kihrin and Janel staring at each other.
Kihrin asked, “Did that really happen?”
“What? Qown checking to see if there’s tea?” She rested her chin on a hand, grinned at him when he rolled his eyes. “Oh, you mean bandits attacking us.”
Kihrin returned her smile. “No, I meant when you ripped the branch off that tree.”
“Yes. I suppose that part is hard to believe.”
Kihrin set his upishiarral aside. “The way you handled the stable door—I can’t do that. My friend Star can’t do that. We both tried. But you closed and barred the front door like it was made from sugar floss and compliments.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Then perhaps that story is true.”
“Why don’t you tell this tale instead of Qown? Nice work on having your own chronicler, by the way1—but I doubt his version is unbiased.”
“And telling it from my viewpoint would be different? At least he remembered to document our travels. I was too distracted.”
“Maybe I’d just prefer to hear it from you.”
Their eyes met again.
Janel’s mouth twitched. “Answer a curiosity for me. Stallions or mares?”
Kihrin blinked. “What?”
She leaned forward, mirroring his position at the table. “Do you run with stallions? Or mares?”
“I’ve never put any thought into my horse’s gender—” He stopped. “But you’re not talking about horses, are you?”
“Not in the least,” she said. “There’s a trap in there for people who don’t understand our ways.”
“How do you mean?”
“There are multiple meanings to how we use the words stallion or mare.” She traced the table wood grain with a finger. “It’s important to know the context, or you might end up in trouble.”
“And your context right now?”
“The preferred sex of your bed partners, naturally.” Mischief sparkled in her eyes. “Do you run with stallions? Do you run with mares?” She shrugged. “Some don’t like to run at all, but that’s not you, is it?”
Kihrin scraped his hand through his hair. “No, that’s not me. Mares, then.” Kihrin hesitated. “Why is that a trap?”
“Because it’s the only time in Jorat where the words stallion, mare, and so on indicate the equipment between one’s legs. Normally, when one refers to a human as a stallion or mare, we’re discussing their gender.”
Kihrin stared. “And you weren’t talking about gender before? You’re a woman. Isn’t that what you mean by mare?”
Her mouth twisted. “You’re conflating gender with sex. My sex—my body—is female, yes. But that’s not my gender. I’m a stallion. And stallion is how Joratese society defines our men. So you’re wrong; I’m most certainly not a woman.”
Kihrin’s eyes widened. “You just said you were female.”
She sighed. “Who I am as a man is independent of”—she gestured to herself—“this. It wouldn’t matter if I were male, female, or neither; I would still be a stallion.”
Kihrin stared harder. “You’re … a man.” His gaze wandered down her tunic, lingered at her legs, then hiked back up to her face. “Obviously.”
Janel rolled her eyes. “Again, you’re conflating woman and female. I can’t blame you; they must be synonyms in the west. But rest assured, they’re not here.” She looked down at herself, plucked the neck of her tunic. “Normally, when one uses mare or stallion to describe a person, they’re talking about gender. And by that definition, I’m a man. But for sex, the rules change. Because then we’re talking about aesthetic preferences, in which case”—she looked down at herself—“I’m most likely to meet the standards of someone who prefers female partners. I am in fact a female man.” She smiled. “Do you see the trap now?”
He shook his head. If someone looked like a woman to him—Janel, for example—how was he supposed to act around them if they defined themselves as … a man? And how was he supposed to know the difference? He’d always assumed the equipment between one’s legs was in fact an important part of figuring out who was a man and who was a woman.
But not according to Janel, and apparently not according to the rest of Jorat either. Oh, he saw the trap. He just wasn’t sure he understood how it worked, let alone how to avoid it.
How long did it take Brother Qown to make tea, anyway? “Uh … I might need time to adjust to the idea. Do I refer to you as he or…?”
“She,” Janel said. “We try not to confuse the rest of Quur too much.”2
“I don’t think it’s working.” Kihrin took a moment to collect himself. “So … what about you, then?”
“Me? I’m not confused on the matter at all.”
“No, I mean, do you run with … stallions or mares?”
She raised her eyebrows at him. “Why would I run with just part of the herd?”
Kihrin was glad he hadn’t been taking a drink. “Aha, why indeed.” He smiled back. He liked her forwardness. He liked her unflinching lack of shame. And while Kihrin understood Janel had an agenda, she only had to meet his stare for a few seconds too long before he started to forget why that might be important. Kihrin knew this wasn’t smart. Not smart at all.
Kihrin reached for her hand, anyway.
Brother Qown set down a tray laden with a kettle and cups.
Kihrin pulled his hand away. “You found tea. Great.”
“Isn’t it?” Brother Qown said. “I’m so pleased.”
Janel said, “Brother Qown, shall I take a turn? It’ll help save your voice.”
“Are you sure?” Qown offered his book to her.
“That won’t be necessary,” Janel said. “I’ll tell the story my way.”
Kihrin almost laughed at the scandalized stare Qown gave her.
The priest recovered and poured himself a cup of tea. “Would you mind if I recorded your account, then?”
Janel blinked at Qown. “If you did what?”
Qown reached into his satchel and recovered another journal. “It’s a spell I learned from”—he cleared his throat—“my old monastery. To document interviews for historical records. It’s very subtle. You won’t even know it’s happening.”
“Wait.” Kihrin leaned forward. “You know a spell that will record everything we say? Because I’m familiar with that spell.” His adoptive father, Surdyeh, had known how to do something very similar.
“Really? Oh, it’s a lovely spell, isn’t it? I can’t even begin to tell you how many times it’s saved my fingers from cramping—”