"Well?" Shame asked.
"They did come to ask," Ajan said, glancing at me with a suspicious brightness in his eyes. "They knocked twice. When no one answered the door, they assumed the osulked were together."
"You were deep in your work," Shame surmised at my chagrin.
"I do sometimes lose track of my surroundings," I said and glanced at the tray. "But if they assumed we were together and thus both in need of dinner, why then the meal for one?"
We all looked at the tray. And the plates. All the plates.
"Oh," I said, embarrassed.
"I... will be sure to tell them to send larger trays in the future, if they want to feed you both," Ajan said, all courtesy despite the smile I could see fighting with his mouth.
"I ate your food!" I said to Shame, appalled as I realized he was about to return to work on an empty stomach.
"I will survive," Shame said, amused. He nodded to Ajan. "Rest. I'll be back."
"Yes, master."
"You do not go with him?" I asked after Shame had left.
"My work is behind his, and out of sight," Ajan said. "Otherwise I am an impediment. I am an aide, osulkedi, not his protection."
"I imagine he can take care of himself," I muttered.
"Just so," the Guardian said as he prepared his evergreen-strewn pallet.
Did he always have a smile hiding behind his eyes? His merriment was charming. On a whim, I asked, "Do you have a favorite version of the parable of the broken pot?"
"Oh?" he answered, ears flicking back in thought. "Yes, of course. The one with the tinker."
"The tinker!" I exclaimed. "Why, that seems rather romantic for a Guardian."
"I don't like it for the romance," he said laughing. "To me it means something else altogether!"
"What did you take away from it, then?" I asked, puzzled.
"That the thing you deem important may not actually be the most important thing," Ajan said, grinning. He bowed. "By your leave, osulkedi. I go to wash before bed."
"Go on, then," I said.
Appended in the Calligrapher's hand:
Reck this: Once there was an aridkedi, a country merchant who created pots for her small town, who was, indeed, the sole seller of pots so skilled was she. Her entire community rejoiced in her talent and so she and they both benefited by her trade. Among one of her many virtues was her promise to mend any pot that cracked, for so great was her skill that her pots did not often break and when they did, if they could not be fixed, she offered a replacement.
This did not happen often.
One day, however, a tinker brought her one of her pots, which had broken. This she mended, as she had vowed to do. Imagine then her surprise when the following day the tinker brought the pot back to her, once again broken!
Again, she mended it. And again, the following day, the tinker returned with a broken pot.
'Why,' she said, 'what is this? This pot, it is flawed! I should give you a replacement.'
'If you wish,' said he.
And so she did. But the following day, the tinker returned, and that pot was broken!
The potter was sore with puzzlement. 'Surely this cannot be,' she said, and mended that pot. But the following day it was broken.
'I am done,' she said, distressed. 'I do not know the reason for this, save that my talent has failed me and I must give up pot-making.'
'You must not!' said the tinker in dismay. 'O beautiful aridkedi, I fear your talent is not to blame. I am breaking the pots, so that I may have reason to see you. For long have I admired you, and knew not how to approach.'
'If it is my attention you want, perhaps you should approach me without cracking my wares,' said she. 'Otherwise, my attention will be on the pot and not on you!'
'Not only are you beautiful and talented,' said the tinker, 'but wise as well.'
So it came to be that the broken pot led to the marriage of two aridked, and the town was enriched not just by the talent of the potter, but by her joy and later, her children. The tinker's pot remains in pride of place on a shelf above the counter of her store. If you go there, you may see it with your own eyes.
This is the tale of the broken pot. Reck it well.
Several of you have been discussing qet with what seems to me to be a great subtlety and understanding of its nuance. It is that kind of word: a thing nearly unspoken, understood without dissection... ironically, since it began as a legal term. It may be hard to believe, but the concept of qet evolved from a much different notion: that one's personal space and body, when violated, had a value that could be quantified based on the caste-ranks of the individuals involved in the incident. This idea has been incorrectly translated as "honor-price," though I suppose the parallels could be drawn. Our concept was less in response to violence and more a warning to all Ai-Naidar to respect the gradations of rank that separated us and gave form and order to our society. That was why we punished insolence, and sometimes severely. Once upon a time, aunera, someone beneath the Wall of Birth could be branded or even enslaved for touching one above it... can you believe such a thing?
Yes, we were barbaric once. It has been a long and careful evolution that Thirukedi has overseen, and in that time we have discarded many concepts and habits that no longer serve us. Perhaps that surprises you, given our veneration for tradition... but one cannot keep all the traditions of a civilization's lifetime, or how will there be growth? Thus, we have things that are vuqerin, which is to say distasteful because we have outgrown them and thrown them from us. That act is uvrel: "to cull."
