Oly was brimming with restless energy, but restrained himself to lay on the couch in Hesiat's study while the man worked.

Perhaps the message had spooked him, but Oly was in no mood to be subtle. He rolled out of his seat and sauntered up from behind, where he draped himself over Hesiat’s back with his hand threaded through his master’s braids. Hesiat stiffened with surprise at the novel touch, but made no move to stop it.

“What are you writing?” Oly asked, his skill with written Sundentan was still fuzzy. It took quite a bit of puzzling.

Hesiat sighed, annoyed yet fond. “One of these days my work will be actually secret, and I’ll have to train this nosiness out of you.”

“Too late for that.” He leaned in a bit closer. “For your heroism and bravery, I thank you with a sum of…” Oly wrinkled his nose with distaste and pressed his finger to the fresh ink, ruining the penmanship by smearing the word “silver.” Hesiat’s fondness dissolved and he firmly pushed Oly’s hand away.

“Oly. I’ll punish you suitably if you’re going to be childish.”

“Do not give them silver.”

“Do not presume you can give me orders!” Hesiat snapped, moving Oly back by pressing his shoulder. It occurred to him, eyes widening as he raised his hands in surrender, that his impulsiveness had gotten the better of him again.

Not to mention, all at risk of Vendon finding out he was aiding Hesiat. Why didn’t he keep his mouth shut and let his master stumble into the blunder?

Much more carefully, Oly pulled his lips into an apologetic frown and started to speak slowly, softly, “Forgive me, master. I forgot my place.” He nodded his head to the letter. “Those sailors are heroes, and rewarding them is a wonderful idea. I simply believe you should consider important customs, as they may turn down the gift outright. May I elaborate?” Oly met Hesiat’s eyes again, finding them narrowed in consideration.

“If it’s something as simple as ‘silver is bad luck,' that excuse isn’t good enough.”

Oly took a deep breath. That’s exactly what he’d been planning to say to avoid long-winded theological theory, but he covered it up with a smile. “Not exactly, but they would turn it down out of fear of pirates.  Stallay is represented by black and silver—she’s the goddess of night, rest, secrets, trust… and thieves. Travelers try not to call her attention as a rule of thumb. However,  if you convert that sum to gold instead, then they’ll be calling the attention of the sun  and good  luck. You can give them a symbol of your own power, and it’ll be like wishing them luck and good weather on the journey.”

“And if I ignore you?”

“You have to re-write the letter anyway.” Hesiat rolled his eyes and began to speak, so Oly held up a finger and stepped back, talking a bit louder. “There is no risk in re-writing the letter exactly as it was, only tedium. I simply advise you to have an equivalent sum of gold at the ready. Punish me for the trouble if they take the silver anyway.”

“Gold is significantly harder to divvy up among a crew.”

That’s their problem. “You’re wise and just, my king. Please, just indulge my country and its silly little customs.”

Hesiat leaned back in his chair with a thoughtful sigh, his shoulders dropping as he crossed his arms and drummed his fingers.

“I still have to punish you.”

Oly pressed his lips together and looked away, his chest tightening. “Yes, master.” His back stung with dread.

“Next time you have something important to tell me, just tell me. Don’t be a brat, and don’t vandalize my work, understood?”

“Yes, master.”

“Report to Lucice for extra chore duty.” Oly looked up suddenly with surprise. “Don’t give me that look, it’s just for a day.”

“I was just… expecting something of a different caliber.” He ventured, scared to change his owner’s mind. Understanding dawned on Hesiat’s face, and he laughed.

“Ah, I see. Oly, it’s just a letter; if I were really so bothered, I’d get a scribe. Besides,” Hesiat took the paper and crumpled it up, “act like a child, get punished like a child.”

Oly’s brows shot up as he had a sudden mental image of getting bent over Hesiat’s knee, something he’d made fun of friends for being into in the past. That might take some introspection.

He stood there awkwardly, not knowing what to do with himself. Without looking up, Hesiat waved his hand in Oly’s direction. “You’re dismissed. Don’t try to weasel your way out of it, I’ll know.”

---

Oly arrived at a large door in the same wing as Dawn’s workshop. The paper in his hand supposedly gave directions, but he’d had to ask Mava for help. He couldn’t read Sundentan shorthand yet, much less cursive, and he didn’t quite remember the route from the last time he’d been here.

He opened the door with a creak, hesitantly stepping into a dim room with no seamstress in sight. There was a huge array of shelves instead, so he walked down the hallway directly in front of him.

To his right were wide scrolls of fabric, stored in shelves not unlike those for wine bottles. Looking around to make sure no-one was looking, he pulled one out and was taken aback by silk the color of spun blood. Running his hand over it, it felt soft enough to be the surface of liquid. He slid it back in.

On the left were countless of spools of thread. Hundreds of pegs were dedicated to spare undyed thread, but the rest were carefully arranged to create a cascade of every color he had and hadn’t seen before. The end of the aisle only came to the green-tinted yellows, so he turned the corner into the next aisle. There, matching three different shades of purple thread against a roll of fabric, was Terese.

The only tattoos on her body were tiny, precise circles of script written on each knobby knuckle, which kept her hands steady and the pain of aging down. She was a free woman, as her expertise—much like Dawn’s—was the kind you wanted to keep around for a lifetime. Beyond that, if they agreed to certain arcane tricks. Her greying hair was twisted rather than braided, and pulled away from her face with loops of silver wire holding it in a bun. It was hard to tell how old a master craftsman was in any palace, as their lives were lengthened almost as much as a noble’s, but the soft lines of her face and bags under her eyes made her seem to be in her 40s.

“Hi, Terese.” Oly greeted in Sundentan.

She turned her gaze up to him and smiled, matching his language so he could practice. “Hello, my dear. What wuai is the garb for this time?” He tended to miss a word or two, but Oly handed over the slip of paper rather than asking for a translation. She unfolded it with a flick of her thumb, scanned over it, and looked back up at him with an amused smirk. “Oh, don’t I love it when Lucice uses my life’s work as a punishment. Come now, it’s not as bad as it looks.”

Feeling a little better, he followed her to a space littered with cushioned chairs, tapestries hung from the ceiling, and stacks upon stacks of uniforms. He sat down where she directed.

“You’ll be pynani, today.” She informed, pulling the first uniform off a pile. Judging from the subtle stains that couldn’t quite wash out, it was a kitchen slave’s.

She explained that the fibers of the original cloth grew worn as the person lived. It rubbed up against surfaces, it was stretched by the joints, and eventually it grew so thin that it was at risk or tearing or getting a hole. Pynani, or darning, was to take that thinned spot and use a needle to re-weave stronger, newer threads into it: tedious work that would be barely seen and prolong the life of something that would come right back to her within the year.

“No-one can escape this work, so don’t feel too put-upon.” She gestured to a tapestry portraying the hunt of some mystical creature in stunning detail. “Some insects made that one its dinner, so it falls to me, the creator’s student, to pyera his work.” She turned her attention back to the dress she’d been sewing. He did the same, finishing up the first row of stiches. “So why are you here?”

He huffed. “I smeared some of King LonDwuat’s, um… fancy writing?”

“Penmanship?”

“That’s it.”

“Was there a reason?”

“Yes. We’ll see if it was a good one, though.”

Terese nodded. “Everything you see was created with skill,” she’d switched to Haevan to make sure he understood, making Oly look up, “and everything worth creating requires hours, days, years of work. We must understand that time for ourselves. The act of destruction and criticism cannot be taken lightly, there has to be purpose; we must weigh that act against the hands that brought it into being, the time it took to do so, and the life of experience that lent to the craft. Otherwise, we are nothing more than insects and toys of decay.”

Oly didn’t have a response to that, so he just put that in the cogs of his head and let it tumble around as he sat with busy hands. It wasn’t as bad as he thought. He was quickly losing himself to the meditative nature of it, and in time he enjoyed the thought that he was helping someone feel more comfortable. The better he did it, the better his fellow slaves would fare. It was up to him, in this moment, to ensure they wouldn’t be walking around in rags.

It was soothing, quieted the mind, and it was satisfying to see his own progress. In the end—when Terese approved of his work and let him go—he was properly contrite, but he was also surer in his reasons. It was up to Hesiat to see it too.