About Styrax’s Portrait

Styrax the Scarred

Read Wishbone first, then Names of My Beloved.

Why I wrote Styrax’s story.

Part 1: Welcome Aboard

Chapter 1: The Scars Said It for Him

Three sailors awaited Styrax when the tender bumped the dock. Two of them were young, wearing the smocks and braided manes of common crew. One of those was large and the other huge. The third was of average size, older and solemn-faced, with weathered skin and a well-combed mane. He wore a bleached linen robe with red trim, faded but in meticulous repair, because even officers could sew. A Pilot’s Guild ring gleamed lapis and gold on his first finger. His eyes lingered for just a moment on Styrax’s worn black robe, the ring in his right ear and the thin gold band on the smallest finger of his left hand.
“Good health and fair weather to you,” said the officer, who with visible effort and unimpeachable manners did not stare at Styrax’s face. “You are the healer, kyashan Styrax?” When Styrax had affirmed his identity, the officer continued, “I am the first mate of the Shelana-nara.” He turned his wrist to show the leather token stamped with the ship’s seal, fastened with a cord. “We have come to convey you thence.”
Styrax bowed. “Thank you for the courtesy, enshan.” They’d sent the first mate to escort a kyashan? Styrax could be flattered. But he didn’t think their attention had much to do with his person. Likely they’d be told that his safety was in doubt, and they wanted to be thorough. Styrax belonged to Healer College. Substantial compensation would be due if something unfortunate happened to him.
“Follow me, please,” the first mate said. He uttered the command in informal mode. That was encouraging; excess formality was a sign of a tense ship.
The two crew lifted Styrax’s trunk between them as if it weighed nothing.
The four of them walked along the docks, passing pier after pier, some empty, most full of fishing boats, ferries and port-side cargo haulers. It was a pleasant late afternoon with a strong sea breeze mediating the heat off the desert. Traffic was slight as most shih-aan were still in bed. Work never stopped, not even during the day. But the docks didn’t get busy until after the sun went down. Most of the shih-aan in sight wore sailors’ smocks or the skirts of laborers. Port officials and tax inspectors were asleep.
The big sailors wrangled the trunk among the shih-aan, bullock carts, and occasional wathara that comprised the traffic. Wathara made good messengers because they were small, quick, and not adverse to climbing up one side of a cargo sledge and down the other, dodging shouts and curses, if it would speed them onward.
As a kyashan, property with no status of his own, Styrax tended to keep his eyes lowered so he wouldn’t accidentally challenge someone’s gaze. Looking down also helped him walk on land when fresh off a ship, when the horizon jumped and rolled in the corners of his vision. At one point, though, he looked up to see both sailors’ eyes scanning back, forth, up and down in a way that made him shiver. They were almost certainly trained defenders as well as sailors. Indeed, the Shelana-nara was being careful. Styrax wondered if the sailors would drop the trunk at the first sign of trouble, and whether he’d packed well enough that nothing important would break.
But the only excitement during the half-mile walk was that the first mate just missed stepping in some dung.
Styrax boarded right behind his trunk, which the sailors deposited on the gently rocking deck. The Shelana-nara was a coastal brig with two square-rigged masts in the fore and one fore-and-aft rigged mast behind. It would be a fast ship with a relatively small crew. Unlike the Narek-aan, which Styrax had just left, this ship was shallow drafted to put in to the coastal ports east and west of the capital.
The first mate whistled. Two young hands dropped to the deck from somewhere in the rigging.
“Bring this to the infirmary,” he said, indicating the trunk. He received a pair of cheerful acknowledgements.
The mate led Styrax aft to the quarterdeck, past the map room to a closed door, upon which he knocked. Styrax couldn’t hear an answer, but a moment later the mate opened the door. He bowed towards the cabin’s interior, respect in every line of his body, and then backed away.
Styrax entered the captain’s territory and shut the door. The cabin was severely plain and luxuriously large. It held a deep, sturdy desk, a pair of chairs and a bronze incense burner that hung swaying from a chain, puffing cedar-scented smoke. Sailcloth curtained off the far end, probably concealing a bed.
The captain was taking advantage of the daylight to write. The pen moved over the paper slowly but deliberately. “I will be right with you,” he said in formal mode. “Please sit, kyashan Styrax.”
Styrax took a seat. He examined the captain from under lowered eyelashes. The captain was not large, not small, perhaps a bit young for his office, with a square jaw and the corded muscles of someone who spent more time on deck than behind a desk. He was also very neat. In spite of the ship’s motion, his robe was free of ink stains. His black mane was meticulously combed out, faded at the ends.
Like his cabin, his dress was plain compared to what Styrax expected from an officer—a wrapped piece of linen with faded blue geometric trim and a knotted leather belt around the waist in the western style. The only ring he wore was of lapis-inlay, from the Pilots’ Guild, on his right first finger. There was a dent on his left first finger as if for a ring that he wasn’t wearing just then. The overall impression was of modesty and efficiency, and there was nothing about the captain’s clothes or rings that elevated him above his officers. He had a captain’s aura, though.
His personal scent was overlaid with soap and oils that told of a trip ashore for a bath. The notes of dominance and authority were strong but subtle, with good health particularly prominent. Lust was in there somewhere, but it was muted enough that Styrax couldn’t tell if it was aimed at himself or not. In theory the incense covered most scent cues. In practice it didn’t, but everyone pretended it did anyway.
The captain finished writing, put away the pen, and blotted the paper with sand. He sat back, looked up and regarded Styrax with a direct stare that made the healer uncomfortable.
“You may raise your eyes, kyashan,” he said.
Styrax did, cautiously. The captain’s eyes were steel gray flecked with blue. Styrax could feel that gaze cutting him to pieces and weighing each one. This person did not own Styrax, but for the year he would have more authority over him than Healer College would, the College being an institution of land and the ship belonging to a different domain.
Styrax tried to decide if he found the captain attractive. The scent of command was nearly tangible. The crew of this ship was content and loved the captain for that contentment. There was plenty to draw Styrax. But as usual he found it easier to fear someone powerful than to like him.
The captain held out his hand, and Styrax placed his papers in it. The captain unwound the string from the worn envelope, opened it, and flipped through the contents, glancing at every page for a moment before he turned to the next. He reached the end.
“I understand there are reasons why the mainland is not safe for you now,” he said. “I am not a political creature. Can you explain why in as few words as possible?”
Styrax swallowed, hating how much his nervousness showed. “Humans, enshan,” he said. “I have demonstrated that they are not animals. This is not a popular position right now, what with war expected.”
“Demonstrated?” asked the captain. He didn’t seem hostile, merely curious.
“Rediscovered, actually,” Styrax said, relaxing slightly as his words seemed to satisfy the captain.
Healer College had known for decades that humans could be healed and that they could in turn provide ichor to a healer. Styrax had stumbled upon those facts and, as his profession demanded, he’d documented them. Also, he’d gone to bed with a human, but he didn’t want to discuss that just then.
“The sort of rediscovery that could send you to the Arch?”
Styrax winced. “Or a quieter death where no one would notice.”
The captain’s eyes moved to the thick, black scars on Styrax’s right cheek. “Who marked your face?”
Styrax couldn’t help it; he looked down. “I did.” As the silence lengthened, he added, “It sometimes discourages people.” A kyashan didn’t have the right to say no. The scars said it for him. They provoked reactions ranging from disgust to superstitious awe even among those who couldn’t read the script.
“Nobody gets fucked on my ship unless they want it,” said the captain as he opened a drawer and placed Styrax’s papers inside. “Not a wathara. Not even a kyashan.”
“Thank you, enshan,” Styrax said, feeling absurdly grateful.
“On that note,” said the captain, pulling a piece of paper out from under the envelope, “I have an offer here to buy out your contract at a price that would net me a profit, despite the difficulty of finding another healer at the last minute.” He handed the paper to Styrax, who read it carefully. Despite his best efforts, Styrax’s claws extended. He pulled them back in, blushing. It had been years since he lost control of his temper like that.
“I see,” said the captain. He stood up, plucked the paper from Styrax’s hand and held the corner of it to the coals in the incense burner. The paper caught. The captain turned it this way and that, controlling the flames that were such a danger on a wooden ship. He sat down again when the paper had been completely consumed. “It’s a pity that the offer went astray, and I never received it.”
Styrax did not trust himself to speak.
“Welcome aboard, healer,” said the captain, switching to informal mode. “I will show you to the infirmary.”
Styrax could probably have found it himself as ships weren’t all that different, but he accepted the courtesy. He took advantage of the short walk downward to ask the obvious question.
“May I ask how you came to need a healer so close to launch, enshan?”
“You may,” said the captain. “And I will answer. My last healer, his clan put him on the breeding roster for this season at the last possible moment. Someone died, I think. They bought out the final year of his contract the moment we landed.
“The months leading up to breeding season are our trial and our glory. The Shelana-nara will net most of the year’s profits in the next few months, hopping the coast, bringing consorts to their new clans.” He stopped before a locked door and took a large key ring from his belt. The key turned with a firm click, and the door swung open on well-oiled hinges.
“We have most of the year’s trouble during this time as well,” the captain continued. “I fear that your duties will include patching up the losers of whatever battles the cubs start amongst themselves.” A shih-aan was considered a cub until he passed from his maternal clan to his marriage clan. At this time of year, most of the passengers would be cubs.
“After the excitement of the last voyage, enshan, I look forward to such small dramas.”
The captain took the key off the ring and handed it to Styrax. “You are invited to take meals with the officers,” he said. “Get as much rest as you can. The passengers come aboard tomorrow, and they make a lot of noise. Is there anything you need from shore? We’ve one more supply run before launch.”
“Enshan, I’ve read all of my books several times. I’d be grateful for anything new.”
“I have too many books. If you would care to borrow some, remind me after first meal.”
Styrax thanked him. After the captain left, he looked over his new domain. The Shelana-nara’s infirmary was larger than the Narek-aan’s had been. The Narek-aan was a four-master, but it was also primarily a cargo ship. Small spaces could make the difference between profit and loss, especially on the long voyage to and from the human land of Bronlyn. A passenger ship had space for passenger needs. There were two tiny isolation cabins here instead of one. There was even an alcove with a bed that two people could sleep in without one of them falling out, provided they lay on their sides. Racks held pots of growing herbs under glass domes. The dried herb and tincture bottles were full. The last healer had left the place scrubbed and ordered to perfection. The real luxury was the cold light—a charm that resembled a tiny metal globe—mounted on a bracket on the wall. The light would disappear if the charm wasn’t set in sunlight at least occasionally, but as long as Styrax remembered to do so, its unnatural blue radiance would provide enough light to read by. If Styrax wanted darkness, he could put it in a drawer.
Opening his trunk, Styrax began putting his medical books and instruments into place. He groomed his claws, something he’d been putting off.
Afterwards Styrax shut himself into one of the isolation cabins and buried his face in his hands. The paper that the captain had burned had been an offer from Clan Danajim to buy his bond. Amaranth was trying to get his hands on Styrax again.
After he’d cried himself dry, Styrax held a cold, wet cloth against his face until his indulgence in messy emotions was less obvious.

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