"My Du Quam?"
"Me, Domma Sijarkes?"
The Margijer furrowed her brows. "Don't talk like that about him to his face. He's fine. You're fine, Kedrik." Then in a low voice, she said, "He's quite perfect, actually."
"What happened to him? Why is he…like that…?" Kedrik looked far from perfect. She didn't want to look at him for longer but it was hard not to. He dressed differently than everybody else. Starting from the bottom: his heels were woven delicately, pointed stiffly at the tip, the rumored pair known to have been shoved down the throats of many officials that displeased him; his clothes were fitted to the outline of his bony figure of wood, brown and wrinkled like bark; his grey hair fashioned into braids dangling from either side of his face, slipping through from under a large headdress lined with emeralds and rubies; a flowery purple shawl—as expensive as her purple robes—was clipped on the top of the headdress wrapped around him, hiding him from prying eyes.
Point being: A Du Quam's less-than-manicured state is almost always permissible than a misguided hierarchical disorder of clothing choice.
"Are your Du Quams always like this?"
"You'll be asking that more often than you'd think. And like I said, Kedrik is perfect. He's special. No Du Quam of mine has completely devoted themselves to me and only me." This case was nothing new, the Sijarkes had heard of this before—Kedrik had lost himself in service of the Margijer, with little to no memory of the life he had before Du Quamship. He became new, he became the Margijer's.
"How long has he been in service?"
"I don't remember dates. How long has it been Kedrik?"
"I have been a Du Quam for 284 years, and alive for 339." Surprisingly, he could recall. But perhaps Umdochar had been counting for him. He never left Kedrik on his own, for as much as possible.
"You better pray your shiny, new Du Quam could match up to Kedrik."
"Oh, you'll see. I'm going to get the best Du Quam there is." The Sijarkes sauntered off to the exit, but stopped to look back at the Margijer expectantly.
"Be off with you, then."
The Sijarkes doesn't move an inch.
"Look, sweetie, I haven't seen you in 2,500 years." There was an edge to the Margijer's voice. "Get out of here."
"I don't think she knows her way around," Kedrik interjected, trying to be helpful.
"I know my way around."
"Then go." With those words, the Margijer lost her complete interest, moving to the window to smoke from a large pipe that had been held up on a stand. This was an all too familiar scene. The Sijarkes felt like throwing another tantrum, but maybe the situation called for something smarter. She wasn't in Katill Broiis anymore—she has to act like a Tirkju'a from now on.
"Margijer, from Domma to Domma. could you give me an idea of what I should expect as Tirkju'a from here on out?"
"I don't know." The Margijer shook her head, becoming irritated.
"Come on, you must have something. I've only just got here!"
The Margijer shot her a sharp look, eyes bulging from its sockets much like Kedrik's. "You've been under the Tirkju'a for a few thousand years for god's sake. I don't know what you did in Katill Broiis, but it must have been worth something to be so close to the Parrhadomme."
"I wasn't that close with the Dove!" The Sijarkes stomped her feet, clenching her fists. "I've only met them twice in my lifetime. And during that time I was hidden away in Katill Broiis, kept far away from the rest of the world—a world that's constantly changing and evolving; a world far different than from when I was last here."
She took a deep breath with flared nostrils. Slowly, she unclenched her fists. She wasn't being mindful. She can't look up, the Margijer must have death in her eyes.
No point backing down now.
"But sure, you're right. I will figure it out somehow."
The Sijarkes turned on her heels to leave. What would have been exchanged prior to this, it didn't matter anymore. The Margijer had made it very clear how exactly she viewed the Sijarkes, to which the Sijarkes has no control over. No point fussing over it
"Just be careful."
The Sijarkes stopped. She could still feel her hands shaking. She grasped them inside her robes, before the Margijer or her Du Quam might see it, and ridicule her.
"What do you mean?"
"Of what you do and who you surround yourself with, obviously," the Margijer said nonchalantly. Though the Sijarkes couldn't see her face, she knew the Margijer's face must not have moved as she said a phrase as ominous as that.
"You're saying that…to me," the Sijarkes said as she turned around slowly. "A domma."
The Margijer looked her up and down. Kedrik looked as solemn also, but in the same judging manner as his Domma. The Sijarkes felt the need to continue:
"I was thinking you'd update me on Gu'ambiss' latest fashion trends, or maybe gossip from the temple Quams."
"Don't be stupid." The Margijer wasted no time interjecting. "Look, You never know what foolish agenda anyone can have on their mind. In this temple, Kedrik is the only one I can truly trust. But everyone else…"
She bent down, head towering before the Sijarkes small figure. "They've disappointed me in more ways than you could imagine." Every word had its own gravity, dropping like bricks from the Margijer's lips.
"I don't believe anyone would be so bold to challenge a Domma like you." The Sijarkes knew she might be putting up a front of denial.
"You'd be surprised," the Margijer muttered. "You're the Tirkju'a now, or whatever. Don't say I didn't warn you."
"I was under the impression that all must be well within the Order." The Sijarkes waited for a response which did not come. "Well, is it not, then?"
"Just go. Don't keep the rest of us waiting. The sooner you get out there and do some work, the sooner the Order gets itself back on its feet. Then you can find your answers." The Margijer, for some reason, had reasonable advice, even though her mood completely tanked.
The Sijarkes couldn't help but smile playfully.
"Ah, I get it. You're just trying to scare me. That's what this is all about. I heard your Du Quam used to be a court jester—a setikos— before you took him. That must be it." The Sijarkes wiggled her fingers at the Margijer and her Du Quam, squinting her eyes, gleaming in what can only be a hint of knowing. "Domma Margijer, what are you so afraid of? Du'haijaka ghamfer i'hanaso (You hold a higher power). A'kru, a'kru (certainly, certainly)."
"A'kru, a'kru," Kedrik repeated, for he believed it also.
The Sijarkes pointed at him. "Aye, that's right, Kedrik!"
She turns to the Margijer again, holding her head high, getting into position to do her signature power pose.
"I return on the morrow with my Du Quam, the Du Quam Nubejul Tavhaii. Then we shall feast and drink to celebrate a new age together, dearest Margijer." The Sijarkes bid her farewells and left shortly. The bib had been left on the ground, to which Kedrik eyed displeasingly. Only a few moments then did he jump back.
"My Domma, the ceremony. Shall I prepare the waterways?"
The Margijer had thought through what must be done. "No need, Kedrik. I'll watch the entire thing from here. She's been under that bastard Tirkju'a's influence for so long, locked up in Katill Broiis. I don't know what she's about to bring to the Order. I can say I feel the same as what every Domme is feeling."