"She is that," Ibi mused, staring idly past Mearch at the crudely hewn stones of the far wall. "Well, Master Royal Armorer? Will you get on with it?"
Abruptly, Mearch turned to Ibi and hesitated significantly, before saying to the old Scribe, "How much?"
Ibi stared blankly back at him a moment, until enraged comprehension filled his features.
"Forget it, Mearch," Ibi rasped in a gravel voice fraught with caustic skepticism. "She's royal property, and if you so much as petition the Emperor for her hand, you'll find there are bureaucratic punishments against which you shall find no proper shield or defense. I have no intention of losing her services so soon after training her up. She is brilliant."
"But—" Mearch faltered. "She would become my most favored wife, and I have but six now!"
"What you ask is unthinkable! She is not for sale and you are not to molest or entreat her in any disrespectful manner, or you'll be hacking your way out of a dungeon cell with your fingernails, if they're not pulled out by the roots first. Is that clear?"
"Aye," said Mearch, looking back at Si'Wren with eyes which were curiously lacking in their customary boldness. "Such beauty." There was another long pause. Then he said, "Me, I know weapons, but this one has slain me already."
Nervously, Si'Wren avoided meeting his eyes. She was ready to listen and learn, but he was so fearsome to look upon that she found it difficult to face him. Besides, for a woman to meet a man's stare too openly was to appear wanton.
Yet, for some odd inexplicable reason, she somehow already felt agreeable to fierce Mearch's tutelage. He was fittingly warned by Ibi, and his treatment of her should not be too harsh. Although still very much unsure of him, Si'Wren fully expected him to behave himself, in view of Ibi's stern admonishments that she should remain safe from all harm or harassment in his care.
"Why has the Emperor not taken her for himself?" Mearch asked, in a disdainful and skeptical voice.