‘Hannu Pash,’ Leesha said. ‘Training and indoctrination. They’ll speak Krasian like natives before long, and hold to the Evejan ways. In ten years, they will have an army that can crush the Free Cities like a child crushes an anthill.’
‘Creator above,’ Rojer gasped, gulping at the skin of cool water Sikvah brought to his lips. Amanvah stroked his sweat-matted hair, cooing softly as she nibbled his ear.
He had thought the Krasian women repressed, and perhaps they were in public, but alone with their husbands, it was a different tale. In the privacy of their carriage, Amanvah and Sikvah removed their plain robes, dressing in bright silks as garish as a Jongleur’s motley. Half the cloth was so thin it was transparent, and the rest not much thicker, lined with thread-of-gold, lace, or embroidery. They still wore veils, but these were ornamental – colourful, diaphanous silk starting at the tip of their noses and ending just past their lips. Their hair was uncovered, oiled, and bound in gold.
‘Our husband wields his spear better than a Sharum,’ Amanvah said. Blood had marked her a virgin on their wedding day, but she was no less skilled at ‘pillow dancing’ than Sikvah.
‘Jongleurs get a lot of practice,’ Rojer said. ‘Women used to throw themselves at my master, and I daresay I learned a trick or two, but – no offence – the two of you do things that would make the whores in Duke Rhinebeck’s brothel blush.’
Sikvah laughed. ‘The women of your Northern duke’s harem were not trained in the Dama’ting Palace.’
Rojer shook his head. ‘And I can’t shake the feeling that you’re still holding back.’
Amanvah kissed his ear so softly he shivered. ‘There are seventy and seven ways to lie with a man,’ she whispered, ‘and we have years to share them all with you.’
Amanvah and Sikvah had proven to be nothing like he imagined. He thought them much alike at first, but the more he got to know them, the more he saw how unique they were. Amanvah was taller, with smaller breasts and long, lithe limbs. Sikvah was more rounded at the hips, with thicker arms and legs. Both women were incredibly muscular, definition showing in every move. It was the stretching they did every morning. They called it sharusahk, but it was nothing like the violent wrestling Rojer had seen the Sharum and the Painted Man teach.
Where Amanvah was unflappable, Sikvah was easily roused to emotion. He had expected Amanvah, in her white robes, to be the more conservative of the two, but Sikvah was always the first to gasp at indiscretion.
‘Sleep now, husband,’ Amanvah said. ‘You must regain your vigour. Sikvah, the curtains.’
Immediately Sikvah moved to pull the heavy velvet curtains over the translucent ones covering the carriage windows. It seemed ‘First Wife’ was more than just a title. Amanvah took the lead in everything from conversation to seduction, ordering Sikvah around like a servant. Sikvah never resisted in the slightest, performing every task as if it had been her idea all along. She spoke little save when spoken to, unless Amanvah was out of the room, or her attention turned elsewhere. It was then Sikvah truly came to life.
He smiled, feeling himself drift off to sleep as his wives began a soft lullaby in Krasian. He was used to taking naps during the day, a common Jongleur trick allowing them to stay fresh and alert for nighttime performances. Most folk couldn’t read worth spit, and there was little to do once the sun set and the supper plates were cleared.
‘When others’ work ends, ours begins,’ Arrick used to say.
He woke with a jolt as the carriage came to a halt. He lifted one of the heavy curtains, and shut it quickly against the glare. It was late afternoon and they were outside a modest inn. Amanvah and Sikvah had pulled plain robes and veils over their colourful silks.
‘Ent it a bit early to be stopping for the night?’
‘This is the last village before we pass from Everam’s Bounty, beloved,’ Amanvah said. ‘Shamavah thinks it best to rest and restock before moving on. If you wish to sleep further, please do so while the khaffit unload our things.’
That would give him a lot of time. His wives did not travel light. Rojer rubbed the sleep from his face. ‘Ay, that’s all right. My legs could use a stretch.’ He moved to put his clothes on, and immediately both women began to assist.
He soon hopped from the cart and walked about a bit, beginning the ritual of stretches and tumbles he used to keep his skills sharp. The ritual was a show in itself, full of cartwheels and running flips, rolls and backbends.
As usual, the miniature performance began to draw attention. Passersby, Krasian and Thesan alike, stopped to watch, and when he began walking on his hands, a few children ran after him, cheering.
Instinctively, Rojer led them towards the centre of the cobbled square, circling to clear himself a wide space. The ring he created quickly filled with people – local villagers, and the Sharum, khaffit, and dal’ting of whatever tribe had claimed the place. A dama watched him coldly, but did not seem foolish enough to interfere with the Deliverer’s son-in-law.
Amanvah and Sikvah were watching him, too. Sikvah laughed and clapped along with the rest of the crowd at his antics, perhaps the most enthusiastically of all. Amanvah was the exact opposite, her eyes cold as she watched him.
‘Only thing worse than a woman who laughs at every pratfall,’ he heard Arrick say, ‘is one who doesn’t think anything’s funny.’
He moved over to them. ‘Husband, what are you doing?’ Amanvah asked.
‘Playing the crowd,’ Rojer said. ‘Just watch. Sikvah, please fetch my bag of marvels.’
‘Immediately, husband,’ Sikvah said, bowing and vanishing into the crowd. Amanvah continued to stare at him, but Rojer winked at her and went back to warming the crowd. He kept it simple, not sure which of his bawdy jokes and songs might offend the Krasians. Music in Krasia was limited to the private bedroom or praise to Everam. His wives had taught him some of these, but the fanaticism of the lyrics made him uncomfortable. Until his translation of the Song of Waning was complete, Rojer kept things instrumental, soon getting even the Krasians to stomp and clap to a beat.
When it came time for magic, obedient Sikvah was the perfect assistant, obeying his every command without hesitation. If only she weren’t clad in featureless black robes and veil. Wear your pillow dancing silks, love, and we’d have the best act in Thesa.
The crowd was his effortlessly. Even the dama laughed in spite of himself a few times. Only Amanvah was unmoved.
The sky was darkening when the performance ended. Rojer was still rising from his final bow when his First Wife turned on her heel and strode into the inn. Sikvah came to him immediately.
‘Your Jiwah Ka apologizes for not being here to greet you, but the holy daughter is moved to prayer over your fine performance,’ she said, as if this were natural.
Hated it, she means, he thought. I’ve stepped in something, and I don’t even know what.
‘Gone off to her secret room?’ Rojer asked. Sikvah nodded.
Rojer was used to having a single small room at an inn, but Amanvah always demanded a minimum of three – a common, one for Rojer, and a private one for her alone to retreat to whenever she wished. Amanvah accepted nothing less than the finest rooms, richly appointed with her own things. Each night the khaffit carried in heavy rugs, lamps and incense burners, silk sheets, and a collection of paints and powders that would make even a Jongleur’s jaw drop. Here, the innkeeper and his family had been put out of their own rooms to accommodate the daughter of Ahmann Jardir.
As they retired, Rojer saw the door to Amanvah’s room shut tight, with Enkido standing guard. Even if he knew what was bothering Amanvah, even if he knew what to say, there would be no getting past the giant eunuch to tell her.
Food was brought up by the innkeeper’s daughter, a meaty woman in her late forties who kept her eyes down and hopped at their every word. With no men to see, Sikvah changed back into her bright embroidered silks, serving him attentively as he ate and only taking quick nibbles of her own food at his urging.
/> ‘Would you like your bath soon, husband?’ she asked when he was finished eating. ‘Your amazing performance must have tired you.’
It was like this every night. Amanvah would go quiet at some point, and then excuse herself and vanish into her secret room for hours. Sikvah would swoop in, attending his every need and burying him in flattery until she returned.
Normally Sikvah’s attention was indeed an effective distraction, but Rojer had never seen Amanvah so disapproving. There was an argument brewing, and he wanted to get into it and have done.
‘What in the Core is she doing in there?’ he grumbled.
‘Communing with Everam,’ Sikvah said, beginning to clear the bowls.
‘Dicing,’ Rojer said.
Sikvah seemed offended at his tone. ‘The alagai hora are no game, husband. Your Jiwah Ka consults the dice to help guide your path.’
Rojer tightened his lips, not entirely liking the sound of that, but he said nothing. He found himself craving a cup of wine badly, though he doubted there was any to be had. Alcohol was one of the first things the dama abolished in the hamlets. He imagined what his master Arrick’s reaction would have been to that. He might have wept, or saved himself the trouble and tied his own noose.
Just then Amanvah’s door opened. You could tell a lot from how a person opened a door – every Jongleur who ever worked a stage knew that. Amanvah did not open it in the tentative way of one chastened, nor the aggressive way of one in full fume. It was a calm, decisive action. She had her mask in place, and still wore her white robes.
Corespawn it, Rojer thought, putting his Jongleur’s mask on as Amanvah came to sit across from him, her eyes calm but piercing. He shifted slightly to feel the weight of the medallion on his chest.
‘This is what it means to be a Jongleur?’ Amanvah asked. ‘To dance on a ball and pretend to fall on your face to get peasant children to laugh?’
Rojer kept his face smooth, though the words made him want to bare his teeth. It was no more than he had heard from self-involved Royals in Angiers, looking down their noses at his kind even as they hired them for their balls and parties, but the words cut deeper coming from his own wife.
Night, what have I gotten myself into?
‘You didn’t seem to mind performing for the Sharum and dama in Everam’s Bounty,’ Rojer noted.
‘That was in the Deliverer’s court, praising Everam before honoured guests and loyal Sharum!’ Amanvah hissed. Sikvah moved quickly away, busying herself around the room. ‘Your honour was boundless that day, husband, but you cannot mean to compare it to debasing yourself playing the fool for khaffit and chin.’
‘Khaffit,’ Rojer said. ‘Chin. These words have no meaning to me. All I saw in that square were people, and each and every one of them deserves a little joy in their life.’
Amanvah’s mask was a good one, but Rojer caught the pulse of a vein in her forehead and knew he had niggled her. Point to me.
Amanvah stood. ‘I will be in my chamber. Sikvah, tend to Rojer’s bath.’
Sikvah bowed. ‘Yes, Jiwah Ka.’ Amanvah swept out of the room.
‘Shall I draw your bath, husband?’ Sikvah asked.
Rojer looked at her, incredulous. ‘Of course. And cut my stones off while you’re at it.’
Sikvah froze, and Rojer immediately regretted it for the frightened look on her face. ‘I … I do not …’
‘Forget it,’ Rojer cut in, getting to his feet and putting on his motley cloak. ‘I’m going downstairs a bit.’
Sikvah looked at him in concern. ‘Is there something you need? Food perhaps? Tea? I will fetch whatever you wish.’
Rojer shook his head. ‘I just need a walk and a few moments alone with my thoughts.’ He gestured towards the bedroom. ‘Warm the bed for me.’
Sikvah did not seem pleased with the instructions, but Rojer’s command was clear, and he had learned she would not refuse such a tone without good reason and a nod from Amanvah, of which she had neither. ‘As you wish, husband.’
He left the room, finding Enkido and Gared just outside in the hall. The gold-shackled eunuch stood straight and stiff before Amanvah’s door, giving no reaction as Rojer exited the room.
In contrast, Gared lounged on a chair tilted on its back legs, tossing cards at a hat a few feet away. His weapons rested against the wall in easy reach.
‘Ay, Rojer. Figured you were off to bed by now.’ He winked, and then laughed as if he had just made a clever joke.
‘You don’t have to stand watch all night, Gar,’ Rojer said.
Gared shrugged. ‘Don’t, but I usually wait till you’re off to bed before I sneak off to find my own.’ He nodded at Enkido. ‘Dunno how that one does it, standing like a tree all night. Don’t think he sleeps.’
‘Come downstairs with me,’ Rojer said. ‘I’m off to rummage under the bar and see if anything stronger than tea escaped the local dama’s glare.’ Gared grunted and stood. Rojer collected the cards with practised speed, snapping and shuffling them as he headed down the stairs.
The taproom was empty save for the innkeep, Darel, who was sweeping the floor. As at all the inns they had visited on the Messenger road through Everam’s Bounty, the other guests had been ejected for the night to accommodate Leesha’s caravan. She and her family, Gared, Wonda, Rojer, and his wives were all given their own rooms, as were the full dal’Sharum and their wives. The women, children, and kha’Sharum slept in the carts circled outside.
Darel was a fit man, but well past fighting age, with more grey in his beard than his natural sand colour. ‘Honoured masters.’ He bowed. ‘How may I serve you?’
‘Cut that demonshit, for starters,’ Rojer said. ‘Just us chin here.’
The man relaxed visibly, heading behind the bar as Rojer and Gared took stools. ‘Sorry. Never know who’s watching, these days.’
‘Honest word,’ Gared said. ‘Like worrying you got a ward wrong somewhere.’
‘Got anything real to drink?’ Rojer asked. ‘I’ve a powerful thirst, and not for water. Been so long, a bottle of disinfectant will do.’
Darel hawked into a clay spittoon. ‘Dama smashed all my wine casks the day they came to town. Used the stronger stuff to make a pyre to burn everything “sinful” in town. Took my granddaughter’s stuffed doll. Said its dress was indecent.’ He spat again. ‘Girl loved that doll. Lucky they din’t take her, too, I guess.’
‘It bad as all that?’ Rojer asked.
The innkeeper shrugged. ‘First week was rough. Dama came with a paper from the demon of the desert that said the town belonged to his tribe now. Some folk disagreed, and the Sharum put ’em down hard. Most fell in line after that.’
‘So you just let ’em take over?’ Gared growled.
‘We ent fighters like you Hollow folk,’ Darel said. ‘I saw the biggest man in town have his arm broke like a twig by a dama half his size, just for refusing to bow. Needed to look after me and mine, and couldn’t do that dead.’
‘No one’s blaming you,’ Rojer said.
‘S’not so bad once you learn the rules,’ Darel said. ‘Most of the Krasian holy book is the same as in the Canon, and like us, some of them are preachier than others,’ he cracked a smile as his voice dropped to a whisper, ‘and some are hypocrites.’ With that, he produced a small clay flask and two tiny cups. ‘You boys ever try couzi?’
‘Huh-uh,’ Gared grunted.
‘Heard stories,’ Rojer said.
Darel chuckled. ‘For all their talk of the sin of spirits, them sand folk brew a drink that’ll take the varnish off your porch.’
Rojer and Gared took the cups he offered, looking at them curiously. Even in his crippled hand, Rojer could hold his easily. The one Gared held looked like something a child might use to serve tea to a doll. ‘It’s barely a mouthful. Do you taste it or toss it?’
‘Toss the first couple,’ Darel advised. ‘Gets easier after that.’ They touched cups and threw them back, eyes widening. Rojer had been drinking since he was twelve
and thought himself used to the worst burn alcohol could bring to bear, but this was like drinking fire. Gared started coughing.
Darel just smiled, filling their cups again. Once more they tossed them back, and this time, as he said, it was easier. Or maybe their tongues and throats were just numb.
Gared sipped the third cup thoughtfully. ‘Tastes like …’
‘… cinnamon,’ Rojer finished, swishing the liquid in his mouth.
‘The Krasians are like couzi,’ Darel pulled at his whiskers, ‘or this corespawned itchy beard they make all the men grow. Take some getting used to, but not so bad after a while. They let me keep my business so long as I pay my taxes and keep to the rules, and if I arrange a marriage for my granddaughter by the time she bleeds, I don’t have to worry about the white witches arranging one for her.’
He paled suddenly, looking sharply at Rojer.
Rojer smiled and held up his scarred hand. ‘Keep your pants dry. I may have married a dama’ting, but that doesn’t mean they’re any less scary to me. Might want to get out of the habit of calling them white witches, though. “An act practised in private will eventually be seen”, as my master used to say.’
‘Ay,’ Darel agreed. ‘Fair and true.’
‘You were saying?’ Rojer prompted. ‘Krasians aren’t so bad?’
‘Find that hard to swallow,’ Gared said. ‘Like saying it’s not so bad having a boot on your back.’
Darel poured himself a cup of couzi, tossing it back with a practised quickness. ‘Ent saying I don’t miss the old days, and plenty have it worse than me, but generally, you remember when to bow and keep your nose clean, the Krasians leave you be. You have a dispute with your neighbour, it still goes to the Town Speaker first, and then he takes it to the dama if it ent something he can settle on the spot. The dama are generally fair, but they take all that ear-for-an-ear business in the Canon literally. Know a feller lost a hand for stealing a chicken, and another who raped a girl, and had to watch the same done to his sister.’
Gared balled a fist. ‘And that ent so bad?’