4: Witches' Blood (7 page)

John paused, trying to locate the man who had said the name of the Fai’daum; even after a few minutes of listening, he didn’t hear the name of the group again. Instead the air hummed with low murmurs of hushed longing and erotic desire. John continued his search.

At last, John caught sight of Hann’yu’s gray cassock and black coat. The streaks of silver that twisted throughout Hann’yu’s eight braids were hidden by the deep shadows of a covered stall. He stood, eyes half closed between shelves of books, listening intently. His expression was gentle and appreciative, like a man hearing exquisite music.

The bookseller looked about thirty. He sat on a tall stool with the small leather book across one of his legs. He glanced up as John stepped into the stall but didn’t stop reading.

“As she lifted the hem of her skirt to step across the stream, I caught sight of her dainty white ankle.” The bookseller flipped the page. “I knew at once that she was no mere milkmaid as she claimed.”

John supposed he should have predicted that he’d find Hann’yu in this section of Binders’ Row.

“I’ve been looking all over for you,” John whispered to Hann’yu.

“What?” Hann’yu turned and swayed, then squinted at John. “Oh, Jahn. You should listen to this. Receive the wisdom of the more worldly...world.” The thick, honey-like scent of mead poured off his breath.

John didn’t find it unpleasant, but it struck him as too strong for so early in the day. He asked, “Are you drunk?”

Hann’yu frowned, as if he were concentrating on a difficult algorithm, and then slowly nodded. “It’s really the only way that I get through the Purification Ceremony with Dayyid.”

“Ceremony?” No one had mentioned a ceremony to John. “When?”

“Tonight.” Hann’yu made a sour face and then turned his attention to the man reading. He made a quick gesture and in response the man lifted his book to display the title embossed into the leather spine.
The Journey from Innocence
.

“You’d think, with such fine literature as this, that more boys would be interested in reading even in a cold, ugly wasteland like Amura’taye.” Hann’yu paused, then added, “
Especially
in a cold ugly wasteland like Amura’taye.”

John waited for something more, but Hann’yu had fallen silent. He rocked back slightly and John realized that he was again listening to the reading.

“Her pink-tipped fingers worked apart the buttons of her wet blouse,” the reader softly intoned.

“You say Dayyid is holding a ceremony tonight?” John prompted.

Hann’yu nodded, but said nothing more.

“What kind of ceremony?” John asked. “Is there something special we’ll be expected to—”

“No,” Hann’yu cut him off. “All we’ll be expected to do is remain silent. Say nothing, do nothing. Just watch like corpses.”

It wasn’t a reassuring turn of phrase. John whispered, “But what exactly—”

“Hush.” Hann’yu held his hand up in front of John’s mouth. “This is a sweet story. We shouldn’t ruin it. Just listen.”

Hann’yu closed his eyes and John relented. He waited while the man on the stool read on to the end of the story.

The milkmaid turned out to be a noble girl fleeing an abductor. The hero was revealed to be her intended husband in disguise. Everything tied up at the end and finished with the passionate couple still in perfect moral standing. It wasn’t much to John’s taste, but Hann’yu seemed to enjoy it.

“Eloci Nass’ilem.” Hann’yu smiled fondly. “She wasn’t allowed to write nearly enough in her time.”

“Yes, it was very nice,” John said automatically. “But what is the Purification Ceremony for?”

Hann’yu gave John a weary look. “Don’t look so concerned, Jahn. The ceremony won’t begin until the last hour of the day at twelfth bell. There’s nothing you’ll be expected to do but chant and look holy. Don’t worry about it.”

“If it’s nothing to worry about, then why are you getting so drunk?” John asked quietly.

“So drunk?” Hann’yu smirked. “You have no idea. You’ll wish you had a whole vat of wine in you later tonight. It’s the only good excuse a priest can claim for a weak stomach.”

The man who had been reading watched them for a few moments, but then looked away as John caught his gaze. He flipped through the pages of the book on his lap but didn’t begin reading again. John wondered how common it was for a pair of priests to be seen arguing in one of these bookstalls.

Hann’yu pulled a book out from the shelf and gave it to John. He chose another for himself. John looked down at the slim volume Hann’yu had given him. A circle enclosing a tree was embossed on the cover, but there was no title. John turned it over in his hands. The spine was bare.

“Poems from Milaun,” Hann’yu supplied the title. “Even Dayyid couldn’t complain. Well, I suppose he could, but not much.”

Hann’yu took his book and approached the bookseller. John followed him to the front of the stall. Hann’yu passed the man two black-lacquered coins. One side was etched with the image of a tower, the other with gold sun.

“Thank you for coming so far from civilization and reading so well,” Hann’yu said. “We will take these two.”

 
The man smiled at Hann’yu and handed the coins back. “The compliment of Parfir’s blessing would be a greater payment than any other.”

“Of course.” Hann’yu drew a small polished stone from the pocket of his cassock and placed it in the man’s palm. “May Parfir protect you in the darkness of his sleep and lavish you with joy upon his waking.”

The man lowered his head and remained bowed until after the two of them had left his stall.

As they worked their way through the rest of the Harvest Fair, John discovered that this was a routine interaction. Earlier in the day, he had been so focused on avoiding other priests that he hadn’t watched them make any purchases. Now, with Hann’yu, he realized that they never really paid for anything. Hann’yu either gave out blessings and polished pebbles or lacquered wooden coins. Many of the vendors’ wagons displayed large dishes of the polished stones. Others hung strings of the black coins above their entryways.

Hann’yu paused against the side of a seed-seller’s wagon.

“We should find a wealthy merchant or one of the city judges to invite us into one of their tents,” Hann’yu said.

“Not necessary. I’ve already been invited to the Bousim tent.”

“That’s right. You were Fikiri’s attendant.” Hann’yu grinned. “That’s better than I could have hoped for. We’ll drink ourselves sick and pass out.”

“I really don’t think that would be a good idea—”

“Don’t be so serious, Jahn.” Hann’yu rolled his eyes.

“I wouldn’t be, but I’m not entirely sure you’re joking.”

Hann’yu sighed. “I would never embarrass myself or you in front of such esteemed company as Lady Amha’in’Bousim.”

Knowing the kind of man Hann’yu was, John believed him. Hann’yu’s warmth and reverence for noblewomen seemed innately ingrained in his nature. The presence of Lady Bousim would probably do more to encourage sobriety in him than anything John could do or say.

“All right. Let’s go then,” John decided.

It didn’t require much effort to locate the Bousim tents. They rose up in swooping emerald arcs behind the rows of flower sellers. Wealthy families of Amura’taye had erected tents for themselves as well, but none were as vast or as pleasantly placed. The natural perfume of cut blossoms and live flowers drifted over the heavier scent of tahldi hide and human sweat.

Rather than merely providing temporary relief from the sun, the main Bousim tent impressed John as a work of architecture. Massive, carved timbers had been driven into the earth and secured with thick viridian-dyed ropes. The huge lengths of green cloth that stretched across the timbers were reinforced with worked leather displaying a pattern of the Bousim crossed arrows. Polished jade baubles hung from the timbers and lengths of silky green cloth and silver bells were strung across the entry.

 
The four rashan’im who guarded front of the great tent watched Hann’yu and John as they approached but didn’t challenge them. As they entered, the faint sound of bells announced their presence. Inside, the air was cool. The tent’s interior was suffused with an emerald glow from light passing through the cloth walls. Hann’yu’s dark skin took on a pine tone. John imagined that his own pale hair had turned the color of a lime.

Aside from an open circle at the center of the tent, the rest of the floor was littered with low tables and embroidered cushions. Men, wearing the badges of city judges, guild fathers, and scholars, sat at the tables surrounded by their wives, unwed daughters, and favorite sons. Some glanced up as John and Hann’yu entered, but most seemed too engrossed in their conversations to take any note.

Every table was laden with dishes piled high with fragrant cut fruit or sliced meat. As he eyed these, John became suddenly aware of the absence of the flies and bees that had filled the open fairgrounds. He surmised that the veils of cloth and strings of bells over the entry weren’t purely ornamental.

At the far end of the tent, Lady Bousim lounged with her maids and attendants. Two younger men were seated across from her. Their clothes, like those of the guild fathers, city judges, and scholars were well made and new. They wore clean, polished shoes, instead of sewn goatskins or scuffed work boots. That alone marked them as better off than most of the people at the Harvest Fair. But compared to Lady Bousim and her entourage, they might as well have been peasants.

 
Lady Bousim looked up as John and Hann’yu approached. She gave John a gentle smile, but when she took in Hann’yu’s face, her expression suddenly became radiantly happy. She stood.

“Please forgive me if I’m wrong, but you are the very image of Hann’yu Shim’arun of the Lisam House,” Lady Bousim said.

 
“I never did the name service enough while it was mine.” Hann’yu bowed smoothly and then straightened. “Now I am only Ushman Hann’yu.”

Both Hann’yu and Lady Bousim turned expectantly to John. His grasp of Basawar etiquette was poor when it came to women, but he knew that it was rarely desirable for them to introduce themselves to unrelated men, particularly if the men were of a rank close to or higher than their own. Hann’yu cleared his throat quietly. Suddenly, John realized that they were waiting for him to introduce Hann’yu to Lady Bousim.

“Ushman Hann’yu, please allow me to present the benevolent Lady Amha’in’Bousim to you.”

Hann’yu bowed a second time and Lady Bousim invited them both to sit and dine.

Once the formality of the introduction had been disposed with, Hann’yu installed himself at the table across from Lady Bousim and the two of them immediately began discussing their native city of Nurjima. The two handsome young men who had been attempting to entertain Lady Bousim were all but forgotten. Hann’yu opened the book he had purchased and read a brief passage. Lady Bousim recited the passage that followed from memory. A classic of Basawar literature, John supposed.

He worked his way back to where Bill sat, just behind Laurie. He wasn’t surprised to see that Alidas was seated there too. His right leg jutted straight out over a pillow in an awkward fashion. The maids and rashan’im all around Lady Bousim were talking to each other but with their voices lowered. The sound created a soft, almost insectile hum.

“You just missed Fikiri,” Bill remarked.

“He brought me flowers.” Laurie held up a small bouquet of red blossoms. “It was so cute. He ran off like a little kid right after handing them to me.”

“I’m seething with jealousy,” Bill said.

“I’m quite attracted to the bouquet myself,” Alidas told Bill. “I would try to steal it, but I’m sure your wife would break my good leg.”

Laurie snickered and lifted one tiny, white fist. “Yeah, watch out, Alidas. I’ll take you out.”

“If you keep bullying me like that, Behr is going to take pity on me and you know where that could lead,” Alidas murmured.

“Brutal fists of fury for you both.” Laurie held up her balled fists and made a tiny jabbing motion.

“Is there anything you’d like to eat or drink?” Bill asked.

“Anything really,” John said. “But no wine. I’ll just pass out.”

Bill waved one of the Bousim serving girls to him. He ordered white taye cakes and roast lamb and blossom water.

“And spring cheese,” Laurie added. “Be sure to bring a big block of spring cheese.”

The servant girl nodded and slipped away.

“Did you find something in Binders’ Row?” Alidas leaned forward slightly, as if to read the title of John’s book.

“
Poems from Milaun
.” John offered the slim volume to Alidas.

Alidas took the book and held it with reverence. He didn’t flip through the pages as John had; rather, he treated them with care and read with interest.

“These are the old plains songs. You hear field women singing them in rounds when you ride through the southern countryside. They sing them in the kitchens as well.” Alidas turned the page that he had been reading. “You can tell that some of them come from the apple orchards near Umbhra’ibaye because of the mentions of the bones. The Issusha’im Oracles are there, you know.”