Spiritwalker 3: Cold Steel (38 page)

Our arrival in the carriage yard of the mage House brought first a
startled groom and then a steward who took one look at us and hurried back inside.
A bevy of young women emerged from the depths of the House, giggling behind painted
fans in a fashion fifty years out of date. A coterie of young men strutted into view
as they sized up Vai and then me. Last, children were marched out as if we were glorious
visitors come for a festival who had to be greeted by the entire community. They had
the mixed look typical of mage Houses, with complexions ranging from pale to dark,
and hair all shades but none as straight as mine. By their expressions of delighted
interest, it was obvious White Bow House did not get many visitors.

An old woman appeared carrying a bowl of water, which she offered to us in the traditional
greeting. A pair of modest youths held basins so we could wash our hands and faces.

“Be welcome to White Bow House, home to the Cissé clan,” the old woman said. “Be sheltered
and fed here, as our guests.”

“I am Andevai Diarisso, of Four Moons House,” he said. I was surprised he erased his
village origins. “This is my wife, Catherine Bell Barahal. Your hospitality honors
us.”

A man not much older than Vai stepped forward with an assertive smile. “Let me greet
you, Magister Andevai.” His accent softened
Ahn-de-vai
to
Ah-theh-nay
. “I am Viridor Cissé, grandson of Magister Dyabe Cissé, who founded White Bow House.
I am mansa. I welcome you, my slave.”

As surprised as I was to find so young a man as mansa, I was more shocked when Andevai
laughed at this blatant slur with the greatest good humor.

“Ah, you thieves! What do you mean to steal from me?”

“We will steal you away to the men’s courtyard, for you are come just in time for
the Feast of Matronalia. A good feast for young married men to celebrate, with its
hope of fertility and fruitful childbirth,” Viridor added with a sidelong look at
me.

Vai grasped my hand, leaning close to whisper, “We’re safe, love. We’re safe here.”

With a parting smile he abandoned me, tramping off with the menfolk to the tune of
a great deal of manly joking and laughter.

Whether out of politeness or because she sensed my consternation, the old woman took
my right hand in hers, not to shake but to hold.
“I am Magister Vinda. We have a modest suite of rooms for visitors, nothing like what
you must be accustomed to at Four Moons House, but I will see you made comfortable.”
Her speech was cultured, burred by old-fashioned pronunciations.

The “modest” rooms luxuriated in richer furnishings than anything I had grown up with.
Blue fabric embroidered with sprays of silver stars upholstered the couches. The bedchamber
was decorated in lovely shades of yellow.

“Everything is very lovely and of the finest materials,” I said, quite honestly. She
looked so pleased I wondered if they had ever received any guests at all in this frontier
town.

“These are all your belongings?” she asked with obvious surprise.

“We met with unexpected difficulties on our road and were separated from our companions
and the rest of our things,” I temporized.

“It is clear by the state of your clothing that you have traveled an arduous path,”
agreed Vinda. “By which I mean no disrespect, Maestra.”

“None taken!” I smiled. In my experience, smiles had a great deal of utility when
it came to smoothing over an awkward question. “I was surprised when the men called
each other slaves and thieves.”

“The Cissé and the Diarisso are cousins who may joke with each other. Are you only
recently come to the mage House, to not know this? I find it curious that a young
mage of such rare potency has been chained to a woman not Houseborn and with no magic.”

She was no djeli, to see the threads I wove so easily. “No one could have been more
shocked than I was,” I agreed politely. “How do you know he is so… potent?”

“I can divine cold magic in others.” My blank expression prodded her into an enigmatic
smile. “Diviners like me seek out blooms of magic among people not born into the mage
Houses. When we find them, we bring them into the House to strengthen our lineage.
Have you any children yet?”

I blinked, not sure how to answer this without seeming acerbic. “Why do you ask?”

“It is not usual for a young man to be sent on his Grand Tour with a young wife accompanying
him. I thought you perhaps had borne him children already and sought a child by another
magister. But if you’ve
as yet had no children with him, then there can be no reason for you to seek to be
impregnated by any of our men. Perhaps you are of the Sapphic persuasion, in which
case I can let you know which women of the House may be interested in your attentions.”

I stared at her in confusion, as bewildered as if she had started to speak in a foreign
language.

Her brow wrinkled. “I beg your pardon. Some people have no interest in sexual liaisons,
nor is there any reason they should. Perhaps you prefer to choose for him from among
the women who seek a child? I assure you that we keep careful records so no near relatives
inadvertently mate.”

“Choose for him? I don’t understand…” Then, of course, I did. My eyes must have gotten
very round, and then very narrow. She took a step back. I reined in my temper, trying
not to snap, for I sensed no hostility. If anything, she seemed puzzled. “Is this
the way you greet every male visitor? By offering to let him impregnate the women
of your House?”

“Yes. It is the custom among the mage Houses when the visitor is a powerful cold mage.”
She studied me as if I had sprouted antlers: a surprising turn of events but not yet
a threatening one.

“What do you mean by the Grand Tour?”

“You truly have no idea.” She folded her hands at her waist in the manner of a governess
about to launch into the day’s lesson. “Exceptionally potent cold magic is vanishingly
rare, despite how it seems to people outside the mage Houses. Promising young men
are commonly sent all around Europa, visiting other mage Houses and offering their
services to young widows and to married women who have already had several children
out of their husbands. Many years ago some wit called it the Grand Tour, and the name
stuck.”

“You send them around like you would breed livestock.”

“Not at all. No one is forced to the task. It is a sensible way to attempt to increase
the number of cold mages born within the Houses.”

I remembered a thing Vai had told me on the night we had consummated our marriage.
“Might women travel to a mage House where it is said a promising young cold mage resides?
To see if they can get pregnant by him?”

She smiled with relief, at last assured my intelligence was not wanting. “Yes, that
also happens, but only among those Houses who have both wealth and prestige enough
to make such visits. Please excuse my plain speaking, since I comprehend I have surprised
you. We are a small House, very isolated and not rich, a trifling country cousin compared
to Four Moons House. We have struggled for over fifty years to survive here in the
frozen north among savages. Our mansa is unseasonably young because we lost all of
our experienced magisters in a cholera epidemic ten years ago. Our djeliw died as
well. For us the arrival of a powerful cold mage is a precious opportunity to strengthen
our lineage.”

I did not want to get us tossed out into the cold, and furthermore, she had a point.
“My apologies if it seemed otherwise to you, but we are not here on a Grand Tour.”

She seemed more curious than annoyed. “Your ignorance of mage House customs and that
blush in your cheeks suggest you are newly come to the marriage bed and that your
husband pleases you, as well he might, for he is certainly handsome. I shall not press
you further on this account. It would be an inauspicious time.”

Apparently without having taken offense, she changed the subject to practical matters.
Not that cultivating a new generation of mages wasn’t, at root, a practical matter
among people whose wealth and station depended on the presence of intimidating magic.

“Let me take you to the baths. We’ll launder your clothing and fit you with clean
things. I can see the magister’s clothes need replacing. There are a number of good
tailors’ shops here.”

A tailor’s shop called Queedle & Clutch. Towers surmounted by gilded eggs. A cat waiting
in the shadows. Bee had drawn these things! As the memory struck, I gasped out loud.

“Maestra, are you well?”

Palm pressed to my chest, I smiled, made tremulous by hope. “I hope and pray we might
stay here a few days to rest,” I said, a little hoarsely. “It has been a long and
difficult journey.”

“Of course. Come along. The women are eager to welcome you. We have turnip stew.”

Having become accustomed to the free and easy manners in Expedition, I had to remind
myself that I once would have found it unexceptional for men and women to dine in
separate chambers. Anyway,
I was grateful for the friendly greeting I received in the women’s hall. The young
women plied me with so many questions about Vai that I prudently entertained them
instead with tales of Expedition and the Taino kingdom. They demanded to know if it
was true that a woman had ruled the Taino kingdom, and that the new Expedition Assembly
would include women as assemblymen, with the right to speak and vote just like the
men.

“Of course it’s true. No troll clutch in the city of Expedition would support the
Assembly if females did not have the same rights as males. Do you not speak to the
trolls who live here? As we came into town I saw trolls and airships. Where did they
come from? Does your mage House support their presence here?”

“Of course,” said Vinda. “Our House and the
ghana
work hand to glove to cultivate all the riches of this territory and in that way
encourage more people to settle and work here.”

“Truly? I had always understood that the technology of combustion is anathema to cold
magic. Why, you are quite at the forefront of the tide of change!”

They were shocked their tedious backwater could be seen as a place where interesting
things were happening. Twelve years ago the first trolls had arrived from North Amerike.
They had petitioned at the ghana’s court—
ghana
being the local word for the prince—for permission to mine and log in the mountainous
regions near the sister cities of Sala and Koumbi.

“What do they mine?” I asked.

Vinda said, “Iron and silver. The early settlers fifty years ago got rich on silver,
but the trolls brought in more efficient methods. They’re building manufactories.
They pay wages by the day.”

“Yes, but you have to live in one of their settlements,” objected a girl. “Who wants
to live out there in the wild where they might eat you if they felt like it?”

“Have you heard rumors of trolls eating their employees?” I asked.

“No,” said the girl, her cheeks flushed with excitement, “but we hear bloody tales
of trolls gone out to survey the land who get into violent altercations with local
tribesmen. The tribespeople are angry that foreigners are disrupting their hunting
and trapping. Are you well acquainted with trolls?”

“I have been adopted into one of their clutches.” It was remarkably gratifying to
see how they quieted, quivering with anticipation.

Really, I could have talked all night, but I wanted to tell Vai about Bee’s dream.
At last I retreated to the guest suite to discover Vai not there. Gracious Melqart!
How late did the men intend to celebrate? Had he let down his guard too easily? Had
we fallen into a trap?

Knowing White Bow House had lost all its djeliw made me bold. I drew the shadows around
me and went in search of the men’s courtyard, even though I knew I ought not to venture
there. The corridors lay empty. Elsewhere in the compound, children were being sung
into their sleep, the youths were reciting their lessons before bed, and an old man
was snoring. Drums tapped a festive rhythm. The scent of liquor spilled through the
air as the seal of friendship. Like a hunter I followed its trail.

An open door admitted me into the mansa’s formal audience chamber with a carved stool
and several cushions. Past another door I entered a formal dining chamber with a table
and about thirty chairs, all undisturbed. Past that lay an informal receiving chamber.
Here the remains of a generous supper littered the low tables, cushions all awry.
Beyond glass-paned doors lay an inner courtyard lit by cold fire. Snow glittered on
the shrubs and trimmed hedges.

Four drummers laid down a rhythm. Every dance has a story, every rhythm a meaning,
through which it converses with the pulsing heart of the world. Like the other men,
Vai had stripped off his winter coat and his dash jacket. They were all very fine,
for they were men who had grown up with dancing, but he had a supple and energetic
way of moving that naturally drew my eye as I admired him. Although normally he would
have known I had crept close, he showed not the least sign his thoughts lay anywhere
except within the rhythm and the camaraderie of the men laughing and egging each other
on to show off.

This courtyard was not meant for my eyes. I was trespassing.

I padded back to the lonely refuge of our rooms. In lamplight I set out the cacica’s
skull and poured her a little wine. As I cleaned and sorted my sewing kit, I told
the cacica about my evening with the women of White Bow House. I had stayed away from
discussing Camjiata or radical philosophy and stuck to a theme of women speaking out
and taking a place in governance. Everyone had paid
attention, even if most had been skeptical that such a thing could ever happen. Maybe
there really were times when words were more effective than a sword.

Men’s laughter gusted up the hall. I grabbed my sword as the lamps guttered out and
the door swung open. Vai slammed it behind him as he stamped snow off his boots. Baubles
of cold fire bobbed erratically over his head. He shed his coat and tossed it over
a chair to reveal his dash jacket unbuttoned and disheveled as if he had carelessly
dragged it on.