“So we are supposed to bow down to Arlen Bales?” Thamos demanded, giving the thought voice. “All the Tenders and Shepherds—I and my brother and Euchor of Miln? All of us voluntarily abdicate power to him?”
“Abdi-what?” Gared asked. “Course not. You’ve met him. Mr. Bales dun’t care about thrones and papers. Dun’t think the Deliverer cares about anythin’ ’cept keepin’ us safe in the night. So where’s the harm in givin’ him credit for what he’s done, ’specially now when he’s gone on to the Core itself for us?”
“We have only his word on that, Baron,” Child Franq noted.
Gared turned a cold glare at him. “You callin’ him a liar?”
The Child shrank back, clearing his throat. “Of course not, I, ah …”
Hayes laid a hand on his arm. “The Child will be silent.” Immediately, a look of relief crossed Franq’s face, and he dropped his eyes, withdrawing from the debate.
“I don’t see what difference it makes,” Leesha cut in. Gared glared at her, but she met his gaze coolly. “If Arlen had wanted to be called the Deliverer, he wouldn’t have spent his every other breath denying it. Whether he is or isn’t, he thinks folk won’t put their backs into the fight if they’re waiting to be saved.”
The Inquisitor nodded, perhaps too eagerly. Leesha turned to him next. “As for your plans, Inquisitor, I’m afraid I must agree with my father, Speaker Smitt, and the baron. They are impractical and wasteful.”
“That is not for you to decide, Gatherer,” Hayes snapped.
“No, but it is for me to decide how it will be paid for.” Thamos’ voice had taken on the quiet tone that showed his patience was at an end and folk should listen well.
All eyes returned to the count. “If you insist on continuing the cathedral in this fashion, Inquisitor, the Tenders are welcome to shoulder the cost. There will be no more talk of royal funds until you change plans to something more sensible.”
Hayes gave Thamos a cold look, but he dipped a shallow bow. “As you wish, Highness.”
“As for the matter of Arlen Bales,” the count said, “I can assure you, Baron, this will be a topic addressed during your visit to court. You’ll have the opportunity to make your case to Shepherd Pether and the duke in person.”
The zealous look on Gared’s face melted away. “Ent no Speaker, Highness. Plenty others got better words’n me on the topic. Tender Jona …”
“Has been questioned at length on the matter,” Thamos said. “But my brothers remain unconvinced. You have witnessed his rise firsthand. If you truly believe Arlen Bales is the Deliverer, you will speak for him. If you haven’t the courage, it will say even more than your words.”
Gared’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “Deliverer told me life ent always fair. If the weight’s on me, I’ll carry it and more besides.”
The meeting went on for some time, each councilor in turn asking the count for funds to pay for one project or another. Leesha rubbed her temple as she tried to follow each councilor’s accounting, and calculate the true numbers they sought to hide. Even when she disagreed with his choices, she didn’t envy Thamos in having to make them. She wished she were at the other end of the table by his side, so she could touch him and whisper advice only he would hear.
She was surprised at how strongly the image resonated with her. The more she thought of it, the more she wanted to be countess.
She took her time gathering her papers when the session ended and the other councilors began to file out. She hoped to steal another moment with Thamos before heading to the hospit, but the Inquisitor moved over to him, stealing the opportunity.
Leesha left the room slowly, passing as close to them as possible, ears open.
“Your mother and brother will hear of this,” the Inquisitor warned.
“I’ll tell them myself,” Thamos snapped back. “And that you’re being a ripping fool.”
“How dare you, boy,” the Inquisitor growled.
Thamos raised a finger. “I’m not beneath your cane anymore, Tender. Try to swing it at me again and I’ll break it over my knee and send you on the next coach back to Angiers.”
Leesha clutched her papers, smiling as she left the room.
Smitt was lingering outside, speaking to his wife, Stefny, and their youngest son, Keet. The Speaker looked at her, bowing. “My apologies if I offended you earlier, mistress.”
“The council chamber is meant for debate,” Leesha said. “I hope you know that the Hollow owes you a great debt for your service as Speaker in these difficult times.”
Smitt nodded, slapping Keet on the shoulder. “Just telling the boy here to see if we can’t lower the price of bread, like you asked. If there’s a way, he’ll find it. Good head for numbers, just like his da.”
Out of his line of sight, Stefny rolled her eyes at Leesha. They both knew the boy was not really Smitt’s son, but the illegitimate son of the Hollow’s late Tender, Michel.
Both Leesha and Bruna had used the knowledge like a lash against Stefny when the woman was out of line, but now, with an illegitimate child of her own growing in her belly, Leesha knew she had been wrong to do so.
“A word,” she said to Stefny, as the two men walked off.
“Ay?” the woman asked. They had never been anything approaching close, but both had faced down corelings for the sake of wounded Hollowers, and there was respect between them now.
“I owe you an apology,” Leesha said. “I’ve threatened you with Keet before, but I want you to know I would never have done it, to Smitt or to the boy.”
“Nor Bruna, whatever the witch might have said,” Stefny agreed. “I may not agree with everything you do, girl, but you keep your Gatherer’s oath. You can keep your apology with it.”
She tilted her head at Smitt and the boy. “Even if you hadn’t, Smitt never would have believed you.” She shook her head. “Funny thing about children. People see in them what they wish to see.”
Rojer smiled to see Amanvah’s coach waiting in the courtyard of Thamos’ keep. Heavily warded and powered with hora, the princess’ coach was as safe as any building in the Hollow.
Pulled by four brilliant white mares with golden traces, the coach was painted to match. The white and gold was typical of austere Krasian artisans, but in the North, where a typical Jongleur’s Wagon looked like the vomit of a rainbow and every two-klat Messenger had his own colors, the stark white was louder than even Thamos’ royal coach.
Inside, it was a Jongleur’s paradise, with multicolored silks and velvet on almost every surface. Rojer called it the motley coach, and he loved it so.
The driver was Coliv, the Krevakh Watcher Jardir had sent to escort Leesha’s entourage back to the Hollow. The man was a cold and efficient killer, and like the other Sharum, had looked at Rojer like a bug they were waiting for the order to squash.
But they had shed blood together at new moon, and that seemed to change everything. There were not friends—the Watcher gave new depths to the word taciturn—but Rojer now received a nod of respect when he saw the warrior, and it made all the difference.
“They inside?” he asked.
The Watcher shook his head. “Sharusahk in the Alagai Graveyard.” His words were even, but Rojer could sense the tension in them. Since the death of Amanvah’s bodyguard Enkido, Coliv had appointed himself to the role, and never let Amanvah out of shouting distance, save at her direct command. Rojer was not convinced the man ever slept or even took a piss.
Maybe he wears a sheep’s bladder under those loose pants. Rojer kept his Jongleur’s mask in place, giving no sign of his amusement. “Let’s go see them.”
He could sense Coliv’s relief. He was cracking the reins before Rojer had even closed the door behind him. He was thrown into the pillows as the coach started with a jerk. He inhaled his wives’ perfume and sighed, missing them already.
Had he been anywhere else, Sikvah at least would have been waiting inside to greet him in her colored silks. But some fine point of Krasian honor kept them from coming within a mile of the count’s keep without a formal invitation—which happened all too infrequently for Amanvah’s satisfaction. They were blood of the Shar’Dama Ka, after all.
He saw them in the bandshell as the coach pulled into the Corelings’ Graveyard, stretching in the gentle—yet strenuous—movements of sharusahk. In the square, nearly a thousand women, men, and children practiced with them.
They slipped into scorpion, a pose even Rojer, a professional acrobat, had trouble with. Rojer saw shaking limbs as many struggled to hold the pose—or their closest approximation of the impossible thing—but their faces were all serene, their breathing even. They would hold as long as they could, and every day, they would get stronger.
More and more dropped out. First the men, and then the children. Soon the women began to drop off, as well. And then there were but a few, including Kendall, Rojer’s favorite apprentice. And then none. Still Amanvah and Sikvah held the pose effortlessly, like marble statues.
Rojer called them Jiwah Ka and Jiwah Sen, and he loved them so. Arrick had taught Rojer to fear marriage like a plague, but what the three of them had was unlike anything Rojer ever dreamed.
Sikvah seemed to sense when he wanted to be alone and would vanish, reappearing as if by magic the moment he needed something. It was uncanny, and amazing. She was warm and inviting, caressing him and giving his every word and wish—not to mention every twitch in his motley pants—her utmost attention and effort. He confided in her as they lay in the pillows, knowing full well it would get back to Amanvah.
Sikvah was the heart of their little family, and Amanvah, of course, was the head. Always serious, always in control, even in lovemaking. And usually, Rojer had learned, right. Amanvah demanded surrender in all things, and Rojer had learned it was best to give it to her.
Unless the fiddle demanded it. Since the night they first used their music to kill corelings, his wives had known that in this, he led. Amanvah was the head and Sikvah the heart, but Rojer was the art, and art must be free.
They finished the session at rest position on their backs, then kicked themselves upright. Their students remained on their backs, treating Rojer to a chorus of panting and groans while he approached the bandshell, kissing his wives as they came down the steps from the stage, their breathing calm.
Kendall was the first of the Hollowers on her feet, coming over to them. Amanvah and Sikvah treated his other apprentices like servants, but Kendall they had taken to. She was the most skilled of the lot, turning their musical trio into a quartet, and limber enough to have a real chance at even the most difficult sharusahk moves one day. Her breathing was deep and even, but it was quick with exertion.
“You did well today, Kendall am’Hollow,” Amanvah said in Krasian, giving that rare, dignified nod that meant more from his Jiwah Ka than the loudest praise. Kendall had been included in the Krasian lessons they gave Rojer, which was a great help to him, allowing him a practice partner who struggled as much as he.
Kendall beamed, pulling her loose motley pants into an impressive curtsy. “Thank you, Your Highness.”
Her practice robe fell open a bit as she rose, and Rojer’s eyes dipped, catching sight of the line of thick scars on her chest.
Kendall caught him looking, smiling at first until she glanced down and realized he was staring at the scars and not her exposed cleavage. Suddenly the girl blushed, pulling the robe to cover herself. Rojer quickly looked away. The shame in her eyes made him wish he was cored.
Amanvah picked up on the discomfort in the air immediately. She tilted her head slightly at Kendall, and immediately Sikvah took the girl’s arm.
“You are ready for more advanced sharukin,” Sikvah said, “if you can perfect your scorpion pose.”
“Thought I had that one,” Kendall said.
“Better than any of the chin, perhaps,” Sikvah said, “but you must reach a greater standard if you are to be instructed in higher forms. Come.”
Kendall glanced at Rojer, but allowed herself to be led a short distance away to practice. Amanvah watched the women go, then turned back to Rojer the moment they were out of earshot. “Husband, explain. You often lament at how your people behave at the sight of your alagai scars, yet you do the same to your apprentice.”
Rojer swallowed. Amanvah had a way of cutting right to the heart of a matter. He was more than a little afraid of her sometimes.
“It’s my fault she got them,” he said. “I wanted to show off how good she was at charming demons with her fiddle. Pushed her to solo before she was ready, then wandered too far from her side. She made a mistake, and I wasn’t there to keep her from being cored.”
His vision blurred with tears. “It was Gared who saved her. Waded right into a pack of demons and carried her out. She nearly died as Leesha operated. I gave blood till I felt I might pass out, but it was barely enough.”
Amanvah looked at him sharply. “You gave her your blood?”
The tone pulled Rojer up short like a bucket of cold water. Krasians had a thousand laws and customs when it came to blood, but Rojer had never grasped more than the rudiments. Giving Kendall his blood might make her his sister, or it might mean she and Sikvah needed to have a knife fight. Creator only knew.
Amanvah lifted a finger toward Sikvah. She and Kendall had barely done anything at all, but immediately Sikvah began complimenting Kendall’s improvement. In moments, they rejoined Rojer and Amanvah. Kendall looked confused, but she, like Rojer, had learned it best to simply ride along when his wives began acting strangely.
“You must join us for lunch.” Amanvah’s words were as much command as invitation, an honor that could not easily be refused.
Kendall dipped another curtsy. “Be honored, Your Highness.”
They all climbed into the motley coach, riding to Shamavah’s restaurant. The count had forbidden the Krasians from owning property, but that had done little to slow Shamavah when she saw the building, a large ranch house not far from the center of town. Abban’s First Wife had deep pockets filled with gold, and it had taken her only one session of haggling with the owner to walk away with a century lease that would stand in any magistrate’s court in Thesa. Craftsmen had been at work night and day, adding extensions and additional floors. Already it was unrecognizable as the more modest building it had been before.
First to be finished were luxury quarters for visiting Krasian dignitaries. His wives, finding their room at Smitt’s Inn unacceptable, had transferred their things immediately. Rojer had not been consulted, but could hardly complain. Shamavah showered them in splendor while they waited on construction of Rojer’s manse.