The Ninysh word palasho is generally translated “palace,” but Palasho do Lire, its sandstone walls glowing orange with the sunset, looked more like a heavily fortified farmstead. Squat and square, the enclosure sulked atop a low hill, cattle pasture on all sides. A shallow ditch enclosed the pasture, more useful for keeping cattle in than anyone else out; our horses balked at the open-slatted bridge, but some cowherds rushed up and laid down planks to help our skittish steeds across.
The house steward, who knew Josquin, came out to greet us, shaking the herald’s hand and directing a bevy of grooms to take our horses. The steward led us through a brick arch into a courtyard. Chickens eyed us from niches in the walls; an old nanny goat with crooked horns and distended udders bleated hoarse disapproval.
Most of the Eight went straight to quarters in a long outbuilding. Moy accompanied Josquin and me toward a hulking stone hall, like a barn with windows. Abdo grabbed Nan’s hand and towed her along. She grinned apologetically; she had the same squared-off teeth as Moy.
She guesses my hand signs better than any of the others, said Abdo.
Reason enough, I said, nodding cordially at Nan.
A stag-hunting scene, too fine for a barn, had been carved upon the double doors. My weary brain finally understood that this was the great hall. I was to make my greeting and presentation to the local gentry straightaway, still dusty from the road, in breeches, doublet, broad-brimmed hat, and boots. I balked.
Josquin paused, hand on the door. “Nervous?”
“Shouldn’t I change first?” I whispered, trying not to sound panicky.
“Ah,” he said, looking me up and down appraisingly. “You could, if it means that much to you. But may I make a suggestion?”
I shrugged assent, confusedly. The breeze brought with it a whiff of pig.
He lowered his voice, his pale eyes intent. “Dame Okra said you’re a musician, a performer. Well, we heralds are performers, too. We speak with the voices of counts, queens, sometimes even Saints. Fine clothing may earn you the benefit of the doubt, but authority still has to come from here.” He jabbed a finger below his rib cage. “Stand up straight. Speak like you have every right, and they’ll believe you. I’ll be there with you, translating. All will be well.”
That made sense, and I had performed enough now that I had a reservoir of confidence to draw from. I took a fortifying breath and entered a church-like space with columns holding up the soot-blackened roof. I’d expected a receiving room or feasting hall. Perhaps this chamber filled those purposes, too, but today it was full of woolly yearling goats. Men and women vigorously brushed the animals, collecting the sheddings in great baskets; other baskets held the coarser shorn fleeces of older goats. Great bronze cauldrons for washing or dyeing the wool rested above hearth fires in the center of the room, circled in turn by drying racks. At the far end, women were setting up tapestry looms.
Josquin weaved through the busy hall toward a petite woman, her red hair streaked with silver, who was assembling a spinning wheel. She wore a blue kirtle over a linen blouse with riotous embroidery up the sleeves.
Josquin bowed low; I took my cue from him and, having no skirts, bowed, too. I discerned the name Baroneta Do Lire in his address, leaving no doubt that this was indeed the chatelaine.
She called Josquin by name; his was clearly a familiar face here. He introduced me in mellifluent tones, and she looked impressed. The goats would have seemed magnificent, spoken of in that voice. Under his breath Josquin said, “Go on. Read.”
I drew Queen Glisselda’s missive to the nobility of Ninys from my satchel, lifted my chin, and smiled. Josquin gave a small, approving nod. I ceremoniously unfolded the parchment and read, Josquin translating my every word into fluid, grandiloquent Ninysh:
Honorable lords [“and ladies,” I added hastily] of Ninys, I bear the greetings and respectful good wishes of Queen Glisselda of Goredd.
You have heard of the inter-draconic conflict in the north. It will inevitably spill south: the Old Ard want to hunt the Southlands again, not just Goredd but Ninys and Samsam as well. Goredd has often borne the brunt of dragon aggression alone. We hold no grudge for the past—indeed, we were honored to be a bulwark for the Southlands—but forty years of peace and the dissolution of the knightly orders have left us ill prepared for another onslaught.
Count Pesavolta has sent the last remaining Ninysh knights to Fort Oversea to train new dracomachists alongside ours. Goredd applauds his generous, cooperative spirit, but more is needed. We rely on the baronets of Ninys, heart and conscience of the south, to do your part.
Glisselda and Kiggs had agonized over this letter, trying to strike the right balance between urgency and desperation, flattery and guilt-mongering. It went on to list what aid Goredd could use—men, arms, grain, timber, the raw materials for St. Ogdo’s fire, and more. Josquin polished my words in translation, laying them at Baroneta do Lire’s feet like gleaming jewels.
The lady had been winding wool when I began; by the end, she’d dropped her distaff into her lap and placed her hand upon her heart. “Palasho do Lire would be honored to help,” she said (per Josquin’s translation). “We Ninysh know what we owe Goredd, that our beauteous, well-organized country was built upon Goreddi sacrifice. Marie”—this to a woman carrying a basket of wool—“fetch quill and ink. I’ll put my promises in writing.”
This was more than I had hoped for. We acquired the written account and had dinner with the baroneta in a smaller, goat-free dining room—I could barely sit still, I was so pleased. As we filed out, led toward the guest wing by the steward, I whispered to Josquin, “You were right. There was nothing to fear.”
He quirked a smile and said, “They won’t all be this gracious.”
Abdo and I were quartered together in a sparse guest room with a hearth and two curtained alcove beds. I felt a big-sisterly impulse to see that Abdo got a good night’s sleep. His routines were as elaborate as mine: he cleaned his teeth with a wooden pick, changed into a long tunic he’d brought just for sleeping, wrapped his hair in a silk scarf, and bounced on the bed.
“Friend,” I said after he’d been at it for several minutes, “that’s not really necessary. Don’t tell me your god demands it, either, because I’m not falling for it.”
You only do necessary things before bed? he asked, still jumping.
“If I don’t wash and oil my scales, they itch,” I said crossly. My kettle was taking forever to boil on the hearth.
Not that. He stopped and stared owlishly. You visit your “garden” every night.
“Also necessary, or I am afflicted with involuntary visions of all you villains.”
He cocked his head to one side. When was the last time you had a vision?
“Midwinter. It was a vision of you, if you recall. You were aware of me.”
I was looking for you, he said. I caused that vision, reaching out. But before that?
I shook my head at him, perplexed. “I don’t remember. Not for years. I tend my garden religiously.”
Ha, he said, lying down at last, his face thoughtful. I suspect you mean superstitiously. You should try ignoring it. See what happens.
“Not while we’re traveling,” I said, taking my kettle off the fire. “What if a vision bowled me right off my horse?”
He didn’t answer. I turned to look at him and saw that he’d fallen asleep.