“Why?”
Taguiloa shifted from foot to foot, let his nervousness show a hit more, disciplined his voice to a dull monotone. “Three reasons, saх jura Meslar.” He spoke softly, slowly, choosing his words with care, his eyes flicking, careful not to look at the hands too long. “First, saх jura Meslar, when I was younger, I made tours through the Tigarezun with my master Gerontai and I have taken notice of how eagerly the countryfolk greeted exotic acts and how well they reward those that please them.” He winced inside at the pompous greed in the speech but the fingers were relaxing; he was conforming to expectation. “Second, saх jura Meslar, making a tour such as this is very costly especially in the beginning; aside from their other talents the members of the troupe excepting the children have contributed to outfitting us and will have a share in whatever we take in, the foreigners of course taking a much smaller share than the Hina.” Glance at the hands. Almost flat out. Good. But don’t overdo the boring bit. Or the geed. “Third, saх jura Meslar, though this will be of little importance to you, it carries a high weight with me, there are my own aspirations. I seek to blend tumbling, juggling and dance into something no man has seen before. The music I found to accompany this new movement was also a blend, a music from M’darjin drums, Rukka-nag daroud, Hina flute, a music that is sufficiently different to be intriguing, sufficiently familiar for the comfort of the listeners. It is an exciting music, saх jura Meslar, all who have heard it agree.” He bowed again and fell silent. Watch what you say; he’s far from stupid or he wouldn’t be where he is.
“Tell me, about your foreigners. The women first.”
“They are honored by your interest, saх jura Meslar.” Taguiloa cleared his throat. “I know only outlines, saх jura Meslar, I must confess it, I wasn’t interested in their life stories, only their coin and their skills. Harra Hazhani is Rukka-nag from far out in the west somewhere, you will of course know of them. She came to Silili with her father, he died and left her without protection or a place to go and a limited amount of coin so she needed a way to earn more. The customs and strictures of her people forbid her on pain of death to sell that which is a woman’s chief asset and besides she was a foreigner, only the perverse would pay for her. However she is an excellent dancer in her way and a musician of considerable talent. The other woman is called Brannish Tovah, she is Sujomann, out of the west too, from up in the far north somewhere, she says winter nights last half a year and the snow comes down until it’s high enough to drown mountains. I needed a seer who could also dance and she came well recommended. She’s bound to the wind by her god or so she said, goes where the wind blows, said she lost a husband and two children to ice and wolves, has a brindle boar hound she says is her familiar and a street child she picked up who has something to do with helping her in her rites and acts as crier to call clients so she can read for them. Like the Hazhani woman, she is forbidden by custom and her in-dwelling god to seek congress with men not her kind. Were she to be forced, she is bound by her god to castrate the man and kill herself. That tends to reduce the ardor of any who might find her interesting. To speak truly, saх jura Meslar, I was quite pleased when I learned these things. Having women in a troupe is always a tricky thing, can lead to complications with the countryfolk if they consider themselves free to supplement their incomes on their back. The M’darjin drummer is a boy about ten or so, hard to tell with those folk. He has no father or relatives willing to claim him, though how that happened is not clear to me. I did not bother to probe for answers, I was not interested in anything but the way he played the drums. Linjijan the flute player is Hina and the second best in all Silili, the first being his great uncle Ladjinatuai who plays for Blackthorn.” He bowed and waited tensely for the Hand’s response.
Hands still loose on his thighs, Maratullik was silent for some breaths, then he said, “Both women come from the west.”
“So they said, saх jura Meslar.”
The questioning went on for a short while longer, Maratullik’s hands relaxed, his voice gone remote and touched with distaste. He was no longer much interested in the answers and Taguiloa rapidly shortened them to the minimum required by courtesy. Short as they were, the Temueng interrupted the last. “You will perform here tomorrow night,” he said. “You will make the necessary arrangements with my house steward. Wait here.” He got to his feet and glided out, ignoring Taguiloa’s low bow, his attitude saying he had forgotten the matter completely, it was of that small an importance in his life. Taguiloa squeezed his hands together, froze his face into a mask, exultation bubbling in him; he struggled to keep his calm, but all he could think was, I’ve won, I’ve almost won.
HAIR A WHITE shimmer tied at the nape of her neck, clothes a black tunic and trousers, worn sandals on her feet, Brann walked through the busy market, making her way to Sammang’s tavern, in no hurry to get there, savoring the anticipation, enjoying the exuberant vitality of the scene around her. A face came out of the crowd, two more. She strangled a cry in her throat. Cathar. Camm. Theras. Her brother. A cousin by blood. A cousin by courtesy. Faces she knew as well as her own. She began following them, trying to stay inconspicuous, afraid of losing sight of them.
Cathar sauntered through the market, his eyes alive with pleasure in the jumbled colors and forms, stopping to bargain for fruit and herbs, a length of cloth, joking with the cousins, in no hurry, unaccompanied by any guard she could see, paying for his purchases with a metal tablet he showed the vender. She wanted desperately to talk to him, but didn’t dare approach him. After her first flush of emotion, her mind took over. What was he here for except as bait to draw her out? Otherwise, why would the Temuengs let him and the others beyond the compound walls, taking a chance they’d run? Not much of a chance with the hostages the Temuengs held, but how could they be sure? Had to be Noses about. She couldn’t see any but that meant very little in this crush. Anyway, how could she tell a Nose from the rest of the folk here? Couldn’t smell them. She choked back a hysterical giggle. Besides, what could she say to Cathar if she did go up to him? Hello, I’m your little sister. A foot taller, hair gone white, fifteen years too old, but I’m still Brann. Bramble-allthorns. No, I’m not a crazy woman. I really am your sister. Eleven years old, never mind my form. Ha! He’d believe her, like hell he would. She chewed on her lip as she eased after them, trying to think of some way she could talk with him without giving herself away to the Noses.
Yaril tugged on her arm. She let the changechild lead her into a side street, where there was a jog in a building that gave her a bit of privacy.
“House of assignation,” Yaril whispered. “There’s one the next street over. You put on a Hina face and go rent a room, I’ll bring Cathar to you.”
Brann grimaced. “Yaril…”
The changechild scratched at her head, made an impatient gesture with her other hand. “The door’s got twined serpents painted on it. You just go and knock and say you want a room for the afternoon and give the old woman three silver bits and tell her your servant will be bringing someone later and let the maid take you up. When the girl’s gone, you take your clothes off and put on the robe youll find in the room and sit down and wait.” She frowned. “Keep the Hina face. And you’d better make it a kind of wrinkled up face. Dirty old woman paying young men to service her. Just in case Cathar’s Nose decides to check you out.”