The clang of the Guildhall clock brought her to her surroundings with a start. The hour was done. Pasco's eyes were open and eager. "Lady—?" he asked.
Sandry took up her warding circle. Returning her thread to her purse, she asked, "Walk or ride? It's not far."
Pasco looked at her guards and the horses waiting in front of the garden. "Walk. So who is it?" he begged as Sandry mounted Russet. "Is the teacher expensive? I can’t pay, you, know."
“We have an understanding," replied Sandry, clucking to Russet. "Come on,"
"But where?" he pleaded, trotting alongside her. "Who?"
"He's chattery," commented Oarna, looking down at the boy. "You sure he's harrier-bred? Usually they don't have two words to rub together."
Pasco grinned up at her. "That's 'cause they don't want the Dukes Guard blabbing their secrets,»
"We'd have to be interested to steal, them, boy," replied Oama with a wink at Sandry.
Festival, Street was like most city roads, lined with homes and businesses. The largest building on Festival between Market and Yanjing Streets sat behind a ten- foot-high stone wall. Sandry thought it may have been a warehouse at one time. Now there was nothing to indicate what use the building had. Its only marker was a painted sign over the gate—Hebet—in gold letters on a red background.
"Here we are," Sandry announced, guiding Russet into the courtyard. Oama and Kwaben followed. When she didn't see Pasco, Sandry turned. The boy was still in the street, goggling at the sign.
A girl came to take the horses when they dismounted. As she led the animals away, Sandry called, "Pasco."
“I’ll get him," Oama said. She grabbed the boy's arm and towed him back to Sandry.
"Do you know whose place this is?" Pasco asked, his eyes fixed on the building.
"It's Yazmнn Hebet's school, yes, I know," Sandry replied. Her earlier impatience was turning into amusement. I might have acted the same if I'd heard of Lark before she took me as her student, she thought. "I believe school was the idea. May we go in, please? There's an inside here. I’m sure you'd like to see it."
"She danced for seven kings in Aliput, and eight queens," Pasco babbled as they walked toward the open doors. "She danced for the emperor in Yanjing, just for him, for a whole year, and he made her a dress covered in blue pearls. Blue pearls, can you imagine! For dancing for one year for him and no one else!"
Inside, the door hallways pointed straight ahead and to either side. Open rooms on the halls emitted bursts of music from various instruments, many thuds, bumps, and squeaks, and shouts in male and female voices. At the end of the hall directly ahead, a dancer in leggings and a loose tunic tightly belted around the waist did a handstand, her legs pointed straight at the ceiling.
A boy in leggings and belted tunic raced by, stopped, and came back to them. "Was you lookin' for someone especial, my lady?" he asked, bowing low. His accent came from south of the Pebbled Sea; his skin was coal black like that of the tribesmen there.
"Lady Sandrilene fa Toren, and student, to see Yazmнn Hebet," said Oama sternly.
The boy grinned. "Come." He raced up a narrow stair at the end of the right-hand hallway.
Following him, Sandry pretended not to hear Pasco's hissed, "I have a name, you know!"
She thought she was in fairly good physical condition, but she was panting when she reached the top of the stair. Their guide was not even breathing hard. He beckoned them down a long hall, past various rooms on either side.
"No, no, no, Thandi," cried a voice Sandry knew. "It’s turn turn turn jump, not turn turn jump. It's by threes, how many times do I have to—yes, that's right."
The boy led them to the room where Yazmнn was shouting. He leaned in and said, "Noble in the buildin', Yazmнn."
"Noble what in the building? Noble guard, noble lord…" Yazmнn leaned out the door. "Wamuko, you have the manners of a goat," she told her messenger. "Lady Sandrilene, welcome." She came out and curtsied to Sandry, ran an appraising eye over Kwaben and Oama, then looked at Sandry's pupil. "Come on, Pasco," she said. "We'll start with stretches." She pulled him into the room.
"She knows my name!" Pasco whispered as he followed her.
The practice room was large and bare, paneled in golden wood and lit by large windows. The shutters were open, admitting a breeze. Benches were arranged around the walls. Sandry took a seat on one. Oama sat cross-legged on the floor beside her, while Kwaben leaned against the wall. Yazmнn was giving instructions to three young people. When she finished, they nodded and trotted out. The flute player who had been in the corner went with them.
"Sit," Yazmнn ordered Pasco. She pointed to the floor. Pasco obeyed. "Spread your legs as wide as you can. Wider. Here." She sat opposite him and stretched her own legs out until the balls of her feet pressed against the insides of Pasco's legs just above his knees. "Give me your hands," she ordered; Pasco did. She clasped him by the wrists and pulled him steadily forward, forcing his legs open wider. Finally he yelped. "Oh, you baby," chided Yazmнn. "Look at you, not even a decent spread, and you're whimpering. Now hold that position."
"I think I'm stuck in it," Pasco squeaked as Yazmнn eased back from him.
"Soon you'll be able to do this," she said, and swept her legs out farther still, until they formed a straight line with her body.
Pasco gulped.
Sandry heard a smothered noise from Oama, and looked down at her. The guard was chuckling.
"You'll also learn to do this." Keeping her legs apart, Yazmнn lowered her body until she was facedown on the floor, her arms extended before her. "Now you try."
Pasco leaned forward gingerly, stretching out his arms. He rested his elbows on the floor.
Yazmнn stood. She walked around behind Pasco. "Does that hurt?"
He shook his head.
"Well, it should," she informed him, and thrust down on his back with her palms. Pasco dipped several inches closer to the floor with a whimper. Without taking the pressure from his back, Yazmнn leaned down and yelled, "You want to dance? Work for it!" She took her hands away. "Sit up." He obeyed. She thrust him down again. "Dip. Sit up. Dip. Admire the sanding we did on this floor. It's splinter-free. Nice wood grain, don't you think? Sit up. Dip. I want you doing these exercises at home. If you don't, believe me, I'll know. That's enough for now—ten of these stretches at night. Get up."
Pasco winced as he pulled his legs together. "That hurt!”
"Good," Yazmнn said heartlessly. "Stand up. Touch your toes—don't bend your knees. Touch 'em, boy!"
She worked him for an hour, forcing him to bend his body in a number of painful ways. When a girl in pink ran in demanding that Yazmнn come to settle an argument, Yazmнn gave Pasco a corked flask and a drying cloth. "Breathe," she ordered, and left with the girl.
Pasco staggered over to Sandry. "She's a monster," he gasped. He worked the cork out of the flask and drank greedily. "A pretty, tiny, squeaky-voiced monster with muscles like a smith's."
Yazmнn soon returned, a fiddler in tow. "Now, let's see you dance," she told Pasco. He glared at her, then lurched to the center of the floor.
Sandry got up. "Wait," she said. "Any dancing, he's got to be warded. We don't want what he does getting loose." She sent Kwaben and Oama to watch the door as the fiddler sat in the corner. Sandry created a circle big enough that Pasco and Yazmнn could stay inside without having to worry about breaking the protection on the room.