Whitey said, “You are giving me your circus, Corvus?”
Corvus said, “For a time. I may one day reclaim it. I make no promises.”
There was no humor in Whitey’s answering laugh. “I will go and speak with Melda and Blue, then.” He looked at the others. “All of you are welcome to come with us. All of you should.” With that, he left.
Corvus took his seat. “He’s right, of course. Make no mistake, the attack last night was not made on the order of a one-horned she-minotaur. And yes, Mattias, I know more than I have told you, just as always. The minotaurs came for our newest member and were sent by people whose enmity I never sought. But if you go with Whitey, Cephas, you’ll draw other attacks.”
Cephas did not understand what possible link he might have to the tragedy that had befallen them. “I will go with you, Corvus,” he said. “But I have done nothing I know of to cause this. My only enemies are those I bested on the canvas at Jazeerijah, and Azad and the other freedmen, I suppose.”
“You suppose,” Corvus said with a chuckling sound. “ ‘A slave is always the enemy of his master,’ ” he said.
Cephas pursed his lips. “I know that saying. Or I have heard something very like it.”
The windsouled woman spoke, her accent strange, but her words clear and voiced in tones that reminded Cephas of bells-specifically of the bells that jingled on a weapon harness. “It’s from one of those old stories the humans of Calimshan valued so highly. I read hundreds of them in Akanul before we came south, in preparation for our meetings with the WeavePasha.”
“Not Bashan Reaver,” said Cephas. “Another one.”
The woman shrugged. “There are dozens of escaped slave narratives in the Book of Founding Stories, the histories, the songs. They all end the same way.”
Cephas thought about that for a moment. “The slave always dies gloriously, or else goes back to his master to better the lives of his friends still in chains.” He paused, sifting through the implications of what she said. Surely there was some exception.… “I never thought of it,” he eventually admitted, “but Azad never told a story that ended with a slave alive and free.”
The woman sniffed. “Of course not. That’s the whole point. Who is Azad? A genasi slaver of the Skyfire Emirates?”
“A human,” Corvus answered for Cephas. “An escaped slave himself, and a man whose motivations have proven unknowable thus far. Especially his motive in bringing Cephas out of the desert.”
“Is that why these people seek me?” asked Cephas. “Was I the property of some other genasi who wishes to retrieve me after all this time?”
“Something very like that,” said Corvus. “To be honest, I cannot be sure. I believe you to be connected to the windsouled families who rule the city of Calimport, and have sought proof of that in the Herald’s records in Saradush and by consulting with the Elder Lin, who has great expertise in the szuldar lines of the earthsouled clans. The Calimien are the great enemies of the humans ruled by the WeavePasha, and he has long sought some leverage to use in his endless negotiations staving off war. Word came to me of a genasi living with slaves escaped from Calimport, and I sent Mattias to investigate. The rest, you know.”
Cephas shook his head. The kenku had dodged answering fully again by offering crumbs of truth. He was sure there was more.
But Corvus continued. “And what you don’t know, what we all need to know, can be learned from the WeavePasha himself now that he is forced into the game. The human has extraordinary resources, and his magics are among the greatest of his race.”
For some reason he couldn’t name, Cephas turned to Ariella for guidance, though of all these people-who grew more mysterious the longer he knew them-he knew her the least.
The woman shrugged. “He is a powerful sorcerer. He has powerful enemies.”
Cephas nodded. “I have already said I’ll go with you, Corvus.” And I’ll find out who the horned woman is, he thought, and what you have not told me.
Corvus looked to the others, though he need only have looked to Mattias. Cynda would follow Shan, and of all the circus folk, Shan was the most unquestioning in her loyalty to the kenku. Tobin watched Mattias, though Cephas would have guessed his heart told him to follow his fellow clowns.
“Well, old man,” asked Corvus, “will Trill be ready to move? The WeavePasha knows to weave his gate large enough for her to pass through.”
Exhaustion hung over Mattias. He looked, thought Cephas, so very old.
The fire had burned down, and the late-hour chill of a spring afternoon was in the stones. Sunset was not far off.
Corvus said once more, “Will Trill be ready to move?”
Mattias did not answer aloud, but he nodded.
Ariella Kulmina had not left Cephas’s side since the talk at the campfire.
“See the symbols your ringmaster has scribed around the circle there?” Ariella asked him. “The WeavePasha has them recorded in an enormous book along with hundreds of others. He can use them to open paths across the world that can be traveled with a single step.”
The others had, along with good-byes to make, personal belongings to gather, or, in the case of Corvus, preparations of a more secretive nature. Cephas pulled the leather satchel he used to store his armor from beneath the seat of the wagon and laid it next to his flail, and with that he had gathered all his worldly possessions. He did not feel he should interrupt the mourning Argentori to give any farewells.
Besides, he found he was content to stay close to the windsouled swordswoman, since she was no longer trying to kill him. Ariella reminded him of Sonnett and Shaneerah and even Grinta the Pike, all at the same time. Not long into their conversation, Cephas had been struck by the knowledge that he could count on the fingers of his hands the number of women with whom he had spoken. There was something about this woman that set her apart from the others, even beyond her exotic accent and her skin that matched the color of high clouds in early morning.
Cephas cursed at his inability to figure her out. Is she like those others, or is she something new? She can’t be both, he thought.
Unless … Cephas remembered a trick of the arena. When faced with an opponent using unfamiliar arms or armor, or some beast with a way of fighting unlike any other, then the first thing to do was to decide what, in the gladiator’s experience, was closest to the new opponent. Take care, raise the broadest of defenses, and learn the other combatant’s ways, following the clues provided by similarities. An orc with a folding mace like none he’d ever seen did not fight as a brutish goblin with a stone club, but both foes bore heavy, blunt instruments. What he knew about one, he could use against the other.
“Planning to attack me again?” she asked.
“What?” Cephas replied. Arms wide, he was crouched, presenting a flat profile so that a swing from an unedged weapon would skip across his chest instead of finding a landing place for a heavy impact.
“You are holding yourself as if you think I am about to engage, Cephas Earthsouled, though you should have learned by now that I could spit you like a pig if I chose.”
If Sonnett’s taking his hand the day before caused his cheeks to burn, this woman made every bit of his skin glow with embarrassment just by speaking. “I am”-he cleared his throat-“practicing my act.”
The woman laughed. This made things worse.
He was desperate to change the subject. “Am I to call you Ariella Windsouled, then? None of the genasi here in Argentor used the words that way, as names.”
She shrugged. “If you like. I say that because I know no other name for you beyond Cephas, and among my people, using a single name implies familiarity. You seem uncomfortable with familiarity.” She laughed again.