For Joscelin’s part, his appearance was met with giggles and titters, whispers passed from lip to ear behind shielding hands. The Skaldic women had ogled him openly; Tsingani dared not. The law of laxta is fierce in their society. Hyacinthe could not translate this word exactly, but it is the unsullied virtue of a Tsingani woman. This may be lost in a hundred ways-suffice to say that if I’d ever had it, it was long gone-but foremost among them was the mingling of precious Tsingani blood with one of the gadje, the Others.
Once I understood the gravity of this law, I understood somewhat of the sin of Hyacinthe’s mother. Not only had she allowed her body to be defiled, to become vrajna and unclean, but she had fouled her very bloodline. She had lost her laxta, all her worth as a Tsingano woman.
But they did not know this, the Tsingani en route to the Hippochamp. They knew only that Hyacinthe spoke and thought as one of them. If a D’Angeline fineness illumed his features, that keen, cutting beauty that is our blood-right, they saw in it only that he was a fine specimen, a veritable Prince of Travellers.
And so he was, with his bright, fine clothes, rich brown skin, his gleaming black ringlets, the merry light that danced in his dark eyes. When he called out that he was seeking the kumpania of Manoj, they laughed and called back, pointing. Manoj was there, the old patriarch, already a-field. Surely he would welcome Hyacinthe, blood of his blood, and all his uncles and cousins and aunts he had never met.
That was his dream, the old dream, and it bode well to come true. I saw it as we rode, drawing nearer, in the eagerness that marked him, the white grin that flashed out without warning.
It was a simple enough dream and a homely one: to be accepted, to find a family. I prayed for his sake that it would come true. Hyacinthe had risked much to come on this journey, and truly, that and that alone was the reward he sought. But Joscelin and I fell together as we approached, riding side by side and handling the pack-mules with the ease of our long, silent practice, and I saw the reserve in his blue eyes. He who had taken a simple vow knew well enough how things can twist and change.
We reached the Hippochamp.
It is a field, nothing more; a broad, green field, even now, so early in spring. A vast expanse of green, the grass new and tender, alongside the great Lusande River that burrows the length of Kusheth. We had timed our arrival well. A great many Tsingani kumpanias had already arrived, setting up wagons and tents and paddocks against the new green field; but a great many were still to come, and we found ourselves a space easily enough, staking it at the corners with the bright ribbons Hyacinthe had brought for that purpose.
And everywhere, there were horses: ponies, carriage-horses, palfreys and hunters, massive drays, and even war-horses, broad-backed and arch-necked, mighty enough to carry full mail, but long-legged and swift in battle. There were yearlings, gangly and slab-sided, and the early crop of foals, some of them still staggering drunkenly on teetering legs quick to tangle.
In the center of the field, where the most powerful of kumpanias had established themselves, was a common area set around a fire. Already a good-sized group of Tsingani had gathered to play music, sing and dance. I thought at first that it was a fête, but Hyacinthe said no, it was only their way. There were smaller gatherings too, in the outlying areas where we had made our camp.
As sunset drew nigh, cooking odors filled the air, rich and savory, making our staples-flatbread and cheese, nuts, dried fruit and meat-seem duller than usual, for all that they were bought with the Queen’s coin. Hyacinthe, ever with a keen eye to chance, bartered with our nearest neighbors, trading a skin of passable wine for three bowls of a game stew spiced with fennel and last-year’s carrots, with the assurance of meals to come.
It was wisely done, for we made a friendship over it, in the quick and easy way of Travellers. Our neighbors were a young family, not yet established as a proper kumpania; Neci was the tseroman, or headman, and introduced us to his wife, Gisella, her sister and brother-in-law, his cousin, who had thrown in his lot with them, and a passel of children, who ranged in age from still-suckling to ten or older. They wed young. The women all came forward to give me the kiss of greeting; the men nodded their heads, dark eyes gleaming with curiosity. I’ve a good ear for languages, and had begun to be able to follow the thread of D’Angeline that laced the Tsingani dialect. Hyacinthe had told them what we’d agreed upon, that I’d been gotten in a brothel by a Tsingano half-breed, adding-needlessly, to my mind-that his mother had taken me in out of pity when she found me taking to the streets.
Then he introduced Joscelin, who bowed, making his cloak swirl with a subtle riot of color. Neci’s family laughed, and the children gazed wide-eyed.
After that, they invited us to join them around the nearest fire, where Gisella’s brother-in-law-his name, I think, was Pardi-would play the fiddle, which we did.
The virtue of silence served me best there; I sat by Hyacinthe’s side and listened while he spoke with Neci, struggling to filter meaning out of the Tsingani dialogue. In the background, to my surprise, I heard Joscelin spinning a tale in D’Angeline, and doing it fairly well. Gisella, her sister and all the children were listening, a small group that grew somewhat larger as the tale wove onward, through the skirls of fiddle-playing and nimble tambors.
"…and I said to the Skaldi princess, my lady, although you are more beautiful than the moon and all her stars, I cannot oblige you, for I am sworn to Cassiel. And she said to me, well, then, if you will not wed me, you must fight my brother Bjorn, for no man may refuse me and live. Now this Bjorn was a mighty warrior, who had once defeated a witch, and she gave to him a great magic in exchange for her life, a bearskin that had the power to transform its wearer into a bear…"
I shook my head, turning my attention back to Neci and Hyacinthe. A Cassiline turned Mendicant; truly, no one would believe it possible.
"If it is true that you are the grandson of Manoj," Neci was saying-or something very close to it, "then you must seek him out. The baro kumpai, the four mightiest kumpanias, are there." He pointed toward the great fire at the center, where the staked territories were vast, encompassing impromptu paddocks filled with many horses. "But if you are only seeking Tsingani and khushti grya to travel west and trade…" Neci shrugged, stroking the tips of his elegant mustache. "Perhaps we would be interested, if there is cokai in it. Perhaps enough to make our lav as a kumpania."
"There is gold enough to make the name of whoever succeeds with me," Hyacinthe said noncommittally, switching to D’Angeline and glancing at me for corroboration. I nodded solemnly. "I have many important friends in the City of Elua. But none so important as blood, yes? I will see Manoj first."
"Well," Neci said, and grinned. "Do not see him tonight, rinkeni chavo, for the old Tsingan Kralis is a gavvering hellion when he drinks, and he’s like to knock your dandos out with a kosh-stick if you go claiming to be Anasztaizia’s son. So see him tomorrow, and remember who gave you good advice, hey rinkenti"
"I will." Hyacinthe clasped hands with Neci, Tsingani-fashion, at the wrist. "Thank you."
Neci wandered away to reclaim his wife and dance with her. They made a striking couple, bold and handsome. "What’s a gavvering hellion?" I asked Hyacinthe, watching them dance.