“Exactly! And according to Vansen she has the blood of a god running in her veins and a temper like a cornered rat. She’s killed Big Folk by the hundreds… !”
His wife again gave him that shriveling glance. “I’m not planning to take up a sword and fight her, old fool. We’re welcoming them. We are allies now.”
“Not yet.” He knew he was losing, but he could not resist one last attempt to bring some perspective to the conversation. “We’re hoping to be allies. This is a sort of parley, remember? There’s no promise that they won’t change their minds and cut all our throats—which they were trying to do just a few days ago.”
“All the more reason to have a few sensible Funderling women on the spot, then,” she said with satisfaction. “It will mean that much less chance of Jasper or some other lackwit starting another fight.” She nodded. “Now, I have to go. Vermilion Cinnabar has called all the women to a meeting in the Temple library before the Qar arrive.”
“In the library? Oh, the brothers will love that.”
“The Metamorphic Brothers have had their own way too long, and so has the Guild. That’s one of the reasons we’re in this slide. Imagine, not telling anyone the Qar have been coming here for years!”
“What? How did you hear of that?”
“Vermilion Cinnabar told us. She heard it from her husband, of course.”
“Beat it out of him, more likely.” Chert had to laugh. Clearly, things were going to change whether he wished it or not. Better to be on top of the boulder when it decided to roll than in front of it. He gestured toward the boy, curled sleeping in a feral pile of blankets on the floor. “What about Flint?”
A troubled expression flitted across her face. “I was going to bring him with me, but he declares he will go with you instead.”
Chert felt bad for her. “He’s growing. He wants to be with the men ...”
“That’s not what’s bothering me, you old fool. He’s changed. Haven’t you noticed?”
“Of course. But he’s always been… unusual. ...”
“Not that. He’s changed in some other way… something new. But I can’t ...” She made a noise of frustration. “I don’t have the words for it! But I don’t like it.” For the first time he saw how upset and frightened his wife really was. “I don’t like it, Chert.”
He stepped toward her and put his arms around her middle, pulled her close, and kissed her forehead. “I don’t like it either, my love, but we’ll make sense of it. I missed you, did you know that?”
“Missed me picking up after you,” she said gruffly, but did not let go.
“Oh, yes,” he said, smelling her hair, wishing they could simply stay that way, standing together, with everything bad still yet to happen. “That as well.”
“How do you see it, Captain?” Sledge Jasper asked Vansen as they seated themselves at the table. “Do they speak our tongue, or is it all barble-barble except for that silver-haired baggage?”
“She is not a ‘baggage,’ Jasper, she is a high-ranking adviser to Lady Yasammez and a powerful figure in her own right.”
The bald Funderling gave him a doubting look. “As you say, Captain. I’m just asking if they speak properly or not.”
Vansen thought about Gyir’s voice, something he had never heard with his ears, but which he would never forget. “They have many ways of talking. I do not think they will have any trouble making their wishes known ...”
“Oh, shite and slurry!” said Jasper loudly.
Vansen was taken aback—for a moment he thought that the little man was calling him a liar. Then he saw what Jasper had seen—half a dozen Funderling women, led by Cinnabar’s wife and Chert’s wife Opal, making their determined way across the chapel.
“Hold now.” Jasper was on his feet, as though he would bodily keep the women from the table. “What are you doing here? The Qar are coming!”
“Sit down, Wardthane Jasper.” Vermilion Cinnabar was a handsome Funderling woman, dressed in a beautifully embroidered blue-green travel robe. “We have just as much right to be here as you and your warders.”
“I beg your pardon, Magistrix,” said the wealthy Funderling Malachite Copper, who had quickly made himself invaluable to the struggle. “Of course your advice is welcome, but only a few days ago these Qar were trying to kill us ...”
“That is neither here nor there, is it?” The magister’s wife directed her companions to seats on either side of her. Unlike Vermilion Cinnabar and Opal Blue Quartz, the other women looked a bit awed to be in such a place at such a time—but then again, Vansen thought, so did the men.
One of the other women leaned forward. “Is there much danger?” she whispered to Opal, who was sitting close enough for Vansen to hear.
“No,” Opal told her, then shot Vansen a look that clearly said, “And please don’t disagree.”
She and the magister’s wife are leading their troops by example, he realized. Like any good commanders they are worried too, but they cannot show that to their forces. “We should be well,” he told the Funderling woman. “We are all under a treaty of peace here and the Qar, whatever else they are, seem to me honorable creatures.” He felt a touch of shame at the understatement—Gyir the Storm Lantern had been more than “honorable.” He had unhesitatingly given his life to carry out his promise to his mistress Yasammez—the sorceress or demigoddess they all awaited today.
Chert and Cinnabar and the physician Chaven came in with several others, including a party of Funderling monks led by Brother Nickel. The monk even nodded courteously toward Vansen as he and his party seated themselves at the long table.
“What’s gotten into him?” Vansen said, half-aloud.
Malachite laughed. “Don’t you know? Cinnabar had a talk with him. Reminded him that the Guild’s highwardens have to approve a new Prior of the temple—and, when it comes to it someday, the new abbot of the temple as well. If Nickel wants to carry the abbot’s holy mattock he’s going to have to dig when the Guild says dig.”
“Ah.” Vansen wasn’t surprised. Even Nickel, with the sacred souls of all the Funderlings supposedly in his protection, saw things differently when ambition called the dance.
“Hello, my darling,” said Chert as he bent to kiss his wife. “I hope you don’t mind—I’m going to be sitting with Cinnabar. It’s his idea.” Chert did his best to look surprised that he had been singled out for this honor, but Vansen knew the little man not only had good sense, he was in the middle of so many of the mysteries here that he was virtually indispensable. “And how very nice to see you, Magistrix!” he said to Vermilion Cinnabar. “You’re looking well.”
“Magistrix, is it?” she said with an amused smile. “I’m not soapstone, Chert, so don’t try to carve me. Your wife has told me all about your adventures. I think my husband wants you around just to take his mind off our boring life at home.”
Chert laughed. “Oh, wouldn’t we all love to be bored these days, Magi… Vermilion.” He gave Opal another squeeze and wandered back to Cinnabar and the others.
“My Chert is a good man,” Opal said fiercely and suddenly, as if someone might have been about to suggest otherwise. “Everything he’s done has been for others.”
Before Vansen could tell her how much he agreed, a stir ran through the chapel—a sense of wonder and alarm that Vansen felt before he either heard or saw anything, a primal thrill of warning that ran up his spine. He turned and for a moment only saw Aesi’uah in the doorway—a powerful, captivating figure, no doubt, but someone he looked on almost with fondness. Then the others came silently in behind her.