‘When others’ work ends, ours begins,’ Arrick used to say.
He woke with a jolt as the carriage came to a halt. He lifted one of the heavy curtains, and shut it quickly against the glare. It was late afternoon and they were outside a modest inn. Amanvah and Sikvah had pulled plain robes and veils over their colourful silks.
‘Ent it a bit early to be stopping for the night?’
‘This is the last village before we pass from Everam’s Bounty, beloved,’ Amanvah said. ‘Shamavah thinks it best to rest and restock before moving on. If you wish to sleep further, please do so while the khaffit unload our things.’
That would give him a lot of time. His wives did not travel light. Rojer rubbed the sleep from his face. ‘Ay, that’s all right. My legs could use a stretch.’ He moved to put his clothes on, and immediately both women began to assist.
He soon hopped from the cart and walked about a bit, beginning the ritual of stretches and tumbles he used to keep his skills sharp. The ritual was a show in itself, full of cartwheels and running flips, rolls and backbends.
As usual, the miniature performance began to draw attention. Passersby, Krasian and Thesan alike, stopped to watch, and when he began walking on his hands, a few children ran after him, cheering.
Instinctively, Rojer led them towards the centre of the cobbled square, circling to clear himself a wide space. The ring he created quickly filled with people — local villagers, and the Sharum, khaffit, and dal’ting of whatever tribe had claimed the place. A dama watched him coldly, but did not seem foolish enough to interfere with the Deliverer’s son-in-law.
Amanvah and Sikvah were watching him, too. Sikvah laughed and clapped along with the rest of the crowd at his antics, perhaps the most enthusiastically of all. Amanvah was the exact opposite, her eyes cold as she watched him.
‘Only thing worse than a woman who laughs at every pratfall,’ he heard Arrick say, ‘is one who doesn’t think anything’s funny.’
He moved over to them. ‘Husband, what are you doing?’ Amanvah asked.
‘Playing the crowd,’ Rojer said. ‘Just watch. Sikvah, please fetch my bag of marvels.’
‘Immediately, husband,’ Sikvah said, bowing and vanishing into the crowd. Amanvah continued to stare at him, but Rojer winked at her and went back to warming the crowd. He kept it simple, not sure which of his bawdy jokes and songs might offend the Krasians. Music in Krasia was limited to the private bedroom or praise to Everam. His wives had taught him some of these, but the fanaticism of the lyrics made him uncomfortable. Until his translation of the Song of Waning was complete, Rojer kept things instrumental, soon getting even the Krasians to stomp and clap to a beat.
When it came time for magic, obedient Sikvah was the perfect assistant, obeying his every command without hesitation. If only she weren’t clad in featureless black robes and veil. Wear your pillow dancing silks, love, and we’d have the best act in Thesa.
The crowd was his effortlessly. Even the dama laughed in spite of himself a few times. Only Amanvah was unmoved.
The sky was darkening when the performance ended. Rojer was still rising from his final bow when his First Wife turned on her heel and strode into the inn. Sikvah came to him immediately.
‘Your Jiwah Ka apologizes for not being here to greet you, but the holy daughter is moved to prayer over your fine performance,’ she said, as if this were natural.
Hated it, she means, he thought. I’ve stepped in something, and I don’t even know what.
‘Gone off to her secret room?’ Rojer asked. Sikvah nodded.
Rojer was used to having a single small room at an inn, but Amanvah always demanded a minimum of three — a common, one for Rojer, and a private one for her alone to retreat to whenever she wished. Amanvah accepted nothing less than the finest rooms, richly appointed with her own things. Each night the khaffit carried in heavy rugs, lamps and incense burners, silk sheets, and a collection of paints and powders that would make even a Jongleur’s jaw drop. Here, the innkeeper and his family had been put out of their own rooms to accommodate the daughter of Ahmann Jardir.
As they retired, Rojer saw the door to Amanvah’s room shut tight, with Enkido standing guard. Even if he knew what was bothering Amanvah, even if he knew what to say, there would be no getting past the giant eunuch to tell her.
Food was brought up by the innkeeper’s daughter, a meaty woman in her late forties who kept her eyes down and hopped at their every word. With no men to see, Sikvah changed back into her bright embroidered silks, serving him attentively as he ate and only taking quick nibbles of her own food at his urging.
‘Would you like your bath soon, husband?’ she asked when he was finished eating. ‘Your amazing performance must have tired you.’
It was like this every night. Amanvah would go quiet at some point, and then excuse herself and vanish into her secret room for hours. Sikvah would swoop in, attending his every need and burying him in flattery until she returned.
Normally Sikvah’s attention was indeed an effective distraction, but Rojer had never seen Amanvah so disapproving. There was an argument brewing, and he wanted to get into it and have done.
‘What in the Core is she doing in there?’ he grumbled.
‘Communing with Everam,’ Sikvah said, beginning to clear the bowls.
‘Dicing,’ Rojer said.
Sikvah seemed offended at his tone. ‘The alagai hora are no game, husband. Your Jiwah Ka consults the dice to help guide your path.’
Rojer tightened his lips, not entirely liking the sound of that, but he said nothing. He found himself craving a cup of wine badly, though he doubted there was any to be had. Alcohol was one of the first things the dama abolished in the hamlets. He imagined what his master Arrick’s reaction would have been to that. He might have wept, or saved himself the trouble and tied his own noose.
Just then Amanvah’s door opened. You could tell a lot from how a person opened a door — every Jongleur who ever worked a stage knew that. Amanvah did not open it in the tentative way of one chastened, nor the aggressive way of one in full fume. It was a calm, decisive action. She had her mask in place, and still wore her white robes.
Corespawn it, Rojer thought, putting his Jongleur’s mask on as Amanvah came to sit across from him, her eyes calm but piercing. He shifted slightly to feel the weight of the medallion on his chest.
‘This is what it means to be a Jongleur?’ Amanvah asked. ‘To dance on a ball and pretend to fall on your face to get peasant children to laugh?’
Rojer kept his face smooth, though the words made him want to bare his teeth. It was no more than he had heard from self-involved Royals in Angiers, looking down their noses at his kind even as they hired them for their balls and parties, but the words cut deeper coming from his own wife.
Night, what have I gotten myself into?
‘You didn’t seem to mind performing for the Sharum and dama in Everam’s Bounty,’ Rojer noted.
‘That was in the Deliverer’s court, praising Everam before honoured guests and loyal Sharum!’ Amanvah hissed. Sikvah moved quickly away, busying herself around the room. ‘Your honour was boundless that day, husband, but you cannot mean to compare it to debasing yourself playing the fool for khaffit and chin.’