“No, they took him prisoner and held him on an island,” Tewi answered. “He escaped over two years ago and found refuge in the Antilles before returning to Europa.”
Hard to believe it had been over two years ago that Vai had walked into my life! The spirit world had stolen so many months from me.
“Maestra Tewi, where do you get the news?” I asked. “The princes and mages who oppose Camjiata will wish to suppress such tidings, lest discontented folk think to quarrel on his behalf.”
Tewi did not bare her teeth in an imitation of a smile as Chartji did. She bobbed her shoulders in a movement perhaps meant as a show of agreement but which I found threatening. “What the ghana of Sala knows, he keeps to himself. But other rats travel the roads, and other rats talk.”
“Beware lest you find yourself in trouble for disseminating radical literature and censored news,” said Vinda. “The ghana arrests radicals and throws them in prison.”
“The ghana will not be so eager to arrest ones who make the swords and rifles with which he arms his troops.”
“No, indeed, it seems unlikely,” I replied, amused by her blunt assessment.
“Regardless, the ghana has not decreed a minister to approve or censor all printed materials, such as the emperor has in Rome. Our consortium tried to set up a printing establishment in Rome. Our petition was refused.”
“Fiery Shemesh! I never heard there were trolls migrating to Rome!”
Tewi bobbed again, making me wonder if it wasn’t after all her way of showing amusement. “We people like to stay busy and see new things.”
After Tewi paid me my share of the profits from the week’s sale of the first two pamphlets, we took our leave.
Vinda shook her head as we walked along. “There will be trouble when this news becomes known on the street by every rough laborer and laundress, but the troll is right. The ghana will not wish to offend those who make the weapons he needs.”
The rain had stopped. Wheels slicked through puddles as carts and wagons passed. Through a window I glimpsed a man seated in a coffeehouse reading my first pamphlet aloud to his companions while they laughed and commented. Well! That was gratifying!
“I shall leave you here,” I said as we reached an intersection. “The tailor sent me a note asking me to come by at the same time Andevai has an appointment. The tailor has never specifically asked before, so I really must see what he wants.”
“You are brave to venture into such a lion’s den. I should not like to come between the magister and his clothes. He is strict about how he likes things done.”
“Have there been complaints of his teaching?”
“Only by the weak-willed and lazy. He can be exacting, it is true, but he always shows deference to his elders and asks us, we few elders who are left in White Bow House, to share our knowledge. His manners are so very good that I should like to meet his mother!”
Since Vai had never mentioned his village-born origins, I wondered what Magister Vinda would say if she knew the well-mannered young man had been born to the same rank of people as her own lowly servants.
“I will send two attendants with you,” she added.
“My thanks, but I would prefer to go on my own way, if you don’t mind, Magister.” In truth, the tailor’s unexpected summons had raised an unreasonable hope in my breast.
Vinda’s smile was both gracious and skeptical. “You’re a bold girl. The young women in the House think you quite the most exciting person they have ever met and wish only to have adventures like you, but I have told them a hundred times in the last two weeks that the tale gives more delight than the living of it.”
Her words made me think of Luce. Was Luce resigned to helping her mother at the boardinghouse? Had she decided to take a factory job, maybe in the hope of saving up enough money to buy an apprenticeship into a troll consortium that might offer her a chance to travel?
“True enough, Magister. I hope you do not consider me a bad influence.”
“I like the way you speak up, even if I do not always agree.” To my surprise she kissed me on the cheek as she might a niece. “Go on. It is certain you can take care of yourself.”
Sala’s central district was not large, so it did not take me long to reach Cutters Row and the tailor shop opposite Queedle & Clutch. The bell jangled as I entered. Two men sat cross-legged on a raised platform in front of the shop window. The straw-haired man was sewing buttonholes and the black-haired man was finishing a collar. They greeted me with friendly smiles before glancing toward a screen that concealed the other occupants of the room.
