Naamah's Blessing (Moirin's Trilogy #3)

Bao was silent.

Having tended him through the ravages of opium-sickness, I suspected that he understood her explanation better than he wished. “You’ve made no further attempts?” I inquired.

“No.” Her tone was adamant. “None. I swear it.”

“Good.”

She looked steadily at me. “Moirin, I confess it; I resented you. All of us did. It seemed unfair that we, who had studied for so long and worked so hard, were dependent on a backwoods Alban half-breed blessed with a gift of undeserved magic for our success.”

I raised my brows at her.

“But I was wrong to do so,” Lianne admitted. “I have a poet’s trained memory. I have lived and relived those moments over a thousand times, and I have come to realize that the voice of protest you raised was a wise one. And to conclude that mayhap there are forms of wisdom that owe nothing to diligence, ambition, and intellect; and that mayhap the gods in their own wisdom bestow their gifts accordingly.”

Her expression was sincere, and as close to humble as I suspected it ever came. I toyed with the bangles on one wrist, thinking. “I asked you why you did it, once. Do you remember what you told me?”

Lianne tilted her head, the sunlight making her golden-brown eyes glow. “Of course.”

“You told me that there are always further thresholds to cross,” I said slowly. “That despite the skills you already possessed, you sought words of such surpassing beauty that they would melt the hardest heart of stone.”

She nodded. “Yes.”

I looked northward. “I thought of those words in a country far, far away. In Vralia, where I was held captive in chains that bound my magic, by a man whose beliefs were as rigid as stone. I tried and tried to tell him truths his faith would not allow him to hear. I would have paid any price to succeed.”

It piqued her poet’s ear. “I would hear that story.”

“It’s a terrible story,” Bao muttered. “I hate that story.”

I ignored him. “I will tell it to you if you like; that, and others, too. And I will grant you my forgiveness… for a price.”

Lianne Tremaine smiled wryly. “You’re not exactly the naïve backwoods soul you were, are you?”

“His majesty Daniel de la Courcel means to appoint me his daughter Desirée’s oath-sworn protector,” I informed her.

Her lips parted. “That’s… awkward.”

“It is,” I agreed. “It will be unpopular in certain circles. But I have accepted the offer for the child’s sake.”

There was a shrewd look on her face. “You want my aid.”

“I do.”

“It’s a good story.” Lianne drummed her fingertips against the arms of her chair. “A story that gets to the heart of all that Terre d’Ange holds sacred. A love-match, an unlikely love-match… no, not one. Two, three… ah, Elua! You’re a descendant of Ysandre de la Courcel and Drustan mab Necthana. Alais the Wise and her Dalriadan harper-boy. Then there is your mother’s liaison with a Priest of Naamah. It may not have been a love-match, but it was certainly unprecedented.” There was compassion in her gaze as it settled on me. “And you and Jehanne de la Courcel—the courtesan queen and her unlikely companion.” She paused. “You did love her, didn’t you?”

My throat tightened. “Stone and sea! Aye, I did.”

She met my gaze evenly. “I can work with this.”

“Will you?” I asked.

“Yes.” Lianne’s expression was candid. “Have I not made myself clear, Moirin? I crossed the will of the gods, and I have paid a price for it. I do but seek to regain their favor.”

“This is not only a means of redemption,” Bao warned her. “A child’s happiness is at stake. She should not suffer for the cause of politics.”

She gave him a brisk nod. “That is exactly what I shall seek to ensure.”

ELEVEN

It was a good meeting, and we parted on good terms, with a promise of more meetings to come. I wanted to speak further with her about the Circle of Shalomon, and most especially about Raphael de Mereliot in the aftermath of the fatal summoning and his near-possession by the spirit Focalor, but there was time. We had the long winter months ahead of us before the Dauphin’s expedition returned in the spring, and the matter of the Montrèvan Oath was more pressing.

One of Eglantine House’s young attendants was waiting for us at the foot of the stair.

“Lady Moirin, Messire Bao.” She curtsied. “Messire Antoine asks if you would like to watch the tumblers at practice.”

“I suspect we would,” I said, glancing at Bao.

“We would,” he confirmed.

She escorted us through the halls of Eglantine House. It seemed a joyful establishment, filled with music and laughter. We passed a salon where a group of patrons and adepts were engaged in a game of poetic word-play, each seeking to outdo the other in extending a clever metaphor.

“This is a… a place of whores, is it not?” Bao asked me in a low voice.

Not so low that the attendant did not hear him. “Oh yes, Messire Bao!” She glanced over her shoulder. “Like all of the Houses of the Night Court, Eglantine House is dedicated to Naamah’s Service. But we celebrate all the arts, not only the arts of pleasure.”

“Forgive me,” he said to her. “I did not mean to use an impolite term. I am still learning your tongue.”

“You speak it very well, messire,” she assured him.

Bao switched to the scholar’s tongue of Shuntian. “Do they begin so young, Moirin? That one cannot be more than twelve.”

“No.” I replied in the same language. “Only as attendants. They are not allowed to take their vows until they are sixteen.”

He looked relieved. “I am pleased to hear it.”

“Were you thinking of the past?” I asked.

Bao nodded. “It has been a long time since I have seen tumblers perform. Just the thought stirs memories.”

I touched his arm. “We don’t have to do this.”

“No.” He shook his head. “It has been too long. And I am curious. I was very good once, you know.”

“I know.” I smiled. “I’ve seen it.”

Bao scoffed. “You’ve seen me perform tricks to amuse children, Moirin. Not art.”

“It is not the art you chose to pursue, my magpie,” I said mildly.

“True,” he admitted. “But I was good at it.”

I did not doubt it, having never known Bao to boast in vain. At the age of three, his family had sold him to a travelling circus, where he trained and performed as an acrobat. At the age of thirteen, he decided he wanted to learn the art of stick-fighting instead. It was a matter of desire and pride—and there was a girl involved, too.

He had asked Brother Thunder, the troupe’s best stick-fighter, to teach him. And Brother Thunder had agreed… for a price.

I remembered Bao telling me about it on the greatship to Ch’in, naked in the bed we had just shared, his arms folded behind his head.

So I ask and he say, you be my peach-bottom boy, I teach you.

Bao had agreed.

He’d spent two years as Brother Thunder’s reluctant catamite, learning to fight. At the end of two years, he defeated his mentor. The fellow’s daughter, the girl in question, was angry at him for besting her father. She refused to honor her promise to run away with Bao.

So he ran away alone, all the way to Shuntian, where he fought his way to becoming the leader of an unscrupulous group of thugs—until a young lad came asking to be taught.

Bao had offered him the same bargain.

The boy had agreed.

And Bao had walked away from the bargain he had struck, walked away from the life he had built for himself. He had accepted an offer he had mocked only days before, and became Master Lo Feng’s magpie, setting him on the wandering course across the world that had brought us together.

“Here we are!” our little attendant said cheerfully, opening the door onto the rear entrance of a theater. Beyond the door, one could hear the thuds and grunts and shouted comments of tumblers at practice.

“You’re sure?” I asked.

“Yes, Moirin.” Bao gave me an affectionate look. “I am sure, and I am grateful for your concern.”

It was a vast space, filled with the various apparatuses of the tumblers’ art. There were trapezes hung from the rafters, and a high rope stretched across the vaulted ceiling. The floor was covered with mats of coarse fabric stuffed with chaff, dotted here and there with springboards.

“Messire Bao!” Antoine nó Eglantine dropped from a hanging trapeze with a flip and a flourish. He bowed, his face flushed. “Lady Moirin! Congratulations. We heard the news.”

“Already?” I asked in dismay.

“His majesty issued a proclamation at noon,” he informed me.

“Ah.”

There must have been a dozen lithe adepts at practice, swinging from the trapezes, flinging themselves into space and catching one another; springing from the boards to deliver intricate flips and somersaults, forming human pyramids, walking the high rope, toeing the line, and putting one careful foot in front of the next.

Antoine ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. “So, messire! What do you think?”

“They’re very skilled,” Bao said, watching them with a practiced eye.

“I am glad you think so.” Antoine offered a polite bow. “Do you suppose you have aught to teach us? Exotic secrets from faraway Ch’in?”

“I might.” He glanced around the stage, taking stock of the equipment and props. “I don’t see any balancing poles.”

“Gervaise is using one now,” Antoine said with a bewildered look, nodding at an adept crossing the high rope, holding a supple staff before him to aid in keeping his balance.

Bao shook his head. “Not that kind. The kind you balance on.” He held his hands apart, then widened them. “So high to so high, with a small platform on one end.”

The adept looked no less confused. “How does one use them?”

“I will try to show you.” Bao unlashed his staff from across his back. “This is not right for it,” he said. “Too high, no platform. And I have not done it for a long time. But I will try to show you what I mean.” Planting the butt end of his staff at an angle, he grasped the top and vaulted into the air. How he did it, I couldn’t say, but he managed to stop the vault at its apex.

The staff stood upright, wavering and bending. With careful precision, Bao kept his right hand atop it, extending his other limbs in a graceful pose in mid-air.

A soft murmur of interest ran through the theater.

After the space of a few heartbeats, he overbalanced and dropped back to the floor. “Like so. If you had a proper pole, you could do this.” Setting down his staff, he went into a handstand, then assumed the same pose as before. From there, Bao levered himself to a horizontal position, still balancing on one hand.

The adepts applauded.

“It is to show strength and grace.” He got to his feet, dusting chaff from his hands. “A slower kind of art, I think.”

“I like it,” Antoine said. “What other kinds of tumbling artistry do you not see practiced here, messire?”

Bao smiled at him. “I am not sure I should give away all my secrets for free.”

The second of Eglantine House returned his smile. “Mayhap we might come to an… arrangement.”

“Oh, indeed.” Bao tilted his head. “I think the young princess Desirée would very much enjoy seeing tumblers. Mayhap Eglantine House’s troupe could arrange a special performance in honor of the occasion the King announced today?”

Antoine raised his brows. “Thus implying our support?”

Bao shrugged. “I am a stranger here. Is it customary for a troupe to question an invitation to perform for royalty?”

“No.” The other laughed. “No, it is not. Can you guarantee this royal invitation? I’m not aware that his majesty has a fondness for the art.”

“I can,” I said promptly. “I cannot promise that his majesty himself will attend it, but I am sure he will issue the invitation if I ask him.”

“It would have to be a performance appropriate for the occasion,” Antoine nó Eglantine mused. “No japes, no foolery. It would be an interesting challenge.” He glanced around at his tumblers, who had abandoned their practice and gathered close to overhear the conversation. “What do you say?” he asked them. “Should Eglantine House stage a performance to celebrate Lady Moirin’s appointment as Princess Desirée’s oath-sworn protector?”

There were nods all around.

“Who better, Antoine?” a blond fellow demanded. “This is Jehanne de la Courcel’s daughter we’re speaking of! The Night Court should be represented at the ceremony.”

“You’re right,” he said thoughtfully. “We should be there.”

“Do we have a bargain?” Bao inquired.

Antoine grinned and thrust out one slender, callused hand. “I will have to confirm it with my Dowayne,” he said. “But if you can teach us further novelties, and Lady Moirin can deliver a royal invitation, I say we have a bargain, messire.”

Bao clasped his hand. “Then we do.”

TWELVE

Tumblers.” Daniel de la Courcel looked blank and uncomprehending.

“Aye, my lord.” I cleared my throat. “It will be a delightful spectacle. I am confident it will please your daughter.”