Sikvah immediately set a tiny cup of thick coffee in front of him, and as he caught her eye, she winked at him, her lashes thick and black. No one else caught the look, and it was a warm, artful gesture that sent a little thrill through Rojer. But he had practised such looks in front of a mirror enough times not to be taken in. Amanvah and Sikvah might be fond of him, and willing to be his brides, but they did not love him. Did not know him well enough for it to be true even if they believed it.
Neither did Rojer love them. They were brilliant, beautiful creatures, but beneath the surface they were still a mystery to him.
But there was something …
He thought back often on the night they seduced him, but it was not the lovemaking that he recalled. At least, not most often. It was the Song of Waning they had sung for him in duet. There was power in their voices. Power that Rojer, raised by arguably the greatest singer of his time, knew was rare and potent.
Inevera and Elona had done everything in their power to pressure Rojer into accepting the brides. Abban wanted him to dance around the promise. Leesha seemed to want him to turn them down on the spot, though she herself danced Abban’s dance like she was in the centre of a reel.
No one seemed at all interested in what Rojer himself wanted.
The meal seemed to drag forever, with endless prayers and formal pleasantries, often delivered through thinly veiled expressions of mistrust. Ahmann kept most of his attention on Leesha, to the obvious annoyance of the Krasians at the table. They were arguing again over how many Sharum would act as escort for their journey back to the Hollow.
‘We agreed to ten,’ Leesha said, ‘and not a one more. Gared tells me there are closer to thirty in the caravan.’
‘We agreed to ten dedicated dal’Sharum,’ Jardir agreed. ‘But you need men to drive the wagons with my gifts to the Hollow tribe, to hunt your food, care for the animals, prepare your meals, and wash your clothes. Those will not lift their spears unless the need is dire.’
‘Are those not jobs traditionally done by your women?’ Leesha asked. ‘Let your ten warriors bring their wives and children.’ She didn’t say as hostages, but Rojer heard it all the same.
‘Even so,’ Jardir said, ‘ten is insufficient to ensure your safety. My scouts tell me the roads to the Hollow have grown dangerous with chin bandits.’
‘Not chin,’ Leesha said.
‘Eh?’ Jardir asked.
Careful, Rojer thought.
‘You taught me that chin means “outsider”,’ Leesha said. ‘These are people living in the land they were born to, or driven from it by your army. You are the chin here.’
There were angry murmurs from the Krasians at that. Here in Everam’s Bounty, Jardir’s power was absolute, his slightest whim no different than law. In truth, his decrees could, and often did, supersede laws that had stood for thousands of years. No one, especially not a woman – and an outlander at that – dared speak so boldly to him in open court.
Jardir lifted a finger, and they fell silent. ‘A trick of words that changes nothing of the danger. Twenty warriors. Ten kha’Sharum and ten dal, including Drillmaster Kaval to continue the lessons to your own warriors, and my Watcher, Coliv. All will bring their first wives and one child of their blood.’
‘Half of them girls,’ Leesha said, ‘and not a one old enough for Hannu Pash. I don’t want twenty boys pulled from sharaj a day before they are to lose the bido.’
Jardir smiled and flicked a finger over his shoulder. ‘Abban, see to it.’
Abban touched his forehead to the floor. ‘Of course, Deliverer.’
‘Twenty-one,’ Inevera cut in. ‘A holy number. Amanvah is dama’ting and must have a dedicated eunuch guardian. I will send Enkido with her.’
‘Agreed,’ Jardir said.
‘It is not—’ Leesha began, but Jardir cut her off.
‘My daughter must be protected, Leesha Paper. I think your honoured father,’ he gestured to Erny, ‘can agree that this is not a negotiable point?’
Leesha glanced his way, but Erny gave her a stern look. ‘He’s right, Leesha, and you know it.’
‘Perhaps,’ Leesha said. ‘If she returns with us. There has been no agreement about that.’
Inevera smiled over the golden chalice she used to sip her water. ‘Another thing, daughter of Erny, that is not yours to decide.’
All eyes turned to Rojer, and he felt his guts clench tight. He focused his thoughts on the medallion, heavy against his chest, and drew a deep breath. He reached into his multicoloured bag of marvels, producing his fiddle case.
‘Great Shar’Dama Ka,’ he said, ‘I have been practising a tune your daughter and her handmaiden taught me, the Song of Waning. You said music in praise to Everam was welcome in your court. May I play it for you?’
There were curious looks from around the table at the evasion, but Jardir waved a hand and nodded. ‘But of course, son of Jessum. We would be honoured.’
Rojer opened the case, removing the ancient fiddle the Painted Man had given him, a carefully preserved relic of the old world. The strings were new, but the lacquered wood was still strong, producing a rich resonance that surpassed any instrument Rojer had ever held. He paused carefully, then looked up as if a thought had just occurred to him. ‘Would it be appropriate to ask Amanvah and Sikvah to add their voices to the song?’
‘The Song of Waning is an honoured one,’ Jardir said, and nodded to the young women. They moved silently over to him like birds to the falconer’s wrist, coming to kneel on the pillows a step behind him.
As well I can’t see them, Rojer thought. Can’t afford distraction. Not here. Not now.
He took the fine horsehair bow in his crippled hand and closed his eyes, blocking out the taste of Krasian coffee from his mouth, the smell of food from his nostrils, the general din of the dining hall from his ears. He focused until there was nothing in the world but the feel of the instrument in his hands, and then he began to play.
He started slowly, a long improvisation around the opening notes of the tune. It was soft at first, but as he layered in more and more of the true melody, he let it grow louder until it filled Jardir’s dais, spread out over the Damaji’s level, and finally echoed through the entire hall. Rojer was dimly aware of the silence that fell over the crowd, but it was meaningless to him. Only the music mattered.
When the melody was complete, Rojer let the fiddle grow quiet again, and began assembling the notes anew. He gave no other signal, no nod or stroke of his bow as he might to his apprentices, but nevertheless Amanvah and Sikvah joined him instantly on the repeat, softly singing wordless notes to complement Rojer’s previous improvisation as he built the complexity and volume back to its former height and beyond.
Oh, the lungs, he thought, feeling the air thrumming with the strength of their voices. He felt a stiffening in his crotch, but ignored it like every other distraction. A good performance could have that effect. Fortunately, Jongleurs wore loose trousers.
This time when the melody was built again in full, the women began to sing. The words were still beyond Rojer’s very limited understanding of Krasian, but they were beautiful nonetheless – mournful but with a tone of warning. Amanvah and Sikvah had explained their meaning, but the women’s knowledge of Thesan, while fluent, was insufficient to translate the artistry and harmony that resonated between the music and the original Krasian lyrics.