“The Wild Hunt and the courts are facts that do not need my belief to exist. I know what killed my grandfather.”
“I’m sorry to hear of his death in such unpleasant circumstances.”
“My thanks. You have a kind heart.”
Out of the bramble of conversation beyond the door, a new rhythm was struck, followed by a descending line on the kora underlaid by drawn-out notes on the fiddle. The audience whistled in anticipation.
“Come on,” said Brennan, touching my arm. “This should be something.”
He pushed open the door. I crept in his wake. Women had crowded into the common room, seated on benches over by the innkeeper’s serving bar, while younger men stood along the other wall. The oldsters remained at the center, closest to the hearth. Only Andevai sat out of place, stuck at the left hand of the eldest who, gesturing, called the djeli out of his corner by the fire.
Brennan leaned his broad shoulders against the wall beside the supper room door. I closed the door and stood beside him, wondering if Andevai would look my way, see me, and disapprove, but he sat with elbows on the table and head bent, listening to the old man speak into his ear just as the djeli was listening to the play of the instruments. A smile flashed on Andevai’s lips at some comment made by the farmer. I hadn’t even imagined he could smile! I had a momentary hallucination that, in these surroundings, my proud husband was comfortable.
The djeli extended his arms, the full sleeves of his robes belling out like a vulture opening its wings. He called out words in a language I did not know but that I could guess was one of the Mande languages, which like the Celtic languages survived in their purest form among bards and djeliw. The conversations in the room stilled. The old farmer sat back, and Andevai looked up. He saw me just as Brennan bent to speak into my ear.
“The djeli is reminding us that his kind, the masters of speech, hold the traditions of the ancestors. Now he’s asking if there is anyone from the Soso lineage here. That’s so he won’t inadvertently insult anyone when he tells his story, by making the Soso king look bad. He’s a Keita djeli and therefore likely to be telling an episode from the Sundiata cycle, in which the Soso king is the enemy and evil besides. So if there is a Soso present, he’ll tell a different version, maybe skip over any episode in which the Soso king plays a vindictive role.”
Every gaze in the room turned toward Andevai, as if they all knew he would nod and reply with a few words. Which he did, exactly as if their eyes had called gesture and speech from him. A few glanced toward me and as quickly away as the djeli spoke again. The music shifted rhythm so effortlessly that it was like flying along a perfectly smooth road, hooves syncopating and wheels scraping beneath as an anchor pattern, and besides all that, there lit a tip-top-tip-top into the gaps. Looking toward me, Andevai began to stand as if to come over and scold me. The old farmer put a hand on his elbow and stayed him.
d a very nice smile, meant to be reassuring, and I felt my face grow warmer even as I reminded myself that an assured man like him could have no possible interest in an inexperienced and ignorant girl like me. “Legally it’s not an inaccurate description, just an incomplete one, as Godwik and Chartji and my age-mate who went with me to the Camlun academy would be sure to tell you. What rights you possess as a person who stands in a client status to a lord or a mage House will be different for different people. You remain, however, a dependent, an inferior to their superior rank.”
As I was now, bound to Four Moons House.
He went on. “But again, it’s never quite that simple. A powerful mage House remains powerful because its elders know how to harvest their fields. One of my great-grandmothers who worked a season up at the magisters’ estate house came home with more than her wages. That happens all the time. The child she bore wasn’t a cold mage—my grandfather, that was—so he stayed in the village. But the mages keep watch, to see if a cold mage sprouts in one of our stony gardens. Before my age-mate and I were allowed to leave, we had to stand before a mage seeker to make sure no thread of cold magic was wound into our bones and blood. Beyond that, they cared nothing for what we did as long as it caused them no immediate trouble. Honestly, I think it had not yet occurred to them that the law that protects privilege can also be turned around to break it down. We just have to be patient and hardheaded. But had I been a cold mage, even a weak one, I’d never have escaped. They’re harsh jailers, especially to their own.”
“Are they?”
“I expect their privileged sons and daughters are content. Why would they not be? Those without magic are well trained as clerks, administrators, and soldiers. As for cold mages, the only thing they need fear, so the stories tell us, is becoming too powerful and attracting the notice of the Wild Hunt.”
“Then you believe the Wild Hunt serves the unseen courts?”
“The Wild Hunt and the courts are facts that do not need my belief to exist. I know what killed my grandfather.”
“I’m sorry to hear of his death in such unpleasant circumstances.”
“My thanks. You have a kind heart.”
Out of the bramble of conversation beyond the door, a new rhythm was struck, followed by a descending line on the kora underlaid by drawn-out notes on the fiddle. The audience whistled in anticipation.
“Come on,” said Brennan, touching my arm. “This should be something.”
He pushed open the door. I crept in his wake. Women had crowded into the common room, seated on benches over by the innkeeper’s serving bar, while younger men stood along the other wall. The oldsters remained at the center, closest to the hearth. Only Andevai sat out of place, stuck at the left hand of the eldest who, gesturing, called the djeli out of his corner by the fire.
Brennan leaned his broad shoulders against the wall beside the supper room door. I closed the door and stood beside him, wondering if Andevai would look my way, see me, and disapprove, but he sat with elbows on the table and head bent, listening to the old man speak into his ear just as the djeli was listening to the play of the instruments. A smile flashed on Andevai’s lips at some comment made by the farmer. I hadn’t even imagined he could smile! I had a momentary hallucination that, in these surroundings, my proud husband was comfortable.
The djeli extended his arms, the full sleeves of his robes belling out like a vulture opening its wings. He called out words in a language I did not know but that I could guess was one of the Mande languages, which like the Celtic languages survived in their purest form among bards and djeliw. The conversations in the room stilled. The old farmer sat back, and Andevai looked up. He saw me just as Brennan bent to speak into my ear.
“The djeli is reminding us that his kind, the masters of speech, hold the traditions of the ancestors. Now he’s asking if there is anyone from the Soso lineage here. That’s so he won’t inadvertently insult anyone when he tells his story, by making the Soso king look bad. He’s a Keita djeli and therefore likely to be telling an episode from the Sundiata cycle, in which the Soso king is the enemy and evil besides. So if there is a Soso present, he’ll tell a different version, maybe skip over any episode in which the Soso king plays a vindictive role.”
Every gaze in the room turned toward Andevai, as if they all knew he would nod and reply with a few words. Which he did, exactly as if their eyes had called gesture and speech from him. A few glanced toward me and as quickly away as the djeli spoke again. The music shifted rhythm so effortlessly that it was like flying along a perfectly smooth road, hooves syncopating and wheels scraping beneath as an anchor pattern, and besides all that, there lit a tip-top-tip-top into the gaps. Looking toward me, Andevai began to stand as if to come over and scold me. The old farmer put a hand on his elbow and stayed him.
Andevai sat down like a meek child. The djeli launched into his song, his words punctuated at intervals by responses called from the crowd to questions or cues I did not recognize or hear. Brennan’s attention had shifted entirely to the djeli’s song, a tale familiar enough to wrap him in its weave. I was forgotten. Even Andevai’s gaze drifted to the djeli, whose gold earrings glinted in the firelight as words poured out of him. The singer commanded the attention of every soul in the common room except mine, for I was floundering in the current of an unknown river.
Also, a faint rhythm not in keeping with the song nagged at my hearing. I stepped away from Brennan and pulled the supper room door open just enough to slip through, closing it after me. Kehinde and Godwik were deep in a technical conversation about katabatic winds.
Chartji looked up as I paused beside the table. “Come to save me from these two and their interminable natural history? I can’t abide rat music, I must confess, and I’m not tired enough to fall into a stupor.”
I raised a hand to ask for a moment’s peace. The troll cocked up her muzzle and bent an eye on me as I crossed to the main window, unlatched one of the shutters at the base, and levered it away from the window. Cold exhaled from the bubbled glass, but I did not need the clarity of expensive glass to perceive that the distant scene of blurred blobs of light was in fact a phalanx of torches being borne along the road out of the south.