Cold Steel (Spiritwalker 3)

“Truly? I had always understood that the technology of combustion is anathema to cold magic. Why, you are quite at the forefront of the tide of change!”

They were shocked their tedious backwater could be seen as a place where interesting things were happening. Twelve years ago the first trolls had arrived from North Amerike. They had petitioned at the ghana’s court—ghana being the local word for the prince—for permission to mine and log in the mountainous regions near the sister cities of Sala and Koumbi.

“What do they mine?” I asked.

Vinda said, “Iron and silver. The early settlers fifty years ago got rich on silver, but the trolls brought in more efficient methods. They’re building manufactories. They pay wages by the day.”

“Yes, but you have to live in one of their settlements,” objected a girl. “Who wants to live out there in the wild where they might eat you if they felt like it?”

“Have you heard rumors of trolls eating their employees?” I asked.

“No,” said the girl, her cheeks flushed with excitement, “but we hear bloody tales of trolls gone out to survey the land who get into violent altercations with local tribesmen. The tribespeople are angry that foreigners are disrupting their hunting and trapping. Are you well acquainted with trolls?”

“I have been adopted into one of their clutches.” It was remarkably gratifying to see how they quieted, quivering with anticipation.

Really, I could have talked all night, but I wanted to tell Vai about Bee’s dream. At last I retreated to the guest suite to discover Vai not there. Gracious Melqart! How late did the men intend to celebrate? Had he let down his guard too easily? Had we fallen into a trap?

Knowing White Bow House had lost all its djeliw made me bold. I drew the shadows around me and went in search of the men’s courtyard, even though I knew I ought not to venture there. The corridors lay empty. Elsewhere in the compound, children were being sung into their sleep, the youths were reciting their lessons before bed, and an old man was snoring. Drums tapped a festive rhythm. The scent of liquor spilled through the air as the seal of friendship. Like a hunter I followed its trail.

An open door admitted me into the mansa’s formal audience chamber with a carved stool and several cushions. Past another door I entered a formal dining chamber with a table and about thirty chairs, all undisturbed. Past that lay an informal receiving chamber. Here the remains of a generous supper littered the low tables, cushions all awry. Beyond glass-paned doors lay an inner courtyard lit by cold fire. Snow glittered on the shrubs and trimmed hedges.

Four drummers laid down a rhythm. Every dance has a story, every rhythm a meaning, through which it converses with the pulsing heart of the world. Like the other men, Vai had stripped off his winter coat and his dash jacket. They were all very fine, for they were men who had grown up with dancing, but he had a supple and energetic way of moving that naturally drew my eye as I admired him. Although normally he would have known I had crept close, he showed not the least sign his thoughts lay anywhere except within the rhythm and the camaraderie of the men laughing and egging each other on to show off.

This courtyard was not meant for my eyes. I was trespassing.

I padded back to the lonely refuge of our rooms. In lamplight I set out the cacica’s skull and poured her a little wine. As I cleaned and sorted my sewing kit, I told the cacica about my evening with the women of White Bow House. I had stayed away from discussing Camjiata or radical philosophy and stuck to a theme of women speaking out and taking a place in governance. Everyone had paid attention, even if most had been skeptical that such a thing could ever happen. Maybe there really were times when words were more effective than a sword.

Men’s laughter gusted up the hall. I grabbed my sword as the lamps guttered out and the door swung open. Vai slammed it behind him as he stamped snow off his boots. Baubles of cold fire bobbed erratically over his head. He shed his coat and tossed it over a chair to reveal his dash jacket unbuttoned and disheveled as if he had carelessly dragged it on.

“I could just eat you up,” he murmured, pressing me back against the wall to kiss me.

I wrestled free. “Blessed Tanit. You are drunk!”

“Given my previous experience with you when you were drunk, I can’t help but wonder what you will be like in bed when…” He noticed the skull sitting on a side table. With a visible start he recoiled a step. Then he grabbed his coat and draped it over the skull. That he looked inordinately pleased with his cleverness confirmed my belief that he had imbibed too much liquor.

“I felt it prudent to maintain my wits in a strange household. Why were you outdoors?”

“We drummed the festival dance in the courtyard. It started to snow.” He tugged me into the bedchamber, steered me to the bed, and grappled me down on it. “Since it is the Feast of Matronalia to honor the Roman goddess of childbirth, they all wanted to know if I have gotten you pregnant yet. I had to tell them it was not yet the auspicious season for us.”

“They do seem inordinately interested in your fertility. Magister Vinda asked if you were here on your Grand Tour.”

He stiffened, and not in an amorous way. His mood lurched from lasciviousness to fury as he sat bolt upright. “Our offspring is not the mansa’s to sell or trade as he wishes.”

“I set her straight, I assure you,” I said soothingly, stroking his arm.

He leaned against the headboard, looking away from me and thus forcing me to contemplate the beauty of his eyes and strong cheekbones. The sulky set of his lips made me want to kiss them. “Do you have any idea how insulting it is to be treated as if you are nothing more than a highly regarded stallion with desirable conformation?”

Several jesting comments raced against each other in an effort to reach my tongue first, but I yanked on the reins and tried another tactic to calm him. “When I was waiting tables at the boardinghouse, some men treated me as if I were nothing more than a womanly form they’d like to fondle and take to bed.”

He glanced sidelong at me with a swift measure to take in exactly those conforming attributes. His thunderous frown eased slightly. “They surely did.”

I bit down a smile. Levity would be fatal at just this moment. I chose a feinting attack. “Magister Vinda wondered if I was looking to dally with one of their women. Or get pregnant by one of their men.”

He put an arm around me. “Why would they think you would be interested in anyone else when you’re married to me?”

That he could speak such conceited words with such humble sincerity never failed to delight me. “I suppose it would depend on whether I can get satisfaction. If I must dash the hopes of the many, then you must accommodate the desires of the one.”

“Must I, Catherine?” He had a way of saying my name that made it seem like the most burning caress whose touch inflamed my entire body.