over in a satisfactory manner.
Servants brought clean underthings and a shapely gown with a shawl. In this pleasing garb I was escorted to a parlor fitted with low couches. Attendants brought a tea tray with tiny almond cakes and jellied berries. Vai was shown in, and we were left alone. He wore the same dash jacket he had arrived in, although it needed to be cleaned and pressed.
“Did they not offer you a change of clothes?” I asked.
“Nothing I could lower myself to wear,” he said in a combative tone.
Refusing the bait, I reclined on the cushions and drank three cups of tea and ate four almond cakes and all of the jellied berries while Vai glared over the bare branches of a winter courtyard as if his gaze had ripped the leaves from the shrubs. The way he tapped a drumbeat on his thigh was a sure sign he was churning with restlessly unpleasant thoughts.
“Vai, you need not use that expression when there is only me here to see for I can assure you it no longer intimidates me although it does make me want to bite you. And not in an amorous way.”
My wit did not raise even the ghost of a smile.
The door opened. I rose. A wiry man in an indigo boubou walked in; his gold earrings marked him as a djeli. He was followed by the woman and the steward. An elderly man wearing a modern dash jacket and trousers entered and took a seat.
“To our House we give you welcome, son of the Diarisso lineage.” The djeli slipped into a melodic chant heavily infused with Bambara. By the way Vai’s hands stilled, I could tell this elaborate greeting mollified him.
At length the djeli finished. The elderly man raised a hand to indicate he meant to speak with his own voice. “The Diarisso lineage has a reputation for strong cold mages who are proud to the same measure that they are powerful.” The mansa’s gaze slid from Andevai to me. “You are not mage House born, Maestra.”
“I am Kena’ani, Your Excellency,” I said, dropping my gaze respectfully.
“What is your name?” asked the djeli.
I heard Vai’s intake of breath but to lie to the face of a djeli was to invite disaster. “I am Catherine Bell Barahal, Your Honor.”
“You’re chained,” the djeli said. “Such a marriage is unusual these days.”
The mansa pressed his fingers together. “I had no idea any Kena’ani clan had the means or opportunity to interest a mage House in a marriage contract.”
I had not worked at Aunty’s boardinghouse for two months without learning how to handle old men. “It is certainly not anything I can speak of, Your Honor, for having been but a child of six at the time the marriage was contracted, naturally I knew nothing about it. Indeed, you may imagine my consternation when I was suddenly informed but a week before my twentieth birthday that I was required to marry a man I had never met and indeed never before heard of. In fact, I only discovered my fate when the magister himself arrived at my aunt and uncle’s house to claim me. I was speechless.”
Vai’s lips twitched but he did not quite smile.
“Most would marvel at your good fortune,” said the woman. “I hope you appreciate the unexpected bounty you have received.”
“I make sure she appreciates it every day,” Vai said in a stern tone belied by the flicker of his eyes.
The woman chuckled.
The mansa was less amused. “I should like to see how powerful your magic really is.”
Vai’s frown returned. “I can prove myself in any manner you request.”
My cane trembled to life as he spun a rainbow into a carriage drawn by horses and then into the horse- headed prow of a ship and then into an antlered stag.
“If nothing else, you can earn a living entertaining in the taverns,” remarked the steward. “I hear that is how village-born cold mages make their living in the circuses of Rome.”
A crashing cold made me hasten to Vai’s side. His hands were in fists, and I was afraid he might draw his sword.
The mansa raised a hand in a gesture of peace. “You are no impostor. Be welcome here as our guests. It will take us a few days to properly consult our records to determine which women might be best cultivated by your seed. I’ll need to know the names of your forebears, likewise.”
The steward opened the door. “Do you prefer to take supper in the hall or a tray of food in the guest suite so you may recover from your travails in comfort and quiet?”
“A quiet evening tonight, if you will be so kind,” said Vai.
We took a polite leave and followed the steward past the schoolroom wing with its echo of children reciting in loud voices. People paused to watch us pass. Their reserved expressions were as intimidating as their highly decorative and rather old-fashioned clothing.
As the door of the guest suite closed behind us, Vai sank onto the silk-covered couch.
“Cultivated by your seed! You are reduced from animal to plant!” I pressed a hand to his forehead. Ashen shadows dulled his eyes, and lines of weariness soured his mouth. “You’re warm.”
“She piled her cold magic on top of mine to try to cut the threads of my power.”
“She did? The woman?”
“The mansa could not be bothered to test me himself… yet what if he didn’t challenge me because he already knew his cold magic isn’t powerful enough to challenge mine? Perhaps the woman is the more powerful cold mage.”
“Then wouldn’t she be mansa?”
“A woman can’t be mansa. The mansa is a man who rules the House as a prince rules a territory or the emperor rules Rome.”
I placed the cacica’s skull on the side table, positioned to stare directly at Vai. “What do you think of this argument, Queen Anacaona?”
“Catherine!”
“Why should I not appeal to a woman who ruled a powerful empire? Either the most powerful cold mage in any House rules as mansa, or the mansa is chosen by some other criterion. But you cannot say that the mansa is the most powerful, if he is not. I would like to hear what Chartji would make of your argument.”
“Lawyers are paid to make arguments. Furthermore, the feathered people love nothing more than picking through the most arcane details to find things to quibble over.”
“You have no answer to my perfectly reasonable point, have you? For that is exactly why you hired Chartji in the first place.”
He beckoned. I returned the skull to the basket. When I sat next to him, he pulled me close and whispered, “So much for our attempt to spy. The steward said ‘village-born.’ The mansa knew you aren’t Houseborn. I think they know who we are.”
His words fell like stones, unpleasant because they were so hard. “How could they know? I’d better go see what I can learn.”
“You need not look quite so eager, love. Although I suppose it is natural that you do.”
He released me as a parade of solemn servants entered bearing platters. As they readied the table I retreated to the bedchamber, drew the shadows around me, and walked unobserved back through the bustle in the sitting room and out the open door.
Near the entry hall I recognized the djeli’s distinctive tenor. I peeked around a corner. The djeli and the steward were speaking to a soldier who had saddlebags slung over a shoulder. Although their speech had a rhythm different from that of Adurnam, I could string together sense.
“Ride to Four Moons House. Tell the mansa we have the young magister he seeks. Go in haste. Do not rest.”
Four men armed with crossbows stamped in from outside and bowed to the steward. He directed them down my corridor. They walked past without seeing me.
The djeli was holding a sheet of foolscap, which he read. “There are four fugitives, my lord,” he said to the steward. “We are advised to keep the wife as hostage for his good behavior, but that she has peculiar abilities and must be watched by a djeli at all times. Also, remove all mirrors. Kill her rather than allow her to escape. There may also be another man and woman. Shoot the man and capture the woman.”
The steward made a sign to avert evil spirits. “Ill-omened! Strange to have them turn up a year after we got
