The roof and floor were made up of full-length tongued planks laid lengthwise, front to back. She saw the only exception when she kicked the mat that lay just inside the door. In that one place, above the right front wheel, a short piece had been inserted. Before she trifled with it, she went outside and crawled under the wagon. As she had thought likely, the wagon was double floored, for these boards ran from side to side. It was probably double roofed as well, with the cupboards on the side walls fulfilling the same insulating function, keeping out winter’s cold and holding the heat from the little stove. Back inside, she found a sharp chisel in one of the cupboards and pried until the short section shrieked out of its place, revealing a floor stuffed with straw. When she probed into it, carefully, with a knife blade, she found the bundle she had wrapped in Tingawa, years ago.
Precious Wind bowed her head to let sudden and unexpected tears fall onto the thing she held. She let them flow. Inevitably, some days were harder than others. The ones when nothing much happened could be harder than days in which every moment was spent in conflict and confusion. Being at war kept her from remembering. When threats came from every side, one stayed on perpetual alert, one assessed, one decided, acted, moved on, over and over. Zagit-gaot and rakit-gaot, senders and doers of evil, had given her little time to mourn for Xu-i-lok. Her kinswoman. Her nariba-ama, treasured sister. They had grown up together. When Xu-i-lok knew she was dying, it was Precious Wind she had asked for. It was into Precious Wind’s protection she had given Xulai, and thereafter Precious Wind had been Xulai’s protector, guide, watcher, teacher, mother, aunt, older sister. Oldwife had helped, of course, fulfilling a grandma’s role, and Xu-i-lok herself had done what she could with what strength she had. No one had guessed she had enough to last as long as she did. Perhaps Precious Wind had helped her live that long, for Xulai. Perhaps Xulai herself had helped, more than she knew. Xulai. Xu-i-lok’s child. Lok-i-xan’s granddaughter.
Precious Wind had sworn protection for Xulai, not merely privately, as she had been asked to do, but officially, at the temple, with Lok-i-xan sitting cross legged on the witness bench. In Tingawa, oaths were taken seriously. One might be killed trying to fulfill an oath, there was no disgrace in that, but being forsworn while still alive and able to fight was a disgrace to one’s clan, a disgrace washed out, if at all, only by one’s own blood. The validity of an oath was a matter for the priesthood. If an oath maker was brought in, still alive but crippled past movement or intention, the priests could declare the oath fulfilled, or they could refuse to do so, thereby moving the oath onto the family of the oath-bound. Precious Wind had never thought of breaking her oath to Xu-i-lok, and she was still bound by it. Additionally, privately, Precious Wind had sworn vengeance, no oath necessary, and there was much of that yet to do. She had also laid a mirror curse upon Alicia, upon Mirami, to reflect the evil they did back upon them. So far as she knew, the duchess was as yet untouched, her mother was as yet untouched. Mirror curses were not magical or supernatural in any way. They were merely statements of intention, communicated to the universe: This person has done great evil. Let evil return upon them. If they hunger, do not feed them. If they are drowning, let them drown. If they thirst, let them go dry. Though the duchess and her mother had not yet been repaid, so far they had been robbed of their prey! Xulai was in hiding. Justinian had gone so quickly they could not track him.
Months before she left Woldsgard, Precious Wind had reminded Justinian of what must be done prior to his leaving. Every room must be cleaned to the walls. Every curtain, every blanket, every carpet, every tapestry. In the bird lofts, every door to every cage, every fragment of dust. From the stables, every piece of harness he might have touched, every saddle. In the armory, every bow, every sword. In the wine cellars, every bottle he had racked. At Netherfields, the very place on the floor of the nave where he had lain the night after Xu-i-lok’s entombment had to be scrubbed. No trace of him could remain.
At the princess’s direction, he had shaved his head years ago and had since worn a cap or a wig made of dead men’s hair. When he trimmed his beard or cut his fingernails and toenails, he burned the clippings in a little clay furnace Precious Wind had made for him. Almost invariably, he ate his meals alone, scrupulously cleaning the dishes when he had finished. When in company, Precious Wind herself watched everything he touched and later saw to his wineglass, his dishes, the fork he used, the knife he used, the napkin he used. This had not endeared her to Dame Cullen, but then, nothing endeared anyone to Dame Cullen. It was enough that Dame Cullen hated Altamont with sullen ferocity. It was enough that Cook and Dame Cullen and the other household people knew they were protecting the duke and thereby protecting themselves.
“May all holy things assure he left nothing behind the zagit-gaot could use to find him,” Precious Wind muttered now, angrily wiping her eyes. She had not had time to mourn before, and she did not have time now. One day, in Tingawa, when the light burned over the name of Xu-i-lok, she would cut and burn a lock of her hair, put the ashes on her brow, and mourn properly.
She stripped the wrapping away from what she
