'What did she say, and why didn't she tell me?’ Paama complained.
'Dreaming is very imprecise. It is not always possible to separate the true dreams from the ramblings of the sleeping mind. We prefer to wait until there is a clear sign that a dream is significant. Be patient a little longer, Paama. I must consult with my sisters.'
Paama was left to wonder and fret and speculate for the rest of the day. When news finally came, it was Sister Jani who brought it to her.
'Paama, you must go back to Makendha and protect your sister,’ she said bluntly.
Paama looked at the expression of bleak worry on the face before her and said softly, ‘Is that all you have to tell me?'
'Sister Carmis has had a dream that is very difficult to read. There will be strife between you and a stranger, but she cannot tell what will happen in the end. Your sister must not stand between the two of you, or there could be grave trouble for her.'
'I'll go now,’ Paama said, her face grim and her eyes anxious.
'No. Wait a while. We must do all that we can to prepare you.'
'Can you teach me to use the Stick any better than the djombi did?’ Paama asked with some bitterness.
Sister Jani laughed without humour. ‘No. But we can give you such assistance as our own talents provide.'
Paama could not guess what she meant by this, but when she began to pack her belongings, the four sisters came to her, all bearing packages.
Sister Elen stepped forward first and gave her a tiny box, small enough to fit into her hand. ‘This is a brooch, but it will also allow me to Read the stranger. Be sure to wear it on your dress when you go to the dinner.'
Then it was the turn of Sister Deian. The package she gave to Paama was slightly larger than her hand. ‘This is a hairband. When you wear it, you will hear my voice behind your ear Speaking the truth about the stranger.'
Sister Carmis, the quietest of the sisters whom Paama had encountered, came forward with a large, light parcel. ‘Place this cushion under your head at night, and I will be with you in your dreams, to show you what may be, and to guard you against what must not be.'
Paama stared at the sisters and at her gifts, overwhelmed. ‘Thank you. I feel less afraid now.'
'But not less careful,’ warned Sister Jani.
Paama looked at the last package, which was so large that Sister Jani had rested it on the floor the moment she entered the room.
'And what is that?’ she said in trepidation.
'The carved stool for your father's gift. Do be careful taking it down the hill. Sister Elen was forced to rush the gluing, and too much movement will shake the joints loose again.'
12
the face behind the veil
Paama's return to Makendha was as quiet and fuss-free as her departure had been. Although her family was expecting her, their welcome was a touch harried, and her father was actually slightly more cheerful about seeing the stool completed than about seeing his daughter again.
Neila was glad to see her, an unusual state of affairs. She was happy to have someone to talk to about Alton and the man who had sent him, the man who hid his face. Paama listened with more attention than she was accustomed to giving to her years-younger sister and her busy love life. There was more than one stranger in Makendha, and she needed to find out which was the one to beware of.
'Let me see if I have it straight,’ she said, gently pausing her sister in midflow. ‘Alton is a poet, and he speaks beautiful words to you, and you are very interested in him??s that right?'
Neila nodded, beaming radiantly.
'Then there is Lord Taran, whose face no-one has seen, but who is tall, silent, has eyes like amethyst—so far as you have been able to observe, that is—and is very rich. And you are also very interested in him.'
Neila shamelessly nodded again.
'Which one are you considering for marriage again? I have forgotten.'
Neila gave her a hurt look. ‘Lord Taran, as you well know. Alton is only his servant.'
'Hmm,’ Paama said doubtfully. ‘And are there any other men of note in this Lord Taran's household?'
Neila stared at her. ‘I thought you were tired of men and marriage.'
Paama gave her an equally blank stare in reply before she understood the meaning of her sister's words. ‘Not for me, silly child. I?? just want to know.'
Neila smiled in disbelief. ‘There are only a few minor servants??nd the one who heads the household, of course, but he is not very interesting.'
Paama was not reassured. She had seen a djombi make do with the shadow of a six year-old girl and still achieve its purpose. Her enemy might be the mysterious lord, or the extraordinarily gifted poet, but he could just as easily be the boring majordomo, or one of the minor servants—perhaps even the one who would bear the cup of welcome when she first entered the tent of the merchant prince. She would have to meet them all herself and pray that the Sisters’ gifts and skills would give her some insight.
On the day of the dinner, Paama made her preparations carefully. She selected a dress that would help her to fade into the background, and she fastened to her belt a matching cloth purse, taking care to arrange it so that the Stick was completely covered. Then she pinned the brooch at the corner of the square neckline and bound her hair back with the headband. The cushion was already waiting by her pillow; she prayed she would need it for nothing more than an ordinary, restful sleep.
At twilight, everyone was ready. Semwe led the way to the tent of Lord Taran, carrying his gift carefully in front of him so as not to wrinkle or stain his best linen tunic. His wife and daughters walked behind him, treading gently in their embroidered cloth slippers, careful to keep to the paving-stone trail. As they approached the tent, they saw that a red carpet had been rolled out from the entrance to the edge of the trail. Neila exclaimed in delight at being treated so royally, but to Paama it resembled a great red tongue waiting to furl up and fling them into the warm glowing maw of the tent's main entrance.
As soon as they stepped off the trail and onto the carpet, a servant came hastening towards them and escorted them in. Paama discreetly turned the brooch in his direction as he guided them to the entrance, but nothing happened, no lightning flash, no sound of alarm. Then she entered and forgot about him instantly. The lanterns hanging from the ceiling were shaded with amber-tinted glass, heating the cool evening air to an uncomfortable temperature and making the very air ruddy. However, when Paama looked around at the guests in the reception area, everyone appeared contented and relaxed, sipping iced drinks and marvelling at the sumptuous interior of the merchant's tent. Many of the faces were known to her, but she remembered Giana and shuddered. It could be anyone.
She tried to copy them, tried not to look suspicious of everything and everybody, but even the servant who offered her a drink from a tray seemed to be secretly laughing at her. That was a horrible thought. She was looking for one adversary, but suppose they were all part of it, willing co-conspirators for their own gain? She drank gingerly, alert to any alien flavour, and sighed. Paranoia was an exhausting state to be in.
Neila nudged her. ‘There's Alton.'
She pointed out a man with an expression of discomfort on his face, a young face under greying hair. He looked slightly out of place, the usual appearance for those whose status was neither guest nor visibly busy servant. Paama wondered if he would perform one of his works later in the evening, or if he was there to soak up more inspiration for another poem. She touched the Stick idly through her bag, hoping vaguely that it could help her in some way, but it was as ordinary as any piece of wood.
'Paama.'
