What an old dear he was. He flirted with her shamelessly. Diane turned her attention to him. “You’ve brought me chocolate! And just the way I like it too.” She sipped delicately, and Asper Lindley took the hint. He bowed and went off to bother someone else.
Diane did not even look after him.
“And now, gentles!” Lady Galing coughed delicately into a handkerchief, drew a deep breath and announced: “Let us withdraw into the Blue Salon. Our dear Miss Sophronia Latimer has consented to soothe our cares and refresh our spirits with a little harp music.”
Lord Humphrey had the pleasure of escorting Diane, Duchess Tremontaine, into the Blue Salon. He was tremendously wealthy and had the Horned God’s own luck with cards. She had been considering asking him for the cash to ransom Highcombe and put her back on her feet. He might do it just to be gallant. But men had hidden depths, even amiable men like Lord Humphrey. He was just as likely to expect her to sleep with him, and that she would not do. She had spent her life making sure she owed no one anything.
Diane de Tremontaine settled her green, foamy skirts around her in the small velvet salon chair and took her cup and saucer back from Lord Humphrey. The long harp recital would give her plenty of time to think. She took a sip of the thick, rich chocolate and considered the letter on her desk, waiting to be sent. It was either a good idea or merely a clever one. It was certainly a gamble. But the Duchess Tremontaine was very used to winning.
Episode Two:
The North Side
of the Sun
Alaya Dawn Johnson
Ixkaab Balam, third of the name, first daughter of a first daughter of the greatest Trading family of the Kinwiinik, had been fully trained in the ways of the Locals, the Xanamwiinik. She had learned their language, their dances, their uncomfortable manner of dress.
She had learned these things over the course of years in the Balam family compound in Binkiinha, in between her more important studies of the five major Trading partners and her missions on behalf of her family. She had enjoyed their study, as the people across the sea to the north were profoundly different from those of the civilized world. But she had never expected to find herself actually stationed in this backwater, among the people with skin the color of ant eggs. What’s more, even the elders of the family watched her with suspicion and exchanged rumors of the disaster that had chased her here.
It had been seven months since it had happened (she avoided thinking about the specifics as she would avoid passing too close to a sleeping jaguar), but she still hadn’t accustomed herself to being in disgrace. She passed her nights embroidering ideas of how she could serve her family and regain their trust—but every morning, all such thoughts evaporated beneath the unblinking eye of reality, these people’s weak and pallid sun.
Here, in the real world, there was to be a feast when the sun set tomorrow. Kaab had spent the last four hours stuffing dried maize husks and banana leaves with various preparations of maize dough and seasonings. It would not be a feast to dignify the family name without several thousand tamales. Her aunts and cousins and family servants had mostly kept their conversation among themselves. Or perhaps it was simply that Kaab, ignorant of the daily minutiae of their lives here, had no means of entering it. She wished that she had never gone on that mission to Tultenco. Or at least that soldiers of the Tullan hadn’t been searching the coast for a woman of her description. Wishing so fervently for impossible things made her clumsy: She lost track of her hands and dropped wet, warm dough on her bare foot instead of on the banana leaf.
“Oh-ho,” said one of the older women, a distant relation whose name Kaab hadn’t quite managed to learn. “Tired, little bee? Or are you daydreaming? Found a boy you like here in just five days, already?”
The other women, including her aunt Ixsaabim, laughed and turned to Kaab, who went red-faced as she kicked the dollop of wasted dough to one of the hairless black dogs that lingered for scraps from the kitchen.
“Fast work, cousin!”
“From what I hear of our little bee, it’s more likely a girl than a boy that has her tamales looking like crooked snakes.”
Kaab looked down at the ones she had just finished. Her mother had trained her well: They looked even and plump, the same as the others. Perhaps she couldn’t quite manage the seashell and bean decorations of the old women trained from birth for the kitchen, but she was hardly a daydreaming amateur!
Kaab raised her just-wrapped tamale, an indignant protest on her lips. But it died when she saw the friendly, laughing faces of the women around her. They were her family, even if she still couldn’t tell her twin cousins apart or remember all of the elders’ names. Aunt Ixsaabim reached across the great basket stacked with tamales ready for the steaming pots and rubbed Kaab’s shoulder.
“Perhaps I have been a little distracted,” Kaab said contritely. And then, with a flare of inspiration, she quoted, in Tullan-daan:
“The woman I desire is a maize flower
The morning after rain.
Oh giver of life! Giver of rain!”
The elder aunt Ixnoom nodded in appreciation. “The great Tullan masters are good to know, child. Your mother—may she never be extinguished, may she never disappear—taught you well. I was married into the Nopalco court, you know. When my husband died, I returned home. Long ago. But I do remember the poetry.”
The other women nodded, the older ones sadly. There had been a war with Nopalco just at the turn of the last century; they had rebelled against the demands of Tullan Empire tribute, and the poems said the river Amaxac had run red with their blood for thirteen years. Judging by her age, Aunt Ixnoom must have escaped that great massacre. She must have endured hardships that made Kaab shiver to imagine. And yet she had survived to be an elder, far away from home, but still with family. Perhaps by enduring, Kaab could redeem herself from the disaster that had made her father insist she leave home, without even a promise of return. Perhaps, even in this backwater, strategically important to family affairs but woefully lacking in any kind of refinement, she could find the means to honor her mother’s spirit. Was she not the daughter of Ixmoe, legendary in her own time for her exploits among the peoples of the southern seas? Was she not dedicated from birth to the sacred art of trade—which was to say, the sacred art of intelligence gathering—and exploiting it for profit?
One of the young boys poked his head inside the doorway to the kitchen.
“Auntie Saabim,” he said, “Uncle Chuleb asks to consult you about the Local dishes for the feast.”
Saabim sighed and rolled her eyes. “Tell my dearest morning star that I will attend to his entirely unnecessary concern momentarily.”
One of the younger women, a cousin by marriage, clucked loudly. “What husband tries to oversee his wife’s kitchen?”
Aunt Ixnoom smiled. “He’ll learn. You’re still new in this marriage, Niece.”
“Well, you’re pregnant again, Saabim, so now is the time to tell your young husband to keep to his domain!”
At this, Kaab looked up sharply at her aunt. Saabim was pregnant? She was old to be having her first child with her second husband, but the embroidered blouse was loose enough to hide at least the first three months. Still, Kaab was disgusted with herself for not noticing. She had tried so hard not to let her observational skills unravel during her months on that tedious ship!
Saabim laughed and said, “You are all very kind to be concerned for me. But I’ll have him in hand, don’t you worry.” She stood, stretched her back, and then stepped nimbly past the baskets and clucking women and cooking pots and scurrying maids to reach the exit. Kaab excused herself a moment later, making as if to use the privy (located inside the houses here, in what she considered a dubious use of technology). But instead of turning north down the hallway, she stepped lightly south, into the courtyard, taking care to keep herself in the shadow of a tall, box-cut shrub. The afternoon sunlight shocked her—she had been up and stumbling to the kitchen at the very first light of the m
orning star, and a bundle of hours had passed without her noting them.
“Husband,” said Aunt Saabim, “I hope you have better matters to detain me with than my management of the kitchen?”
She wrapped her arms around Uncle Chuleb’s neck and nibbled his bottom lip. Kaab suddenly and fiercely regretted her impulse to test her rusted skills on her own family. A woman as experienced as she should not forget what went on in marriage—but the fact was she often forgot to think of men that way. Unfortunately, the angle of the sun meant that her shadow would be immediately noticeable if she tried to return the way she had come. The sounds from the courtyard—oh how she wished she had stayed with the gossiping aunts in the steam-filled kitchen!—changed to cooing endearments, then wet smacking, and then, appallingly, soft grunting.
Kaab dared a glance past the shrub. Uncle Chuleb had one hand under Aunt Saabim’s blouse and the other down the back of her skirt. For a horrible moment, Kaab imagined doing the same to that beauty from Riverside, Tess. She had to find a prudent exit. Perhaps her father was not entirely wrong when he accused her of being overconfident.
A good Trader, he had always said, knows when to hide as well as when to fight.
Recent events had taught her that lesson, at least. But she couldn’t stand to hide here for another second. Why, they’d scare the dogs in a minute!
“Auntie!” she called, shuffling her feet pointedly on the flagstones and then emerging into the bright sunlight. Her aunt and uncle had managed to extricate themselves from each other, though Saabim’s blouse fell half outside her wide, multicolored belt.
“Why—Kaab—what is it?”
Kaab smiled brilliantly. Uncle Chuleb regarded her as if he had just bit into a very young lime. Uncle Chuleb was not easily charmed.
“Aunt Ixnoom thought you were delayed in coming back. She asked me to ask you . . . why, what instructions dear Uncle has as to the preparations of Xanamwiinik food. Do we have all of their barbaric ingredients?”
Saabim looked somewhat bemused as she turned to her husband. “Dear?”
He cleared his throat. “Well. Let me see. We had nearly decided against serving that ridiculous gilded stuffed hare. To be honest, I thought it was a joke: To these Xanamwiinik, a hare is humble fare, fit only for a woodsman’s pot. But apparently, if you stuff it with quince and walnut, and braise it with saffron, it becomes a dish fit for the Duchess Tremontaine’s table. She served it at her last soiree, my Land agent tells me. The saffron turned the braised skin orange as a sunset.” He turned to Kaab. “His words, Niece. I confess to being more interested in importing our own spices than trying a new one that costs nearly more than its weight in gold dust. But where the Duchess Tremontaine leads, the town follows, it seems. Those who can afford to. The omission on our part will be noted. And in any case, that lady has been . . .” He trailed off in a way that Kaab found distinctly curious and gave his wife a speaking glance. “Well. However events play out, it will do us no harm for the success of our feast to reach her ears.”
Saabim gave Kaab a funny, knowing smile and kissed her husband on the cheek. “Then the expense must be borne, of course, my little thrush.”
Chuleb reciprocated with nicknames that threatened to send the dogs scurrying for cover again, so Kaab intervened quickly. “Do we have the saffron? Would you like me to get it?”
He waved an impatient hand. “Oh, for the sake of the Nine Heavens, child, if it interests you so much! Try the Fenton compound first. They’re in the spice trade and should have some on hand. We’ll need—well, enough to braise forty hares. You might as well get the hares, too. I leave it in your care, Niece. I trust you will do the family honor.”
This last was a formal phrase, meant to mark a charge given from an elder to an active family Trader. It had been seven months since someone had last said these words to Kaab, and her eyes pricked unexpectedly to hear them again, so far from home.
She touched her heart with her hand and bent her head. “As Ekchuah dives and Xamanek lights the way, this unworthy servant will give her precious water, her blood, that our honor may grow its roots into the earth.”
Her reply was the ceremonial one, not generally given for common tasks. Her uncle blinked in surprise and then bowed his head briefly in reply. Aunt Saabim, who looked very much like Kaab’s mother in this strong light, bowed her head as well.
“I’ll be back soon!” Kaab said, before the tears that clogged the back of her throat came up any farther. “Can I use the good Caana chocolate for the trade?”
Chuleb sighed. “If you promise to be prudent. It’s in the brown chest in—”
But Kaab was already heading to his offices, her bare feet sliding along the tiles of the peristyle. “I know,” she called over her shoulder.
“Remember to wear Local clothes!” her aunt called after her. “And some shoes!”
Kaab allowed the maid to help her into the simplest bodice and skirts that her aunt had left in her closet. She nearly ignored Aunt Saabim’s dictate about the shoes, but the maid reminded her about the appalling state of the streets in springtime (shit and mud were the least of it, apparently) and she reluctantly consented to the boots. Adopting Local customs was the Trader way, but her feet felt decidedly shackled in all but the simplest rubber-and-hide sandals. At home, women rarely went shod. But of course, at home the streets were swept meticulously clean every morning and night by phalanxes of war-captive slaves, and no one would dream of pissing in public. While living among the barbarians, Kaab reasoned, one had to make accommodations.
Once out on the street—a bag full of good chocolate on her arm and a modest amount of Local coin for any unforeseen circumstance—Kaab turned west and walked for several streets beneath tall, bare trees that had just begun to put out closed green buds. Kaab recalled the redolent purple jacarandas and the sunset spray of brush-tree flowers and felt her heart crack that much further. The walls were high in the merchants’ neighborhood, and traffic minimal. Men and women whose clothing and demeanor marked them as servants brushed past her with hardly a glance sideways. Interesting. In Riverside and the neighborhoods in between she had been a curiosity as a foreigner. But clearly the merchants had long since grown accustomed to the presence of the Traders. And tomorrow evening, many of the most prominent Local merchant families would be arriving at the Balam compound to feast on a hundred delicacies that she and the other women had spent the last three days preparing. Fetching saffron might seem like a trivial task, but Kaab was prideful, not ignorant. A brilliant feast had the ability to help a family rise very far—just as an inferior one could bring down the curse of the gods, under whose purview such things rested.
Her uncle’s directions to the Fenton compound had been mercifully clear—Kaab spoke two other languages which relied on the nonsensical left and right, but she had never been forced to live in the lands where they were common. She arrived a quarter hour after she had set out. The walls were an even-mortared limestone, solid, imposing, and unpainted. They rose three times her height, and above them tall spikes of greening iron deterred acrobatic thieves. The trees had been removed for ten yards on either side of the enormous, iron-braced doors. A cord hung on the west side, and, seeing no other option for gaining entry (aside from methods of which her uncle would surely not approve), she pulled it.
A small window in the door slid back, and an older man’s face appeared. She explained that she was here on business of the Balam family. The man seemed dubious, but after a moment she heard several bolts sliding open. A small door eased back on deep hinges, and a large, rough hand emerged from the shadows as though from the underworld to help her through. She had to duck and step quite high—the weight and length of the unfamiliar skirts nearly sent her sprawling.
She emerged blinking and stumbling into an open courtyard dominated by an unadorned building that she assumed was a storehouse and a stately, ornamented house of new construction.
“You can await Master Fenton’s man of business inside the
house, mistress,” said the guard. He motioned for her to follow the path through the open garden. She hesitated, wondering if she should surrender her obsidian dagger, heavy and reassuring in her petticoat pocket, as a gesture of goodwill. But the guard had turned back to a game of cards with his companion and seemed entirely uninterested in her. The Xanamwiinik were worse than the Tullan, Kaab thought with hard amusement as she climbed the marble steps. They did not imagine women capable of killing a turkey, let alone a guard.
She repeated her request to the maid who answered the front door and was led to a small antechamber decorated with dark woods and tanned leathers and art from the remotest parts of the traded world. She spotted a cotton mantle embroidered and printed in the Bakhim style beside a small headdress of quetzal feathers, a kind only certain decorated warriors were allowed to wear at home. She wondered if her uncle Chuleb had traded these to Master Fenton, and if so, if he had explained their true use and origins. Kaab felt distinctly odd, standing here in her meticulous Local clothes, as if she herself could have been displayed on the walls if she hadn’t bothered to change before she arrived.
She tensed at a sudden clamor of voices in the hallway outside, rapidly approaching.
“By god, he will see me now! If he had the nerve to summon me like some common accounting boy, he damned well can’t expect me to wait when I get here.”
“Master Rafe, I believe your father’s letter instructed you to arrive in the morning—”
“Well, that bit of high-handed authoritarianism would have been impossible for me to comply with, even if I were the dutiful sheep of a son he wishes me to be!”
The owner of that deep voice—attempting to be imperious, but a little too piqued to manage—burst into the antechamber at that moment, swept his gaze across, noted the closed doors to what Kaab had presumed were the offices of Master Fenton and his man of business, and uttered several words that Kaab did not understand. She assumed they were not fit for polite company, judging by the deep blush of the trailing maid and pained wince of an older man with a pen in his hand.
Tremontaine Season 1 Saga Omnibus Page 6
