Spiritwalker 3: Cold Steel (54 page)

Serena led me back through the parlor and through the double doors into a splendid
dining room decorated in the old style, a long table surrounded by twenty-four cushions.
Past another door I saw a staging area where male servants were arranging a veritable
army of platters. At a side table an elderly steward supervised the decanting of multiple
bottles of wine. After washing and drying our hands in a brass basin, we waited by
the wine.

“I am told you are not House-raised, Catherine. In the mage Houses, when the mansa
presides over a meal with important guests, it is customary for his wife to pour the
wine and keep the glasses of the guests filled.” She sighed with a hint of exasperation.
“I told the mansa it would be best to give me time with you to instruct you in the
proper handling of the carafe and how to pour. Under the circumstances he cannot wish
you to stumble, but…”

The far doors opened and the mansa entered. In his wake men streamed in, chatting
as stewards showed them to their seats and brought bowls and towels for them to wash
their fingers. No doubt the mansa had his own reasons for throwing me straight into
the fire. Well! There was a lot about me he did not know!

As host of the gathering, the mansa naturally sat at one end of the table. The older
guests were placed next to and then down from him
in, I had to suppose, declining degrees of importance. The younger men were seated
at the other half of the table. I recognized the mansa’s nephew, who had tried to
kill me at Cold Fort and whom I had met again in Adurnam. When a steward directed
him to a place midway down the table, close to neither end, the nephew cast me such
a hostile look that I flinched.

Serena patted my hand. Under cover of the men’s talk she whispered, “Be gracious and
silent. You must expect hostility from those who expected they were to be raised highest.”

To my surprise Mansa Viridor entered. He was seated in a place of honor among the
younger men, to the left of the empty end cushion. Viridor saw me, then glanced toward
the door.

Just when I realized Vai had not the status to be invited to such an exalted gathering
of august magisters and princely allies, he walked in, last of all. His beard was
freshly trimmed. He had let his hair grow out a little. He wore a long black-and-gold
riding jacket trimmed with soldierly red braid, slim trousers, and gleaming boots.
Possibly, I might have sighed longingly.

Serena’s fingers caught mine as she whispered, “You are staring at him. Do not. It
makes you look like the cheapest sort of serving girl in a tavern where laborers congregate
after work.”

Vai glanced at the mansa, already seated, and dipped his chin respectfully as he looked
down at the only cushion left, the place at the opposite end that faced the mansa
down the length of the table. He paused there for long enough that every man had to
acknowledge that Andevai Diarisso Haranwy would take the seat that mirrored the mansa’s.
His gaze flashed up to mark me, the message in his beautiful eyes so searing in its
intensity that Serena sucked in a sharp breath. Maybe he meant it to be a private
intimacy shared between us, but he hadn’t my years of experience in effacing myself
in order to let Bee absorb all the notice. Every man at the table turned to look at
us two women.

“I serve the elder men, you the younger,” Serena murmured, careful not to look any
of them in the eye. “Be graceful and serene.”

With an aplomb I admired, she picked up a carafe and swept over to the mansa. The
steward indicated another carafe, which I carried to the other end where Vai was seated.
This was no different from
serving drinks at Aunty Djeneba’s boardinghouse, except any mistake here would reveal
me as a waddling duck pretending to be a swan and allow every mage who hated Vai the
chance to laugh at him.

I watched Serena kneel behind the mansa to pour into the offering cup and then his
cup. She poured for the older men in a zigzag order according to their proximity to
the mansa. A steward hovered at her right hand to replace the emptying carafe with
a new one. Only when she had finished did I kneel just behind and to the right of
Vai and reach past him for his wineglass. My arm brushed his, and his eyes closed
briefly. After filling his cup, I poured for the young men in the proper order, copying
her movements in reverse, and retreated to the side table. Serena’s approving nod
saturated me with an unreasonable amount of satisfaction.

I could be serene!

Male servants carried in platters of delicacies never seen in our weeks in custody:
chicken simmered in onion and mustard, fish cooked with tomatoes, a haunch of peppered
beef, and skewers of grilled goat on beds of spinach, a constant stream of dishes.
The men set to their meal.

Young men drink faster than their elders, and my job was to anticipate before any
glass was emptied. Conversation flowed as steadily as the wine, the older men in serious
discussion and the younger men jesting in quiet voices among themselves, for they
had not the right to interrupt the older men’s conversation. Vai spoke rarely and
only in answer to questions put directly to him. Not that I was looking at him all
the time. I was too busy pouring wine.

How the men did stare at me as I moved around the table! Not in the flirtatious way
I had enjoyed at the boardinghouse but as a man may measure an ill-fitting suit of
clothes he is surprised to see offered to him as one of good quality. The mansa’s
nephew and several cronies seated beside him were the worst, calling me over before
their cups were empty as if to suggest I had not noticed. I did my duty in as patient
a manner as possible, for I was determined not to shame Vai. Furthermore, at last
I had the opportunity to spy in the mage House.

Confined in the chamber and garden, I had heard no news at all for over four months.
Now I heard every word they said.

War had come to Europa.

General Camjiata had united the Iberians and marched an army over the Pyrene Mountains.
In a series of running battles he had pushed north and, with a mastery of strategy
and tactics that utilized his modern rifles and cannons to best effect, he had defeated
every force sent against him. Worst, several Gallic princes had declared neutrality
or even shifted allegiance to support the Iberian Monster. Inflamed by radical agitators,
towns and villages had risen up against their masters and welcomed the general’s troops.

A month ago, on the Midsummer solstice, an alliance of princely and mage House troops
under the command of Lord Marius had fought Camjiata’s army to a standstill at the
city of Lemovis. Both sides had been forced to withdraw without a clear victor. Lord
Marius had pulled his troops back to Lutetia to resupply and to wait for help from
Rome.

“The Romans have fielded their legions at last,” said the mansa. “They have taken
their time, considering we princes and mages have borne the brunt of the monster’s
aggression for four months.” He looked down the length of the table. “Andevai, by
the quiver of your eyebrow I discern you have a comment you wish to make. You may
speak.”

Vai’s gaze skipped to me, where I stood holding a carafe, and back to his master.
“Mansa, no useful campaign can be planned without taking into account that the general
is using fire mages.”

The mansa’s nephew leaned forward with a sneer. “What proof have you for this insane
assertion? To call fire is to die in fire.” He turned to the mansa. “Uncle, the village
boy is either trying to impress you with lies or is simply too ignorant to know he
is wrong.”

No wonder he hated Vai, for no man at the table could mistake the privileged place
at which the mansa had seated the village boy.

“What do you think?” the mansa asked the table at large.

Vai sat in perfect rigid silence as they debated the question, some mocking, some
serious.

To my surprise Viridor spoke in Vai’s defense, exactly as if he had not betrayed him.
“I have seen these troubling incidents also. We cannot ignore them.”

“Blacksmiths forge weapons, and weapons are used by troops,” said the mansa’s nephew,
pressing his point with the snicker of a belligerent man who believes he is being
challenged by a weaker opponent. “That
is not the same as mages who wield fire magic, which is an impossibility. The people
in the Amerikes gulled him with tricks and illusions. One such as he cannot help believing
anything he is told.”

Vai fixed his gaze on his hands, which he had laid flat on the table as if to remind
himself not to clench them into fists. “I do not
believe
this is going on. I know it. Mansa, I have given you numerous examples, the most
obvious of which are the burned estates and palaces of enemy princes, and the burn-scarred
bodies of dead soldiers.”

The mansa said, “Burning down buildings is the work of the angry mob. It needs no
magic. Likewise, men will deface the bodies of those they hate and fear.”

Vai nodded. “It is true that to tell the difference between what is begun by a fire
mage and finished by angry men is difficult.”

The mansa’s nephew snorted. “How convenient! If it is difficult, then one can keep
claiming it is true! Why would a fire mage not just burn all enemy soldiers alive,
if they could do it?”

“I do not know if blood protects the living body, or if no fire mage dares unleash
such a monstrous power. But regardless, all who with their own eyes witnessed the
death of the mansa of Gold Cup House at Lemovis know of what I speak.” Vai looked
directly at the mansa, his gaze not quite a challenge. “If the Coalition Army and
the Romans do not recognize the threat of fire magic and change their tactics, they
will lose.”

The mansa’s nephew drained the last of his wine, then laughed as I hastened to refill
his cup before he could complain of my incompetence. “The wrath of fire mages is a
story told by credulous villagers who know no better than to believe the pap they
nurse from their mother’s breast. If, indeed, they even know who their mother really
is.”

Vai looked up. “A man can bray like a jackass, but that doesn’t mean his noise means
anything.”

Every man tensed. In a chamber full of cold mages, the temperature’s drop came as
no surprise. Vai’s expression remained impassive, except for the stab of fury that
twitched in his cheek.

The mansa’s nephew raised his newly filled wineglass in mocking salute. “Rumor has
it you’re the only magister on campaign who sleeps alone every night. If you need
some help to make a woman of the Phoenician girl, I would be happy to oblige. Most
of the time they
like it best when they claim they don’t want it. Just like you. I haven’t forgotten
how I had to make a woman of you when you first came to Four Moons House because you
stubbornly refused to acknowledge your betters. Someone had to put you in your place.”

I had a moment of stunning clarity as Vai rocked back as if he had been punched.

The gods do watch over us, even if we cannot always recognize the shape their hand
takes. A serving man bearing a tureen of beet soup had halted in embarrassment an
arm’s length from me. I snatched the tureen out of his hands and dumped its contents
over the head of the mansa’s nephew.

He shouted, staggering up so off balance that I needed only to nudge his knee to send
him tumbling ignominiously onto his backside.

“Noble Ba’al, forgive me, Magister!” I cried, slapping a hand to my chest in an exaggerated
gesture worthy of Bee. “From the garbage that came out of your mouth, I mistook you
for the slops bucket.”

The older men laughed appreciatively and the younger nervously, while the servants
looked as if they wished they were anywhere except in the dining room.

I knelt under cover of laughter. “One word more, Magister,” I whispered, “and I will
tell the tale of what a fool the Phoenician girl made of you, the day you and your
soldiers and your highborn magic could not catch me when you found me unarmed on the
road. I’m sure every man here wants to hear the part about how I mocked you and then
stole your horse.”

Picking up the fallen wineglass, I rose, handed the empty tureen back to the stunned
serving man, and to my surprise was greeted by the head wine steward handing me a
full carafe.

“Well done, Maestra,” he murmured.

“Do go clean up, Jata,” said the mansa to his fuming nephew, who was picking bay leaves
out of his hair. “Now, Andevai, describe in greater detail for our guests why and
how you believe General Camjiata is using fire mages to fight his battles. More wine.”

As if more wine were what a pack of half-drunken men needed! But Serena nodded at
me, so I poured, one eye always on Vai. He did not drink or eat a single morsel more.
He explained crisply and in detail what he had seen and what conclusions he had drawn.
Someone who
did not know him might have mistaken the edge to his voice as arrogance when by the
set of his shoulders and the angle of his chin it was clear he was covering humiliation.

The meal dragged on long past my patience for it, but I smiled and served to the end.
The men departed in a mood half martial and half jocular, soaked in wine. Vai was
sent out with the visitors to see them safely on their way home.

The mansa remained, lost in thought as the servants cleared the table around him and
themselves departed. When only the mansa and Serena and I were left in the room, she
poured three glasses of wine. The first she gave to me. She set the other two on the
table and seated herself on a cushion next to her husband with an enigmatic smile.

I was so thirsty and angry that I drained the wine in one swallow, a rush like wet
earth and giddy flowers. “Why do you let the powerful abuse the powerless? Why would
you allow the one who had the least to fear to abuse the one who had no one to help
him?”

“The magic should never have bloomed so strongly in a common-born slave like him,
a boy whose own mother has not even a village lineage to claim,” said the mansa harshly.
“When it did so, he ought to have been grateful we brought him into the House.”