“Tell me what happened,” she said after I immersed myself.
We had deposited Bee and Rory and our luggage at a modest hostel at the edge of town and sent the carriage back to Sala, but naturally I was not going to tell her any of that.
“It was so frightfully rough to be tumbled in such a vile manner. And I had to leave all my gowns behind.” I simpered into a digression on why I preferred wool challis to damask that soon caused her expression to glaze 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.”