Nirel had a harder time following the Matrarcha’s response. As near as she could make out, the ruler said, “Greetings, Lord Ozor. We welcome to Ramunna the wizards from across the Eastern Sea.”
Ozor bowed, although not as low as Yosiv had. “Thank you, Matrarcha.” He made no effort to conform his speech to the odd rhythms and pronunciations of Ramunna, but spoke as was normal in Tevenar. Yosiv had coached him that an envoy from a foreign land was expected to employ a translator. “We greet you on behalf of the people of Tevenar.”
Nirel took a step forward. At the same time, a man stepped out of the group surrounding the Matrarcha and bowed. “My name is Gevan Navorre,” he said. His words were oddly accented, formal and old-fashioned sounding, but much closer to their own speech than anything Yosiv had been able to produce. “I am a scholar of history. Your language is much like that of ancient Miarban.”
Ozor frowned at the sudden change of plan, but adapted quickly. “It’s said our people came from Miarban, long ago. Will you interpret our words to the Matrarcha? Nirel here was going to, but her understanding of the language of Ramunna is still imperfect.”
Gevan’s brows drew together briefly as he glanced at Nirel, but smoothed again when he turned back to Ozor. “Gladly, if the Matriarch will allow me.” He turned and spoke in rapid Ramunnan to the ruler, who answered him just as swiftly.
Matriarch. Matrarcha. The more Nirel learned of the new language, the more she could see how it was related to her own. She was annoyed this man had taken over the position she’d worked hard to be ready to fill, but at the same time she was relieved the proceedings would be conducted with a fuller understanding than she’d been confident she could provide.
He turned back. “The Matriarch is amenable to this arrangement. She wishes you to know that she has desired above all things to meet the wizards our legends say fled beyond the Eastern Sea. She rejoices to welcome you to her realm.”
This was the point of difficulty. Yosiv had coached them on how to break the news that would gravely disappoint the Matriarch. Ozor bowed again and spoke the carefully prepared words. “I regret that her desire must be delayed a short while longer. Although wizards dwell in our homeland, none of them made the voyage to Ramunna with us.”
Gevan blinked. He turned and relayed Ozor’s words to the Matriarch. She looked equally taken aback, but quickly recovered. Gevan interpreted her reply. “How can this be? Captain Yosiv was specifically instructed to bring wizards.”
Yosiv quailed before the gathering rage in the Matriarch’s glare. Ozor stepped between them. “So Captain Yosiv informed us. Yet we were able to prevail on his goodwill to aid us.” He put his hand on Yosiv’s arm. “I and my company fled the tyranny of the wizards. They rule Tevenar and imprison any who oppose them. We escaped from their prison and fled their land. We seek a place where we can make a new home for ourselves, free of the wizards’ dominion. When Yosiv found us, we begged him to bring us to Ramunna. We agreed that once we arrived safely we would gladly share the records of our voyages, so that he can find his way to Tevenar himself. We ask only that, when he brings back wizards to help your majesty, we be protected from their enmity and given refuge in your realm against any attempt to return us by force to Tevenar.”
Gevan relayed Ozor’s speech to the Matriarch. She listened with narrowed eyes. Nirel couldn’t tell whether or not she believed Ozor’s story, or if she was inclined to agree to his request. Nirel shifted from foot to foot. The sun beat down on her head. Not far beyond where the dock met the land, a cluster of palm trees shaded an open square. She longed to sit in their shade and take a deep drink from the sparkling fountain playing there.
The Matriarch barked a few quick phrases at Gevan. He turned back to Ozor. “So there are wizards in your homeland? Do they wield the power of the Mother as the ancient writings describe? They are able to move things without touch, and see from afar, and heal?” He gazed at Ozor with an odd combination of eagerness and reluctance.
“They’re wizards. What else would they do?” A trace of irritation crept into Ozor’s voice. Wizards were a touchy subject with Ozor. In all the time she’d spent in his company, she still hadn’t been able to figure out the source of his animosity towards them. He knew far more about their abilities than most people of Tevenar. She wondered if he’d had a close association with a wizard at some point. If so, something must have happened to sour the relationship, because now he wanted nothing more than to escape their influence.
Gevan stepped closer and lowered his voice. “Tell me. How do they accomplish their deeds? Do they make use of devices? Lenses, perhaps, or other tools that manipulate the forces of nature?”
Ozor gave him a baffled look. “Why would they need devices? A wizard reaches out, and light comes from her hand, and she works whatever magic she wishes. As long as she’s touching her familiar.”
It was Gevan’s turn to look baffled. “Familiar?”
“The animals they touch to do their magic.” Ozor waved his hand. “Dogs, cats, birds, pigs, donkeys…”
Utter confusion shone on Gevan’s face. Ozor grimaced. “Enough about wizards! If you want me to give you the charts, you’ll provide us with food and drink, clothes to replace our rags, and a place to lay our heads. Otherwise we’ll get back on our ship and leave.”
For a few minutes Gevan studied them, brows deeply furrowed, eyes going from face to face. He gave his head a sharp shake, turned back to the Matriarch, and spoke to her in a low voice. She drew herself up, eyes burning as she spoke harshly to him, but he raised a placating hand and poured out a long, impassioned plea. At length her expression softened and she gave a curt nod. She issued a few short ringing statements, apparently commands, for the members of her retinue nodded and bowed, and there was a chorus of “An, tha mashestta.”
With a great majestic sweep, she turned and proceeded along the dock. Much of her retinue accompanied her, but a good number, headed by Gevan, stayed behind. The group of armed men, in response to shouted orders from their leader, parted to allow the Matriarch and her companions to pass. They broke into two groups. One surrounded the Matriarch and escorted her up the street toward the high fortress, while the other remained at the end of the dock.
Gevan spoke with Captain Yosiv. Yosiv protested, but Gevan kept talking until at length the captain gave in with an exasperated sigh. He turned and went back aboard his ship.
Gevan turned to Ozor. “The Matriarch has commanded Captain Yosiv to prepare his ship to sail again as quickly as possible. She wants him to reach Tevenar and return with wizards before winter storms make the sea dangerous. She will grant you anything you ask, so long as you turn over the charts you promised.”
Ozor bowed. “I will do so as soon as we’re settled.”
“Come then. Bring the rest of your company ashore and I will conduct you to the palace. The Matriarch has given me the task of making you welcome.”
Ozor turned to Nirel. “Go fetch everyone.”
Nirel hesitated. “Do you want anyone to stay behind to guard the ship?”
Ozor glanced at Gevan through narrowed eyes. “No. Let them search. They won’t find anything.” He tapped the side of his head. “It’s all up here. I destroyed the maps and logs after I memorized them. The only way they can get them is if they keep their end of the bargain.” He spoke softly, but Nirel guessed he wanted Gevan to overhear. Why else would he confide in her?
She ran back across the plank and shouted for everyone to disembark. The company poured across to the dock. After some confusion and discussion, Gevan led them along the same path the Matriarch had taken. The armed men fell in around them, in front and behind and to either side. They reminded Nirel uncomfortably of the troop of watchers and wizards who’d captured them in the mountains and taken them to imprisonment in Elathir. Were these men their protectors or their captors?
Gan hurried to Nirel’s side. “Did you see what she was wearing? Isn’t it ridiculous? Can she even sit down with that thing a
round her legs? It must have cost a fortune. Even the guildmaster of the Traders’ Guild never wears so much lace and gold.”
“I’m surprised she can stand up in it, let alone walk. It must weigh enough to overload a mule.” Nirel grabbed his arm. “Look!” She pointed ahead, where a gap between the tall buildings revealed a stretch of road winding up to the palace. A procession of open carriages, pulled by tall, elegant horses, carried what could only be the Matriarch and her retinue. “Do you think they’ll send some for us?”
“I doubt it.” Gan stretched. “I don’t care. I’m happy to be back on solid ground. Ozor might have grown up aboard ships, but he forgets the rest of us aren’t Sailorkin. If I never have to set foot on that leaky tub again, I’ll be just as glad.”
Nirel looked around. They were walking along a cobblestone street. Tall buildings loomed on either side, cutting off her view of the city and sky. People crowded out of their way, pressing against the walls and staring at them in astonished curiosity. “Do you think they’ll let us stay?” She wasn’t sure whether she wanted to remain here or not. The foreign city was exciting, but frightening, too. So many strangers. They spoke differently, and dressed differently, and undoubtedly thought differently, than anyone she’d ever before encountered. Part of her wanted to stay and explore and learn more about this exotic, alien place, but another part wanted to be back in the quiet solitude of the forest with Shonika.
Shonika looked at ease, walking along quietly at the rear of the group. Kabos was engaged in a heated discussion with Ozor and Tereid. Nirel was glad they were keeping him occupied, because otherwise her father would be hovering over her in a fit of protectiveness. She knew he only tried to shield her out of love and fear that she might come to harm, but she preferred the times like now when he seemed to forget about her completely. She was quite capable of taking care of herself in most circumstances.
Gan shrugged. “Ozor’s clever. He’ll work out some deal with them. Although if Captain Yosiv brings wizards here, it might be better if we’re long gone.”
“Maybe.” Nirel certainly didn’t want the wizards to catch them again. But surely the Matriarch, with all her wealth and power and troops of armed men, could protect them. If she chose to. “I wonder why the Matriarch wants a wizard so—”
“Visartha!” A woman burst from the crowd of onlookers and threw herself at Nirel, heedless of the armed men surrounding the Tevenarans. She thrust imploring arms past the guards, her fingers clutching the sleeve of Nirel’s tunic before they dragged her off. “Visartha! Hella mi!”
Nirel shrank back and stared. The woman was gaunt, her face pockmarked with old scars, her mouth gaping toothless. She wore one of the bell-shaped garments, but it hung in ragged filthy tatters around her ankles. A guard shoved her and she fell to the cobbles. As another guard took Nirel’s arm and hurried her along, she glimpsed the woman bury her face in her hands, weeping.
They emerged from the narrow street into a square. It was weedy and overgrown, littered with broken crockery and other refuse. The surrounding buildings were in a state of ill repair. The people who pushed forward to see the passing procession were nearly as ragged as the woman. More of them took up her cry. “Visartha!” A forest of hands groped toward them.
Their guards closed in, forming a tight circle. They drew their long knives and brandished them menacingly at the crowd. Ozor’s company pressed close to one another and hustled across the square. Shonika glared at the crowd and reached for the bow on her back, but Ozor spoke sharply to her and she dropped her hand.
As they reached the far side of the square, the crowd surged forward, determined to break through the cordon of guards. One guard swung his knife, striking an old man across the cheek with the flat of the blade. The man cried out and fell back, a red welt rising. The guards ushered them into a narrow street, where the buildings pressed too close on either side for the crowds to follow them.
“I beg your pardon,” Gevan panted above the receding shouts. “I should have taken you the longer way around. But I’ve never known the folk of the Beggars’ Quarter to create a disturbance like that. I don’t know what came over them.”
Ozor searched the faces of his company, making sure everyone was all right. Tifla and Dayrine clung to each other, weeping. A number of the others appeared shaken, but no one was hurt. Ozor took a deep breath. “Perhaps they, too, harbor anger against wizards.”
“Perhaps.” Gevan frowned.
Nirel thought of the woman who’d grabbed her. It hadn’t been anger or hatred in her eyes, but desperation and frantic hope.
“In any case,” Gevan went on, “we should make haste to the palace.”
They regrouped and hurried on. Nirel didn’t resist when Kabos dropped back to walk beside her and put his arm around her shoulders. His strong presence was a comfort against the suddenly hostile city.
They climbed the steep streets to the palace without further incident. Gevan led them across a wide courtyard to the ornate front entrance and ushered them inside.
What seemed to Nirel like droves of men and women met them. A tall, matronly woman took charge, speaking to Gevan. He relayed her instructions. “If the women will go with Lady Yarilla, please, and the men come with me.” He looked briefly flustered. “She will do her best to communicate with you, if you will have patience—”
“Nirel can translate.” Ozor put a confident hand on her shoulder. “Can’t you.”
“Yes, sir.” Nirel did her best to sound sure of herself.
“Excellent.” Ozor moved to follow Gevan, while Nirel swallowed and trailed behind Yarilla. The company sorted themselves out and went their separate ways.
Yarilla led them to a suite of rooms which were apparently maintained for guests. There was a sitting room, several bedrooms, and a luxurious bath. Yarilla wrinkled her nose as she directed them toward it. Nirel was happy to comply, as were the others. They stripped off their ragged garments and set about washing with flower-scented soap and plenty of hot water from large kettles heated by braziers.
A girl only a few years older than Nirel gathered up her discarded breeches and tunic, touching them as little as possible. Nirel was pleased to find she could understand the girl’s Ramunnan well. “We have orders to bring you decent clothes. Should we burn these?”
“Go ahead,” Nirel told her. The thought of clean new clothes was delightful. “I don’t ever want to see them again.”
“I would think not! Imagine, having to dress like a boy.” The girl shuddered. “Was this all they would give you to wear in prison? Or was it a disguise?”
“What?” Nirel tried to puzzle out what she meant. “No, it’s what I was wearing when they caught us.”
“Oh.” The girl looked at her quizzically. “We’ll make sure you have plenty of nice things to choose from when you’re done bathing.”
Sure enough, when they emerged from the bathing room, a multitude of garments were laid out across the chairs and tables and beds. But as Nirel quickly discovered, female fashion in Ramunna differed greatly from that in Tevenar.
Shonika threw one of the bell-shaped garments down in disgust. “Where are the breeches? I refuse to wear that thing. I wouldn’t be able to move!”
Yarilla yammered at her in Ramunnan. Nirel rushed to Shonika’s side to translate. “She says these are the finest clothes Ramunna has to offer. The Matriarch said we were to be given the best.”
“I don’t care. Everyday work clothes are fine with me. Just not these bedsheet-wrapped-around-your-legs things.”
Yarilla gaped in horror when she finally grasped Nirel’s explanation of what Shonika wanted. “She wishes to wear men’s clothing? No decent woman would allow herself to be seen without a skirt!”
“It’s different where we come from,” Nirel told her. “Everyone wears breeches, men and women alike. We’ve never seen anything like these skirts before.”
Yarilla curled her lip in what was very nearly a sneer. “I do not care what you wear in your
Mother-forsaken land. When you appear in the court of the Matriarch you will wear modest clothes.”
“Shonika, please, just until we can get you something different—” But all Nirel’s pleading couldn’t sway Shonika. She sat down naked in a chair by the wide hearth, laid her bow at her feet, crossed her arms, and stared fixedly into the small fire that burned despite the heat of the day. Their Ramunnan helpers gave her a wide berth. They snuck glances at her from the corners of their eyes and from time to time broke into scandalized giggles.
The rest of them weren’t very happy about the strange clothes, either, but they struggled into them with a great deal of help from their hosts. Nirel didn’t mind the soft gown, basically a long tunic, that formed the first layer. It was loose enough that it didn’t restrict her movements much. But the padded, stiffened garment that laced over it, confining her belly and breasts, felt distinctly strange. It made it hard to bend at the waist or take a deep breath. The long-sleeved, close fitting tunic that went over it impeded the reach of her arms, as well as scratching her with its lace trim. Last of all, several layers of skirts combined to create the bell-shaped silhouette Yarilla insisted was the only acceptable style for a woman in the Matriarch’s court.
Nirel hunted among the offered garments for the plainest and smallest, but even it was so wide she wouldn’t be able to fit through most doorways at home. She felt ridiculous. The layers trapped the heat of her body and made her sweat. One of the girls slid thin little slippers on her feet. Their soles were too soft to protect against even the slightest roughness in the ground. Nirel briefly considered stripping off the bizarre clothing and joining Shonika in her protest. But that would leave the other women without anyone to translate for them.
The Law of Isolation Page 8