The Daylight War
Page 82

‘Jongleurs get a lot of practice,’ Rojer said. ‘Women used to throw themselves at my master, and I daresay I learned a trick or two, but – no offence – the two of you do things that would make the whores in Duke Rhinebeck’s brothel blush.’
Sikvah laughed. ‘The women of your Northern duke’s harem were not trained in the Dama’ting Palace.’
Rojer shook his head. ‘And I can’t shake the feeling that you’re still holding back.’
Amanvah kissed his ear so softly he shivered. ‘There are seventy and seven ways to lie with a man,’ she whispered, ‘and we have years to share them all with you.’
Amanvah and Sikvah had proven to be nothing like he imagined. He thought them much alike at first, but the more he got to know them, the more he saw how unique they were. Amanvah was taller, with smaller breasts and long, lithe limbs. Sikvah was more rounded at the hips, with thicker arms and legs. Both women were incredibly muscular, definition showing in every move. It was the stretching they did every morning. They called it sharusahk, but it was nothing like the violent wrestling Rojer had seen the Sharum and the Painted Man teach.
Where Amanvah was unflappable, Sikvah was easily roused to emotion. He had expected Amanvah, in her white robes, to be the more conservative of the two, but Sikvah was always the first to gasp at indiscretion.
‘Sleep now, husband,’ Amanvah said. ‘You must regain your vigour. Sikvah, the curtains.’
Immediately Sikvah moved to pull the heavy velvet curtains over the translucent ones covering the carriage windows. It seemed ‘First Wife’ was more than just a title. Amanvah took the lead in everything from conversation to seduction, ordering Sikvah around like a servant. Sikvah never resisted in the slightest, performing every task as if it had been her idea all along. She spoke little save when spoken to, unless Amanvah was out of the room, or her attention turned elsewhere. It was then Sikvah truly came to life.
He smiled, feeling himself drift off to sleep as his wives began a soft lullaby in Krasian. He was used to taking naps during the day, a common Jongleur trick allowing them to stay fresh and alert for nighttime performances. Most folk couldn’t read worth spit, and there was little to do once the sun set and the supper plates were cleared.
‘When others’ work ends, ours begins,’ Arrick used to say.
He woke with a jolt as the carriage came to a halt. He lifted one of the heavy curtains, and shut it quickly against the glare. It was late afternoon and they were outside a modest inn. Amanvah and Sikvah had pulled plain robes and veils over their colourful silks.
‘Ent it a bit early to be stopping for the night?’
‘This is the last village before we pass from Everam’s Bounty, beloved,’ Amanvah said. ‘Shamavah thinks it best to rest and restock before moving on. If you wish to sleep further, please do so while the khaffit unload our things.’
That would give him a lot of time. His wives did not travel light. Rojer rubbed the sleep from his face. ‘Ay, that’s all right. My legs could use a stretch.’ He moved to put his clothes on, and immediately both women began to assist.
He soon hopped from the cart and walked about a bit, beginning the ritual of stretches and tumbles he used to keep his skills sharp. The ritual was a show in itself, full of cartwheels and running flips, rolls and backbends.
As usual, the miniature performance began to draw attention. Passersby, Krasian and Thesan alike, stopped to watch, and when he began walking on his hands, a few children ran after him, cheering.
Instinctively, Rojer led them towards the centre of the cobbled square, circling to clear himself a wide space. The ring he created quickly filled with people – local villagers, and the Sharum, khaffit, and dal’ting of whatever tribe had claimed the place. A dama watched him coldly, but did not seem foolish enough to interfere with the Deliverer’s son-in-law.
Amanvah and Sikvah were watching him, too. Sikvah laughed and clapped along with the rest of the crowd at his antics, perhaps the most enthusiastically of all. Amanvah was the exact opposite, her eyes cold as she watched him.
‘Only thing worse than a woman who laughs at every pratfall,’ he heard Arrick say, ‘is one who doesn’t think anything’s funny.’
He moved over to them. ‘Husband, what are you doing?’ Amanvah asked.
‘Playing the crowd,’ Rojer said. ‘Just watch. Sikvah, please fetch my bag of marvels.’
‘Immediately, husband,’ Sikvah said, bowing and vanishing into the crowd. Amanvah continued to stare at him, but Rojer winked at her and went back to warming the crowd. He kept it simple, not sure which of his bawdy jokes and songs might offend the Krasians. Music in Krasia was limited to the private bedroom or praise to Everam. His wives had taught him some of these, but the fanaticism of the lyrics made him uncomfortable. Until his translation of the Song of Waning was complete, Rojer kept things instrumental, soon getting even the Krasians to stomp and clap to a beat.
When it came time for magic, obedient Sikvah was the perfect assistant, obeying his every command without hesitation. If only she weren’t clad in featureless black robes and veil. Wear your pillow dancing silks, love, and we’d have the best act in Thesa.
The crowd was his effortlessly. Even the dama laughed in spite of himself a few times. Only Amanvah was unmoved.
The sky was darkening when the performance ended. Rojer was still rising from his final bow when his First Wife turned on her heel and strode into the inn. Sikvah came to him immediately.
‘Your Jiwah Ka apologizes for not being here to greet you, but the holy daughter is moved to prayer over your fine performance,’ she said, as if this were natural.
Hated it, she means, he thought. I’ve stepped in something, and I don’t even know what.
‘Gone off to her secret room?’ Rojer asked. Sikvah nodded.
Rojer was used to having a single small room at an inn, but Amanvah always demanded a minimum of three – a common, one for Rojer, and a private one for her alone to retreat to whenever she wished. Amanvah accepted nothing less than the finest rooms, richly appointed with her own things. Each night the khaffit carried in heavy rugs, lamps and incense burners, silk sheets, and a collection of paints and powders that would make even a Jongleur’s jaw drop. Here, the innkeeper and his family had been put out of their own rooms to accommodate the daughter of Ahmann Jardir.
As they retired, Rojer saw the door to Amanvah’s room shut tight, with Enkido standing guard. Even if he knew what was bothering Amanvah, even if he knew what to say, there would be no getting past the giant eunuch to tell her.
Food was brought up by the innkeeper’s daughter, a meaty woman in her late forties who kept her eyes down and hopped at their every word. With no men to see, Sikvah changed back into her bright embroidered silks, serving him attentively as he ate and only taking quick nibbles of her own food at his urging.
‘Would you like your bath soon, husband?’ she asked when he was finished eating. ‘Your amazing performance must have tired you.’
It was like this every night. Amanvah would go quiet at some point, and then excuse herself and vanish into her secret room for hours. Sikvah would swoop in, attending his every need and burying him in flattery until she returned.
Normally Sikvah’s attention was indeed an effective distraction, but Rojer had never seen Amanvah so disapproving. There was an argument brewing, and he wanted to get into it and have done.