Kushiel’s Dart

"If it is true that you are the grandson of Manoj," Neci was saying-or something very close to it, "then you must seek him out. The baro kumpai, the four mightiest kumpanias, are there." He pointed toward the great fire at the center, where the staked territories were vast, encompassing impromptu paddocks filled with many horses. "But if you are only seeking Tsingani and khushti grya to travel west and trade…" Neci shrugged, stroking the tips of his elegant mustache. "Perhaps we would be interested, if there is cokai in it. Perhaps enough to make our lav as a kumpania."

"There is gold enough to make the name of whoever succeeds with me," Hyacinthe said noncommittally, switching to D’Angeline and glancing at me for corroboration. I nodded solemnly. "I have many important friends in the City of Elua. But none so important as blood, yes? I will see Manoj first."

"Well," Neci said, and grinned. "Do not see him tonight, rinkeni chavo, for the old Tsingan Kralis is a gavvering hellion when he drinks, and he’s like to knock your dandos out with a kosh-stick if you go claiming to be Anasztaizia’s son. So see him tomorrow, and remember who gave you good advice, hey rinkenti"

"I will." Hyacinthe clasped hands with Neci, Tsingani-fashion, at the wrist. "Thank you."

Neci wandered away to reclaim his wife and dance with her. They made a striking couple, bold and handsome. "What’s a gavvering hellion?" I asked Hyacinthe, watching them dance.

"You followed that?" he asked, and didn’t answer for a moment. "I don’t know. It doesn’t translate. Strict. Belligerent."

"And khushti grya? Rinkeni chavo? Tsingan kralis?"

He eyed me sidelong. "Delaunay taught you to listen too well," he sighed. "Grya are horses. Neci says he has good horses to trade, khushti grya. Rinkeni chavo…" Hyacinthe looked wry. "Pretty boy. I didn’t tell him I was half D’Angeline."

I waited, then asked again. "And Tsingan kralis?"

Hyacinthe shifted his gaze toward the central fire, where the tents stood tallest, the wagons were brightest, and the finest horses in the paddocks. "King of the Tsingani," he said finally, his thoughts elsewhere.

"You mean he really is?" I was startled, and the question came out rudely. "I’m sorry."

"Don’t be." He shot me a quick glance. "I wasn’t…I wasn’t sure myself, until Neci said it. I always believed it, but…"

"I understand." I smiled ruefully and stroked his black curls. "Prince of Travellers."

Somewhere behind us, Joscelin’s story continued. He was acting it out now, giving the bear-warrior’s terrible roar. Shrieks of terrified glee answered; the children loved it. The old Prefect would have died of mortification. One of the young Tsingani women, long hair still uncovered, approached Hyacinthe to invite him to dance. He looked apologetically at me, rising. I understood, of course; it would have looked peculiar if he’d declined. Unless we were a betrothed couple-and if I were no longer a vrajna bond-servant, still, as a half-breed’s by-blow, I had no claim to laxta, to being a true Tsingani woman.

Which made me unfit for the grandson of the Tsingan Kralu.

It is a strange thing, how pride may run the strongest among a people despised, as the Tsingani had been in so many lands. I thought about that, as I sat alone near the fire, watching the dancers, watching Joscelin spin his first-ever Mendicant’s tale. It made no difference to our mission.

But it made a difference, I thought, to me.

Chapter Sixty-Three

In the morning, we went to see Manoj.

The horse-fair at the Hippochamp lasts for three days, and this was officially the first. The first day is for looking, the Tsingani say; the second for talking; the third for trading. While this is true, it is also true that by the third day, a handful of canny gadje nobles would have gotten word that the horse-fair was ongoing and come to buy, so the greater part of the trading would be all but concluded by the third day.

Hence, the deceptively casual undertone to the browsing and conversation, which was in fact deadly earnest. To see Manoj, we had to take part in it, for Hyacinthe was not so naive as to present himself and expect a welcome.

Instead, we strolled around the paddock surveying the horses. Joscelin, who had been entrusted with our funds-Mendicant or no, anyone wearing Cassiline daggers was the least likely target among us-had brought out the necklace Hyacinthe had provided. I knew it well, for it had been his mother’s, an elaborate affair of gold coins strung together.