“But what?”
Ninavis shrugged and grinned. “Not sure yet. If you figure anything out, let me know.” She hopped to her feet. “Come on. The mob should be down the street by now. Let’s get you back to the pasture.”
26: THE GREAT TOURNAMENT OF CHALLENGES
Jorat Dominion, Quuros Empire. Three days since Teraeth failed to kill a mimic
Janel looked Ninavis in the eyes. “I really am trying to understand, you know.”
The older woman shrugged. “Yeah, I know. But at the time…”
“I had no idea what the Royal Houses were doing in Marakor,” Kihrin said.
“Why would you?” Ninavis traded out her liquor for more water. “It’s not like the Royal Houses are going to walk around saying, ‘Hey, did you know we’re trying our damnedest to enslave an entire dominion? So much profit to be made. It’s working out really well for us.’”
Dorna chuckled. “At least, it was.”
Janel nodded. “There’s that. Pity people keep disappearing off the plantations. So unfortunate.”
Kihrin stopped and looked at the three women. “Wait. What are you … what are you saying?”
“That depends,” Ninavis said. “How loyal are you to House D’Mon?”
“I’m not,” Kihrin said. “Believe me, there’s no love lost there.” He paused a minute, frowning. “Although it occurs to me I should at some point check to see if I’m Lord Heir or if Galen is…” Kihrin shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not returning.”
“Okay, so what we’re doing is—” Nina paused as Janel put her hand on the other woman’s.
“Not so fast. I think our new friend needs to hear about my meeting with Duke Xun first.” Janel threw Kihrin a smile that flirted with apology but made no firm commitments.
Kihrin leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “Be my guest.”
Janel’s Turn. The Green, Atrine, Jorat, Quur.
“Did you find Brother Qown?” I said as Ninavis entered the tent. I put a hand down to my waist, fighting down nausea. “Please tell me he’s well.”
Ninavis threw herself down into a chair, cocking her head to the side to look at me as Dorna continued fussing over the feathered cloak and headdress. “He’s fine. Got himself into a spot of trouble with charlatans, who didn’t like him cutting into their profits. So Mithros is letting you take his place as the Black Knight?”
“This is the easiest way to gain access to the palace. Dorna, this cloak is too heavy. I feel like I’m suffocating.”
“Ain’t the cloak, foal. That’s nerves.” Dorna gave me a knowing look. “Your mother used to be the same way. Threw up before every show, she did.”
I felt queasy. Of course. The last time, I’d been focused on fighting, on Dedreugh. This was so much worse.
“Your mother used to perform in the shows?” Ninavis looked intrigued.
“Yes,” I said, still hoping to keep the meager porridge I’d been able to force down. “That’s how she—” I paused and cleared my throat.
“That’s how her parents, Frena and Jarak, met,” Dorna said, “and how Janel’s mother met me.” She thumped her chest. “I helped train her.”
Ninavis eyed me. “So you’re upholding a family tradition.”
I sat down and concentrated on my breathing. “It’s only for today. When the duke leaves his box to go to dinner, I’ll be waiting for him.”
“Be careful,” Ninavis said, all levity gone.
I stood up again, aware my cloak flapped around me like a giant crow as I let my restless energy get the better of me. Still, the thick worry in Ninavis’s voice stopped me with a sudden insight.
I looked at her and wondered just when Ninavis had become my woman. Any promises to Kalazan had been kept weeks ago. She bore no onus to look after my people, to help with my quests, to care about my safety. And she wasn’t Joratese, which meant any lingering herd instinct to stay—because she’d nowhere else to go—didn’t motivate her.
She stayed because she wanted to.
I wondered if Ninavis realized she’d switched her loyalties, but had she ever had any? Kalazan had been her man, not the reverse. Her loyalty to him had been idorrá loyalty, not thudajé.
She squinted at me. “Now don’t look at me like I just cursed your favorite horse. I just think you’re walking into a jaguar’s den, for all he’s your duke. Be careful.”
I shook myself and grabbed the feather-plumed helmet from the tent-side table. “I will. Don’t worry—” My eyes widened as a thought occurred to me. “Dorna, they’ll recognize Arasgon—”
Dorna waved a hand. “Nothing about this will kick back to you. I dyed his legs; Mithros spelled his eyes. He’s a handsome black stallion right now. Beautiful and larger than most, but nothing special. Borrowed the saddle and kit from the Red Spears. As long as Arasgon keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t go shouting his name to anyone who will listen, he’ll be fine.”
I breathed deep and tried to calm myself. “Thank you.”
Dorna put a hand on my back and shoved me toward the tent opening. “Now be off with you. You’ve a crowd to entertain.”1
* * *
The day passed quickly.
The tournament started with grand spectacle: knights, contestants, and entertainers all parading through the city before entering the tournament grounds. Joratese filled every stand and rooftop with enough height to see the contests. Enterprising souls rented spaces on sky bridges to those unfortunates who hadn’t managed to find themselves seats in the stands.
The tournament contestants wore riotous colors to proclaim the hues of their sponsors, their homes, and any businesses whose interests they’d been paid to represent. The next week of fighting would decide a great deal: business contracts and commodity prices and even the guilt or innocence of accused criminals. No one in Jorat would do any significant business without first establishing the respective idorrá and thudajé for all involved parties. The most civilized way to establish those parameters was through the contests.2
Everyone watched and cheered and drank. Fights broke out both inside and outside the tournament grounds. Jorat’s finest artists had sculpted the lacquered armor worn by the knights into fantastic shapes—jaguars and elephants, monkeys and parrots. Such armor gave way more easily than its metal equivalent, so broken bones often took knights out of the competition.
I had a hard time watching the tournament without remembering Sir Xia Nilos and her squire, dead by Dedreugh’s blade. Or Mereina’s people, choked to death on blue smoke.
But no, that wasn’t relevant here. Atrine was Jorat’s capital. Even if Jorat frowned on magic, every noble had brought their Gatekeepers. Every priest of the Eight attended. No witch could try Senera’s trick without being caught.3
So Arasgon and I played with the crowd and pretended to be black-clad jesters while we passed the time. Finally, the evening sun set behind the eastern mountain, and the duke waved his goodbyes to the crowds as his court rose to go inside.