The Totem-Maker (part one hundred ten)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Ten

Crafter Becomes Maker

(part one hundred ten)

“He would not have known me to be at Lord Ei’s.”

She nursed her wine.

“Vlanna, I am not clever. I was acquainted with Sente slightly. You will have the right of it, he has forgotten me.”

She smiled. Within the poverty of her opinion, my small labor had earned a rise in status. “No. He would much welcome your magic. He loves a woman other than me, he wants not to die for his transgressions, he wants…and why should lovers not want? To be free, to be bowered in luxury, to be wholly safe. I pity him, and I love no one, so I forgive him more than he supposes. But…”

She said this last, catching me when I’d begun to take up other thoughts. “Never so forgiving, as not to wish him pain.”

“Fair enough.” Given her vantage, fair enough. “Does the House of Vei die, then? While its master lives in charity.”

“Consult your tiles.”

But the smile lingered. I knew this smile forestalled my humble denial, of any intent to get information from my foolish questioning.

The bride and groom held the honored places; the games could not begin until the ceremony had ended. So began the ritual, which must be lively. The bride was summoned by the groom. The curtains shuddered, but she held herself hidden and sang to the guests, “Shall I marry this man? Teach me his faults, I wish to be sure of him.”

Tnoch was treated to raised cups, and a long round of faults—that he was lame and ugly, that he ate more than he earned, that he was poor at sums, that he spent too much on tasteless finery, that he had been cuckolded many times by his late wife…

Not one of the male guests defaulted at his turn, and Lord Ei pretended for some minutes to have his scribe make notes.

Jute, to a round of applause, stepped out veiled, and played at searching faces. “Lord Ei I know, and Pravor Castor, brother of that man Tnoch…”

She spoke towards the Peddler, giving me a minor thrill, a treasure that I must soon slot into place.

“But this man you describe must be quite hideous.”

“So I am, my love!” Tnoch, on his brother’s arm, stood.

“Oh, is it only you?” The veil was flung back. “Well, we shall be married!”

And they were, with a handclasp and a kiss.

We dined, a Balbaecan feast to eclipse all abundance past, though from the start the Prince’s visit had been celebratory. When the sun fell to its third station past the mid-hour, horns were blown.

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Crafter Becomes Maker

The Totem-Maker (part one hundred twelve)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)