Kushiel's Chosen - Jacqueline Carey [27]
When it cleared, Favrielle knelt staring up at me in blank astonishment, holding the pin she had withdrawn. She blinked and closed her mouth. "That must be ... inconvenient."
For once, her voice held no censure, just a certain wry sympathy. I drew a long, shuddering breath. "Yes." I released my pent breath. "An anguissette is not exactly a convenient thing to be." Through long discipline, I made my tone match hers. "It doesn't mean I like you any better."
Against her will, Favrielle no Eglantine laughed.
When I returned home, I found Joscelin agitated and the Rebbe's solemn pupil awaiting me. He rose as I entered the room. "It is suitable for the Rebbe to see you now, Comtesse," he said. "Will you come?"
I sighed. "He really means when he summons me, doesn't he? All right." I brushed the front of my gown; it was a finespun blue wool, less drab than what I'd worn before. "Give me a moment to change into something the Rebbe would find suitable. Fortun, tell Benoit not to unhitch the team."
The Rebbe's pupil gave a slight smile. "Your attire is fine, Comtesse. You mustn't take everything he says to heart. He may disapprove of Servants of Naamah, but I believe he was having a jest."
I made a face, which was probably not an appropriate response for a peer of the realm. "The Rebbe's humor leaves somewhat to be desired."
"Perhaps." The Yeshuite ducked his head, hiding another smile. "But he is a very great man, and he has earned the right to his small jests, I think. Shall we go?"
He had spoken truly; Nahum ben Isaac made no comment on my clothing, but merely sat me down at a desk and brought forth a scroll from the cabinet in his study. Joscelin sat quiet on a stool. "Now," the Rebbe said decisively. "We will see." Unfurling the top of the scroll, he revealed the opening words of the Be'resheith. With a pointer, he indicated the first sentence. "You will read until I tell you to stop. And then you will tell it to me again, in your own tongue. And we will see."
Following the pointer—it was a holy scroll, one used for services, which may not be touched by human hands—I read aloud in Habiru, smoothly at times, faltering at others. Each time I stumbled, the Rebbe corrected me; impatiently, I thought, but then he would gesture for me to continue. When at last he motioned for me to stop, I took a deep breath, and recited the entire tale in D'Angeline, all the way through the covering of the earth with the great flood.
The Rebbe leaned back and listened, chewing thoughtfully on his beard. Periodically, he nodded with something resembling approval; periodically, he winced.
When I was done, he looked grudgingly at me. "You studied a translation, I suppose."
"No." I shook my head. "I've read it in translation before, father, in the past. But you told me to study it in Habiru, and I did."
He gave me a suspicious glare. From the corner, Joscelin spoke up. "Phèdre is a gifted linguist, father. The Queen sent her to Alba because of it."
"Hah. I have heard that story." The Rebbe plucked a few strands of beard from his bottom lip, and gave me his cunning look. "Well, then. You will read it again, child, line by line. First in Habiru, then in D'Angeline. And perhaps— perhaps—if you make it through without too many mistakes, I will tell you a tale my own master told me, about the Sefer Raziel and the disobedience of Rahab."
On this stool, Joscelin settled and prepared for a long wait. I sighed, and began again.
Nahum ben Isaac was an exhausting teacher. If I thought young Seth had taught me well, I was disillusioned that day. A great many of the mistakes I made in pronunciation and translation, he had allowed me, slight as they were. No surprise, I suppose; for the first weeks, he could not even look at me without blushing. But slight mistakes accumulate, and grow to gross errors if unchecked. The Rebbe allowed meno mistakes,