Kushiel's Dart - Jacqueline Carey [251]
But it made a difference, I thought, to me.
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-Mendacant 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.
It provoked not a few whispers, that a Didikani woman would dare sport a Tsingano gall-I understood those words quickly enough, for "half-breed" and for coin-wrought jewelry-but it achieved its purpose. One of Manoj's many nephews spotted us in short order, and came over to lean on the woven saplings of the paddock fencing to talk with Hyacinthe. When he learned of our desire to contract horses and men alike to travel west for a lucrative trade, he brought us to meet with Manoj.
We met with the King of the Tsingani in his tent, which was brightly striped and well appointed. I'd been expecting another ancient, like Ganelon de la Courcel, I suppose, but I had forgotten how young the Tsingani wed. It was hard to gauge his age-they weather quickly, on the Long Road-but I think him not much over sixty. He had fierce, staring dark eyes, iron-grey hair and a resplendent mustache.
"You want to take my people and my horses west?" he demanded. "Who are you to ask such a thing? What is your kumpania?"
Those are not, of course, the words he used; like the rest, Manoj spoke in the Tsingani dialect. Some of it, I could follow. Some I gathered from the general nature of the exchange. Some I did not understand, and Hy-acinthe translated later. What I recount now is as I recall it, woven out of whole cloth like a Mendacant's fable, only closer to the spirit of memory.
"I seek a handful of brave men and good horses to make a great bargain, Kralis" Hyacinthe said smoothly.
Manoj beckoned one of his nephews near and whispered in his ear, then shooed him away. "Tell me of this trade."
Hyacinthe bowed. "The Queen's Admiral and his fleet are docked at the Pointe d'Oeste. I have knowledge that they will be in need of horses."
It was true, actually; if Quintilius Rousse was going to take a single ship across the Straits, he would need to have a handful of men well armed and mounted to ward the remainder of the fleet and secure their beachhead. Kusheth was neutral territory at best. But none of us would divulge these details.
"I have not heard this," Manoj said dismissively. "Who are you to come by this knowledge? You have not given me your name or your kumpania."
"I come from the City of Elua, and I know many people there and hear many things." Hyacinthe held the patriarch's gaze. "I am Hyacinthe son of Anasztaizia. I am born to your kumpania, Grandfather."
A middle-aged Tsingano woman dropped an earthenware cup in the corner of the tent. It fell with a dull thud, unbroken. Otherwise there was no sound. Manoj blinked wrinkled eyelids under ferocious brows.
"Anasztaizia's son?" he said slowly, wondering. "Anasztaizia had a boy? A son?"
"I am her son," Hyacinthe said simply.
After that, pandemonium broke loose. It began with Manoj shouting for one of his nephews, a nervous man of around forty, who ran into the tent and threw himself upon his knees before the Tsingani patriarch. It ended with cries and embraces and Manoj weeping openly