Kushiel’s Dart

Chapter Sixty-Two

The scale of the Tsingani horse-fair at the Hippochamp caught me unprepared.

Once we emerged from the Senescine, our route grew ever more obvious, despite the increasing number of roads. As the dank cold of false spring eased into the truer promise of spring-to-come, pale green buds emerged on the trees around us, and traffic grew steadily along the roads.

And amid the travelers, we saw Tsingani in numbers, the true Travellers, journeying always upon the Long Road.

There is another horse-fair at the Hippochamp that takes place in late summer, when the most promising of yearlings are green-broken, offered to the gadje noblemen for outrageous prices. That fair, Hyacinthe assured us, dwarfed this one, as did the fair in midsummer in Eisheth. This was primarily a Tsingani affair, when there were opportunities to be seized early, untried yearlings and stumbling foals at auction, only their bloodlines and the cunning gaze of their breeders to recommend them.

No one has ever made a count of the Tsingani in Terre d’Ange; they are too migratory to stand still for it, too suspicious to report honestly. I have seen them gathering and I can say that they are many, more than we reckon.

As we drew near to the Hippochamp, we passed caravans of Tsingani. It was a strange thing, to witness the change in Hyacinthe. For it was he whom they acknowledged, calling out greetings in their private dialect. And why not? He was young, bold and handsome, one of their own. Hyacinthe shouted back, waving his velvet cap, black eyes sparkling. Their tongue was mixed with D’Angeline, but I scarce understood a word of it.

"You didn’t tell me I had to learn Tsingani," Joscelin muttered to me, riding close by my side.

"I didn’t know," I replied, chagrined. Even Delaunay, scholar that he was, hadn’t reckoned Tsingani a proper language. In all the time I had known Hyacinthe-through all the meals I’d eaten in his mother’s kitchen-I’d never understood what it meant to him to be a Tsingano. In front of me, they spoke D’Angeline proper. I thought of all the casual cuffs and curses he’d endured, from the very beginning of our acquaintance, when the Dowayne’s Guard had found me. I hadn’t known. I hadn’t understood. When he took a broken-down nag and built a profitable livery stable out of it, I hadn’t realized how deeply rooted in Tsingani tradition it was. I’d merely thought him clever for it.

It is a funny thing, how one’s perspective changes. I saw Hyacinthe through new eyes as we journeyed toward the Hippochamp. We passed Tsingani wagons, far more colorful and elaborate than Taavi and Danele’s humble Yeshuite conveyance, though similar in design, and the young women hung out the back, making eyes at Hyacinthe. I learned to tell the unmarried ones, who wore their hair uncovered. They chattered and flirted as we passed, and Hyacinthe grew more desirable with every exchange.

If they seem shameless enough to make a D’Angeline blush-and some of them do, those Tsingani women-I will say that it is a deceptive thing, although I did not learn this until later. For all their licentious behavior, it is only show. Among their own, the Tsingani hold chastity in fierce regard. But I did not know this at the time, and I will admit that it galled me somewhat, to see the number of women who made free to bid for Hyacinthe’s attention.

For Joscelin’s part, his appearance was met with giggles and titters, whispers passed from lip to ear behind shielding hands. The Skaldic women had ogled him openly; Tsingani dared not. The law of laxta is fierce in their society. Hyacinthe could not translate this word exactly, but it is the unsullied virtue of a Tsingani woman. This may be lost in a hundred ways-suffice to say that if I’d ever had it, it was long gone-but foremost among them was the mingling of precious Tsingani blood with one of the gadje, the Others.

Once I understood the gravity of this law, I understood somewhat of the sin of Hyacinthe’s mother. Not only had she allowed her body to be defiled, to become vrajna and unclean, but she had fouled her very bloodline. She had lost her laxta, all her worth as a Tsingano woman.

But they did not know this, the Tsingani en route to the Hippochamp. They knew only that Hyacinthe spoke and thought as one of them. If a D’Angeline fineness illumed his features, that keen, cutting beauty that is our blood-right, they saw in it only that he was a fine specimen, a veritable Prince of Travellers.

And so he was, with his bright, fine clothes, rich brown skin, his gleaming black ringlets, the merry light that danced in his dark eyes. When he called out that he was seeking the kumpania of Manoj, they laughed and called back, pointing. Manoj was there, the old patriarch, already a-field. Surely he would welcome Hyacinthe, blood of his blood, and all his uncles and cousins and aunts he had never met.

That was his dream, the old dream, and it bode well to come true. I saw it as we rode, drawing nearer, in the eagerness that marked him, the white grin that flashed out without warning.

It was a simple enough dream and a homely one: to be accepted, to find a family. I prayed for his sake that it would come true. Hyacinthe had risked much to come on this journey, and truly, that and that alone was the reward he sought. But Joscelin and I fell together as we approached, riding side by side and handling the pack-mules with the ease of our long, silent practice, and I saw the reserve in his blue eyes. He who had taken a simple vow knew well enough how things can twist and change.

We reached the Hippochamp.

It is a field, nothing more; a broad, green field, even now, so early in spring. A vast expanse of green, the grass new and tender, alongside the great Lusande River that burrows the length of Kusheth. We had timed our arrival well. A great many Tsingani kumpanias had already arrived, setting up wagons and tents and paddocks against the new green field; but a great many were still to come, and we found ourselves a space easily enough, staking it at the corners with the bright ribbons Hyacinthe had brought for that purpose.

And everywhere, there were horses: ponies, carriage-horses, palfreys and hunters, massive drays, and even war-horses, broad-backed and arch-necked, mighty enough to carry full mail, but long-legged and swift in battle. There were yearlings, gangly and slab-sided, and the early crop of foals, some of them still staggering drunkenly on teetering legs quick to tangle.

In the center of the field, where the most powerful of kumpanias had established themselves, was a common area set around a fire. Already a good-sized group of Tsingani had gathered to play music, sing and dance. I thought at first that it was a fête, but Hyacinthe said no, it was only their way. There were smaller gatherings too, in the outlying areas where we had made our camp.

As sunset drew nigh, cooking odors filled the air, rich and savory, making our staples-flatbread and cheese, nuts, dried fruit and meat-seem duller than usual, for all that they were bought with the Queen’s coin. Hyacinthe, ever with a keen eye to chance, bartered with our nearest neighbors, trading a skin of passable wine for three bowls of a game stew spiced with fennel and last-year’s carrots, with the assurance of meals to come.

It was wisely done, for we made a friendship over it, in the quick and easy way of Travellers. Our neighbors were a young family, not yet established as a proper kumpania; Neci was the tseroman, or headman, and introduced us to his wife, Gisella, her sister and brother-in-law, his cousin, who had thrown in his lot with them, and a passel of children, who ranged in age from still-suckling to ten or older. They wed young. The women all came forward to give me the kiss of greeting; the men nodded their heads, dark eyes gleaming with curiosity. I’ve a good ear for languages, and had begun to be able to follow the thread of D’Angeline that laced the Tsingani dialect. Hyacinthe had told them what we’d agreed upon, that I’d been gotten in a brothel by a Tsingano half-breed, adding-needlessly, to my mind-that his mother had taken me in out of pity when she found me taking to the streets.

Then he introduced Joscelin, who bowed, making his cloak swirl with a subtle riot of color. Neci’s family laughed, and the children gazed wide-eyed.

After that, they invited us to join them around the nearest fire, where Gisella’s brother-in-law-his name, I think, was Pardi-would play the fiddle, which we did.

The virtue of silence served me best there; I sat by Hyacinthe’s side and listened while he spoke with Neci, struggling to filter meaning out of the Tsingani dialogue. In the background, to my surprise, I heard Joscelin spinning a tale in D’Angeline, and doing it fairly well. Gisella, her sister and all the children were listening, a small group that grew somewhat larger as the tale wove onward, through the skirls of fiddle-playing and nimble tambors.

"…and I said to the Skaldi princess, my lady, although you are more beautiful than the moon and all her stars, I cannot oblige you, for I am sworn to Cassiel. And she said to me, well, then, if you will not wed me, you must fight my brother Bjorn, for no man may refuse me and live. Now this Bjorn was a mighty warrior, who had once defeated a witch, and she gave to him a great magic in exchange for her life, a bearskin that had the power to transform its wearer into a bear…"

I shook my head, turning my attention back to Neci and Hyacinthe. A Cassiline turned Mendicant; truly, no one would believe it possible.

"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.