Cold Magic

The mansa climbed to his feet and, with a composure I had to admire, brushed off his robe before addressing the djeli. “My canoe has run to ground on the sand. Yet he is brash and insolent, and speaks out of turn to his elders.”



“Steel cuts steel,” remarked the djeli. “Do you wish the sword to rest in your hand, Mansa, or be held by another?”



The mansa’s silence seemed answer enough. He could not bring himself to say what must be obvious to everyone: that Andevai’s display of power had surprised even him. For all I knew, it had surprised Andevai himself.



Rising to hands and knees, I looked behind me. In fact, I had come barely four steps although it had seemed like a mile. Bee was crumpled on the ground, her face an awful ashen color, as if she was close to fainting. I scrambled to her, but she pushed up with unexpected strength and sat back on her heels, resting her forehead in one hand while she gestured with the other to show she was all right.



“Show your generosity and magnanimity by letting Catherine live,” continued Andevai. “Negotiate a new contract with the Barahal family on what terms you and they think fair for what protection you can offer and what gain the eldest daughter may achieve thereby. Show that Four Moons House can be a true ally, not a power that forces its will on others because it can.”



“You know nothing of the situation,” said the mansa impatiently. “The girl is a danger, but hers is also a necessary gift in such disordered times. We must possess her so others cannot take her. For you can be sure there are others who have agents seeking her.”



The steady hum had begun to resolve into a melange of voices, coming from outside and growing louder. Back by the walls, laborers lay on the floor, trying to remain unnoticed as the light withered and the shadows grew. At the doors, the soldiers brushed themselves off with commendable briskness, as if they were accustomed to being hammered down every day and almost killed with marrow-sucking cold. Of the two mages, the older one was shaking his hands as if flicking off unseen beads of water, while the younger, who had recovered more quickly, wore a remarkably sour expression as he stared resentfully toward Andevai. For his part, Andevai stood with his head slightly bowed, showing the humble respect of a student for his teacher—although the lift of his shoulders suggested a more complex stance.



In my hand, my sword had returned to its daylight state. A whisper of breeze stirred like the memory of summer. From my knees, I eyed the two doors and the shattered windows, wondering how we could make a break for it.



A crow came to rest on the lip of one of the broken windows, claws gripping the frame. It dipped its inquisitive black head and peered in with its bright black eyes to see what it could see.



Bee, looking up, saw the crow. Her expression and color changed, as if she’d just recognized something. She rose as stiffly as might an old woman, shook herself, and set her lips together in the determined frown that always presaged her worst explosions.



“Bee!” I said fiercely.



She faced the mansa as the didos once faced the hated Romans: proud and queenly.



“I am not mute.” Her clear voice filled the space. “If you have business with me, Mansa, then speak or be silent.”



I tightened my grip on my cane, sure that this time she had gone too far.



The mansa shifted his gaze from Andevai, with his bowed head, to Bee, with her challenging stare. She met him look for look, and the grim press of his mouth softened. His eyes crinkled to reveal unexpected laugh lines. Then the cursed magister chuckled in that condescending way older men do, who are amused by the antics of downy goslings or who find young women attractive.



The light overhead changed consistency, or maybe that was just her look darkening as a familiar stormy expression transformed her face. “How can you imagine I would stand by while my beloved cousin’s life is threatened? While she is pursued through no fault of her own merely because you are angry that you did not get what you wanted? Am I to think this is the act of a man who wishes to do what is right in the eyes of the gods, or rather the act of a man who is angry that he did not get what he wanted the instant he wanted it?”



“Maestressa,” began the djeli hastily, “to address the mansa without an intermediary—”



“No, Bakary. I’ll speak to her with my own mouth.” His smile faded as he, like all of us, heard the growl of a crowd approaching, shouts raised in a chorus I had heard before:



“Away with the oppression of princes and mages! We’ll rule ourselves!”



“Take your choice. Freedom or fetters!”



Bee said, “My cousin and I are leaving. These laborers will go with us, unmolested.”