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The morning passed without incident—Jadis was grateful to Finis for having preserved the privacy of the clandestine western hurst—and afternoon consisted of a series of tedious harmonies on the šithar for Jadis, and calligraphy practice for Finis. The ladies of Pesul Qur were expected, like all daughters of nobility, to be cultured—and thus proficient in at least one or two recherché skills, with which to impress any visiting dignitaries. Jadis hadn’t ever had a penchant for impressing dignitaries. She was more than capable, but since her youth she’d been more inclined to saddle their horses backwards when they were distracted; or coerce the slaves into speaking in a language the lord didn’t understand; or find and hide whatever gifts they’d brought for her father so that they’d seem miserly when the time came to provide them. She was younger then: since, she’d matured considerably. She was the responsible sister, after all. Her sense of humor remained largely the same, but she employed it less.
Today dignified guests of Pesul Qur arrived unexpectedly—to the sisters, that is—riding in a fiery red cabriolet down the saffron path past the barns. The visitors’ coach—drawn by a jowly old white ox, with sagging haunches and a wrinkled dewlap swaying pendulously as he cantered along—was flanked on one side by an elephant, draped in expensive blues and oranges. The blaring call of the elephant had alerted Jadis and Finis of company in time for them to prepare and be ready at the entrance of the villa with their father just as the cabriolet had fully come to a stop out front.
The elephant approached the red carriage from behind and pulled its hood back, revealing the peafowl that sat in it. Jadis and Finis didn’t see very many talking animals in Pesul Qur—or in and about the region of the city of Charn, in general—so they were mildly taken aback when the elephant announced the visitants in her own stentorian (though unmistakably female) voice.
“Sir Jospar and his Lady Quvaja,” the elephant thundered, “And I am Ilšmi.”
“Welcome, Sir Jospar; Lady Quvaja; Mistress Ilšmi,” said Lord Tujur warmly, his arms open, “it is an auspicious sun indeed that presides over this day: the day my daughters shall begin their pedagogy in magic. And under such illustrious tutelage!”
It was Charni tradition that the children of nobles be instructed in sorcery. It had continued almost wholly unbroken for at least twenty generations, if not longer; Jadis and Finis had anticipated they would be made to follow, one day—they did not anticipate it would be this particular day, however. Frankly, it was the furthest thing from both their minds, given the previous evening’s goings-on. Neither was entirely sure what the appropriate response was to the news: so neither did very much at all.
The broad mahogany doors of the manor creaked open behind them: Jamäis strode out, her complicated grey broadcloth sari and oblate’s headscarf giving her an immediate resemblance not unlike a premature infant swaddled in far too much cloth—though of course her frame was more haggard than any infant’s ought be. At once, the peacock and his hen leapt up and flapped toward Lord Tujur; Ilšmi began to draw closer as well—though she was plainly aware of her voluminousness, and so showed caution not to endanger the minuscule creatures around her with any rapid movement of her bole-like legs. Jamäis came to stand beside her husband, augustly.
Sir Jospar was a magnificent being: crested and displaying a fan of truly awe-inspiring grandeur, the cerulean bird absolutely defined the word ‘ostentation’. A body of brilliant iridescent turquoise and ultramarine—almost metallic in its luster—with wings of chestnut, and backed by a scale-like cape of bronze and black training into an enormous, resplendent fan of tailfeathers like a thousand glossy, unblinking eyes: each plumose feather many times the height of the proud bird that sported it. His legs were suitably avian, with rather vicious-looking spurs at the back: outfitted in jeweled anklets and rings that made his clawed feet seem all the more formidable.
Lady Quvaja was not remarkable in appearance; though anyone acquainted with peafowl or other varieties of pheasant might have found her rather beautiful. A little brown thing, with streaks of green—none whatever of her husband’s spectacle. Though she had delicate makeup applied around her beak and eyes that seemed to make them a bit lovelier than their natural state, and she wore jewelry—medallion of ruby at her breast. All of that aside, she was quite plain by comparison to her mate: no train of majestic tailfeathers, and none of the dazzling iridescence or vivid colors.
Mistress Ilšmi, on the other hand, was of course another thing altogether. An elephant, very much what one might expect to see; that is, in her natural state. Ilšmi wasn’t much one for keeping her appearance modest or natural. She was a sorceress: and on top of that, a sorceress whose career often saw her competing for attention with Jospar: the most outrageously, pretentiously natural-born peacock who’d surely ever strutted his way into preceptorship for aspiring young enchantresses. And thus, Ilšmi had adopted her own rather gaudy pretense over the years as well.
The elephant’s tushes were hugely enlarged for her sex (presumably by some enchantment), engraved shallowly with arabesques, and dyed in a rare type of pink—in elephant society she was apparently viewed as rather masculine. Her trunk, ears, forehead, and forelimbs were tattooed in painstakingly intricate henna and some pigments Jadis couldn’t identify at a glance; flowery patterns and elegant geometries all converging on a lotus motif in the middle of her face, painted (permanently) in whites and yellows and that same lovely hue of pink that bedecked her tushes. Her hooves (or toenails—whatever one calls such things on an elephant; Jadis didn’t wish to risk any rudeness by asking) were varnished in the selfsame pink, again: Finis and Jadis rightly surmised at once that it was Ilšmi’s favorite color.
The elephant’s clothing was both ridiculous and splendid in approximately equal measure: her cape a veritable carpet of luxuriant blue and orange fabrics, sewn with designs like flames or perhaps splashing waves (depending on the perspective), and terminating in elaborately tasseled fringes at her sides, skirts of densely gathered pleats that served as sleeves of sorts on her haunches and shoulders, and the pelt of a great rufous tiger for a stole. Her ears were pierced with multiple huge gold hoops and jeweled studs, while her wrists rattled with several bangles; her eyelashes were in considerable mascara, enwreathing big, round kohl-lined eyes. Ilšmi was a mountain of extravagance and vanity—unquestionably an impressive sight by any standard.
“What—pray—are your policies concerning blasphemy?” asked Jamäis abruptly of the guests, “I’ll not have my daughters instructed in apostasy, or in heathenisms.”
Jadis and her father flushed slightly—Finis did not react.
“Allay whatever fears of degeneracy you may have,” Sir Jospar chuckled, voice every bit as stately as one might expect from the peacock—if perhaps a little raspy.
“Do you take us for infidels on account of our profession?” Ilšmi growled.
“I inquire only for the protection of my daughters,” replied Jamäis, bowing a little, “I meant no offense.” Jospar nodded slightly in recognition; Ilšmi snorted, but nodded also. Jamäis had not been trained in magic: as she was of peasant heritage, a daughter of a goatherd, and formerly a concubine of Tujur’s father, Lord Anghkom. It had been in Anghkom’s seraglio that Tujur fell in love with Jamäis; but that was a lifetime ago. Jamäis’ days as a sex slave led her to a routine of intense devotion and a passion for her religion: atonement for what she felt were her own sins, even though it was her father who sold her as a concubine. Her children did not know her sordid history; as far as Jadis or Finis knew, their mother had been a Charni gentlewoman all her life—they didn’t even know her actual ethnicity was Bramand (although Jadis did at least suspect it: Jamäis’ ruddy complexion was not common in Charni clans).
Jadis, frankly, wondered if she was Jamäis’ daughter at all; her physique was a world apart, and lords were sometimes known to pass off the progeny of concubines as their consort’s. But it had always been given that Jamäis was mother to all Tujur’s three children; that’s the way it had always been, so Jadis wasn’t overly skeptical. She was certainly Jamäis’ child, whether she’d once inhabited her womb or not. It didn’t especially matter. Tujur only rarely kept concubines anyway: Pesul Qur was as tough a plot of land to prosper as any in a borderland of Charn with The Mbute, and thus it simply wasn’t financially feasible that the lord divert his resources to buying and housing and clothing and feeding a harem. Not that he mightn’t have appreciated it if he had one—the man was not infrequently frustrated by his wife’s ‘virtue’—but the few women he’d ever had in the house had been sold off again before long.
“These are Jadis, and Finis—I presume,” said Jospar, correctly indicating both girls with his wings, “and I am to teach the eldest. Jadis, if I am not mistaken?”
“It’s as you say,” Lady Jamäis answered, impressed (as they’d not, in fact, told the peacock their daughters’ names, which was older of them, or which was which).
“Then little Finis is my disciple,” Ilšmi said, more gently than anything prior; bowing a little, to get a better look at Tujur’s youngest, “And such a pretty one.”
“In what sorts of magic—pray—do you aim to teach them?” asked Jamäis, still sounding quite impatient. “I do not allow anything offensive to The Omnipotent—”
“We have said that nothing will offend, woman,” Ilšmi trumpeted, forgetting to use honorifics and quaking the ground, startling everyone—Jamäis most of all, “It would be good for you to take our word; else we mightn’t be so inclined to keep it.”
The ominous words hung in the air for a moment—almost literally, since the reverberations did actually echo somewhat—giving them a distinct gravity even apart from their speaker. Ilšmi even raised one of her colossal feet slightly, as if to stamp—she did not seriously intend such an act; it was more reflexive than anything. A tiny gesture accompanying agitation. If she’d meant to flatten someone into the dirt, it’d be done and over with in a second: leaving only a pitiable smear of gore underfoot.
“Gods be clement…” Jamäis hissed quietly, “Kindly forgive my impudence, Mistress. I mean no disrespect—to either of you. I am only a woman solicitous of her daughters; her naïve, callow daughters…”
Ilšmi gave a little harrumph after a moment, and then nodded slightly again. She lowered her foot gently and turned back to Finis—who was visibly intimidated.
“Mistress Ilšmi…” Finis said timidly, not looking the elephant fully in the eye (though she couldn’t be altogether blamed for it, given the angle), “Be good to me.”
Ilšmi smiled warmly—somewhat maternal in mien—lightly tilting Finis’ head upward by the chin with the dexterous tip of her trunk, so as to meet her gaze. Finis smiled in return.
“I’ll be that, Petite,” Ilšmi replied—then giving a cheeky look, “Ifn’t always in the way you’d choose. But I’ll be that: that I promise you. Anyway, let’s not dawdle.”
Finis was hoisted by her waist up and onto Ilšmi’s elephantine nape, atop the tigerskin (which felt frighteningly lifelike as Finis sat on it—it having taken her a few seconds to realize that it was Ilšmi moving beneath her, not the tiger). The elephant and her student strode off, ponderously, toward the pavilion; at a distance, slaves or farmhands might have thought the lumbering thing was a sort of parade float. It was not, after all, out of the ordinary that the pavilion might play host to just such kinds of things, especially in and around festivities like the previous eve.
“Hmm…” Jospar croaked—though “croak” might be too harsh a word for the sound he made, which was not quite harsh, but smoky—“Oh, how queer. Ah, yes… I think—” he seemed to emend a thought before completing it, “Quite interesting…”
The peacock was apparently examining Jadis quite exhaustively, although he moved hardly at all—only sporadically positioning his head at slightly new angles. He didn’t seem so much to be looking at Jadis, but almost through her: inside her, maybe examining less her body than her thoughts—or even her very spirit. The eye of Jospar was fierce, and penetrating—barred above and below by patches of bare white skin—not unlike the dark glass of some magician’s crystal ball: seeming to see things that a mere mortal could scarce dream of—and yet keeping maddeningly reticent.
After a few more moments, Jospar straightened completely and looked Jadis squarely in the face; and then looked to her parents; and then back again at Jadis. In a flurry of motion the peacock furled his majestic fan down into a long, flaccid train like a sheaf of glorious, versicolored wheat trailing behind him, and turned sharply—the bird’s rings and bangles jingling softly like bells as he walked toward the stables.
Nobody quite knew how to react—even Lady Quvaja simply observed. Jospar, after several more seconds passed, craned his head around—body still walking in the direction of the stables—and glanced at Jadis. He turned his head back, and called:
“Disciple,” he spoke coolly, “I shan’t instruct you on the front lawn. Now keep close, if you mean to learn anything at all from me. You should be so lucky.”
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