“Oh-ho,” said one of the older women, a distant relation whose name Kaab hadn’t quite managed to learn. “Tired, little bee? Or are you daydreaming? Found a boy you like here in just five days, already?”
The other women, including her Aunt Ixsaabim, laughed and turned to Kaab, who went red-faced as she kicked the dollop of wasted dough to one of the hairless black dogs that lingered for scraps from the kitchen.
“Fast work, cousin!”
“From what I hear of our little bee, it’s more likely a girl than a boy that has her tamales looking like crooked snakes.”
Kaab looked down at the ones she had just finished. Her mother had trained her well: they looked even and plump, the same as the others. Perhaps she couldn’t quite manage the seashell and bean decorations of the old women trained from birth for the kitchen, but she was hardly a daydreaming amateur!
Kaab raised her just-wrapped tamale, an indignant protest on her lips. But it died when she saw the friendly, laughing faces of the women around her. They were her family, even if she still couldn’t tell her twin cousins apart or remember all of the elders’ names. Aunt Ixsaabim reached across the great basket stacked with tamales ready for the steaming pots, and rubbed Kaab’s shoulder.
“Perhaps I have been a little distracted,” Kaab said contritely. And then, with a flare of inspiration, she quoted, in Tullan-daan:
“The woman I desire is a maize-flower
The morning after rain.
Oh, giver of life! Giver of rain!”
The elder Aunt Ixnoom nodded in appreciation. “The great Tullan masters are good to know, child. Your mother, may she never be extinguished, may she never disappear, taught you well. I was married into the Nopalco court, you know. When my husband died I returned home. Long ago. But I do remember the poetry.”
The other women nodded, the older ones sadly. There had been a war with Nopalco just at the turn of the last century; they had rebelled against the demands of Tullan empire tribute, and the poems said the river Amaxac had run red with their blood for thirteen years. Judging by her age, Aunt Ixnoom must have escaped that great massacre. She must have endured hardships that made Kaab shiver to imagine. And yet she had survived to be an elder, far away from home, but still with family. Perhaps by enduring Kaab could redeem herself from the disaster that had made her father insist she leave home, without even a promise of return. Perhaps, even in this backwater, strategically important to family affairs but woefully lacking in any kind of refinement, she could find the means to honor her mother’s spirit. Was she not the daughter of Ixmoe, legendary in her own time for her exploits among the peoples of the southern seas? Was she not dedicated from birth to the sacred art of trade—which was to say, the sacred art of intelligence gathering—and exploiting it for profit?
One of the young boys poked his head inside the doorway to the kitchen.
“Auntie Saabim,” he said, “Uncle Chuleb asks to consult you about the Local dishes for the feast.”
Saabim sighed and rolled her eyes. “Tell my dearest morning star that I will attend to his entirely unnecessary concern momentarily.”
One of the younger women, a cousin by marriage, clucked loudly. “What husband tries to oversee his wife’s kitchen?”
Aunt Ixnoom smiled. “He’ll learn. You’re still new in this marriage, niece.”
“Well, you’re pregnant again, Saabim, so now is the time to tell your young husband to keep to his domain!”
At this, Kaab looked up sharply at her aunt. Saabim was pregnant? She was old to be having her first child with her second husband, but the embroidered blouse was loose enough to hide at least the first three months. Still, Kaab was disgusted with herself for not noticing. She had tried so hard not to let her observational skills unravel during her months on that tedious ship!
Saabim laughed and said, “You are all very kind to be concerned for me. But I’ll have him in hand, don’t you worry.” She stood, stretched her back, and then stepped nimbly past the baskets and clucking women and cooking pots and scurrying maids to reach the exit. Kaab excused herself a moment later, making as if to use the privy (located inside the houses here, in what she considered a dubious use of technology). But instead of turning north down the hallway, she stepped lightly south, into the courtyard, taking care to keep herself in the shadow of a tall, box-cut shrub. The afternoon sunlight shocked her—she had been up and stumbling to the kitchen at the very first light of the morning star, and a bundle of hours had passed without her noting them.
“Husband,” said Aunt Saabim, “I hope you have better matters to detain me with than my management of the kitchen?”
She wrapped her arms around Uncle Chuleb’s neck and nibbled his bottom lip. Kaab suddenly and fiercely regretted her impulse to test her rusted skills on her own family. A woman as experienced as she should not forget what went on in marriage—but the fact was, she often forgot to think of men that way. Unfortunately, the angle of the sun meant that her shadow would be immediately noticeable if she tried to return the way she came. The sounds from the courtyard—oh, how she wished she had stayed with the gossiping aunts in the steam-filled kitchen!—changed to cooing endearments, then wet smacking, and then, appallingly, soft grunting.
Kaab dared a glance past the shrub. Uncle Chuleb had one hand under Aunt Saabim’s blouse and the other down the back of her skirt. For a horrible moment, Kaab imagined doing the same to that beauty from Riverside, Tess. She had to find a prudent exit. Perhaps her father was not entirely wrong when he accused her of being overconfident.
“A good Trader,” he had always said, “knows when to hide as well as when to fight.”
Recent events had taught her that lesson, at least. But she couldn’t stand to hide here for another second. Why, they’d scare the dogs in a minute!
“Auntie!” she called, shuffling her feet pointedly on the flagstones and then emerging into the bright sunlight. Her aunt and uncle had managed to extricate themselves from each other, though Saabim’s blouse fell half outside her wide, multicolor belt.
“Why—Kaab—what is it?”
Kaab smiled brilliantly. Uncle Chuleb regarded her as if he had just bit into a very young lime. Uncle Chuleb was not easily charmed.
“Aunt Ixnoom thought you were delayed in coming back. She asked me to ask you . . . why, what instructions dear Uncle has as to the preparations of Xanamwiinik food. Do we have all of their barbaric ingredients?”
Saabim looked somewhat bemused as she turned to her husband. “Dear?”
He cleared his throat. “Well. Let me see. We had nearly decided against serving that ridiculous gilded stuffed hare. To be honest, I thought it was a joke: to these Xanamwiinik, a hare is humble fare, fit only for a woodsman’s pot. But apparently, if you stuff it with quince and walnut, and braise it with saffron, it becomes a dish fit for the Duchess Tremontaine’s table. She served it at her last soiree, my Land agent tells me. The saffron turned the braised skin orange as a sunset.” He turned to Kaab. “His words, Niece. I confess to being more interested in importing our own spices than trying a new one that costs nearly more than its weight in gold dust. But where the Duchess Tremontaine leads, the town follows, it seems. Those who can afford to. The omission on our part will be noted. And in any case, that lady has been . . .” He trailed off in a way
