Kirien's smile deepened. The Knorth looked like an illustration of the infinitive, "to boggle."
"But . . . but . . . but you can't be! You're a woman!"
"As I told your brother: technically, not until I come of age. Then, nothing in the Law prevents me from taking power, if my house and the Highlord consent. Torisen hasn't agreed yet, but I think he may. As for the Jaran, Uncle Kedan is fed up with playing interim lord and counting the days until he can get back to his own research."
The Knorth shook her head as if to clear it. "I'm confused. If the four duties of a Highborn lady are obedience, self-restraint, endurance, and silence, how does ruling fit in?"
"There's Law," said Kirien lightly, "and then there's custom."
Ashe stirred. Kirien could almost hear her old friend thinking: Be careful what you say.
But the Knorth was already working it out.
"If the Law doesn't prevent you from ruling, then maybe it doesn't demand all those other things from any of us. Are you saying that I've half-killed myself all winter trying merely to be conventional? Is that what all those girls in the Women's Halls are doing? In Perimal's name, why?"
"It would take a matriarch to explain that," said Kirien, thinking, Aunt Trishien is right: she does have a mind. "What little I know comes from independent research. I'm not privy to the secrets of the Women's World."
"Those damned secrets!" said the Knorth explosively. "I bet they don't tell this one about law versus custom to the children until they're so trained that they can't imagine any other way of life. I had a sewing teacher like that at Gothregor. Oh, that's clever, to catch them so young. How old d'you think I would have been before anyone would have told me—or is that a level of secrecy they would never have let me reach?"
Kirien thought that she was probably right. It would be dangerous to the Women's World to have someone so independent possessed of such knowledge—but now she was, with only half a clue from Kirien. Scholar that she was, the Jaran Matriarch was not apt to be pleased.
"Aunt warned me that you were a born puzzle-breaker," she said ruefully.
The Knorth glowered. "Some things need to be broken."
Ashe stirred again. Kirien would almost have thought the singer was fidgeting except, of course, that she was dead.
"Not . . . everything," came that creaking voice. "Not even . . . all customs."
The Knorth shot her a baleful look. "You've broken a whole slew of them," she said in challenge to Kirien.
Kirien shrugged. "I'm Jaran. We have our own customs, which include not putting girls through the women's school at Gothregor unless they want to go. The curriculum sounded to me like a dead bore. Then too, since my Randir mother died bearing me, I've been suspect breeding stock. The Jaran aren't much sought after by other houses anyway. We're too . . . unconventional. So the Matriarchs let me go my own way. That may change now that my house has chosen me as lordan. But you're Knorth, with binding customs of your own. Hasn't anyone told you what they are?"
"The Women's World told me as little as they could about my house," said the other bitterly. "Not even the names of the death banners in the old hall so that I could pay proper respects to my ancestors. They said it was the Knorth Matriarch's role to instruct me, but the last one was assassinated thirty-four years ago. That was Kinzi, my great-grandmother. I have found out a bit, you see, despite the Women's World."
More than a bit, Kirien thought wryly.
Ignorance is weakness. She understood why the Matriarchs hadn't wanted to strengthen a girl whose bloodlines they intended to manipulate for their own purposes. In principle, she didn't believe that people should be used or knowledge withheld, any more than she believed in the barter game which her elders so much enjoyed playing. In practice, though, how safe was it to be totally candid with someone so sharp at drawing inferences—someone who, she sensed, was not being completely open with her?
"What . . . has your brother . . . told you?" Ashe abruptly demanded.
"Precious little."
"Perhaps . . . he has reason."
"Meaning?"
Until now, the Knorth had tried to ignore the haunt singer. Now they faced each other, one a black outline against the growing light of dawn, the other black clothed and masked, two shapes of darkness. Kirien suddenly felt caught between forces she didn't understand. She noticed that even the ounce had backed away.
"Ashe," she said uncomfortably, "this is a guest. Don't you think . . . ."
"Show the Lordan . . . the knife . . . which you carry . . . in your boot."
Behind the mask, silver eyes blinked. Then thin lips tightened. The Knorth drew a white knife from a boot sheath and defiantly offered it, hilt first, to Kirien, who took it.
"Why, how odd," she said, examining the blade. "And how cold . . . ."
She was suddenly aware of a dark figure close by on either side, without having heard either of them move. Ashe's cold grasp gently but firmly closed around her wrist and drew downward the hand on whose palm she had been about to rest the knife's point. The Knorth's black gloved fingers carefully detached the blade from her grip. Then they both stepped back, and it was possible again to breathe.
The Knorth saluted her with stiff formality. "My thanks for your hospitality, Lordan," she said, her voice very slightly shaking. "I will no longer detain you from your studies."
Then she was gone, the cat slipping out in her shadow, the door closing gently after them.
"I don't understand," said Kirien, "What happened?"
"Describe . . . that knife," said Ashe.
Kirien looked at her, puzzled, but obediently began the familiar exercise of description: "Item: one weapon, classified knife or dagger; approximately twelve inches long; double edged; composition: ivory . . . ."
She faltered, eyes widening.
"Go on," said Ashe.
". . . ivory," Kirien repeated, and continued, now quoting, " 'carved all of one piece, blade, guard, and pommel; and on that last shall you see the three faces of Regonereth—maiden, lady, hag—and know what you hold by its coldness. The very tooth of death . . . ."
"Ashe, that was it, wasn't it? The Ivory Knife, one of the three great objects of power lost in the Fall, whose least scratch means death . . . and I wanted to see how sharp it was."