I turned to follow his gaze. A glimpse of golden hair made my heart skip a beat but when the throng shifted I saw a man in stout leathers, face dour and defensive, guarding the woman on his arm with all the jealousy customary in the uplands. Drab and incongruous among festival finery on all sides, the pair stuck out like the stones on a stag-hound.
“No, that’s not them.” I sighed. Was I ever going to get my game together?
Selerima, Western Ensaimin,
First Day of the Spring Fair, Evening
“We’ve tried every trader down to that rancid dealer in half-cured coneyskins.” Keisyl stepped into Jeirran’s path and folded his arms. “No one’s buying, not from us.”
“We haven’t spoken to that man yonder.” An obstinate light burned in Jeirran’s eyes. “He’s sold most of his stock, so he’ll want more and have the silver to pay for it.”
Keisyl heaved an exasperated sigh but followed Jeirran toward a burly man in a beaver-trimmed jerkin of mustard broadcloth who was bending down to an urchin hopping urgently from foot to foot. The lad shot the two Mountain Men a startled glance and melted away while the fur trader rested his hands on his paunch. “What can I do for you?”
“We have furs to selclass="underline" fox, hare and otter, fine elk hide and some deerskins—” began Jeirran in an ingratiating tone.
“Guild-stamped, are they?” snapped the trader. “Paid your tenth at the audit hall, have you? No, I didn’t think so.” He raised his voice. “I wouldn’t disgrace the guild by trading behind their back, do you hear? Who do you think I am, offering me such insult? I’ve never seen you before neither.”
“Don’t,” Keisyl caught Jeirran’s arm as the shorter man took an angry step forward, beard bristling on his thrusting chin. As Jeirran stopped, indecisive, a reveler stumbled into him, unaccustomed ale sending the youth sprawling loose-limbed to the ground. Jeirran loosed frustrated rage in a savage kick that set the unfortunate lad spewing up. Passing fairgoers too slow to keep boots or skirts clear exclaimed in annoyance.
“Come on!” Keisyl dragged Jeirran over to an open space where stilt-walkers were entertaining the crowds. A pair painted like butterflies swooped and fluttered vast wings of sapphire silk, capering ungainly to amuse a wide-eyed child but deft enough to wrap their pinions around some giggling girl. A third in more conventional motley of scarlet and gold came after them, a hopeful bag-puppet on one hand, its maw greedy for small coin.
Jeirran shook free of Keisyl’s hand and stepped into the path of a passing dame. “Here madam, fine furs, smooth and supple leathers, fairer prices than anyone else will offer!” The woman shook him off, affronted and coloring beneath the frills of her cap.
“Sir, that’s a fine cloak you’re wearing,” Jeirran darted in front of a prosperous merchant. “Think how a fur trim would improve it, let me show you!”
The man’s florid face darkened, indignation warring with consternation in his deep-set eyes. “Be off with you, vagabond,“ he spluttered, drawing the lavender folds of his mantle around him.
“Here, you!” One of the stilt-walkers loomed over them, annoyance clear beneath his garish paints. “You’re queering our pitch, pal. Go and make a nuisance of yourselves somewhere else!”
“If you’ve got something to sell, go pay for a token like the rest of us!” called a nearby stallholder, safe behind cheap, speckled plates and green glazed pots under a brightly striped awning. Even Jeirran’s belligerent self-assurance wasn’t proof against hostile eyes on all sides.
“Let’s get something to eat.” Keisyl looked around and beckoned to a lad who was carrying a savory-smelling basket.
“Lamb pasty, mister, with a bit of this and that.” The boy looked from Keisyl to Jeirran, eyes wide and wondering at the oversewn seams on their embroidered shirts, at the stamped patterns on their short capes and the long leather trews gaitered into sturdy boots.
“Four, how much?” Keisyl held up his fingers.
“Two copper, mister,” stammered the boy.
Keisyl frowned as he rummaged in a pocket. “That’s the last of my coin, Jeirran. Teiriol has our purse.”
Jeirran was looking dubiously inside the pastry, picking at a stringy piece of grayish meat with a fingernail. “This is no more lamb than my boot soles.” He chewed slowly with an expression of distaste but the lad had already melted away into the crowd, leaving a faint smell of leeks fried soft in rancid fat.
Keisyl swallowed a stubborn mouthful. “I’ve eaten worse at the diggings. If you’ve got some coin, we can find a drink to take the taste away. Do you suppose they brew mead anywhere down here or will it still be that goat’s piss ale?”
“I’ve only got a few silver on me.” Jeirran reached inside his cape. “I didn’t want to risk having my purse cut, so I left most of the good coin in Eirys’ coffer.”
He spread his hand to count the paltry pennies, worn almost anonymous, edges bent and nicked. As he did so, a mailed gauntlet landed heavy on his shoulder and half the flimsy coins jumped from his hand to vanish into the crushed grass.
“You muck-footed fool! Can’t you people ever look where you’re going?” He turned furiously and found himself facing a bronzed breastplate, freshly polished with festival zeal. The gauntlet tightened its bruising grip on Jeirran’s shoulder.
“I’d keep a civil tongue in my head if I was only arse high to a short horse,” sneered the Watchman. He shook Jeirran by way of emphasis, demonstrating muscle beneath his flab. “Let’s have a look in that bag of yours, shall we?”
Jeirran ripped the gauntlet from his shoulder with an ease that clearly disconcerted the bigger man. Keisyl moved to pick up the fallen coin but another official planted a hobnailed boot on the pennies, an unfriendly smile creasing his unshaven face, fingerless leather gloves with studded knuckles gleaming on both hands. Jeirran turned but a third Watchman in a leather cuirass blocked his way with a metal-bound stave as thick as his bony wrists. The first Watchman tugged Jeirran’s satchel roughly from around his stiff neck and unbuckled it, grunting.
“Looks like them’s our pigeons, lads.” His chapped lips curved in a satisfied smirk. “Right, you pair come and explain yourself to the festival assize.”
The thin Watchman with the quarterstaff brought it level in both hands and gestured at Keisyl, whose fists were now clenched and raised. “I don’t think you want to make a fight of it, corn-poll. I’ll cut you down to the stubble if you do!”
Keisyl spat an incomprehensible Mountain oath that sent a rustle of apprehension through those fairgoers clustering behind the protection of the Watchman’s stave.
“You tell your friend, any trouble and I’ll put you both in irons,” warned the first Watchman, jingling the manacles at his belt in emphasis.
“What right have you to detain us?” Jeirran glared at the man, refusing to acknowledge the faces whispering and gawking on all sides.
The Watchman brandished a handful of fur and leather, white, russet and black. “We’ve had complaints. Some reckon you’re in the pay of the guilds, trying to tempt them to break the laws. Some tell us you’re trying to gull them into paying out for goods you ain’t got. I just think you’re uplanders with no more wit than your goat. Got a fair token to show us, have you?” he demanded sarcastically.
“I don’t know what you mean,” answered Jeirran warily.
“Then you haven’t paid your guild fee, have you, cully? Else you’d have bought the right to trade like an honest man and have the token to prove it. You’re coming along with us!” The Watchman nodded to his subordinate with the stave who brandished it in unmistakable threat.
“I’d check their purses, boss,” the one with his boot still resting on Jeirran’s fallen coin spoke up with an innocent air. “If they’ve not got the price of a meal and bed on them, they’re vagabonds, ain’t they? That’s the law, ain’t it?”