It had never been anything on this scale, though; mostly petty trickery and fraud.
Even among the Gypsies a Patsono was watched carefully, and valuables kept out of easy filching reach. All Gypsies tended to cheat ordinary housebound folk_who they called gajo, or in the Outsider tongues, "rootfeet" from their habit of never leaving a place for as long as they lived. It was not considered cheating so much as a combination of good bargaining and education... if the rootfeet learned to be careful, to watch their purse strings or to examine what they bargained for, then they got a cheap lesson in the ways of real life. Sometimes that cheating extended to a bit of outright theft, if the mark appeared to deserve such attentions. Robin had picked a pocket or two in her time. She considered it justice, not thievery; those whose purses she lightened were either far too wealthy for their own good, or they had been particularly noxious, like the bullies in Westhaven.
But Gypsies, as a rule, never made fellow Gypsies or Free Bards the targets of such thievery and trickery. The Patsono Clan had fleeced or robbed both quite as often as they'd victimized rootfeet.
The only question in Robin's mind was_why? Why were they doing this? What were they getting out of it? Why had they suddenly decided to throw in with a rootfoot_and not just any rootfoot, but a High Bishop? The Gypsies had no shared interests with Churchmen, not even a common religion.
She had personal experience with a Patsono or two; if there was one trait besides dishonesty they all had in common, it was a distinct aversion to cooperate with anyone.
There was only one way to find out that "why," and that was to do so in person.
Kestrel isn't going to like this, Robin, she told herself, as she devoted half her attention to her playing, while the other half was wrapped up in thinking up a way to get her into the black heart of the Patsono Clan. So while you're at finding a way into Patsono, maybe you'd better find a way to talk him into accepting this....
Kestrel didn't like it. Not at all.
"You're what?" Anger had completely obliterated Jonny's stutter. He had listened to her careful explanation in relative calm, but the moment she had told him that she was going into the Clan enclave, he had exploded.
"I'm going to pretend I'm a distant cousin of one of the Patsono's," she explained again, patiently. "That's not at all hard; unless you go through a formal handfasting, there are plenty of Gypsies who don't bother with formalizing relationships, not even when there are children. There usually aren't when there's no handfasting, unless the woman is wealthy in her own right and wants a child. Gypsy women are all taught how to prevent conception."
"So how would you be some kind of relation then?" he shot back, eyes wide with emotion, although she could not tell whether it was anger or something more complicated.
"Because sometimes a woman can choose to have a child, and not care who the father is so long as he isn't a rootfoot," she said, trying not to show her exasperation at having to state the obvious. "And sometimes women are just stupid or careless. It doesn't matter! All I have to do is claim my father is one of the Patsonos, name some city I know the Patsonos were in, and give a vague description of the man. Patsonos have no imagination to speak of; of the entire Clan, at least a quarter of the men are named Robere, another quarter are called Tammio, and the rest are a mix of Berto, Albere, and Tombere. If I say my father's name was Robere and I don't try to claim any special privileges or demand one of the Roberes recognize me as his offspring, there shouldn't be any problems or questions. Among the Clans its basically up to you and maybe the Clan Chiefs to keep track of who you're related to."
If she'd thought that would mollify him, she was proven wrong. "Shouldn't," he scoffed, lip curling in mockery. "Shouldn't cause any problems or questions. Oh, grand. What if it does?"
"It won't as long as you aren't with me," she retorted, her own temper fraying. "Which you won't be. You couldn't pass for a Gypsy no matter how hard you tried, and by now I'm sure there are plenty of Clans who've heard of Robin and her gajin vanderei. But when I go in alone, there won't be any reason to connect me with _"
"What?" he yelped again. "You're doing no such _"
Her frayed temper snapped. "How dare you? You are not my master, you do not tell me what I will or will not do!" she hissed. "I rule my own actions!"
And with that, she whirled, yanked the door to their room open, and stalked away, down the hall, down the stairs, and out into the courtyard, walking as quickly as she could and still preserve her dignity. Once she reached the courtyard, she sprinted across it, and dove into the street beyond.
Evidently her angry defiance caught Kestrel off-guard; if he tried to follow her, he was too late about it, for she quickly lost herself in the early-evening crowds. She wrapped her warm woolen shawl around her shoulders and her head, and slipped through the slower-moving strollers with the agility of an otter in a stream. She knew exactly where she was going now, thanks to those evenings at Ardana's. According to the clients, Padrik's "special helpers" had a little enclave of their own on Church property. There was a walled courtyard on the opposite side of the Cathedral from the market-square, a courtyard that had a guest-house meant for groups of visitors. That was where the "special helpers" and their wagons were, so that was where Robin would go.
Moving at a brisk walk, she kept herself warm, and covered the distance between the inn and the Cathedral in very short order. She actually made better time than she had expected to, emerging into the deserted market-square before she realized that the crowds had thinned to nothing.
She looked up, and could not suppress a gasp; she stopped dead in her tracks to stare.
She had never seen the Cathedral at night; its impact was as great as the first view by daylight had been. The carvings were darker shadows, silhouettes against the colored glass of the windows, and every window shone with its own light. The colors gave the illusion of floating in the darkness of the Cathedral, and now she saw what she had missed before_that the windows themselves, framed as they were by the carvings, formed the simple shapes of stylized flowers and leaves. The Cathedral was a huge bouquet of flowers, made of light....
A cold breeze whipped around her ankles, then blew up her skirt, and woke her to her self-appointed mission. She shook herself out of her trance and hurried across the cobble-stoned square. The windows of the houses surrounding the square were also alight, but this was familiar, homey light, and she concentrated on them rather than on the seductive and hypnotic beauty of the Cathedral. As they had peddled their God-Stars she had amused herself by imagining what lay beyond those windows; now, at least in part, she was able to see how the wealthy of Gradford spent that wealth.
It was often lovely, certainly expensive, but after spending time in the Royal Palace in Birnam, no longer impressive. In fact, the taste in this town tended towards the overblown, over-ornamented. Many of those who had decorated the interiors of these houses seemed determined, not to echo, but to outdo the Cathedral. Where one of the carvings of the sea-tower boasted a single strand of kelp, the gilded ceiling-moldings featured a dozen intertwined strands in a fraction of the space, and fish peeking through the kelp to boot. Where there was a pair of ribbon-tails in mating-flight on the air-tower, the frame of an enormous mirror had three dozen, all getting in one another's way, and looking less like a mating-flight than an absurd crashing bird-orgy. It would surely have embarrassed T'fyrr. Wallpaper or painted murals featured the same carvings as the towers, but painted in lifelike color_which did not improve the composition any, and made the paintings look overcrowded.