Web of wind
J. F. Rivkin
1
Corson brenn torisk looked irritably at her companion. Nyctasia was toying with her dinner in gloomy silence, lost in thought, and Corson had had enough of her brooding.
“Are you going to eat that or aren’t you?”
“I haven’t much appetite, I’m afraid,” Nyctasia said listlessly.
Corson shrugged and scraped the rabbit pie from Nyctasia’s plate onto her own.
“Since we got to Osela you’ve done nothing but mope about,” she complained.
“You’ve hardly left the inn. We came here to see the fair!”
“And after I’ve seen it, what then? On the way here I had at least a destination. Now we’re here, I’ve lost even that.”
Corson had long been accustomed to the life of a wandering mercenary, but the Lady Nyctasia ar’n Edonaris had never known what it was to be homeless. She had passed all her life in the city-state of Rhostshyl, and she could not resign herself to exile.
Corson sighed. She was losing all patience with Nyctasia’s melancholy. “I thought you planned to go south to the Valleylands, to visit the Edonaris who own vineyards at Vale.”
“Even if they should prove to be of my blood, I’ll only be a stranger to them.
I’ve no place or purpose among them. Why should they welcome me?”
“It’s true you’re useless,” Corson agreed, “but do you have to be boring as well? You know I’m dangerous when I’m bored.”
“Nothing keeps you with me, Corson. I no longer need a bodyguard-I’ve no enemies this far from Rhostshyl.”
Corson smiled her dangerous smile. “Well then, it’s time I gave you those lessons in swordfighting you wanted. If you mean to travel without an escort you’d best be able to defend yourself. There’s more than thieves and cutthroats in these parts-you’d make a pretty prize for a pack of slavers.”
“You needn’t worry about me. I can fend for myself.”
“Come along,” Corson ordered. She mopped up the last of the gravy with a piece of bread and gulped it down. “We may as well begin at once, since time’s so heavy on your hands.” Ignoring Nyctasia’s protests, she all but dragged her out to the courtyard of the inn.
“Stand ready!” Corson commanded. “That’s a sword, not a pen-hold fast to it!
Watch this-” She made a move, and Nyctasia’s sword landed several feet away, out of her reach.
“Impressive,” admitted Nyctasia, “but I think you broke my wrist.”
“No I didn’t. If I’d wanted to break your wrist I’d have done it differently.
And I will, the next time I see you with such a lax grip. Pick it up.”
Nyctasia obeyed, and instinctively took up a fencing stance, which Corson regarded with scorn. “Forget those fool fencing rules. There aren’t any rules in a fight.” She came at Nyctasia swiftly.
Nyctasia parried successfully at first, but Corson seemed to be everywhere, and within minutes Nyctasia was ready to surrender.
Corson brought the flat of her blade down hard on Nyctasia’s shoulder. “That’s cut off your arm.”
By the end of the lesson Nyctasia was bruised and aching all over, and bleeding from numerous pricks and scratches. Corson was an effective teacher. Her pupils had to learn quickly, purely in self-defense.
“You might make a fair fighter for someone your size.” Corson said with a grin.
“You’ve a good eye, and you’re light on your feet. But you need plenty of practice. Tomorrow we’ll work on the attack.”
“No we won’t,” said a faint voice from the depths of a tub of steaming water.
“I’m not leaving this tub for a week, and when I do I have every intention of poisoning your ale. I should have let you die back in Lhestreq, you great overgrown ox.”
Corson laughed, “In a real fight you can’t choose the size of your enemy.”
“No one’s as big as you are!”
“At least I gave you something to think of besides your woes.”
Nyctasia looked at her sharply. “Corson, sometimes I suspect you might be clever-for a simpleminded barbarian.”
“I must have learned my crafty ways from you then. You weave schemes like a spider spins webs. A poisonous spider.”
“Not anymore,” Nyctasia said gravely. She only wanted to forget the measures she’d taken in the past to outwit her enemies. That life was behind her now,
“Such webs are only snares for one’s own spirit.”
Corson yawned. “Your philosophy’s too lofty for a simple-minded barbarian like me. You can stay here and rack your wits with riddles-I’m for the fair.”
“Oh, very well,” said Nyctasia. “Wait for me.”
Osela was famous for its harvest fair, the largest of its kind in the Midlands.
Farmers came from far and wide, bringing their crops and livestock to market.
Merchants and traders hawked their wares, gossip was exchanged, performers vied for the crowd’s attention, and thieves and beggars were kept busy. The city guard had all they could do to keep the peace, and summary justice was the order of the day.
In spite of herself, Nyctasia was fascinated by the chaos of revelry that overflowed the market square and spilled into the streets. The markets of the coastal towns she’d seen seemed tame in comparison. If she lingered too long to watch the dancing bear, she missed the performance of the swordswallower. All about her, storytellers chanted, mummers danced, and fortunetellers offered to reveal the secrets of destiny for a fee.
As usual, Corson was drawn irresistibly to the rows of merchants’ stalls. She was greedy as a magpie for glittering trinkets, and she would not be satisfied till she’d squandered money on something impractical and garish. She tried on gloves embroidered with silk and stitched with tiny pearls, but their price was too dear even for a spendthrift like Corson. Flinging them down carelessly, she strolled off to find something that was more within her means.
But Nyctasia went her own way. The swordplay with Corson and the excitement of the fair had shaken her from her despondency, and she had quite recovered her appetite. It was the hawkers of fruits, sweetmeats, buns and savories who tempted her.
“Pork pies, threepence! Hot pork pies!”
“Fine, ripe pears! Sweet pears!”
“Roast potatoes! Who’ll buy?”
It all looked inviting to Nyctasia, and she wanted to sample everything. A smell of frying meat and spices lured her toward a crowded stall where a young boy was spooning a mixture of meat and vegetables onto thin pieces of dough. A heavyset woman deftly roiled the pasties and set them to sizzle in a greasy pan. A girl was selling them, two for a penny, as fast as the pair could make them. Nyctasia gave her a copper, and received her meat-cakes wrapped in a waxy green leaf. She devoured one of them in a single bite. With the other halfway to her mouth, she suddenly gasped and started to choke.
“I’ve been poisoned! My throat’s afire!” she said hoarsely, as Corson came up to her, chewing one of the spicy delicacies.
“Poisoned! What-who-?” Then Corson saw the uneaten pasty that Nyctasia was still clutching. She started to laugh, and thumped Nyctasia cheerfully on the back.
“Haven’t you ever eaten zhetaris before?”
Nyctasia wiped tears from her eyes. “Asye’s blood! You don’t mean to say they’re supposed to burn like this?”
“If they don’t, they’re no good. These are good,” Corson said with satisfaction, eating Nyctasia’s other zhetari. “They’re festival-food, for harvest time.”
“Barbaric custom!” Nyctasia muttered, hastily drinking down a stoup of goat’s milk offered by a shrewd milkmaid. In her gratitude, she paid the girl three times its worth.
2
“Make way, make way there!” A troupe of tumblers dressed in gaudy tatters shouldered their way through the crowd, and succeeded in clearing a space.
To the beat of a painted tabor, they formed a ring and began to juggle brightly colored wooden balls, tossing them back and forth across the circle, while keeping several aloft at once.
The crowd shouted and clapped to the drumbeat as the dark-skinned jugglers performed an intricate dance, weaving in and out of the circle, never dropping even a single ball. Nyctasia strained her neck to watch them over the shoulders of the onlookers. The drummer bowed, sweeping off his ribboned cap which he proffered to the audience for coins. Meanwhile, the two tallest of the tumblers stretched out a rope between them and a small, nimble woman hoisted herself up onto it.
The drummer took up a pair of charred wooden clubs, their tops smeared with tallow, and dramatically set them alight. He threw both to the rope-dancer, who caught one in each hand and began to juggle them. Soon she was juggling five flaming brands, while the other acrobats scrambled for coins on the ground before the beggar-children could snatch them up.
