Campas nodded, soberly for once. “In Brodaini society they know what causes offense and what does not,” he said. “Within their own society, the system works.”
“But how can we avoid future revolts, if we’re so constantly giving offense?” Necias repeated. “The Brodaini have been there, in Arrandal, longer than in any of the other cities. Why has there been no revolt?”
“I have a theory, cenors-efellsan,” Campas said. He grinned cynically. “It will do little for our self-esteem, however.”
Necias scowled. “Out with it.”
“We call them Brodaini,” Campas said, “but that’s incorrect. The Brodaini are the warriors, the highest caste but there are three other classes in their society, the servants, the peasants, and the tradesmen. The servants and peasants — Classani, Meningli — are thought to have honor appropriate to their station, but the tradesmen are honorless, ar-demmin. Yet here in Arrandal the Brodaini find themselves in the employ of merchants, and surrounded by commerce.”
“Yes, but it doesn’t make sense,” Necias said. “That should produce tension, not reduce it.”
“Cenors-efellsan, you understand that we are honorless,” the poet repeated. “We are nothing, we are unnoticed, nothing we do matters. The Brodaini have decided to ignore our offenses,” Campas said, his grin rueful, self-mocking, “because we are so low we are beneath their notice.” He gave a short, scornful laugh, and looked up at Necias. His eyes were sober, making a lie of his grin.
“It’s enough to make one think,” he said, “isn’t it, Necias Abeissu?”
CHAPTER 5
Fiona stood at her table in the Square of the Lancers, her hands busy with trickery. She loved this small-work, the sleight-of-hand and misdirection, all the cunning little maneuvers performed with her hands and wits alone. Her hands were good for the work: small, agile, stubby-fingered — long “artistic” fingers would just have got in the way. It was all classic stuff, utilizing none of the alien technology she had brought with her: her mastery of it gave her a small measure of comfort that was otherwise absent. And so the Deuce of Bells leaped from the deck to the gasps of her audience; a pair of spongy balls appeared in an urchin’s palm, and though she slipped for an instant at reuniting the cord cut by the militiaman’s dagger she didn’t think anyone had noticed.
There was tension in the city, that she knew; and before long she knew the reason why, Neda-Calacas in the hands of the Brodaini. Her thoughts had leapt to Kira, who had entered Neda-Calacas eight days before — had she known she was running into a city under occupation? She used her spindle then, routing the call through the ship, and Kira had answered. Yes, she’d reported, the twin cities were a little grim; but things were fairly normal, and no one showed any sign of paying any attention to her that she didn’t want paid. There had been a laugh in her voice; Fiona knew her well enough to know that if she’d any forebodings the laugh wouldn’t have been there. They’d exchanged jokes about the Abessla and agreed to talk again in a few days.
But the tension in Arrandal remained. The militia had increased their drill in the public squares from one day per week to three, causing grumbling among the hucksters, entertainers, and small merchants — the whores, however, were delighted. The mercenary troops were more in attendance, having been granted large cash bonuses by the city to keep them happy, and no doubt producing more joy for the whores.
The Brodaini were scarcely seen at all. Even so Fiona had noticed a certain involuntary movement on the part of the citizens, a kind of furtive look back over the shoulder at the towers of the Brodaini keep, as if at any moment a column of grim soldiery might issue forth.
Otherwise things had been going well. There had been initial expenses: a permit to perform in public, money to the local militia captain to keep disturbances and pickpockets away from her table, more money to the Blue Gang to keep the Red Gangsters away, money to the Red Gang to keep the Blue Gang ditto... so far as she could tell the entire city ran by open bribery. Her fellow performers, however, assured her that things were much better than in the old days, before the rise of Necias, who kept even the Color Gangs honest. And more money had been swallowed up by her indulgence at the public baths, one bath before work and another following.
Her spectacles had created a sensation; hundreds had seen the dragon illusion, the Bower of Bliss illusion, the Amil-Deo illustration. She was paid well and no longer needed to perform for the gallery, but she wanted to: it kept her sharp, it kept her in touch with the city, and it forced her to go out among the crowds instead of huddling in her room, as she wished so often to do.
She knew that her stock would fall rapidly if she performed too many spectacular miracles for the vulgar — the oligarchs wanted something exclusive, for them alone — and so in the Square of the Lancers she chiefly confined herself to the small-work she loved, with the occasional flashy trick to preserve her reputation.
Her performances in the public squares were always well attended, even on days like today when she did nothing but sleight-of-hand. And soon there would be the spectacle at the Acragas palace, where she would reveal her biggest, most spectacular, and most revealing illusion of all.
Fiona found herself dealing more easily with the people, at least on an ordinary, day-to-day basis. The uncertainties that clawed at her were still present, along with the knowledge of her own alienness, but somehow, in the everyday rush, none of that mattered so much. Most people she met she met as Fiona, the Conjuror; discussions were about fees, performances, professional secrets; and when she faced an audience during a performance, it was they who were entering her world, not the other way around. It was only occasionally that the world of Demro intruded: there was that moment, following a performance at a merchant’s palace, that she was bundled into a closet by a drunken princeling, all sour breath, clumsy hands, and bad skin... and then it had been he who was given a surprise, left bent over, clutching his wounded gonads and bleeding snout while Fiona laughed and stalked away.
She gave an unconscious, wolfish smile at the memory, her hands busy with cards. It had been an unpleasant encounter, fortunately brief, and she hoped the young idiot had been taught a lesson — Fiona had learned hers, to be sure. She had enjoyed what she’d done, very thoroughly enjoyed it, and the knowledge of her own ferocity had not terrified her, as it had before. Not faced with deadly attack, she had responded in a non-murderous fashion; the knowledge that her inbuilt reflexes were capable of such discrimination was comforting.
Fiona’s cards flew apart, revealing the solitary ace, and her audience burst into laughter and applause.
She was passing the hat, collecting the white money from her audience, when once again the alarm-bells began to clang in her mind. Stunned for an instant, she performed the gesture to shut off the alarms and turned to Caucas the Model-Builder, who held the next table, and asked him to look after her gear. After his nod she gathered up her skirts and bolted, leaving the surprised audience in her wake, money still jingling in their palms.
She ran flat-out, holding the brim of her cap over her eyes so as to keep it from flying off, dodging among the surprised wayfarers. There was the usual human traffic jam on the Bridge of Panandas Polloiu, navigated with much cursing in three languages, and then a quick left and a half-block run to her hostel. She was in through the common room and up the steep stairs before any of the surprised customers could look up from their suds to call their greetings; she skimmed her cap back down the stairs and clawed back to raise the hood of her privy-coat and seal it around her face.
There was a man leaning on a corridor walclass="underline" fair close-cropped hair, lantern jaw, brown, soiled leather jerkin. He stepped out to block her way. “Are you Fiona the Conjuror?” he asked loudly. “My lord Cavallas Castas would very much like to arrange...”