CHAPTER NINETEEN
Summer is here, the breezes are sweet;
And ripening fruits are ready to eat.
Travel, ye serf, ye servant and thane
To Braedon's Midsummer, where idiots reign.
At last it had come — Midsummer Festival. A time of joyful revelry, humor, and mirth. Some would be the richer for this favorite holiday, for sales were always good; and many more would end up poorer and perhaps wiser. The preparations had been many and varied. Apprentices had worked longer hours than usual, scurrying to and fro to obey their masters as procrastination took its bitter toll. The city itself never looked better than on the dawning of Midsummer Festival-although by the next day's dawn, one often wondered if there had been any point to all the hard work, as Braedon looked much worse immediately after the revelers had retired for the night than it ever looked before.
During the day, with the sun smiling hotly in a cloudless sky, the booths and other makeshift buildings located between the stretches of farmland and the city proper had been crammed to overflowing. Merchants had come from all over the country, and even from Mhar, to sell exotic foods, wines, spices, and bolts of cloth, from warm wool to airy silks to heavy, ornate brocades. Other items, too, could be had if one had the coins-knives, leather shoes, jewels, whalebone carvings.
Deveren had wandered through the crowd, after having left strict orders for "Damir" to stay home. Kyle would have to make an appearance tonight as part of the parade. That was quite enough for Deveren's nerves. At least after tonight, the "season" would be over, and Kyle wouldn't have to make quite so many public appearances. Damir had picked the worst possible time to disappear, and Deveren hoped desperately that all was well with his brother.
Deveren had listened carefully to the various conversations that bubbled about him and had heard nothing of note. There had been no violence perpetrated save for the occasional, and expected, complaint of a "lost" pouch of coins. Now the day had had enough of Braedon's festival, and the sun sank quietly over the ocean to the west. But the lengthening shadows did not discourage the happy throngs that moved easily from fields to streets.
Many of the merchants were still open, hawking their wares from smaller booths in the town. But now most of the activities would take place inside taverns. If the tavern keepers were wise, they'd have taken care to clean their dice and stock up their supplies of ales and wines. Tavern brawls over such things were bad for business.
Business of another sort, too, was being conducted inside the taverns and on the streets. Dozens of women immodestly bared arms, ankles, and generous portions of bosom as they strolled about, a smile at the ready. Like rubies, brocades, or beer, they too could be bought if one had the coins.
In other words, this Midsummer Festival looked to be shaping up like any other. One thing that Deveren definitely didn't like was the conspicuous absence of most of his thieves. Where were they? He'd been everywhere today and hadn't encountered anyone but Rabbit, who was innocuously engrossed in the harmless activity of selling his wares, and Pedric, arguing goodnaturedly over the price of a bolt of brocade. Allika would be with Vervain. But where was Freylis? Clia? Marrika? Khem, and all the others? Perhaps they were lying low during the day, resting; saving their energy for the night's activities. Perhaps. But Deveren suspected something worse.
If there were an attempt to be made on his life, it would be tonight; and if there were any time for the curse borne by the rat's cadre of vermin to spread like wildfire, it would be in this crowd.
The sun had set fully now. He shouldered his way through the crowd to get a good view of the Parade. It wasn't an easy task, for the Parade was one of the most popular events of the whole festival. For one day a year, the Council and any visiting dignitaries were at the "mercy" of the commoners. It was all highly symbolic and completely safe. The Councilmen would march in a procession, hands (not very securely) tied behind their backs as the people teased them (good-naturedly). A Byrnian commoner would be selected at random to be Master of Mischief who would "rule" over the Council for the duration of the (brief) ceremony.
It was touted as a harmless outlet for any frustrations the people of Braedon might have with their leadership. And more than once, good-hearted Vandaris had heard something shouted as jest that he recognized as a real complaint, which he had later brought up at a council meeting. Guards were thick as flies in a slaughterhouse; should anything get out of hand, it would be stopped before it had really begun. Deveren could not recall any incident occurring at the Parade in the thirty-four years that he had lived in Braedon. Still, he mused; still…
A roar went up. The Parade was beginning. Deveren craned his neck, trying to see over the crowd in the dim lighting provided by lamps and torches along the street.
"Oh, no," he groaned softly.
"Damir," the visiting ambassador, led the procession. Kyle skipped stupidly down the street, his hands tied behind his back. A parti-colored, garishly hued cap with more feathers than Deveren had ever seen on a real, living bird was perched atop his dark head, and the idiot grin he was wearing pleased the crowd no end. Behind him, wearing a face that had been painted on and did not entirely hide the tired, worn expression, was Vandaris. He still wore black, in mourning for his dead daughter.
A slight tug on his hand caused Deveren to glance down. It was Allika. She grinned up at him. Was she here for the Parade, or did she have news from Vervain? Deveren had just opened his mouth to ask her when a gleeful roar of approval made him glance forward, just in time to see "Damir" execute a flip in the air, only to sprawl helplessly in a pile of horse dung. Friendly hands helped him up, but deliberately didn't bother cleaning him off. Deveren thought curses. Kyle was certainly going to give himself away if he wasn't more careful.
But he softened his mental rebuke almost instantly. Kyle was having the first real fun he'd had in days. He was an actor performing before an adoring throng; finally in his own element. He didn't have to feign dignity, not in the Parade. He could relax and play a little. Who was Deveren to deny him that meager comfort? And certainly the real Damir wouldn't have pleased the crowd quite so much. Deveren smiled a little at the thought of his dignified brother with horse manure on his welltailored clothes.
Another tug on his hand, more insistent. A second time Deveren bent to listen to the girl, and a second time the spontaneous roar from the crowd drowned out anything she might have needed to say. "Hail to the Master!" came a cry that was picked up and repeated. "Hail to the Master!"
The crowd rippled, moved to let this year's Master of Mischief enter. Deveren couldn't quite see who it was, as the figure was on the short side and the traditional heavy fur robes-the contrast between the hot weather and the heavy robes was meant to point up the foolishness of the whole thing-turned his shape into a large, furry, brown lump.
Then the Master of Mischief turned. He was smiling and waving the customary Rod of Ridicule gaily, but Deveren's heart turned to ice within his chest.
It was Khem.
The selection was random. Anybody who wasn't in a high position in the local or national government and who didn't own land was eligible to be chosen for the role of Master of Mischief. But Khem-a thief who had been spotted by Allika in the act of helping to bring a curse upon Braedon- here, now, in this position… The hairs along Deveren's arms crawled and he rubbed them unconsciously. Like his brother, Deveren Larath had seen too much to believe in coincidence.