CHAPTER THREE
Cessation of the rain brought the inhabitants of Robann outdoors in great numbers. Early in the morning, the farmers found the throngs in the streets so thick they could scarcely make any headway. Raika and Hume had come with them, leaving the too-conspicuous Khorr behind in the stable.
“Who knew-oof! — there were so many-ow! — people in the world?” Wilf said, trying to shoulder through the crowd.
The Saifhumi woman told the young farmer that none of these people lived here. They were all drifters, soldiers of fate and fortune. By winter, none of them would be in this province.
“Where will they go?” asked Nils.
“Wherever there’s money or jobs,” said Raika.
“Or to their graves,” Hume added.
They split up once again, Raika going with Wilf and Caeta, Hume following Malek and Nils. Raika parted the mob ahead of her with ill-grace, pushing idle conversants apart and shoving dawdlers aside. Some took exception to this, but one look at the towering sailor, her large hands and taut muscles, and they sullenly let her and her companions pass.
The companions did not do so well that morning, even with Raika beside them to give weight to their purpose. They were laughed out of four taverns, three inns, and ejected bodily from a pawnbroker’s warehouse. The broker was buying up arms sold by out-of-work warriors, and the presence of recruiters, even shabby ones, disturbed his business.
Hot, tired, and discouraged, Caeta and Wilf sat down by the only public work in all of Robann, the Pool of the Skymistress. This was a shallow, stone-lined basin. A very old, very worn statue of the ancient goddess of healing stood in the center, water dribbling from her open hands. Caeta cupped her hand in the pool and brought some liquid to her lips. Thirsty as she was, she quickly spat it out.
“Bad?” Wilf was thirsty himself.
“Foul.” Caeta looked up at the eroded face of the goddess, feeling very old herself. “Nothing in this town is fair.”
They sat down on the rim of the pool. Raika mopped her brow with a scrap of homespun. She dipped it in the water, wrung it out, and tied it around her neck for cooling.
The pool was in a small, irregular square in the northwest quarter of town. This had once been the elves’ quarter, and while there were more of them about than in other parts of town, they no longer predominated. The stream of folk striding, shuffling, or sauntering past the seated trio was much the same as before-humans mostly, with the odd dwarf, goblin, or kender. The gang ruling this part of town was still made up of elves exclusively, the strangely named Brotherhood of Quen.
Across the square, the crowd stirred. Voices multiplied and grew loud. Raika stood up to see what was causing the commotion.
A pair of elves strode toward the center of the square followed by a pack of curious onlookers. At the center of the park, just a few yards from the Pool of the Skymistress, they halted, turned their backs to each other, and began pacing off a gap between them. Raika recognized this scene.
She said, “Stand up. This is worth seeing.”
Wilf helped Caeta stand. They could only see over the crowd by standing on the moldy rim of the pool. Wilf clutched Raika’s arm for support until the latter’s cold glare caused him to gingerly remove his hand.
“What’s happening?” Caeta asked.
“Watch.”
The square was forty yards wide. The two elves stood, some thirty yards apart. Between them the ground was clear. Everyone else in the square kept back. Each elf was handed a clay flagon by one of the party that had followed them in. This they placed on top of their bare heads, holding it in place until they stood upright and steady. One of the elves was slim and fair-haired, dressed in a sky-blue tunic and wearing knee-high suede boots. He looked rich and confident. Facing him, the other elf was black-headed and swarthy, a forester of the kind who usually painted their faces with strange designs. He was garbed like a woodland hunter in a tight green leather jersey, trews, and ankle boots. His garments were well covered with stitched-up tears and patches.
A young human, dark-skinned like Raika, came out of the crowd. Like a herald, he proclaimed loudly, “Take out your slings!”
The elves produced identical slings of braided twine, with deerskin pouches for their sling-stones.
“Load one stone!”
Carefully, so as not to disturb the vessels balanced on their heads, the elves each pulled out a smooth river stone from their respective belt pouches. They loaded these into the slings.
The speaker stepped back. He cried, “Loose when you will!”
The fair elf raised his right arm and started whirling his sling, taking care not to strike the tankard poised on his head. His opponent whirled his weapon with his hand at his side, almost lazily.
The crowd erupted with partisan shouts for one elf or the other. Caeta and Wilf heard cries for “Amergin” and “Solito” in equal measure. They couldn’t tell who was who.
After a long windup, the fair elf loosed his missile. The quartz pebble flew swiftly at the dark elf’s head. At what seemed like the last possible moment, the forester looped his stone into the air. Incredibly, the projectiles collided in mid-air a few feet in front of the dark-haired contestant. Caroming off each other, the stones whizzed away. Wilf heard one crash into something behind him-something that broke loudly.
The mob cheered. Puzzled, Wilf muttered, “What are they trying to prove?”
“It’s a duel,” Raika replied. “One of them is going to die.”
It didn’t seem likely, given the carnival atmosphere. However the farmers noticed that while the crowd was boisterous and cheerful, the elves were utterly serious.
Without being prompted, they reloaded their slings. Again they whirled their weapons in differing styles, the swarthy elf slow and deliberate, the blond elf with eye-blurring speed. This time the forester threw first, and his missile was deflected away by a well-aimed fling by his opponent.
Money and goods changed hands in the crowd. A chant of “Three! Three!” began. Nodding slowly to each other, the elves loaded a new stone each, and quick as they did, both hurled at the same time. As close together as two events could be, both tankards exploded in a spray of red clay fragments.
The blond elf stalked to the center of the square and flung out a hand at his opponent, pointing. A hush fell over the raucous mob.
“You see!” he shouted. “I am as good as you!”
The forester combed potshards from his hair with his fingers. “No,” he said coldly. “You lost.”
“We broke each other’s cups at the same time!”
“Mine hit first. Yours broke before mine did.”
He turned to go, but the well-dressed elf charged in, caught his arm, and spun the dark-haired elf around.
“Once more then! Without cups!” he cried.
An acorn falling on the cobbles would have shattered the sudden hush. The forester looked up at his taller antagonist with wide, black eyes.
“You know what you’re saying, don’t you?”
“Stand to your place!” was the haughty answer. The blue-clad elf stalked back to his spot, while the forester calmly resumed his stance.
“Fifty steel on Solito!” someone yelled.
“Shut up!” A scuffle broke out to the farmers’ right, quickly squelched by those watching.
Instead of stones, this time the elves loaded sling-stars, flat pieces of iron or bronze with four to six razor-sharp points. Thrown by an expert, a star point could pierce plate armor.
This time, as Solito raised his arm to spin his weapon, his opponent made a single underhand swing and let fly. Wilf and Caeta followed the glittering bronze missile in flight. One point buried itself in the center of Solito’s forehead. Stricken, his own star flew wildly away. It flashed between Raika and Wilf. The Saifhumi woman stood her ground. Wilf threw himself backward into the pool to avoid the hissing projectile.