Thorn took the black goat’s halter and led him forward to where Loke had found a spot to his liking just beside the hedge. The younger boy had already begun to spread out his wares on an old blanket, brown hides and rust, cream and black, and the blankets woven in the same tones, their patterns of song and myth catching a slash of light from between the feet of the statue. Thorn grinned at Loke; the boy could hardly wait to begin trading. Thorn left him to it, as his brother preferred, and began to walk among the wagons, wondering at the richness of the wares. He moved alternately in sun and in shadow, where canvas roofs had been spread to shelter the displays of silks and linens and copper pots, of enamelled brassware and carved chairs and fancy harness and bright-dyed leather goods, and of sweets—soursugar and saffron drops, bars of honeywax from Doonas, and even dates and onyrood pods from Moramia, dipped in crystalized sugar. Thorn’s mouth watered at the sight of them; he slipped two coins from his belt and bought soursugar and onyrood and took them to share with Loke, coming away again to prowl at more length among the crowds—a rare holiday, this, and the sun warm on his back. He felt an unaccustomed satisfaction with the color and the noise and the crowds, he who was usually happiest alone.
But there was a disquiet in him, too. He kept remembering the small figure standing in the darkness beside his prison bars. He watched for her in the crowd and thought of the line of her chin and the way her brown hair fell over her shoulders.
He remembered last year’s Singing, the way she had played her gaylute, and had sung “Jajun Jajun” and “Smallsinger Tell Me.” He remembered her dancing wildly while Shanner played for her.
She had changed a lot, he thought. She had been a child then.
He thought of her dark eyes, and wanted to ask her—ask her what? He looked up and searched the crowd as if he would see her suddenly then stepped aside as two Kubalese on great heavy horses came around from behind a wagon. How could they show their faces, with Urobb so lately slaughtered? Why did the Landmaster allow them in Burgdeeth? He stared after them coldly.
There was a Sangurian ballad troop in one wagon, and Thorn stood for a while listening to the man and his three women singing softly the stories of Bede Thostle and the Goosetree of Madoc, and of the Demon of Sangur Neck. Then when he turned away to wander once more, he came around a little tent with brass wares from Pelli, and he stopped suddenly, to stare.
The man was turned away from Thorn, but the set of his shoulders was familiar as he adjusted the harness of a fine butternut mare. His white hair caught the light. His tall thin frame seemed taut and hard as a sapling. The wagon the mare pulled was brighter than any on the square, painted with birds and flowers in every color you could name. And across its side, in letters lined with gold, were the words, JUGGLER AND MASTER OF TRICKS. As Thorn stood staring, the man turned; one quick motion, and he was looking into Thorn’s eyes; and Thorn knew at once he must not speak or recognize him in any way.
“Fancy my wagon, do you, boy?” the old man said lightly in a manner of speech that was certainly not his own and loud enough for people to hear. “Fancy a trick or two? Silver, boy!” The old man’s voice was loud and beguiling. “Silver will get you a trick . . .” But Thorn grumbled something rude and turned away as if he were not interested. He could feel Anchorstar’s satisfaction, feel his warm and silent greeting so his own pulse raced as he turned indifferently to examine a display of tin. The old man took the team’s heads and backed the wagon into an alley. Thorn turned in time to see the two horses’ noses bobbing as they guided their burden out of the way. He knew Anchorstar would speak to him later, speak privately.
It was not a snake’s breath later that he rounded the square and heard Loke’s voice raised in anger, heard one of the bucks bellow a challenge. Alarmed, he leaped across a wagon tongue and some barrels to come around the statue’s hedge.
A group of children had gathered around the bucks as children usually did, to admire them and to push their hands into the thick wool coats and grin at their warmth and silkiness, to pull a head down and feel the spiraling horns; the bucks could be bad-tempered with an adult, but were patient enough with children.
But it was not the children, laughing with delight, that had caused Loke’s shout and the angry bellow. The cream buck stood apart with his head lowered and his ears back, ready to charge. His quarry was the dark Kubalese, Kearb-Mattus. The man cowered, now, against a wagon. Had he been teasing the animal? The cream buck, the worst tempered of the lot, did not take to strangers. Thorn took his halter and settled him. Loke’s face was red with anger. “He was feeling in the pack, he said it was a game.”
Thorn gave Loke a restraining look and turned to face the Kubalese. “What were you doing?”
Kearb-Mattus smiled, his body relaxing now. “It was a game, friend. A game for the children—a game of hide-and-search. Come, let us have a game, it’s innocent enough. What say you, goatman?” A curious crowd had gathered. Thorn studied the Kubalese closely; then he caught a glimpse of Anchorstar moving in through the crowd, and the sudden command of Anchorstar’s thoughts was plain. Thorn swallowed his temper and stepped back.
“Play your game then, Kubal. One game.”
The Kubalese looked mildly surprised. Loke went pale with fury.
“Play your game,” Thorn repeated, at Anchorstar’s silent command. The Kubalese held up his hand and a gold piece flashed bright between his fingers; the crowd caught its breath; the children stepped forward with a sigh of longing. Such a coin would buy sweets they could not count. Kearb-Mattus smiled, turned his back, and began to rummage among the packs and into the bucks’ thick coats. You couldn’t tell where he hid the coin. Or did he still have it? The bucks shifted their feet and twitched their ears nervously, but Thorn spoke to them and they quieted. The children watched the Kubalese without blinking. When he was finished, be made a signal and they scattered at once, searching frantically.
All but three. Three children held back, stood close together to stare up at the Kubalese. Kearb-Mattus pretended not to see them, but Thorn thought his interest was keen. One of them, the smallest boy, darted a quick glance at the black buck then looked away at once; the other two followed his gaze. Kearb-Mattus’s voice rose, “Sweets it will buy, sweets and wonders . . . The little boy—Toca, Thorn thought, Toca Dreeb—had a hot pink look about him as if he could hardly contain himself. Then suddenly for no apparent reason he turned and melted into the crowd. The other two followed him.
Kearb-Mattus scowled, stood for a moment uncertain, then clapped his hands. “Hunt’s over, children! Time’s up! No one found the gold piece.” He walked to the black buck and drew the coin from deep beneath its saddle. “Game’s over,” he roared, “No one was quick enough this time.” He turned to go, but Thorn stepped into his path.
The Kubalese raised his hand to push past, making Thorn’s temper flare. He grabbed the man’s wrist and twisted the coin from his fingers. He felt Anchorstar’s distress too late, ignored it in his fury.
“It’s not over, Kubal! You said the finder would keep the coin, and that implies a finder. They had too little time. Hide the coin again. Or shall I?”
The Kubalese’s look was black. He raised his fist—it was like a ham . . .
But before he could swing, his arm was grabbed from behind and twisted until he knelt. Anchorstar stood over him; he scowled down at the Kubalese, then nodded to Thorn to continue speaking.
“Hide it,” Thorn said.
“Why should I?” The Kubalese was furious.