Mercedes Lackey - Fiddler Fair (anthology)

Jack twisted his face in a grimace of distaste. He looked about as intelligent as a brick wall, but his sleepy blue eyes hid the fact that he missed very little. HRH King Robert the Third of Trihtown had not impressed him. “Shit. Ah hell; King, then. Naw, she ain’t with his bunch. I reckon that youngun came with them trader jippos this mornin’. She’s got that look.”

“What jippos?” Kevin demanded. “Nobody told me about no jippos—”

“Thass cause you was in here, poundin’ away at His Highass’s sword when they rode in. It’s them same bunch as was in Five Point last month. Ain’t no wants posted on ’em, so I figgered they was safe to let be for a bit.”

“Aw hell—” Kevin glanced at the waiting blade, then at the door, torn by duty and duty. There hadn’t been any news about traders from Five Points, and bad news usually traveled faster than good—but—dammit, he had responsibility. As the duly appointed Mayor, it was his job to cast his eye over any strangers to Northfork, apprise them of the town laws, see that they knew troublemakers got short shrift. And he knew damn well what Willum Innkeeper would have to say about his dealing with them so tardily as it was—pissant fool kept toadying up to King Robert, trying to get himself appointed Mayor.

Dammit, he thought furiously. I didn’t want the damn job, but I’ll be sheep-dipped if I’ll let that suckass take it away from me with his rumor-­mongering and back-stabbing. Hell, I have to go deal with these jippos, and quick, or he’ll be on my case again—

On the other hand, to leave King Robert’s sword three-quarters finished—

Fortunately, before he could make up his mind, his dilemma was solved for him.

A thin, wiry man, as dark as the child, appeared almost magically, hardly more than a shadow in the doorway; a man so lean he barely blocked the strong sunlight. He could have been handsome but for the black eyepatch and the ugly keloid scar that marred the right half of his face. For the rest, he was obviously no native of any town in King Robert’s ­territory; he wore soft riding boots, baggy pants of a wild scarlet, embroidered shirt and vest of blue and black, and a scarlet scarf around his neck that matched the pants. Kevin was surprised he hadn’t scared every horse in town with an outfit like that.

“Your pardon—” the man said, with so thick an accent that Kevin could hardly understand him “—but I believe something of ours has strayed here, and was too frightened to leave.”

Before Kevin could reply, he had turned with the swift suddenness of a lizard and held out his hand to the girl, beckoning her to his side. She flitted to him with the same lithe grace he had displayed, and half hid behind him. Kevin saw now that she wasn’t as young as he’d thought; in late adolescence—it was her slight build and lack of height that had given him the impression that she was a child.

“I sent Chali aseeing where there be the smithy,” the man continued, keeping his one eye on Kevin and his arm about the girl’s shoulders. “For we were atold to seek the Townman there. And dear she loves the forge-work, so she stayed to be awatching. She meant no harm, God’s truth.”

“Well neither did I,” Kevin protested, “I was just trying to ask her some questions, an’ she wouldn’t ­answer me. I’m the Mayor here, I gotta know about strangers—”

“Again, your pardon,” the man interrupted, “But she could not give answers. Chali has been mute for long since—show, mouse—”

At the man’s urging the girl lifted the curls away from her left temple to show the unmistakable scar of a hoofmark.

Aw, hellfire. Big man, Kevin, bullying a little cripple. Kevin felt about as high as a horseshoe nail. “Shit,” he said awkwardly. “Look, I’m sorry—hell, how was I to know?”

Now the man smiled, a wide flash of pearly white teeth in his dark face. “You could not. Petro, I am. I lead the Rom.”

“Kevin Floyd; I’m Mayor here.”

The men shook hands; Kevin noticed that this Petro’s grip was as firm as his own. The girl had relaxed noticeably since her clansman’s arrival, and now smiled brightly at Kevin, another flash of white against dusky skin. She was dressed much the same as her leader, but in colors far more muted; Kevin was grateful, as he wasn’t sure how much more of that screaming scarlet his eyes could take.

He gave the man a quick run-down of the rules; Petro nodded acceptance. “What of your faiths?” he asked, when Kevin had finished. “Are there things we must or must not be adoing? Is there Church about?”

Kevin caught the flash of a gold cross at the man’s throat. Well, hey—no wonder he said “Church” like it was poison. A fellow Christer—not like those damn Ehleen priests. This was a simple one-barred cross, not the Ehleen two-barred. “Live and let be” was a Christer’s motto “a godly man converts by example, not words nor force”—which might well be why there were so few of them. Kevin and his family were one of only three Christer families in town, and Christer traders weren’t that common, either. “Nothing much,” he replied. “King Robert, he didn’t go in for religion last I heard. So, what’s your business here?”

“We live, what else?” Petro answered matter-of-factly. “We have livestock for trading. Horses, mules, donkeys—also metal-work.”

“Don’t know as I care for that last,” Kevin said dubiously, scratching his sweaty beard.

“Na, na, not iron-work,” the trader protested. “Light metals. Copper, brass—ornament, mostly. A few kettles, pans.”

“Now that sounds a bit more like! Tell you—you got conshos, harness-studs, that kinda thing? You willin’ to work a swap for shoein’?”

“The shoes, not the shoeing. Our beasts prefer the hands they know.”

“Done.” Kevin grinned. He was good enough at tools or weaponwork, but had no talent at ornament, and knew it. He could make good use of a stock of pretty bits for harnesses and the like. Only one frippery could he make, and that was more by accident than anything else. And since these people were fellow Christers and he was short a peace-offering— He usually had one in his apron pocket; he felt around among the horseshoe nails until his hand encountered a shape that wasn’t a nail, and pulled it out.

“Here, missy—” he said apologetically. “Little somethin’ fer scarin’ you.”

The girl took the cross made of flawed horseshoe nails into strong, supple fingers, with a flash of ­delight in her expressive eyes.

“Hah! A generous apology!” Petro grinned. “And you cannot know how well comes the fit.”

“How so?”

“It is said of my people, when the Christ was to be killed, His enemies meant to silence Him lest He rouse His followers against them. The evil ones made four nails—the fourth for His heart. But one of the Rom was there, and stole the fourth nail. So God blessed us in gratitude to awander wherever we would.”

“Well, hey.” Kevin returned the grin, and a thought occurred to him. Ehrik was getting about the right size to learn riding. “Say, you got any ponies, maybe a liddle horse gettin’ on an’ gentle? I’m lookin’ for somethin’ like that for m’boy.”

The jippo regarded him thoughtfully. “I think, perhaps yes.”

“Then you just may see me later on when I ­finish this.”

Chali skipped to keep up with the wiry man as they headed down the dusty street toward the tsera of their kumpania. The town, of gray wood-and-stone ­buildings enclosed inside its shaggy log palisade depressed her and made her feel trapped—she was glad to be heading out to where the kumpania had made their camp. Her eyes were flashing at Petro with the only laughter she could show. You did not tell him the rest of the tale, Elder Brother, she mindspoke. The part that tells how the good God then granted us the right to steal whatever we needed to live.