Chapter 23 #2
I give him a skeptical look. “It does. I wouldn’t have thought that was a great loss.” How good can any dessert made from a favorite field snack of soldiers be?
The courtesan chuckles and tugs me with him into the throng. “You’ll be surprised then. I don’t care for the stuff dried as army rations, but it’s got a lot to recommend about it when cooked fresh.”
We squeeze through the crowded square to a stall selling small paper cones filled with the jelly-like pudding, designed to be eaten straight out of the disposable dish. I lap up a little with my tongue, and my eyes widen at the tartly sweet flavor with a tang that’s almost spicy.
“Okay, you’ve proven me wrong. What other delights have I been missing out on?”
Alek’s smile turns a bit sly in that way that makes my chest flutter. “All the best weapons-smiths have their goods on display. I saw some skillfully crafted throwing knives for sale.”
Casimir guides me onward. “And you won’t want to miss the cavalry show.”
I release my first real laugh in days. “All right, all right. Apparently you know me better than I know myself.”
They’ve gone all sappy, Julita remarks, in a tone almost as tart as the bloodfruit. We do have a job to do here too. I hope they won’t forget.
She doesn’t say anything about me forgetting it, but I immediately feel a pang of guilt. As we continue on through the courtyard, I keep my eyes peeled for any other familiar forms.
I don’t know the members of the bug club all that well. It’s hard to recognize much of anyone beneath the helms.
Over by the smiths’ stalls, a group of duelists and soldiers are putting on a series of sparring matches—some with each other with flashy moves, and others open to challengers from the crowd.
While I allow myself to buy a particularly appealing little dagger that might give my current favorite a run for its money, one of the fighters plants his fists in another’s face, making blood spurt from his opponent’s nose to match his scarlet jacket.
Farther along, the hunter’s guild shows off a rack of skins from various slain animals. Illusionary images of deer and hare romp in the air above their stall, periodically crumpling with the strike of a conjured spear.
They’ve set up a compact archery range for revelers to try their luck at shooting one of the very real pigeons whose wings they’ve clipped. A little girl squeals in victory when her arrow hits its mark with a thud of the feathered body.
This is a celebration dedicated to the godlen who presides over sports and hunting as well as warfare. But taking it all in, my stomach sinks.
Are the scourge sorcerers totally wrong? The ones who’ve spoken to me have claimed that the gods want us animalistic and wild, not bound by strict standards of behavior.
It certainly appears that at least one of the godlen would rather see us bloody and squabbling than maintaining lawful peace.
Why would the All-Giver have created a godlen like Sabrelle at all if he didn’t approve?
Why haven’t the lesser gods intervened more forcefully if they’re unhappy about what the scourge sorcerers are doing? If Kosmel knows, surely others have noticed the conspiracy too.
The trickster godlen seems to want me to interfere, but I don’t really know why. Or what ultimate outcome he’s looking for.
I’m drawn out of those uneasy thoughts at the sight of the bug club’s demonstration up ahead. Alek lets out a disgusted sound, but we all go over together.
The scholar hasn’t forgotten our purpose, no matter what snarky remarks Julita makes.
Several bug club members stand around a semi-circle of small terrariums, with a large glass tank in the middle of their assigned area. As we approach, two of the students are just dropping a couple of beetles nearly as large as their palms into the central tank.
The hulking insects lumber toward each other, and Julita’s presence cringes in my head. Then I’m suppressing a cringe of my own as one of the beetles hurls itself at the other and wrenches off a jointed leg.
Ah. So this is how the entomology club celebrates Sabrelle—by staging bug fighting matches. Lovely.
It does fit the general theme of the celebration.
I jerk my gaze away from the battle of bugs and scan the figures staging the fight.
One of them grins, and I identify him as Olari from the gleam of steel teeth between his lips. His decorative helm has a little red tassel, and he’s wearing a dark gray belt with red stitching over his tunic. That should help me recognize him if he roams into the crowd later.
With a couple of the others, I catch enough of a glimpse of their features to connect them to students I’ve observed on campus. The rest I’m not sure of—they could be from the second group that Alek suspects isn’t involved in the illicit magic part of the club’s practices.
I commit the most distinctive details of their clothing to memory and then turn away. “I think I’ve had enough of that.”
Casimir tucks his arm around my waist. “Let’s find those horses. It’s amazing what the top trainers can coax them to do.”
It’s obvious that he and Alek are committed to making the event as enjoyable as possible for me, no matter what else I have on my mind.
We watch a parade of horses prance by and perform several feats of agility and strength with their riders.
Then Alek pulls me over to a stall serving freshly steamed dumplings that I happily devour a handful of.
The scholar points out the scrolls unfurled by a bookshop’s storefront, missives from old historical battles that I can tell he’s itching to carry back to the library.
I give him a teasing nudge with my elbow. “I could probably arrange for a few of those to end up in your possession.”
Alek looks vaguely horrified, but on my behalf rather than at the suggestion. “I wouldn’t ask you to take that risk—”
“Oh, it’d barely be any.” I pause. “But I suppose I should stay on my best behavior in all things not strictly necessary, given everything else I’ve been getting up to.”
Before my uneasy melancholy can settle over me again, Casimir waves us on toward a dog breeder’s tent. “It looks like the royal houndsman has a new litter on offer. Who doesn’t like puppies?”
I have to admit that the sight of the furballs tussling and tumbling does lift my spirits a little.
I want to sink into the strange sense of normalcy I’m tasting traces of, wandering around the festivities with two men who somehow want to be here with me.
But every time I glance up, I need to be watching for the bug club members on the move.
I’m always at least a little aware of the cluster of guards around the royal procession.
Finally, the peal of the bell tells me it’s time to help out with the college’s military performance.
I hustle over to the space set aside for Stavros and the three other professors who organized the display and hand out the assigned weaponry to the participating students like a good little assistant.
As the professors and students launch into a re-enactment of one of the most famous historical battles, I take a step back from the ring.
A jaunty voice speaks softly by my shoulder. “You should be over there putting them all to shame with your skills, Knives.”
I chuckle and glance over at Benedikt, who’s come up behind me. Always a fan of luxury, he’s gone with a gold-plated helm that I can’t imagine any actual warrior wearing into battle, and his striped jacket is as much gold as red as well.
I can’t say the look doesn’t suit him.
“I don’t think they’d appreciate me changing the course of history,” I retort.
“Oh, I don’t think anyone could fail to appreciate you once they witnessed those impressive skills.” He pauses. “I saw you surveying the crowd earlier. You’ve been making the rounds with Casimir and Alek?”
There’s a hint of tension in his voice that I know I’m not imagining, because Julita picks up on it too. Why is he asking? Who else would he expect you to spend your time with?
“We bumped into each other early on,” I say. “You could have joined us.”
“Oh, I was having plenty of fun with my dormmates. It was just a little odd—when I showed up for the meeting yesterday, it almost felt as if you all had been discussing things for quite a while already.”
A prickle of apprehension runs down my back. “Just a little small talk while we waited for you to show up.”
Benedikt’s hum sounds skeptical. “You were awfully vague about that last trial our ‘friends’ put you through.”
I didn’t mention my actual last trial in front of him at all, only the one from the night before. But he doesn’t know that.
I force my tone to stay dry. “They aren’t exactly pleasant memories. I don’t see how they’re all that useful beyond the little bits of information I’ve been able to pick up.”
“True, true. Our conspirators do have an interesting way of seeing the world, don’t they?”
Again, his tone niggles at me—and not just me.
What’s he getting at? Julita murmurs.
I shake my head ruefully. “If by ‘interesting’ you mean absolutely horrifying, then yes. Oh!”
I’ve just caught sight of Ster. Torstem, his embroidered stags glinting in the lantern-light that’s glowing through the falling dusk. The stout man is shouldering through the crowd… directly toward the procession that includes the royal family.
Julita’s voice sharpens. And what is he aiming for?
I’d better find out. Of course the law professor would approach the king while Stavros is occupied.
Benedikt follows my gaze. His tone turns bitter as it drops even lower. “Yes, let us all fawn before the great King Konram.”
He’s obviously in a sour mood in general.
“Maybe I’ll cross paths with you later,” I tell him hurriedly, and set off after Torstem.
The royal procession has come to a stop by a booth offering mulled wine, just beyond the houndsman’s tent. Ster. Torstem sidles closer to them and dips his hand into his pocket.
What is he up to? He definitely doesn’t look as if he has any legitimate reason to catch the king’s attention.
And who knows if his illicit sorcery will allow him to launch some kind of surreptitious attack right through the host of guards around the royals?
We have to stop him, Julita frets. But if he realizes you interfered, it’ll ruin all the progress you’ve made with his sycophants.
I grit my teeth, my gaze searching the crowd. How can I alert the guards to a potential threat when he doesn’t look threatening at all—and without Torstem realizing I’m doing the alerting?
My magic lurches to the ready with a smack against my ribs, but I shove it right back down with a clench of my jaw. It’s hurt enough people in the past few days.
My attention settles on the nearby tent. Maybe I simply need to provide a different “threat” to disrupt the guards’ current complacency.
I slip around the back of the tent, drawing my new knife. No time like the present to break it in.
Listening carefully to make sure there’s no one near that corner of the structure, I slit the ties holding two folds of fabric in place. Then I duck down and lean inside just long enough to sever the ropes securing a few of the larger hounds to their post.
With a silent apology to the animals, I pick up a sharp stone from the ground and flick it into one of the dog’s haunches, right by his fellow beast’s muzzle.
The first hound lunges around, sure he’s been nipped. The second barks at the sudden hostility. In a matter of seconds, they’re chasing each other and the third hound in their midst out of the tent, snapping and baying at each other.
The nearby crowd scatters. Torstem himself has to stumble to the side to avoid being bowled over.
The royal guards draw even closer around their charges. I catch one’s comment to the king: “I believe we should move on from this commotion, Your Highness.”
King Konram must decide he’s had enough commotion in general, because the procession weaves its way back toward the palace, only stopping for a moment here and there for the royal family to give their greetings.
I lean back against the nearest building with a sigh of relief. Ster. Torstem can’t follow them right into the palace.
But I don’t even know what disaster I might have averted.