Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [11]
*****
“Let’s get back to the festival,” the prince suggested, after Daryth had been shown his new quarters in the barracks.
The Calishite claimed to have no more possessions than those he carried. He had quickly refused Tristan’s suggestion that they visit the galleon in the harbor that had brought him to Corwell. Daryth was pleasant and talkative, but resisted any attempts to question him about his background.
“What’s Calimshan like?” asked Robyn.
Daryth shrugged, but then smiled at her disarmingly.
“Like any powerful nation, I guess. It’s run by the merchants, mostly, under control of the Pasha. I served the Pasha directly – a position of high honor, I suppose.” The Calishite’s tone showed that he thought very little of the honor.
“How about the festival?” prodded the prince, feeling a little thirsty.
“You two go ahead,” said the Calishite. “I’d like to settle in here and relax a bit.”
“You’re coming with us!” Robyn’s tone brooked no argument. “This is the liveliest night Corwell will see until Midsummer, and I’m not going to let you miss it!”
For a moment, it seemed to the prince that a shadow passed across Daryth’s face. Tristan hoped he would disagree with the woman and stay behind, but he relented.
“Very well. Let’s have some fun.”
The golden reflections of sunset still flickered in Corwell Firth as Tristan, Robyn, and Daryth returned to the festival. Many revelers carried torches, and bright lanterns hung from all of the stalls, so the meadow was lit against the darkness. Still, just beyond the periphery of the celebration, the cold spring air was black and mysterious.
In the pocket of light, the spring celebration approached frenzy. Bards struck their harps with enthusiasm, the opposing sounds mingling in the air. Hucksters pressed their wares eagerly, the sellers of meads and ales prospered, and much gold and silver changed hands.
Celebrations of the Ffolk were hard-drinking affairs, and the spring festival washed away a winter’s worth of boredom. In many places, snoring bodies lay along the aisles or underneath the drinking benches. These were ignored by their fellows who could still walk.
The air of the festival made Tristan bubble with enthusiasm and excitement. Daryth observed the festivities with unabashed wonder.
“Twice better than last year’s,” observed the prince, watching Robyn laugh happily, “as it should be.” Then he paused abruptly and his face went blank as he remembered. “The hound. I’d better stop at Pawldo’s and make the arrangements.”
“Did I hear my name?” Tristan looked around to see little Pawldo beaming up at him. Clinging to his arm, looking nervously at them, was a young Halfling maiden.
“Allow me to introduce Allian,” stated Pawldo formally. “My dear, this is Tristan Kendrick, prince of Corwell, the king’s ward, Robyn, and – say, aren’t you -” Pawldo’s eyes widened at the sight of Daryth.
“And this is Daryth of Calimshan,” Tristan interjected, bowing to Allian, who blushed deeply.
“Delighted to meet you all,” she giggled, her voice even higher pitched than Pawldo’s.
“Tristan pulled the leather pouch from his pocket.
“Here’s your money, Pawldo. Forty gold, right?”
“Tch – with a memory like that, you’ll never make a king!” Pawldo grinned. “The figure I recall is fifty!”
“Indeed,” muttered Tristan, counting out ten more gold pieces. “I’ll pick up the hound in the morning.”
“Well, we’re off!” announced the halfling, tucking away the coins. “The halflings of Lowhill are having a big dance tonight!” He and the young maid swiftly melted into the crowd.
“I don’t know where to begin!” cried Robyn, whirling around and trying to see everything.
A pair of tumblers rolled between the companions, and Robyn, startled, stepped backward. “Look!” she called.
Seizing Tristan’s arm, she pulled him along behind the acrobats. But the prince noticed that her other arm was just as warmly clasping Daryth’s.
“Perhaps a cool mug of ale…” the prince suggested.