Darkwalker on Moonshae - Douglas Niles [12]
“Many thanks, my prince!” acknowledged an old farmer with a broad smile. Tristan reflected that he heard his title only from good friends, or drunks. In a corner of the stall, a lesser bard tried to strum a lively country tune. Several equally lively wenches surrounded the musician, urging him on, dancing and laughing, and kicking high at the growing crowd of onlookers. The festive atmosphere made them ignore the fact that the music was slow and and dissonant, for the bard had not thoroughly mastered his harp. The prince thought it was unfortunate that the greater bards all gathered to play at Caer Callidyr, citadel of the High King, for the spring festival.
Tristan watched with interest, but then Robyn was gone again.
“Come on!” she called before disappearing around a huge green and yellow tent of gleaming silk. The canopy seemed to shine brighter in the torchlight than it had in sunlight, perhaps because of the contrast against the inky background.
Following Robyn around the tent, the men found her staring with interest through a hooded doorway, into a darkened tent interior. Acrid smoke puffed from the entrance, and she coughed slightly.
She started to step through the door when Daryth moved forward. “This is a Calishite tent, Robyn, and I know the odor of the ginyak weed. This is not a place for a young lady.”
“What makes you think I’d be in trouble there?” she asked, a glare in her eye.
“I did not mean to… please!” Daryth stuttered, suddenly nervous. “But trust me, we ought to find our fun elsewhere!”
Robyn looked again at the entrance. Tristan, certain that the headstrong lass would ignore Daryth and charge right in, was more surprised when, without further argument, she spun and turned away.
Brushing past both Daryth and the prince, she walked on. Tristan saw Daryth cast a frightened glance at the tent, and run to catch up with her.
“Here,” Robyn called gaily, rushing to the entrance of another silken tent. They crowded inside and spent several minutes watching a snake charmer artfully coerce his serpentine pets from their large, clay jars. In the back of the tent, the snake charmer displayed, chained to a stout post, a great Firbolg.
The giant slept, so its ferocity could not be tested.
“Look at that nose!” commented the prince, watching the great organ flex with the Firbolg’s heavy snores.
“The poor creature,” said Robyn, with an angry look about the tent. “Keeping it chained up like an animal!”
“It’s worse than an animal,” charged Tristan. “It’s a monster!”
“Some monster!” Robyn snorted. “Old and weary, I would say, and better off wherever it came from!” She stalked off.
Once again, the young men found themselves hurrying through the festival grounds, trying to keep Robyn in sight. Shortly, Tristan found himself in a smoky but huge tent, watching oiled dancers undulate to the jarring rhythm of tiny cymbals and wailing pipes. He would have been willing to watch more of the exotic dance, but he found himself annoyed that Robyn so boldly joined the men in watching the suggestive movements.
“Let’s go,” he said gruffly, and Daryth, too, urged Robyn out of the tent.
One after another, they inspected the tents and pavillions of the fair. Several times they lingered in a meadhall, or wine tent, and the flush of many drinks made the evening whirl more madly than ever. In one such tent, Tristan saw the brawny form of Erian, but the big guard had already collapsed in the corner. In another, they ordered a massive limb of mutton, which Daryth tore into as if half starved.
Other tents offered wares for sale, products of the hardworking craftsmen of the Ffolk. Smooth pottery, colorful wool cloaks and capes, and gleaming steel weapons all displayed the skill of Tristan’s people, and it was not without pride that he compared the fine weapons to the cheaper, iron implements of the northmen.
Robyn bartered with a crone of a weaver-woman for a new cape,