corson pushed her way into the crowds thronging the busy marketplace. “Hlann take her,” she muttered, “misbegotten witch!”
She wandered through the square, fingering the heavy pouch at her side, and the weight of the coins soon restored her good temper. On every side were merchants’ stalls piled high with all manner of goods. Corson admired velvets and rich brocades, brass lanterns and stout carved chests. She passed a potter at his wheel, shaping a graceful bowl.
Further on, a woman had set up a brazier and was cooking meat and vegetables spitted on wooden sticks. Fat dripped down onto the coals, and the smoke was fragrant with thyme and rosemary. Corson bought a skewer and walked along eating it. Across the way, a gypsy child with a draggled peacock on a leash was offering the feathers to passersby, two for a silver penny.
She would ordinarily have lingered in the marketplace, but today Corson was eager to get to The Jugged Hare. And there was still the matter of Lady Nyctasia’s passage out of Chiastelm to take care of. She threw the stick to the ground and wiped her mouth on her sleeve. Steifann might know of a trustworthy cargo-runner-he’d once worked on the docks, and many sailors frequented his tavern. She should be able to find out what she wanted to know without mentioning Lady Nyctasia.
But as she set off in the direction of The Jugged Hare, her attention was drawn by the faint sound of bells and a heady fragrance of incense, both wafting from a small striped tent in a far corner of the marketplace. As she came nearer, she could see wind-chimes and silver bells hanging from the awning, with prisms and pendants of crystal strung among them.
Corson hesitated. Like most soldiers, she was a reckless spendthrift, and the more outlandish and costly the merchandise, the more it appealed to her. She was itching to spend some of her hard-won gold, but if she went right to The Jugged Hare, Steifann would insist that she put most of it aside for safekeeping. That decided her.
She had to stoop to pass the curtained entranceway, but inside the tent there was room enough to stand straight. The ground was covered with a scarlet carpet, strewn with a tantalizing array of candlesticks and vases, bright scarves, bowls of beaten brass and figurines of jade. Strings of glass beads spilled from an open chest. Corson stepped through the haze of perfumed smoke, lit only by hanging oil-lamps, and examined in turn a damask sash and an ivory-handled knife. Kneeling by the chest, she fingered pearl necklaces and brooches of nacre in silver filigree.
The proprietor, who had paid no attention to her at first, now came up and made her a deep bow.
“Good day to you, Star of Warriors. Which of my humble trinkets has pleased you?”
Corson shrugged disdainfully. “These are pretty toys, but I’ve no use for such things.”
He spread his hands in resignation. “Ah, no doubt your many lovers have showered you with treasures. It is no wonder you are indifferent to my poor baubles. And, in truth, a woman as fair as yourself has no need of further adornment. But if you permit me, I will show you the one thing that such beauty requires.” He invited Corson to sit on a tasseled cushion while he fetched a coffer of rosewood from a corner of the tent. From this he drew forth something swathed in cream-colored silk, and Corson watched in amusement as he ceremoniously unwound the wrappings.
“Perfection is not to be enhanced, but enjoyed,” he said, and held up before her an ornate silver hand mirror.
She took it from the merchant carefully, almost reverently, and studied the delicate molding of the frame and the intricate chased patterns on the back and handle. Her fascination was plain to see.
“It is a good piece,” the man said casually. “You understand that I do not show it to you to sell, but only because I know that you will appreciate the artistry of the work. I would not insult you by mentioning money.”
“A gold crescent for it,” said Corson.
He laughed. “My dear child, those engravings were three years in the making. It is a gift at five.”
“Sir, I am only a poor soldier-but I do admire genius. A gold crescent and six in silver.”
“Poverty is a widespread disease. I myself,” he sighed, “have devoted my life to beauty. It is not a lucrative profession. Four gold crescents.”
Corson got up to leave, shaking her head. “It grieves me, but
…” She held out her hands to demonstrate their emptiness.
“I defame the artist who made this his life’s work,” he murmured, as if to himself. “Three gold crescents.”
“Done,” said Corson, and they both smiled. After a further exchange of compliments, she took her leave and stepped out into the sunlight, blinking.
“What an old thief!” she thought. “Star of Warriors!”
She had not gone far before she took the mirror from her pack and lovingly examined it again, grinning in anticipation of the scolding she’d get from Steifann for her extravagance.
In Corson’s rootless existence, Steifann was the one steadying influence. The Jugged Hare was her only home, and Steifann and his people her family. He kept her money and belongings for her, worried about her, argued with her, and had a lecherous nature that equaled her own. Though she never stayed in one place for long, Corson came back to the Hare whenever she could.
She’d first strayed into the tavern on a rainy night some years back, already half-drunk, and in a foul temper. Not only was she tired, wet and hungry, but she’d lost all her money gambling at The Pelican.
“Pelicans!” she muttered, and sat down at a table in a dark corner.
“Vultures-all of them! They cheated me.” She looked around the room miserably.
It was late and the place was nearly empty. “And I’m lonely.”
A serving-woman came over and asked if she wanted something to eat or drink.
“Both,” said Corson promptly. She took the woman’s hand and kissed it. “What’s your name, pretty one?” But the woman only gave her an arch smile and walked away, hips swaying.
“What’s the difference?” Corson thought. “I can’t pay for anything anyway.”
She was served a cold supper of roast beef, cheese and a loaf of bread, which she tried to gulp down as quickly as possible, since she expected to be thrown out at any moment.
Then the serving-woman put a mug of ale before her, and held out her hand for payment. “A silver crescent, please.”
Corson stuffed some meat into her mouth and shrugged. The woman waited.
“Go to The Pelican,” Corson growled. “I left all my money there.” She yawned and leaned her head on her hand.
“Steifann!” the woman called.
“Asye take them all,” thought Corson. “I want to go to sleep.”
Then a tall, broad-chested man with thick black hair and beard came out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on his pants. “What’s the matter, Annin?”
The woman pointed to Corson.
“You, get out of here,” he said, advancing on her threateningly. He had green eyes and fair skin.
Corson was in love.
She looked up at him with a ravishing smile. She rarely met anyone as tall as herself. “I like green eyes,” she said.
Steifann jerked his head towards the door. “Up!”
Corson could have wept. She was still hungry, she had no place to sleep, she had no money, it was raining, and now a man she found overwhelmingly attractive was trying to throw her out into the street. “It’s not fair,” she mumbled. “Go away.”
She watched him from the corner of her eye, and when he bent over to grab her arm she shoved the table into his stomach and sprang to her feet, leaving him doubled over and gasping.
When he’d recovered his breath, he leaned on the table and told Corson in a tense, quiet voice precisely what manner of lice-ridden bitch he, Steifann, considered her to be. Then he vividly described how she might amuse herself after he had thrown her into the gutter where she belonged.
But Corson wasn’t listening. When he came at her again, she backed away, laughing. “I think you’re beautiful,” she said, and hit him on the jaw. Steifann staggered against the table, lost his balance and fell, dragging Corson down with him. He rolled on top of her and tried to pound her head against the floor.
Corson didn’t even try to fight him off. Instead, she wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him closer, sliding her hands under his clothing. “Don’t go,” she protested, as he leaped up, gasping, his face red. Annin and the few remaining customers stood staring, while a cook and serving-boy watched from the kitchen doorway.
“Get her out of here!” Steifann shouted at them. “Call the watch if you have to, but get rid of her!” He strode into another room and slammed the door behind him.
Heartbroken, Corson got to her feet, gazing at the sturdy oak door. She towered over everyone in the room.
Annin and the cook looked at each other. “You heard him,” said Annin. “Get her out of here.”
“I’m the father of children! You get rid of her!”
“What’s back there?” demanded Corson.
“That’s Steifann’s quarters!” the kitchen-boy said gleefully, before the others could stop him.
Corson made up her mind, crossed to the door and kicked it open. From within, they heard Steifann yell furiously, “You rutting cur, get out of here! I’ll kill you!”
“No!” The door slammed again. “Don’t be a fool!” Sounds of struggling and cursing ensued, followed by a crash of falling furniture.
“Stop that, you-”
“Why?”
“… uhh…” The room became very quiet.
“Maybe they’ve killed each other,” Annin whispered.
“Do you want to go in and find out?”
“Not I.” They shooed out the last customers and began gathering the dirty platters and righting the overturned table and chairs. Annin bolted the shutters. A scullion started sweeping the floor.
Suddenly, the silence was punctuated by a series of deep, staccato cries. The kitchen-boy giggled. “That’s the way I want to die,” he sang, snatching up the broom and dancing around with it.
“Put out the lamps, Trask!” Annin ordered. “You useless brat!”