She stretched ostentatiously, and yawned. "I guess. Just as good as bein' out here, an' it's warmer in there."
Robin waited until two more had volunteered before offering herself. Once again, no one gave her more than a second glance, not even the secondary chief who'd come for the volunteers. A moment later she was inside the "guest-house," in a large room heated to semitropic temperatures by an enormous fire in the fireplace. That was the only source of light; either the Clan Chiefs enjoyed this attempt to get the "feel" of an outdoor meeting, or else the Bishop did not trust them around candles and the resulting wax-drips on his furniture and paneling.
If so, he was wise, at least so far as Robin could tell. The carpet had been treated as if it was a dirt floor; the table was crusted with spills that had never been cleaned up, and the sideboard was in the same shape. The Bishop's furniture would never look as good as it once did, and he might have to replace it all after this.
There were platters of food waiting on the sideboard, and tall bottles of wine. In the dim light it was difficult to tell just what the food was, other than in the general sense of "meat," "bread," and "maybe cheese." She took the nearest open bottle, and turned towards the table, pouring it in any goblets that were less than full. Rosa took up a platter of meat slices and dropped them on plates with little regard for splattering sauces. The other volunteers picked up platters at random and did the same.
But the owners of the plates didn't seem to care, either. They picked up whatever was on their plates in their fingers, rolled it up, and stuffed the rolls in their mouths without paying any attention to the food itself. Instead, they leaned forward intently, and only a few brushed briefly at the spills on their clothing before bringing their attention back to the words of their Chief.
He was describing exactly the illusion that the boy outside had mentioned, of the Cathedral-tall angel with a hospice in its hands. With additions; the angel was supposed to be real to the touch, in case someone was brave enough to try, and it was to exude an aroma of incense. It was supposed to smile and nod, as a disembodied voice described the hospice Padrik was supposed to build.
"So what does the Clan get out of this one?" the gray-haired man asked as he sat down. "The demon f'tomorrow was hard enough! Has he got any idea what he's asking for? That scale of illusion isn't going to be an easy one to build or hold in place."
"We get a quarter of the take," the Chief replied. And as a storm of protest erupted, he held up his hand. "Let me finish, will you? Padrik expects more than you realize out of this one. Our cut is a quarter of the take, or three thousand silver, whichever comes out the biggest. He thinks we're likelier to wind up with three thousand in gold, not silver. Especially if he combines this with a big sermon about giving up adornments for the sake of God. He thinks that the jewelry is going to fill the collection plates, once the angel appears. In fact, his guess is that within two days, there won't be a piece of jewelry left to anybody with any claim to piety. There may not be a piece left in the city that isn't some sort of heirloom."
There was some grumbling, but finally grudging agreement; after the agreement, there was a pause while the participants resorted to their wine. Robin made three circuits of the table, emptying four bottles, before they got back to business.
They emptied their platters, too, stuffing food in their mouths as if they did not expect to eat ever again, and wiping greasy hands on their shirts and tunics. She kept herself from wrinkling her nose in distaste. It was just a good thing that the current vogue was for brown and gray; dark colors that didn't show stains and grease as badly as the usual Gypsy colors did.
Then again, it looked_and smelled_as if their clothing had been clean before they sat down to this meeting. Maybe the High Bishops servants were discreetly taking away their soiled clothing and replacing it with clean while they slept, so that their appearance would not arouse suspicion that they did not belong here.
"Now, Gray Tombere, how's the House doing?" the Chief asked. "What's new out there?"
The old man grinned. "Better, since the Guards closed down Lady Silks and the Snow Maiden. Sale of drinks been real good; new gambling tables are doing well. If we could just get a couple more Houses closed down, we'd be making as much money as the miracles."
But the Chief shook his head. "Don't try to force the Luck," he cautioned. "Most of the Houses are down in the Warren now; you push the local talent down there, and they may come out after us. We can't afford that yet; not until Padrik's got more than Gradford dancing to his tunes."
Robin listened and poured, poured and listened. There was more of the same, rather as she had expected. The Patsonos had basically moved into Gradford and set up their own little network of linked activities. They smuggled in drugs, strong liquor, and anything that had been deemed illegal; they dispensed these things at the House the Chief had spoken of_and Robin had a shrewd notion that if she were to trace the location of this House, she would discover it was one and the same with the "work-house" Krystal had described. They separated the gullible from their money at the gambling tables in the House, and they used their knowledge of who the clients were to extort yet more money from those same clients on occasion.
They had abandoned the usual schemes of fortune-telling and petty pickpocketing. They weren't even involved in horse theft; not here, and not now. They had tied the Clans fortunes to High Bishop Padrik and his schemes_for just as the Patsonos got their share of the donations resulting from Padrik's "miracles," the High Bishop was taking his share of their income from the House.
And they were completely content with all of this. It apparently had never once occurred to any of them that Padrik and his Priests were observant and clever, and that once they figured out how to reproduce the "miracles"_or managed to find a mage they could coerce into doing the same_they would no longer need the Patsonos. With all the illegal activities the Clan had gotten involved with, it would be child's play to be rid of them.
No one would ever believe that the saintly High Bishop was involved with running a House_and it was doubtful that anyone had anything likely to prove the case. That assumed that the Patsonos would ever make it to a trial, of course....
And with the example of this Gypsy Clan to inspire them, how long would it be before the High Bishop persuaded the King himself to legislate against Gypsies and Free Bards?
"Hey!" someone said suddenly, breaking into her reverie.
And even as she turned away from the table, wine bottle forgotten in her hand, one of the men behind her grabbed her wrist and wrenched her around. "What're you doin'?" he demanded. "You been listening! Who are you?"
"Reba," she said, quickly forcing an expression of vacant stupidity on her face. "Reba, Chief. Gray Tombere, he said come pour wine. Rosa, she say it's warm inside. So I come pour wine. Hey?"
The man examined her for a moment, closely. "Don't I know you from somewhere?"
She shrugged, tasting the sour bile of fear but trying to keep any expression at all from showing. Hadn't she heard of a Patsono that was hung for horse theft when she was a child? Could she remember his name? She made a quick, desperate guess. "Born on road, outside Kingsford. Mam's Clan don' like me, much. Pappy was Long Robere _"