“Make way, make way there!” A troupe of tumblers dressed in gaudy tatters shouldered their way through the crowd, and succeeded in clearing a space.
To the beat of a painted tabor, they formed a ring and began to juggle brightly colored wooden balls, tossing them back and forth across the circle, while keeping several aloft at once.
The crowd shouted and clapped to the drumbeat as the dark-skinned jugglers performed an intricate dance, weaving in and out of the circle, never dropping even a single ball. Nyctasia strained her neck to watch them over the shoulders of the onlookers. The drummer bowed, sweeping off his ribboned cap which he proffered to the audience for coins. Meanwhile, the two tallest of the tumblers stretched out a rope between them and a small, nimble woman hoisted herself up onto it.
The drummer took up a pair of charred wooden clubs, their tops smeared with tallow, and dramatically set them alight. He threw both to the rope-dancer, who caught one in each hand and began to juggle them. Soon she was juggling five flaming brands, while the other acrobats scrambled for coins on the ground before the beggar-children could snatch them up.
With a final flourish, the woman tossed the clubs, one by one into a tub of water, and leapt to the ground, rolling into a somersault. Delighted. Nyctasia squeezed her way to the front and slipped some silver into the drummer’s cap.
The crowd quickly dispersed, and Nyctasia looked around for Corson. She was not surprised to find her haggling with yet another merchant. This time an ivory hair-clasp had taken her fancy. Corson was vain of her waist-length, chestnut hair, though she wore it sensibly bound up in a braid.
“Did you see them?” Nyctasia asked eagerly. “It was inspiring-a perfect manifestation of the Principle of Balance!”
Corson concluded her purchase of the costly ornament. “What are you blathering about now?” she asked Nyctasia.
“The jugglers-their skill and grace-like outward signs of discipline and harmony of the spirit! If only-”
Corson was used to her friend’s everlasting explanations of the mystical philosophy of the Vahnite faith. According to Nyctasia’s beliefs, the vahn, the Indwelling Spirit, was the true source of a magician’s powers. Nyctasia herself had invoked its Influences, and she was always willing to discourse at length upon the workings of her spells. Usually Corson paid no heed, or cut Nyctasia off with a curt jibe, but this time, to her astonishment, Nyctasia suddenly fell silent.
Corson turned to her in surprise, and saw her staring, speechless, as a line of people straggled past, chained together at the wrists and ankles.
Nyctasia’s own ancestors had been responsible for the elimination of slavery in Rhostshyl, and she thought of it as an ancient and uncivilized custom. The sight of people being sold like livestock in the market square sickened her. “I knew such things went on, but-to see it-it’s shameful,” Nyctasia said in horror. “It shouldn’t be allowed!”
Corson spat. She’d seen slave-traders before, in her travels, and she considered them lower than vermin. Having spent time in the army, Corson valued nothing above her freedom.
“It’s a disgrace how little I know of the world outside Rhostshyl,” said Nyctasia seriously.
“I never thought I’d hear you admit that there’s something you don’t know. I told you the countryside’s crawling with slavers, and they’re none too fussy about how they get their wares.”
“Surely only criminals can be sold-or captives of war?”
“Oh, so says the law. But half the folk who are sold were waylaid on the road and smuggled to foreign markets. I could sell you here and now if I’d a mind to.”
“Nonsense!”
A gleam of deviltry lit Corson’s blue eyes. Seizing Nyctasia by the collar, she called out lustily, “Who’ll buy a beautiful foreign princess, stolen from the courts of the coast?”
“Corson! You fool! Hold your tongue!” Nyctasia sputtered indignantly. She tried to kick Corson on the shins but Corson held her at arm’s length, still describing her attractions to the crowd.
“Take note of her pale skin and delicate features…”
“Let go of me, you stinking-”
“… and grey eyes! You’ll not see her like in the Midlands!”
“Bitch! You’ll regret this!”
“She can read and write, too, and sing to the harp-a prize at two hundred crescents! Who’ll buy?”
Nyctasia bit her, hard, and Corson hastily released her. “You venomous little snake!” she exclaimed, waving her wounded hand about. “You’re poisonous as a viper! My hand’ll turn black! I’ll die…” She was laughing too hard to go on.
Nyctasia regarded her coldly. “Corson, you go too far.”
“I daresay you’re right,” said Corson, still gasping with laughter. “No one would pay two hundred crescents for a vicious little creature like you.”
Nyctasia meant to say a great deal in reply, but she had barely begun to hold forth on the subject of Corson’s behavior, when Corson interrupted her tirade.
“Nyc, look! That fellow over there-don’t you remember him?”
“Where?” Nyctasia asked anxiously. Which of her enemies would pursue her so far?
Without answering, Corson suddenly darted across the square, shoving people out of her way. She seized an unsuspecting young man by the arm, shouting, “Where are my earrings, you thieving bastard?”
He tried to squirm away, protesting, but Corson threw him against a fruit barrow, sending apples flying. The crowd watched curiously as Corson continued to pummel the man with both fists, as though she meant to murder him. She could easily have done so, since he was only of average build and clearly not a fighter.
“Corson, stop-what are you doing? You’ll kill him!” Nyctasia tried to pull her away, but was knocked roughly aside. She grabbed Corson by the belt, but someone dragged her back and held her fast.
The furious fruit vendor had summoned the city watch. It took three of them to deal with Corson.