Fullers and dyers followed with an unexciting display of cloth on tenterhooks teased and harried by rising breezes. The skinners and furriers came next, garnering far more approval from the masses with journeymen wearing monstrous heads: wolves with mad silver eyes and crimson tongues lolling over bloodstained teeth, bears with snarling, foam-flecked jaws. One lithe figure dressed as a cunning marten, complete with mask and tail, dodged among them, while another in the long leather apron of his trade pursued him with a knife as long as my arm mocked up out of wood and paint. I laughed along with everyone else.

“This makes festivals in Hadrumal look a bit staid.” Usara bent close to my ear to make himself heard.

“Selerima puts on nearly as good a show as Vanam,” I shouted appreciatively.

Tanners followed next, then leather workers. The procession wore on, each guild’s standard raised above the Great Gate before they dispersed to feasting at their own audit hall. The banners proclaimed the myriad skills and trades earning coin for the cities of Ensaimin strung along the rivers, bringing valuables from mountains and forests and dotted the length of the Great West Road that carries all manner of staples and luxuries to the ancient Kingdom of Solura in the west, to the diminished Tormalin Empire in the east and for anyone in between with silver to spend. Saddlers, fusters and lorriners gave way to coopers and joiners; pewterers and cutlers were followed by blacksmiths who disdained the counterfeits of the other guilds. Journeymen carried a massive hammer wrought of polished wood and gleaming steel between them, muscles rippling.

The goldsmiths alone of the crafts allowed women in their procession, prosperous wives and haughty daughters on the arms of the liverymen, decked out with rings by the handful, necklaces and earrings jingling, brooches and pins securing dark blue gowns and head-dresses. To my mind the effect was rather spoiled by the glowering of heavy-set apprentices marching alongside, before and behind, each swinging a hefty cudgel. I don’t suppose it was any coincidence that the bladesmiths followed, daggers, swords and steels bright in the sunshine as apprentices brandished their trial-pieces in flourishes threatening to take off any greedy hands. I wondered idly if the ladies would be still wearing their finery at the guild feast and how hard it might be to find a maidservant’s dowdy dress.

Finally the fitful breeze brought a tempting scent over the heads of the throng. Silversmiths and copper workers got scant attention as the crowd turned expectantly to the bakers and brewers, the butchers and grocers. A massive loaf carried high above the heads of the throng was an impressive sight and the heady smell of yeast from vats of ale being wheeled along even managed to outdo the sweaty odors of unwashed bodies. Links of cooked sausage joined buns and sweetmeats tossed out on either side, and cheap earthenware beakers of beer were handed around. The crowds began to move again, people filling the road as the last craft passed, eager to get a share of the largesse and save the price of a meal. Peddlers and pie men appeared with jugglers and entertainers. All were looking for a share in the festival pennies hoarded through the latter half of winter and the first half of spring. Some canny minstrel raised a boastful song proclaiming Selerima’s might and bright pennies pattered into his upturned hat.

It was pleasant to stand aloof, no need to scramble for bread and meat, the days long past when I would salvage a meal from the gutters, brushing off the soiled straw and nameless filth. “Come on,” I caught at Usara’s sleeve as he stared, rapt, after the parade. “Let’s get down to the fairground and see the fun there.”

—«♦»—

Selerima, Western Ensaimm,

First Day of the Spring Fair, Afternoon

“Where do we go next, Jeirran?”

“You’ve tried every assay house, every tinsmith?” Jeirran planted booted feet firmly on the cobbles, defying the stream of locals flowing past intent on holiday amusements. “What about pewterers, there must be plenty of those?”

His three companions were less certain in their stance. Both men and the woman had the fair hair and pale eyes common to Mountain Men but their faces showed shared blood as well, the same solid features and sturdy frames.

The two men exchanged a somewhat hesitant glance before the elder spoke up. “Three places out of five are shuttered up for festival. Where we can get an answer, no one will do business.” Irritation overcame his reluctance to speak. “Not with us anyway. They all say the same thing, Jeirran; they buy their metal from the traders who come down from the hills.”

“And did you find out what prices they’re paying? Five times what Degran and his cronies are paying us, I’ll wager,” interrupted Jeirran, exasperated. “You explained it exactly as I told you to, Keisyl? We can deliver finer ingots for a fifth less cost?”

“And they say show us your ingots,” the older brother retorted. “No one’s interested in ore samples. We need to bring down metal—”

“The ore samples show the quality of what we offer!” Jeirran broke in. “We’ll smelt the ores and deliver the tin, but we need coin to meet our needs. Are you sure you explained it properly?”

“Yes, Jeirran, we’re sure.” The younger broke off to scowl after a burly fair-goer barging past with scant apology. “Those that didn’t laugh in our faces told us to talk to the metalworkers’ guilds, said they might be interested in staking us for a share in the profits.”

“The guild halls are shut for the festival but it might be worth staying on—” Keisyl lifted his voice above the hubbub of the crowds. The girl hushed him but he patted her arm. “There’s not one in a hundred here understands what we’re saying, Eirys. Don’t fret.”

“The whole point of dealing direct with the lowlands is to keep all the profits for ourselves.” Jeirran did not bother to hide his contempt. “We could find three trustworthy kindreds inside a day’s travel who’d be more than happy to take a share in return for timber props and furnace charcoal, spare sons to dig the ore like as not. Make a deal like that and you sign away any hope of filling your coffers or making a decent marriage before Maewelin claims your bones!”

“A half-share in worked metal has to be better than whole claim on ore ten measures underground and no way to reach it!” the younger brother objected with some heat, folding muscular arms over a brawny chest.

“Do you ever listen to a word I say, Teiriol?” Jeirran turned on him. “If we can be sure of selling the metal down here, we can buy in what we need to put in a deep mine ourselves, hire in labor like the lowlanders. That way we keep all the profit.”

“I don’t like discussing our business in the open street like this!” In the girl’s face, the broad foreheads and square jaws of the men were softened to an appealing oval framed with delicate curls artfully drawn forward from the knot of her golden hair, but her lip was quivering in an ominous pout as she drew in her skirts, trying to keep the others between herself and the townsfolk. “I want to go back to the boarding house,” she burst out. “I’m fed up with being jostled and stared at. You shouldn’t treat me so, Jeirran, I’m your wife and I deserve better. It’s downright disrespectful and—”

“Very well, as you wish.” Jeirran clasped his hands behind his back, knuckles white as he sought to contain his frustration. “Keisyl, take your sister back to our rooms, if you please.”

“I want Teiriol to come with me,” the girl interrupted petulantly.

“As you wish. Keisyl and I will see you at sundown. Oh, Eirys, don’t start crying!” he snapped with exasperation.

“I’m sorry.” Her flower-blue eyes brimmed with tears, the pale rose of her complexion vanishing under an unappealing bloom of scarlet. “I’m sorry, but I don’t like it here. It’s noisy and dirty and the people are rude and—”