Turn 83

"Wine, whiskey," Brunon agrees. "What's gin like?"
    "Warming. It's got a kick. I think I have some somewhere. I'll give you a sip later."
    As they discourse on Gond, Emmett looks at Jack "That's the whole point - it's not Wizard talk. It's just the way the world works, and anyone can use it. If someone told you that they were using fire to fuse earth with iron to make a substance that's almost impossible to break it would sound like Wizard talk too, but in the end you'd still have a sword."
    "Are these... 'balloons' proof against dragons, then?" Brunon wants to know. He seems skeptical but intrigued.
    Emmett scans the skies. "You got a lot of those around here?" He chuckles "Well, you could put a lot of bowmen on one, or a wizard or two if you've got them. But how common are the dragons compared to the bandits?"
    "More in the mountains, but that is where the caravans go... and they do come down once in a while. Must be twenty years since we saw one in these parts. But if you're up in the air, they might show a bit more interest." He shrugs a little. "Perhaps you should speak with the Guild of Artificers--I've a nephew apprenticed there. They are jealous of secrets of course, as guilds are."
    They follow a few trails, more for the pleasure of the ride than in any real expectation of finding game, startling rabbits and birds here and there. The fourth time this happens Emmett goes up considerably in the estimation of the two guardsmen--three brown and gray birds the size of a grouse startle up out of a thicket almost underneath their horses' hooves, and even to his own surprise (not that he would ever admit it) Emmett's whip actually knocks one out of the air.
    "Excellently done!"
    Before the day can grow too late, they turn their horses homewards, talking now mostly about hunting. The simple cottagers have their snares and pens, of course, and lone huntsmen roam in search of meat in despite of the many dangers, but a proper hunt is held several times each autumn and winter, and half the castle packs up to follow the court into the forest for up to several weeks.

* * *

    Meanwhile, Alais finds himself in a rather curious position--that is, as the object thereof. Word has obviously gotten around that he is in fact a wizard, and outside of travellers who may or may not be charlatans, the only one most of these people have ever seen in the flesh. Everywhere he goes a group follows at a discreet distance, whispering among themselves, fascinated but (so far) too nervous it seems to approach him directly.

* * *

    Ibn Fadil is also being shadowed, but by a single person, he realizes as he continues his walking and observing. Relatively short and slight under the muffling, anonymous furs, probably not a woman given the way these people think.

* * *

    Making inquiries about the man who almost ran them down, Pham finds that his name is Telek Cenon, and his father heads the Guild of Artificers, makers of locks, clocks, jewelry, and musical instruments (except drums). They are one of the wealthiest and hence most powerful in the kingdom (guilds are linked between towns, it seems); they carry on contact with dwarves and wizards, and their secrets are legendary. Master Cenon has a reputation as a bit of a touchy sort. Pham locates the house easily, a formidable place in the better part of town, and of course the guild hall on the square with the others, seeing a great deal of bustling traffic in preparation for the upcoming festivities.
    In the evening, he finds a tavern, buys a cup of ale, and gets back to the business of trading stories. The forest looms large in the minds of these people; their depths hold horrors and wonders, gods and demons in equal measure, and in many a tale does the hunter become the hunted....

* * *

    The following day, people begin arriving from the villages beyond the walls, packing into inns and homes, lofts and stables. Dinner at the castle is frugal, but conversation is animated and goes on far into the night as the men recount stories from previous years, and there are distant sounds and smells suggesting that work is well under way for the morrow.
    Everyone is up early the next day. The visitors find themselves well-clothed at last, and Erek remains at their disposal; this morning he is wearing a mask like an otter, and sleek brown pelts cover his robes.
    Before dawn the drums begin and torches are lit across the city. People line the roads and peer from windows or perch on the treacherous rooftops to get a view as with a roar of fireworks the procession emerges from the gates of the temple, where the priests have been occupied in the private portion of the rituals all night. The highest priests are splendid in hides and furs, masks complete with claws and teeth--bears, wolves, magnificently antlered stags, boars, and a creature with an elongated snout and huge swooping tusks--surrounded by more simply garbed men chanting in an ancient language. The creatures enact mock battles, the watchers shout and stamp their feet and the drums boom on the walls. Everyone is brightly garbed and masked, the men like the priests as the animals of the forest, the women as birds, butterflies, or (rather startlingly) spiders.It's bitterly cold and no one seems to care.
    Slowly the procession moves through the streets, snow melting in its wake under the heat of torches and the press of hundreds of feet. The battles are done; a bear has assumed the leadership, and as the sun rises they dance the completion of a circle, back to the plaza at the castle and temple, where those who drew the short straw have spent the entire time setting up tables groaning with food and drink (while those who have been tending the ovens and spits since midnight finally have respite). A platform has been erected in the center; the leading bear stomps and whirls his way up to it, grabs a flagon from a passing man and with a final spin flings its contents out over the crowd, which roars approval.
    Every door in the city seems to be open, warming fires burn in the squares, jugglers, actors, singers and storytellers ply their arts, and contests are held for everything from wrestling to weaving. Given the freely flowing drink, the predicted fights are not long in erupting, and the crowd has the additional entertainment of watching guards toss hotheads head-first into snowbanks.
    

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