Goris had returned to the Carpenter's Cup with Hesler following their meeting with the mage. Despite their best attempts at the river, their boots and leggings were still caked in a foul-smelling mud that needed attention before they headed for the festival. Goris was nervous about returning to the inn on the mage’s assignment, and Hesler had warned him about walking around looking like he’d pilfered the best pies from the village baker.
They'd scraped the mud from their boots in the courtyard to the rear of the inn and changed their leggings. Satisfied their appearance was at least passable for a pair of young bachelors, they treated themselves to a tankard of one of the finer ales on offer in the Carpenter's Cup. Hesp had wished them all the best for the festival, returning a flat look when the man called Malko had suggested that perhaps Hesp should accompany the brothers in their courting. A young man's game, Hesp had suggested, prompting a bout of spluttering indignation from the older man.
Goris held mixed feelings about the missive from the mage. The people at the inn had been most welcoming; indeed, he liked them. It was also apparent Hesp was dangerous if the situation called for it. Not a good man to cross, and the mage’s request could involve doing exactly that. But when Goris had suggested telling Hesp about the situation, Hesler had flatly rejected the idea. There was no guarantee Hesp would be willing or able to extend his protection to them, for one. Hesler was too proud to drag others into things for another. At first, Goris had silently cursed the way his brother was so tightly bound to his honour, but as he relaxed with his tankard of ale, he understood Hesler wasn't one to abandon the principles their father had drilled into them. Rather than damn him for such a stance, Goris resolved there was much to admire. Hesler was setting the example their father would have wished. He just hoped they wouldn’t pay for it.
As was the tradition, they set out as the sun dipped below the western hills. Dusk was an enchanting and mystical time, the in-between when the world turned away from the sun - the watchful eye of the Elder Gods - and the four moons rose in the darkening sky. Those moons, the abodes of the Gods, began their journey across the blue-gray expanse in a diamond formation. Superstition held that the powers of the Gods waned at dusk, presenting the opportunity for other powers to blaze, bright and brief.
Stepping out into the longest dusk of the year was to receive Adenne's Benediction, the blessing to find one's betrothed. He and Hesler had bowed their heads in a momentary silent prayer to the Patron of Love as they crossed the threshold of the Carpenter's Cup. Once finished, they donned their traditional birthstones, roughly the size of a person's palm. Local limestone shot through with some variety of metal. Rumour said some of the nobility had precious stones set into their birthstones, but his and Hesler's had the faintest sliver of iron running through. When he had taken it from its pouch earlier, however, he could have sworn there was a faint orange glow emanating from parts of the vein of iron. It was probably nothing. It felt heavy on its leather thong around his neck, prompting a nervous swallow. Despite Hesler’s mocking, he also carried the charm he had bought in the Merchant’s Quarter in his pocket.
With all the happenings since their arrival in the city, he’d given little thought to the true purpose of their journey. To find himself a wife. The proximity of the festival rammed home the daunting prospect of courting a maiden. There were few girls of his age in his village, and he gave them a wide berth as they always seemed to look at him as though they knew something he didn’t. Despite his mother's gentle prodding, tending to the farm was more important to him, especially with his father gone. Besides, cabbages and carrots didn't look at him with big, expectant eyes, and turnips and onions didn't make him blush or cause him to make a fool of himself by saying something stupid.
He understood the need for a wife well enough. His mother had told him to choose well. 'Snag yourself a noblewoman,' she'd told him, much to Hesler's amusement. He didn't want to disappoint his mother; he suspected even she didn't truly expect him to return home carrying news of a noble marriage, but it would be well if he could marry into a family with well-established trade links.
Anything to ease the burden.
As he moved towards adulthood, he realised that easing the burden was about as much as anyone wished for. Life could be stripped back to that singular, daily struggle to make existence just that bit easier. The sphere through which a child looked upon the world, with dreams of play and heroism, devoid of worry, was interminably eroded until all that was left was to get through the day. He wished for better, for himself, for humanity. Yet the helplessness that rose within him when he contemplated his inability to change the world was something that was best left to lie, lest he become overwhelmed by futility.
'You look like you're walking to the executioner, Brother.'
Goris sighed, forcing his hands to his sides. 'I'm half-convinced I am.'
'I wouldn't worry. With a face like that, you're likely to escape a free man. And if you don't, spare a thought for the woman that has to put up with you for a lifetime.'
'Why aren't you nervous? You're trying to find a wife as well. Aren't you terrified?'
Hesler shrugged in response. 'I can think of worse things than a wife. And stood next to you, I'm bound to look like a prince. Or if not quite a prince, a merchant’s man at the least.'
Goris looked at the ground as they emerged from the Rattle. The trickle of people heading towards the Royal Quarter had become a stream and would soon become a torrent. The brothers’ pace slowed; some of it because of the thickening of the crowd, some of it due to his feet dragging along the cobbles. He turned to Hesler once again, dreading to ask the question forming on his tongue, but it had to be done. 'How do I talk to girls?'
A smirk spread across his brother's face. 'Well, I would tell you to just be yourself, but that will never work.'
'I'm serious!'
'Okay, okay. Not that I'm some sort of dandy, of course. The only advice I can give to you is not to worry. Try to relax. There's bound to be someone out there that will take pity on you.'
'Well, that helps. Sorry I asked.'
They found themselves amidst the throng on the Kingsway. It was a well-worn boulevard, the median decorated with neatly trimmed rowan trees, lanterns hanging from the thicker branches. Teams of wagon handlers and drivers cried warnings from their perch as they vied to steer opulent, thickly curtained carriages through the press.
The Kingsway ran straight for the palace, and Goris caught the occasional glimpse of the King’s residence during momentary breaks in the crowd. Imposing, even from this distance - perhaps a fifth of a league - he could barely wait to see it up close.
Herded towards the palace by the bleak, weathered limestone buildings of the Kingsway, he noted they were, in fact, part of two distinct flows. Male and female, moving in isolated groups of anywhere from two - such as Hesler and him – to a dozen. A look to his right took in a tightly packed group of wide-eyed girls who appeared as though they all belonged to the same family, if the dimpled cheeks were anything to go by. They reminded him of a flock of sheep trying to avoid the timberwolves that were native to the forests in the surrounding hills. He suspected he looked the same.
The Kingsway flared, giving way to the King’s Concourse. A huge paved expanse, shaped in a rough oval, with the palace dominating the eastern end. For the festival, merchants, hawkers, and peddlers were allowed to set up stalls in the concourse for a small fee. This close to the end of the Kingsway, the stalls and wagons of middling merchants were given precedence, catching the biggest footfall. Goris and Hesler were chivvied along by a succession of city guards, some hefting wooden truncheons with quiet menace.
They soon found themselves in a tight maze of ramshackle stalls. Some were constructed from rickety wood, but many had the feel of hastily erected contraptions made of canvas. Goris wondered if the temporary nature of those stalls was to effect an easy getaway if required.
They turned a corner, and a thick, hairy arm landed across Goris’ shoulders. A dirty face grinned down at him, repugnant breath knocking him hazy as the man talked. ‘A good day to you fine sir. A stout set of shoulders on you, if you don’t mind me saying so. Looks like you knows how to heft a sword. Just so happens old Tack here has a length of iron that’ll suit you right down to the ground. Proper made, too, and at a good price an’ all.’
Goris shrugged himself clear of Tack’s grip on his shoulders. The smell of sizzling meat grew stronger as they neared a stone walled fire pit. A burly man slowly turned thick skewers on a spit, and his perpetual sweating was in spite of, rather than because of, the heat of embers that fizzed as droplets of fat cascaded from the meat. His companion was most peculiar, appearing somewhat emaciated, yet carrying a toad-faced head that looked altogether too large for his body.
The rumble in his stomach reminded Goris he hadn’t eaten in some time, and so he joined the milling crowd to place his order. He tried to avoid being jostled, which meant he remained at the back of the crowd as local folk neatly cut in front of him. The smell of sweat stung his nose as he was pressed up against tightly packed bodies. He edged backwards, on the verge of giving up, just in time to see a wiry character push through to the front with surprising ease. The man held a stick of half-eaten meat aloft, waving it around in obvious displeasure before jabbing it toward Toad-face. ‘Cullen, you arse-kissing oaf, this is rat! Rat! You told me it was mutton! I’ll have your hide for this.’
A nervous, high-pitched nasal laugh emanated from Cullen, his bulbous eyes darting to both sides. ‘Good sir, if I told you it was mutton, then mutton it is.’
‘Mutton? You lying turd! I’ll shove this thing so far up your arse, it’ll be a week before you shit it back out again!’ The aggrieved customer took a threatening step towards Cullen, raising the stick of dishevelled meat like a small club.
Cullen waved his hands desperately. ‘Friend, we do not lie about such things. Besides, how would a fine gentleman such as you even know what rat tastes like?’
Goris held his breath. Cullen hadn’t kept the sneering amusement from his voice. ‘How do I know? I don’t, you damned weasel. But this thing has a tail!’
Goris watched as Cullen’s face seemed to expand, as if it was being inflated from within. He looked ready to burst, his eyes bulging as if he was in pain. Then he exploded in a fit of hacking laughter, dancing from one foot to the other as his customer advanced on him. Cullen was quicker than he looked, but with little room to manoeuvre, a stubby hand was soon locked around his scrawny neck, shaking him with heartfelt anger.
The crowd edged back a step as Cullen tried to disengage, his eyes rolling wildly as his head lolled from side to side.
A shriek rose from the onlookers as the stone wall of the fire pit gave way. Effervescent sparks sprayed skyward as Cullen’s attacker abruptly crumpled like a sack of coals. Cullen’s sweaty companion hefted a rock in a pudgy hand and shrugged at Cullen. ‘Don’t know why he was complaining, anyway. Tail’s the best bit,’ he grumbled, returning to begin repairs to the fire pit.
The unconscious man was dragged to the back of the crowd, no doubt freed of any belongings of worth. After a few moments of cautious silence, the hubbub of orders being placed began once more. Goris glanced at Hesler and smirked. ‘Rat on a stick? The tail’s the best bit, apparently.’
‘I’m not that hungry yet, but don’t let me stop you.’
They moved through the King’s Concourse, towards the rhythmic beating of drums and the harmonies of string instruments. As they approached the eastern side of the concourse, the clothing of those around them was finer, and Goris chanced a pie that a buck-toothed hawker claimed contained goat and cheese. He wasn’t entirely sure he could taste the difference between goat and rat, but the pie tasted good, and he didn’t find any tails.
Games were being played in this section of the festival, the girls looking on, the boys doing their best to showcase their physical prowess. Tug’o’war to his left, duelling with wooden swords off to his right. Makeshift bars had been erected here and there. A shaven-headed man with a bushy red moustache waved the pair of them over. ‘Empty hands on Adenne’s Night, my merry lads? That’ll never do, no it won’t. Here, get your chops around a mug of by best black ale. Have you chasing every maiden on the Kingsway, that will.’ Goris opened his mouth to refuse, but the man was already filling up two wooden mugs. ‘There you go, my lads. Two o’ my best black. Bring those tankards back and the next one’s a copper less.’ Goris handed over the coins before walking away, sniffing the ale.
This was the section of the festival Hesler and he belonged in. Aside from the local folk trying to do business, most of the surrounding faces were those of young men and women from the villages, all dressed in their best whites. They settled into watch a game of horseshoes, laughing and shouting with the rest of the onlookers. Goris caught a scrawny girl looking at him with an awkward smile from across the range, and he felt the heat in his face rise. Glancing back, he saw her giggle as her friends, or maybe her sisters, teased her. Yes, definitely her sisters. He plucked at Hesler’s sleeve and shrunk back from the front row of spectators, where he wouldn’t be the subject of someone’s fun. The palace gates were not so far. ‘Can we go look, Hesler? I’d love to see the palace.’
His brother nodded with a wry smile. ‘Okay, but keep your mouth shut. Nobles seem to think that common folk should be seen and not heard, and we’ve seen enough trouble on this trip.’
With the taste of the black ale clinging to the back of his throat, Goris weaved his way towards the palace gates with Hesler at his side. The crowd was less dense here, with well-to-do merchants, bankers and other high-ranking civil servants in their finery. The hubbub of chatter was conspicuous by its absence, as groups of two or three conspired in low voices, always with careful glances to make sure they weren’t overheard.
The final approach to the palace gates was a sunken square lined on opposite sides by manicured pine trees and ornate lantern posts. A wall of musicians, no doubt Caran’s finest, made the fourth side of the square. The sides were manned by the Houseguards of the twelve noble houses in contrasting regalia. The deep blue of House Eslune with the yellow moon and stars above the heart clashed with the gaudy green of House Cynlyth, patterned with a gold and silver orchid.
Getting close enough to command a clear view of the square proved a challenge. They found a spot behind a diminutive lady, though Goris’ view was obscured by her towering hair, held in place by a series of elaborate pins. She eyed him askance as she caught sight of his village garb, and Goris felt himself wither under the intensity of that gaze.
They moved on, into a small hollow under the eaves of one of the pine trees. Goris wriggled to find a comfortable way to stand, but the pine needles pricked through his tunic and shirt, regardless. He peered through a gap in the Houseguards, the gathered lords and ladies flowing in time to the music. He marvelled at the precise movements of the participants. Instead of the white bonnets of the common girls, he was dazzled by myriad pearl and ivory decorations in the hair of the noble maidens as they pranced through the courting dances. His eyes snapped to one girl in particular and his breath caught. The sure set of her shoulders, the way she would glide from one step to the next, the cool regard of her grey eyes as she settled her gaze upon would-be suitors. The way her lips turned up at the edges, as if she could plumb the depths of a man and plunder his innermost thoughts.
As she paraded and preened her way through the dance, Goris couldn’t drag his eyes away from her. A deep green dress with a thistle pinned to its breast denoted her of House Dynevor. Desire was a feeling that Goris was wholly unused to, and he found himself unnerved by his inability to think about anything other than the woman before him. He shrugged off Hesler’s attempts to pull him back as he stepped forward. He plucked the sleeve of a house guard. ‘Excuse me, Sir.’ The man glowered down at him, raising a gauntleted fist. ‘Sorry, Sir. I… I was, I wanted to know… the girl in the green dress.’
The guard let out a harsh laugh, swinging a backhanded blow at Goris. He ducked away, yet still felt the glancing blow slice into the side of his face and his ear. Warm blood trickled down the side of his neck. He felt Hesler’s hand grab his shoulder, pulling him back, with the guard’s gruff voice in his ears. ‘That’s it, run, you little runt. You think Berenice Dynevor would even look twice at you? Try sticking it in a goat or a sheep, or one of those village girls. Ain’t much difference.’
The warm trickle of blood had blinded him in one eye, and he staggered away from the palace. It didn’t matter where, he just needed to be away from danger. Shouts sounded from behind him now as he picked up into a run and plunged into a side street, pushing against the flow of bodies headed in the other direction. He won clear and paused. There was no sign of Hesler. He waited for his brother to appear amid the backs of the people heading towards the concourse. He waited, and he waited. Hesler would search for him, wouldn’t he? If he just stayed in one place long enough, Hesler would find him eventually. He couldn’t head back into the concourse, where there were thousands upon thousands of people. He tried to think like his brother. What would Hesler do if he couldn’t find him? Go back to the place they both knew. The inn. But that would mean foregoing the festival and dashing his mother’s hopes of finding someone. Touching a finger to his eye, he winced. He needed to get cleaned up before a girl would even look at him.
Something tugged at him, nothing more than a feeling he vaguely recognised as desire, but his head swam with the ale and the rush of the guard striking him. Berenice Dynevor, that was what the guard had called her. True beauty. It was impossible, of course, that she would even glance at him when half the city would lay themselves at her feet, but it was Adenne’s Night, and there were stories of boys just like him winning the hearts of the fairest maidens in all of Caran. If he could just speak to her…
He touched the charm in his pocket, whispered a prayer to Adenne, and made for the southern side of Caran. That’s where the Noble Quarter was. That’s where Berenice Dynevor would be, eventually.