by Chris Turner
“Here, fine sir,” said Risgan. “What is your personal opinion on the loftiness of the pavilion?”
The barber turned to him with smiling perplexity. “’Tis easily explained. They are only true wonders of modern science.”
Risgan’s eyes rounded. “And how do you intend to support this claim?”
“Long ago, the merchant Vwerdo, lord of old Bazuur took his lunch on the roof of his study. It was a stop gap until his own dining hall could be repaired after spring flooding. In the midst of bright sunlight, he received an epiphany, while similarly entertaining a trio of winsome maids. This spur of insight, which went undocumented, the lord attributed to his closeness to the sky, the company of the maids, and the wisdom-bearing rays of sun. He was an admitted intellectual, and an envoy in the enlightenment of man. He decreed that all markets, esplanades, bazaars and other places of common interest be perched on high, so that other citizens might feel this benefit. From then on, all the architects of Bazuur have striven to create higher and higher pavilions; in this wise, to compete and comply with Vwerdo’s wishes.”
Risgan, slightly dissatisfied with the disclosure, thought to challenge the opinion, but he saw the guileless look on the man’s face and tipped his hat with respect. “It seems only natural that the impulse occurred, and I feel slightly embarrassed to have asked the question in the first place.”
“Trouble yourself not,” the barber consoled politely, “others have entertained similar wondrous incredulity.”
Atop the smaller open pavilion, there was no amphitheatre, only a high wooden railing circling its edges to prevent folk from tumbling down or being blown over. Colourful flags flew from the railing’s posts. A collection of chimes hung lengthwise on chains which gave off eerie background tinkle which Risgan found disquieting when the wind passed through. Business was modest, if not slow, and though the entrepreneurs sold Afrid’s painted wooden parakeet and three of her glass cups, it was decided that some immediate foraging for additional relics and curios was needed.
Moeze obsessed over Afrid’s spellbook after becoming bored with selling trinkets. He was practicing more daring displays of Afrid’s magic when a certain grandee of Bazuur had paused by and squinted in amusement at the magician’s show of translocating the garments of an old three-toothed lady with a yellow wig to a gentleman of quality. He was impressed by Moeze’s command of the art and hired him to present a small magic display in the famous tourney games at the Snake Pavilion in Auosto, month of the Didor.
The ragtag ensemble could prosper here, it seemed, thought Risgan. However, true to marketplace rumour, he learned that the rogue rider, horsed on a crimson-black isk was most real, the same who had been terrorizing the city without hope of being caught. The villain punctured balloons, flung passengers to their deaths. A concerted effort had been made to arrest the marauder, but always the villain seemed to elude the city guards’ weapons by speed, brawn, and luck. The local police force was rendered ineffectual, as a result of their inexperience, also of the power of the isk the marauder rode, which seemed not of this world. It was almost impervious to arrows, darts, or other instruments. Vaspiz the Viper made a strong impression on Risgan after he witnessed this skulduggery for himself his second day atop of the Onyx Pavilion. Swooping low over the stalls, the marauder looked truly like a black goblin of Besimeeth himself, though Risgan had a niggling suspicion that the villain was a man of flesh and blood, not the demon or magical elemental that the folk of Bazuur affirmed, especially upon sighting the tattoo mark on the rider’s left forearm. The wind had rippled the cloth, revealing that same mark he had seen elsewhere—though where he could not recall. The marauder wore black dungarees, a maroon cape, a black and yellow mask, in the scheme of a honeybee’s thorax. The rascal had not readily been identified. He made low sweeps, definitive plunges, acrobatic loops, over customers, always terrorizing, a curved sabre thrust in hand, always rending narrow slits in tents, marring produce, slashing gondolas and rigging of balloons, diving and daring more eccentric spirals in the air, plaguing citizens and their balloons as if they were child’s toys.
Several deaths had occurred that day—citizens flung off pavilions, hot air expelled from balloons burned inside out as they teetered on their baskets and wood-fires enflamed the chassis and guy wires. Merchants were frightened enough to shut down their booths and move to localities elsewhere.
Business was flagging—except for the scant few who managed to elude and accept the menace’s vandalism.
The city’s magistrate offered a five thousand ozok reward; bills had been posted around the city on large wax plaques, an enticement to anybody who could expose or capture, dead or alive, the infamous terror Vaspiz.
The announcement made Risgan ponder. He expected Jurna and Kahel to balk, yet he proposed to Jurna that perhaps vigilantism was more lucrative than relic-peddling. “Did you see the strange red dirt on the isk’s talons? Bazuur’s outlying dirt is brown or white. This isk must come from afar.”
“So then, what of our plan to sell relics?”
Risgan gave an airy wave. “It could mean greater honour and prestige if we expose this villain.”
Jurna warmed to the idea, particularly the possibility of wealth.
* * *
The marauder did not show himself for four days. Risgan decided to launch a bold foray for new wares. They embarked on a local relic-hunting expedition, inspired from a tip the retriever had received in the market from a passing caravansary teamster who had learned that a few leagues to the north, lay the site of an old ruined castle, Do, or Beipin in the old tongue. Apparently a cult of missionary monks reputed to have hoarded a stash of wealth in the form of a cradle of treasure and holy relics.
The relic hunters set out with pickaxes and shovels. Only Hape remained behind to man the stall in the Onyx Pavilion.
The troupe returned later that day, dusty and tired, but jubilant. They carried with them a sack full of filigreed urns, ancient plaques and rusty weapons. Holy relics spilled from Risgan’s sack, treasures which he had discovered in an unlooted cellar of a bell-towered outbuilding. Risgan looked a few years younger. His cheeks were rosy, his body limber. He puffed breath out with satisfaction, and lay out the wares for Hape to clean and for Moeze to assess.
* * *
The following day, a miniature Afrid was exhibited up top of the Didor Pavilion, a loftier and more well-attended marketplace. The new relics were set alongside her cage on display. Peeking out from her thorn bars, Afrid made grimacing faces and disparaging comments at passer-bys.
To no great stir. The freak-show attracted the usual goggles and chortles of peasants, simpletons, and dullards, but even some nobles and merchants lingered to poke their noses in to examine the curiosity, which all agreed was singular. Interest was favourable and Risgan took turns with Hape dissembling stories of how they had come upon the ungainly Afrid. A bald-headed circus master took notice at once of the glass occupant with merriment. “An amusing tale, Relic Hunter. I will take her off your hands. Such a foul-tongued bibelot!—but not for ten gold pieces. A trade maybe for this silk cloth or saffron textile that I gleaned from a Zanthian desertman... ’Tis worth at least eight ozoks in high season.”
Risgan gave a polite laugh. “Very well, haggler, you drive a hard bargain. But do not ask me for other deals. Take the witch; she is yours for both textiles. You have gained yourself an original and fine haul.”
The merchant beamed and accepted the piece with no small gratification. He assured all that the grotesque would provide countless hours of entertainment to his house guests who came regularly. None of the troupe was sad to see the last of the tyrannical sorceress go.
Seeking a break, Risgan decided to make his rounds about the marketplace to peruse other vendors’ wares. The pavilions afforded citizens magnificent views of the outlying areas of the city: vistas that stretched for mile upon unbroken mile. To the north rolled arid barrens lined with low ridges—Zanthia, desert of mystery; the south
showed the winding Badan river, olive-green and mysterious, creeping stealthily from the old Fadnar forest, to curl to the east to disappear into low shay-bushes and masses of green-limbed crayback trees. Westward showed a series of ruined hill forts perched on a not-distant broken ridge. They were drawn of ochre and faint yellow, while far beyond, mountains of the most aquamarine beauty shimmered in haze. Balloons and teratyx drifted like eagles above the spires and the city gleamed with promise. A bandshell rose in a white curve at the pavilion’s far end, toward which Risgan now approached on jaunty feet and spied a troupe of musicians setting up their instruments and entertaining the crowd. The ponderous blend of drum, harpsichord and tintilla, made a fair impression. The latter, he discovered was a complex arrangement of bells, strings and pipes. Balloons dropped, disgorging new customers and Risgan’s mouth grew wide in a toothy grin.
The merchants’ booths held more bric-a-brac, exotic foods and spices, pottery and silks than he had seen before, but with the exception that many vendors had erected iron pikes with barbed edges at their booth corners. This to deter the advances of the feral isk and his menacing rider—though it was a practice of which Risgan felt yielded little efficacy.
He could not help but be alerted to the bawling inducements of an overly portly shopkeeper who kept his kiosk near Risgan’s own. This was Zemore, a merchant who sold clichéd crustacean products: beads, jewellery and the meat within the shells. Zemore seemed oddly fitted to this environment and immune to the isk-rider’s persecutions. He neither erected pikes or glass shards to repel the invader’s thrusts. It was an anomaly which caused Risgan much puzzlement. Rich ladies bought his jewellery without inhibition. For hours on end a constant stream of traffic seemed to plague his kiosk, much to Risgan’s exasperation. The vendor’s booming voice and his politely disarming looks were annoying at best, enough to ruffle the most patient man’s nerves. For a time, the merchant supplied the city of all its crab meat. He was an argumentative man, petty and somewhat overinflated with sandy hair and false cane, who strutted around like a self-important lord. He was bowl-shaped, perfumed of skin and wore a baggy pair of faddish trousers. He quibbled often with his fellow vendors and spoke sharp words over nothing of importance. Even the least dignified of vendors did not keep his company and his lack of decorum was renowned—a practice, which Risgan contemptuously admitted, seemed out of character, considering his inordinate success at sales.
The corpulent vendor finally came waddling over to Risgan’s booth, scowling and wagging a plump finger at his display of signage. “Kindly lower your plaque, sir, so as not obstruct view from my own. There is a unique etiquette we merchants share to be abided by in this quarter, of which outlanders like yourself are clearly ignorant.”
Risgan bridled a scowl. “If I note correctly, your gaudy plaque is several ells higher than mine.”
“Ta, ta! This is beside the point and is common practice. An experienced merchant is expected to have more leeway in these matters. Greater signage is natural. The pedestrian stream arrives at an acute angle, roughly one third of the angular view, and even the balloon traffic can only witness a narrow field floating from above with the monstrous tabard you have hoisted. The sun rests this season in Hales Aquilinis which blinds the eyes for those arriving from the north which is common this time of year.”
Risgan gave an exaggerated laugh. “Obviously you have put a lot of thought into this matter, crab-monger. Well, sorry to say, I refuse your bid. Be gone.”
Zemore, speechless, gave an indignant cry. He stormed back to his booth, whispering resentful suggestions in his henchman’s ear: a burly, pug-faced man with large nose, warted cheek and beady eyes. He was unloading crates of crustacean beads and crabmeat from his balloon carrier with no large enthusiasm. A mean-looking teratyx stood leg-weighted next to the balloon. Risgan noted its repugnant bone-knobbed knees and grizzled feathers.
With cheerful appraisal Risgan continued his assessment of the crowd. He barked out the odd inducement of his own wares to potential customers, thinking to attract some interest for his holy relics.
Zemore’s assistant, later that morning, a certain Melfrum contrived to trip at the head of Risgan’s booth. He was carrying a heap of slightly past-its-prime crabmeat and the disgusting stuff sprayed all over Jurna and Risgan’s persons, soaking them and their wares.
“Here now, you obnoxious clod!” cried Jurna furiously.
“Indeed,” scolded Risgan, “are you an idiot or a blind imbecile? You have soiled our wares and ruined my expensive didor-hair jerkin. This deserves a beating which I’ll put to you at once.” He pulled out his gibbeth femur and brandished it with threatening force.
The henchman did not cower back as Risgan advanced. The oaf crowded closer, grinning, pushing his foul breath in Risgan’s nose, almost as if begging for a fight.
Harsh words were traded and matters escalated to blows.
Risgan wasted no time in defensive manoeuvres and began to beat the oaf with his truncheon. The man turned out to be a more formidable adversary than he anticipated as Melfrum caught the club in mid-swing and turned it in Risgan’s hands. The retriever, giving an astounded grunt, was hard put to defend his hide. He suffered his fair share of bruises and contusions. On closer scrutiny he saw Melfrum to be a square-shouldered brute of a man with black tassels of coarse crude hair and iron fists.
A constable, alerted by the uproar, came running to break up the row. He was angered at having his lunch interrupted and cried, “Halt, you stupid thugs! I should have you fined a fivepiece each for this hooliganism.”
“Tell that to this club-wielding goon,” grunted Melfrum.
Zemore came trotting up with a pastry clamped in fist. “A mess,” he cried stridently. “Your kiosk juts out unnecessarily,” he accused Risgan, “innocent passer-bys and honest men must trip and damage their wares.”
“Who are you to complain?” muttered Risgan sourly.
Zemore paid no heed. “That crab meat which garlands your cloak is a special shipment from the Songland Sea amounting to five hundred ozoks, arriving yesterday, and the balance owing to damage is payable immediately.”
Jurna gave a scornful squawk. “’Tis only local meat harvested from the Badan river.”
Zemore ignored the accusation and pointed a quivering finger at Risgan. “I will summon the judiciary and have you both removed from these premises. Or at best banned from the city completely!”
Risgan laughed and flatly refused to pay over the sum of damages. It is your fault by hiring a bumbling assistant.
The constable frowned in annoyance and examined Risgan’s kiosk. “There seems no irregularity here. I fear you have no case, Zemore. At any rate, the fines stand: five ozoks apiece.”
“What of my wares?” screeched the fat man, stamping his feet.
The constable gave an amused shrug. “I suggest a trial by lot—a teratyx tourney is scheduled a few days hence at the Battarax Pavilion in the Moon Arena—you can resolve your differences there. That’s my suggestion and how we do it in Bazuur, if you recall.”
“Quite right,” muttered the vendor sombrely. “You Melfrum, shall be my champion.”
The big oaf leered with anticipation.
“Relic Hunter, do you accept the challenge?” the constable asked.
“I’d be delighted.”
Jurna put out his hand. He pulled Risgan aside. “Are you sure? You have no concept of what these ‘trials’ entail.”
Risgan shook off the journeyman’s arm. “Take care, Jurna! When a man’s honour is at stake, a hero accepts the challenge. I am a gambler and risk-taker at heart!”
“Well said,” congratulated Zemore, whose ears had not missed the remark. “I see there is some nobility in you yet after all, Relic Hunter. Well, be ready! Melfrum is no mooncalf. He is a stalwart fighter and swift. May Douran’s luck desert you.”
Risgan grunted an oath and waved him off.
It seemed that Risgan made enemies easily, for others had come to pe
ster him into a similar reaction. Word got around of Risgan’s impressive boasts and his willingness to accept a duelling with the merchant Zemore’s assistant, Melfrum. Whispers attested that he was an expert rider. Risgan’s chin dropped. The match was to be held at noon later in the week against Zemore’s champion.
Jurna expressed his doubt and concerns.
Risgan waved an impatient hand. “If I lose, Jurna, I lose. If I don’t accept, I look like a coward, like some floozy blowhard and that will be bad for business.”
“True,” agreed Jurna, “but you risk a large beating, and a humbling.”
“Then, you shall help me win against this braggart. Certainly you do not wish your employer laid out with a broken neck?”
Jurna grinned and expressed his repudiation of such a fate.
* * *
Risgan was obliged to visit the outfitter’s yard the following day to equip himself for teratyx battles. In the fighters’ district, he came down a small stone stair flanked with stone-carved isks into a small well-kept arena. A thick sand pit was built for gladiatorial games. Currently it was in use. A team of four apprentice jousters were locked in heated battle, mounted on their blue-grey steeds, diving and swooping with flair. Each wore leather pads and shin guards of didor-hide and sported a skull-capped helm with cheek guards. Each held fan-poles with stiff fans of burdar-wood. The ends of the weapons hooked outward for best effect, tools useful for edging opponents off their mounts.
The yardmaster gave a glad cry, an ex-teratyx-rider, and clapped appreciatively at a recent display of ousting. “That’s the spirit, Ferios. This is my personal amphitheatre,” he informed Risgan. “I rent it out at reasonable cost to promising jousters while offering instruction myself.” He gave a humble chuckle. “See how young Ferios fights with acumen! He is my rising star, in fact, one day he will be my champion!” He inspected Risgan with interest. “You seem to be a man of discernment. I hear you are due for a trial yourself. With the detestable Melfrum. Well—you would be wise to study Ferios’ technique—if you value your skin, that is.”
