The Gypsy Queen

by Samuel Solomon

  “What does the bell mean?” she asked him. Bastion did not answer. He let the horse continue to walk. They got closer and closer, seeing the countless people gathered at the gate. Yana could only find comfort in the fact that whatever unknown dread had followed them from the caravan- it would not be unknown much longer. Bastion had not spoken since they departed.

  They got closer, and some of the gypsies moved to greet them first. There were no drums or flutes or jubilee, but their faces showed gratitude and warmth, as they all reached up and handed Yana wildflowers. Soon there were so many she could not hold them, and she tried to stuff them in between herself and Bastion. Each gypsy that was able to get close enough held out flowers- but none of them said anything. No one said anything at all. The silence was terribly disconcerting.

  Bastion urged the horse forward, and the city people moved closer, reaching up to touch their hands. Yana reached out and realized they were giving her brief little squeezes such as one would do to comfort a friend.

  Bastion let his hands down too, and let the people do the same with him. There was only one reason this crowd could be here, only one reason for five rings of the bell, and it had nothing to do with their mission. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, as his hands were outstretched to the people. He wished he could fly away, maybe fly back to the cave with Yana. It had been a little paradise, and it was slipping away with each step back into the city.

  “Clear the way,” a voice boomed, and the path in front opened up. Bastion was relieved to see his friend Obadiah as the source of the voice. He headed to the platform where Obadiah stood next to Otta, and dismounted. Bastion carefully lifted Yana off, as she winced in pain, wildflowers falling everywhere. She stood next to him, trying to stand as tall as she could, as tall and straight as Bastion did. Her intuition told her that Bastion needed her by his side, no matter what this was.

  “Congratulations on your successful mission,” Otta said.

  “Thank you, sir,” Bastion replied formally.

  “You shall no longer call me sir,” Otta said. Bastion looked to Obadiah.

  “Your father, the King, has died, Bastion,” Obadiah said.

  “You are the King of all Jedikai.”

  ________________________

  The Gypsy Queen- CHAPTER 15- “unrest”

  Draiman watched as the crowd dispersed from the gates of Jedikai. He made it a point not to be seen, and was very good at moving around in a crowd unnoticed. It made capturing slaves much easier.

  News of the King’s death was news indeed. He watched Bastion receive the news with a sneer on his own face. Draiman’s suspicions of Bastion were all confirmed, with news of their mission spreading across the countryside. There was no question that Bastion was the leader of the black riders. Draiman felt a strange feeling wash over him, as he watched the gypsy girl holding the hand of the new King, watching their reactions. He realized that he had only been a wanderer, a mercenary, pursuing riches and roaming where he pleased. This new feeling... he realized that he had an enemy.

  It felt good.

  Draiman left the gates, as the citizens of the Jedikai retreated back into the city, and the gypsies headed back to the west meadows. His Ursari caravan was beyond the meadows, lurking in the cover of the north forest. It was more rocky, but Draiman wanted more privacy to avoid being recognized. That was the one nuisance of his trade- he had to be careful, always mindful. He was growing more confident in light of recent events, however. If his idea worked out well, he would be so wealthy soon that he could live out his days in luxury.

  Draiman had recently discovered some of Bastion’s gruesome handiwork- a gulley full of dead, rotting Moldavians. Five dead Moldavians intentionally hidden, and not a trace of who did it. Only Draiman’s tribe knew of it- he and his gang of Ursari gypsies had come across it on their way in from Sardica. The dead were Volga’s men, so he would have reported it to his partner... but Volga had left the Lower Reach, and was likely dead as well.

  Draiman skirted the edge of the camp, between the gypsy pitches of the west meadows, and the adjoining wall of the city where stone construction was underway. He could not tell what was being built, but it was taking place quickly. The crew he had seen working on it was substantial.

  He arrived in his own camp, as his tribe was preparing the evening’s fire. His men had been enjoying mingling with the gypsy women of the west meadows. A sizeable community had sprung up there, many caravans arriving and assembling together. Draiman could not remember seeing so many Romany in one place, as they did not congregate often.

  Draiman arrived at his wagon, and summoned one of his men.

  “I need you to travel to Kaffa, Gunari,” he said.

  “I don’t want to go to Kaffa,” Gunari replied.

  “You have to get word of Volga there. You have to find out everything you can. I have an idea that will make us all very rich, if it works.”

  “I don’t want to go to Kaffa,” the man repeated. “I want to play with the gypsy girls down there.” Draiman stopped speaking, and looked at him. The man looked sheepish, but persisted.

  “Can’t you have someone else go?” Gunari said. Draiman stared him down some more, annoyed.

  “I want you to go,” Draiman said, trying not to lose his temper. Gunari failed to concede, the expression on his face infuriating Draiman.

  Slap! Draiman struck his face, and the man pulled back. Draiman began striking him more, even though he was not fighting back.

  “Stop, stop,” the man protested. “Atch!” he shouted in Romany. He had tumbled to the ground as he shielded himself. It was not a proper beating Draiman had delivered, but just enough to humiliate him, as confirmed by the laughter of the other men. Gunari stood up, red-faced, hating Draiman. He hated him not just for the embarrassment, but that he could not kill him for it. Draiman paid too well.

  “It’s going to cost then,” he decided, trying to save face as he brushed himself off. Draiman threw him a stack of coins, knowing that was coming.

  “That is double your normal pay,” Draiman said. “But I expect you to go twice as fast. Speed is the key. Take my horse, if you wish. If you get back fast enough, I’ll double it again.” The man perked up. It was a good journey to Kaffa, but if he hurried, he would still have plenty of time to consort with the caravans below, when he got back, and would be much richer for it.

  “It must be important,” Gunari said.

  “Find out everything you can from Volga, and if you can’t find him, go to his boss. Tell them everything we know,” Draiman said.

  “His boss?”

  “Yes. His boss. You’ll probably find him at a place called the Tarsus Cantina. It’s not far from the main port. He is a tall Moldavian, and practically the mayor of the place. He runs the slave auction.

  “His name is Degonyat.”

  The man made haste, and departed the camp even as night fell. Draiman knew that Gunari was a well-traveled gypsy, and skilled with horses. Much was at stake, he realized. If his idea worked, it would be brilliant. If it didn’t, he would be out of business. As he thought of the man standing in his way- Bastion- that feeling came over him again. Hate.

  Draiman wasn’t much for sentiment, but he had not had an enemy like this one before. He let his insidious thoughts wander, imagining his triumphs to come. The sneer on his face returned. He looked up at the stars, and spoke out loud to himself.

  “I wonder if Yana will be happy to see me again.”

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Bastion stood at his father’s side in the King’s chamber. He looked peaceful, Bastion thought. Maybe even content. Bastion loved his father, and had tried to serve him well. His father had not always been close, as he tended to the business of the kingdom. The King had been good to his people, and so had Bastion, but their service to the people had been at the expense of much of their personal time.

  Bastion’s mother had died at an early age, and he remembered very little of her, except that they ha
d spent many evenings at the fireplace in her quarters. She would always stare at the fire and tell him stories, none of which he could remember. He grew up with his friends, Nico and Nathaniel, who became black riders along with Bastion when they came of age. Uncle Otta had always been a busy man, but Obadiah had always been there for them too. They had even worked with him on the walls for a few seasons.

  Yana stood next to Bastion, holding his hand, remembering her meeting with the King. She realized that Bastion seemed a lot like him, though she knew very little of the King. Yana felt a little uncomfortable. She was without words, unsure of how to comfort or even speak to Bastion, as they looked on. Her head was reeling from the implications beyond the grief of the moment.

  The man she loved was now a King.

  Yana had no idea what she would do. The only thing she knew for sure was that she wanted to be wherever Bastion was, and be there for him. Yana knew some of the men present- Otta, Obadiah, the Chamberlain. There were some others she did not know, but she clung tightly to Bastion’s hand.

  “Bastion,” Otta said, “there are immediate matters at hand that must be discussed.”

  “Then we shall go to the throne room, and let my father rest. His duties are fulfilled,” Bastion said. Otta led the way, and they filed into the throne room. Bastion went first to his father’s treasured common periwinkle. He never understood why the King liked it so much, but as he ran his fingers through it, he did enjoy the feel, and the scent that emanated from it. Yana, still holding his hand, reached out with her free hand to touch it too. She wished she knew what was going on in his head, and wished to be alone with him. She would have to wait.

  Bastion went to the throne, pausing to look it over. It seemed profoundly empty. He sat down in it. He used to sit in it as a child, when his father allowed, and his father always told him that it would be his place one day. As a child, he had never really embraced the fact that when that day came, it would accompany the great loss of him. He was reeling from it, and relieved to have Yana with him. He released her hand.

  “Yana, I must discuss matters of the kingdom,” he said. “Will you wait for me in my chambers?” Yana was willing to wait, and made her best attempt to use protocol fitting the occasion, and those present.

  “If I may, Captain,” she said, “I would like to tour the palace a while.”

  “Aye,” he said. “I will send for Mille to be your guide.” He turned to one of the men in attendance. “Fetch her,” he ordered. The man hustled off quickly.

  “I will be alright on my own, Sir,” she said. Bastion smiled and looked at her affectionately.

  “No doubt you would. But I know you will like Mille. She will be pleased to show you around.”

  “As you wish,” Yana said, deferring to him. Mille entered the throne room as she said it, and curtsied before the King.

  “Mille, I want you to be Yana’s guide and show her the palace.”

  “Yes Sire,” she said. “Come, Yana!” she motioned with a friendly wave. Yana approached her. She had friendly eyes. She turned and took one last look at Bastion. He looked handsome on the throne. Her heart was heavy for him.

  “I will come for you soon,” Bastion assured her. Yana and Mille both curtsied, and left.

  Bastion looked to Otta and Obadiah. He did not mind some formality as a Captain, but these were his trusted friends. He got up from the throne, and paced as he spoke.

  “I want more black riders,” he said to Otta.

  “You cannot be a black rider any longer,” Otta reminded him.

  “I will have Nico head up the team. Have him select the top men from our regular militia and begin training them immediately.”

  “Yes Sire,” Otta replied. He liked the move.

  “How is the building coming along?” he asked Obadiah.

  “Very well,” Obadiah replied. “We have an abundance of stone and mortar on hand, and our crews are ahead of schedule.”

  “Thank you,” Bastion said. “I will inspect your progress soon.”

  “Of course.”

  “What other matters are at hand?” Bastion asked.

  “The King’s funeral,” the Chamberlain said. “It is set to be held on the morrow.”

  “Very well,” Bastion said. “Have you made all the arrangements?”

  “They will be in place, Sire.”

  “Is that all?” Bastion asked.

  “There is the matter of your Coronation ceremony,” the Chamberlain said. Bastion had not even considered that.

  “When will that take place?”

  “Fifteen days hence,” the Chamberlain replied. “It is customary to notify other kingdoms and invite the attendance of their dignitaries.” Bastion nodded in relief. He was glad for the delay.

  “Is there anything you require in order to prepare?” he asked.

  “I have the resources of the kingdom ready. We will need a few things from you, but it is not urgent.”

  “A few things?”

  “Well... we must measure your head, to prepare your crown.”

  “Uggh,” Bastion said, unable to hide his disdain. Wearing a crown did not appeal to him in the least, and he knew he would have to more often than he would like.

  “Don’t worry- I’ll make sure it is as comfortable as possible,” the Chamberlain said with a smile.

  “Thank you. We can deal with that soon. For now, I will retire to my chamber,” Bastion said, exhausted. His journey was successful, but difficult, and this day had been every bit as hard. It was a tough ride in, for such terrible news.

  “Uhhh... there is one other matter Sire, if I may,” the Chamberlain said.

  “Yes?”

  “It’s the gypsy girl. Yana.”

  “That is not the kingdom’s business, right now,” Bastion said, annoyed.

  “Begging your pardon, Sire, but it is. The whole city has been talking about her. She is a hero right now, in some eyes. You’d have gotten a hero’s welcome when you got in today, had it not been for the King.”

  Bastion smiled at that, remembering the gypsies dancing around her, and with her, calling her hero of the gypsies. She had fought hard and faithfully, and was worthy of recognition.

  “Even before that, when she played in the Great Hall, and you danced with her, there was talk.”

  “Let them talk,” Bastion said.

  “Yes, Sire,” the Chamberlain continued, “but there are people in Jedikai that are none too pleased. People who don’t think much of gypsies. Many of the wealthy families in Jedikai regard you with disfavor for it. They do not want a gypsy queen.”

  “Tell me, Chamberlain- what’s to be done about it tonight?”

  “Uh...” he stammered... “If I could pass along your encouragement to the concerned citizens, assure them somehow...”

  “Assure them that they will not have a gypsy queen?” Bastion’s tone was one of offense. The Chamberlain was wishing he had said nothing.

  “Apologies, Sire,” he said.

  “You can assure them of this, if you like: The King will do as he wishes.” Bastion said.

  “That is no good,” Otta spoke up. “Unrest is bad for the citizens. If they have uncertainty, adding to it with arrogant statements will not help.”

  “I have fought for the kingdom, protected the kingdom, and prospered the kingdom, and I am expected to soothe the rattled bones of ignorant citizens who are too full of unfounded angst to trust me?”

  “It’s not so simple as that,” Otta said.

  “Then tell them whatever tickles their ears, if that is what they need.”

  “You could do well to learn from me, Bastion. I understand politics. I understand kingship.”

  “I am sure you mean ‘King Bastion’, Otta,” Bastion said with a terse expression.

  “Forgive me, Sire. I forget myself. Please, forgive us for keeping you. Please, just one more thing- I was with my brother, the King, when he passed. Whatever his ailments, his last illness came on quickly. I want you to know that
he got the news of your heroic mission, and was exceedingly glad for it. He spoke of you with great pride.”

  Bastion calmed himself. “Thank you,” he said.

  “He asked me to tell you two things, words he abided his whole life. First, ‘Those who wish for freedom must undergo the fatigue of supporting it.’”

  “He also said to tell you: ‘The commitment of the decision maker is more important than the quality of the decision. Be careful what you ask of those who cannot say no. A leader of people is also a servant.’”

  Bastion nodded. His father had always told him those things.

  “Is that all?” Bastion asked. Otta smiled at the answer they both knew he would give.

  “He said to mind the periwinkle.” Bastion laughed, as they all laughed together, remembering the King and his quirks.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Yana and Mille roamed the palace of Jedikai together. Yana was fascinated as Mille explained some of the affects and features.

  “This tapestry was crafted in Egypt,” she said, as they passed it.

  “This is the passage to the galley,” Mille motioned.

  “Oh yes. Take me to the galley!” Yana said.

  “You want to see the galley?” Mille asked. Usually people would want her to show them the artifacts and history, the opulence of the palace. Yana grinned at her.

  “Off to the galley then,” she said, nearly hopping down the passage, Yana following. They entered in, and Mille began to introduce her to some of the servant girls as they worked. Some were washing crockery, some were chopping fresh food, some were going up and down from the cool cellar where was food was stored. The blended smells were enticing, as Yana had hoped. One of the girls brought them a pastry, and Yana eagerly accepted, recognizing the girl who brought it. She had spoken with her at the King’s table before they left for the Lower Reach.