The Gypsy Queen

by Samuel Solomon

  “Mulo,” she said. “This you get from bad man.” Yana nodded. How could she tell?

  “Do you kill the mulo?” Lyubov asked.

  “No,” Yana answered. “Bastion killed him. He saved me.” Lyubov shook her head. “Mulo Ruv,” she said with concern.

  “Bad wolf?” Yana said. “What do you mean?” Lyubov had been trying to discern the images Luba had seen in her crystal ball.

  “Luba look for you in the crystal,” she explained. “She saw you walk with a man who is wolf. She saw fire.” At least the fire made sense.

  “I burned down the castle of a trader,” Yana said. “But it was Emilee who killed the wolves.” It didn’t make sense to Yana either.

  “You don’t fear,” Lyubov said. “Soon we know.” Yana did not really want to know. She just wanted to be in the moment. Lyubov finished dressing her wound and cleaning her up. Yana happily sat at a noonday fire, with her horse, her wagon, her closest friends, and a rabbit roasting on the spit. Only one thing missing, she thought.

  “Yana, I have stone for you,” Lyubov said. Lyubov had given her many stones that she collected for her craft.

  “A stone?” Yana said.

  “Dis one special. I save dis for you.” She pulled out a stone whose color Yana could not clearly say. It seemed like it was changing colors subtly, so she could not put her finger on it. Lavender, green, purple. She could not tell. It was a large stone, and exceptionally beautiful. Yana had never seen anything like it.

  “Dis,” Lyubov said, “Alexandrite.” Yana’s jaw dropped open. She had never seen Alexandrite before, only heard of it. This was a huge stone.

  “This... this is valuable,” she said. Lyubov nodded.

  “I cannot take this,” Yana said. It was too much.

  “Da. It is for you only,” Lyubov said. “You take.” Yana knew by that tone in her voice, that there was nothing to argue. Yana could not remember ever winning an argument with Lyubov.

  “I save it your whole life, for you.” Lyubov said. “Now, you are gypsy hero. Gypsy warrior.” Yana examined the gorgeous stone. It was befitting of royalty.

  “You wear in the city.” Yana wanted to cry. Lyubov was giving her this gift for a reason. She did not expect Yana to go with the caravan. She expected her to stay with the new King. It was a gift of farewell.

  “Oh, Lyubov,” she said with a heavy heart. “No. My place is here with you, with my family,” she said.

  “You don’t fear, Yana,” Lyubov said, her old voice full of emotion. Lyubov loved Yana as her own. “You love Bastion.”

  “Yes.”

  “It is beautiful to love,” Lyubov said. “Beautiful gypsy.” Yana shook her head, not knowing what to say. She felt beautiful when she was with her family. She felt beautiful when she was with Bastion. She kissed Lyubov on the face, and then kissed her again. “You are the beautiful gypsy,” Yana said. Lyubov said nothing, pulling out her pipe. Yana smoked with her, as the gypsies from all over the region, encamped in the west meadows, came to greet her, cheer her, and thank her.

  “Yana, we have a gift for you,” Kizzy said, coming up to the fire with Nadya. Kizzy pulled out a woven shawl, smooth looking, but still slightly coarse. It was red and gold.

  “We made it after you saved us,” Nadya said. “Jaelle helped us.” Yana took it. The way the colors blended and reflected light had Yana mesmerized. It looked like the colors of Bastion’s aura. She pulled it over her head, breathing in the smell.

  “I love it,” Yana said.

  “We made something for Bastion, too,” Nadya said.

  “For Bastion?” Yana said, raising an eyebrow.

  “Somebody say my name?” Bastion said, approaching them. Yana looked up, her heart soaring. He made it. He was wearing the white gypsy shirt and a kisht. He looked like a gypsy man. The most gorgeous gypsy man she could ever imagine. Yana leapt up into his arms, where he eagerly received her with a kiss.

  “The King!” Kizzy said, prompting everyone to look. Bastion and Yana stood in a passionate kiss, as applause broke out. Everyone swarmed them, and Bastion graciously received everyone they could, greeting them all and laughing with them. Yana’s admiration for him grew by the moment, watching him celebrate with the gypsies. He radiated in his white gypsy shirt in the sun, joking with the children and shaking the hands of the Romany men perfectly. Yana’s desire for him grew strong as she watched.

  “King Bastion,” Nadya said when the crowd allowed, “we have a gift for you.” Nadya pulled on a fabric bag, jostling with Kizzy, competing to present it. Both of them giggled, as they pulled it out together.

  It was a cloak, in the same color as Yana’s. It was a masculine garment, to her feminine shawl. These garments must have had great cost, Yana realized. Her sewing and knitting skills were not her strongest point, but she knew enough of fabrics to know these were fine quality.

  “I thank you,” Bastion said to them both, as he accepted it. “It is much better than my black one!” he said, drawing laughter.

  “Yana, will you do me the honor?” he asked, holding it out to her. Yana took it, as he turned around, and set the mantle upon his shoulders.

  He turned around and looked over his shoulders, examining its perfect fit. He considered how he might thank the girls, who must have made great efforts to tailor it.

  “I shall wear it to my Coronation,” he said, looking right at Yana. She looked right back at him. His aura, matching his garb, was glowing bright. It seemed as though he were on fire. She felt so hot for him, she felt like she was on fire, too.

  “Captain,” Emilee said, approaching him with excitement. “I have been teaching the gypsies to fight!”

  “You have?” Bastion asked, surprised.

  “Nathaniel has been in the meadows, teaching us, so I teach too!”

  “She has told the story of the wolves she fought a thousand times already!” Dimmie said, joining in. Bastion liked it. He hoped the citizens of his kingdom would appreciate how brave and strong and smart gypsies like Emilee were. Bastion did not want the gypsies to be soldiers. They were too wonderful and happy of a people, and Bastion did not want to see them burdened with the pains of war. If they were going to know how to fight, he thought, at least there was none better to learn from than Nathaniel, one of his own black riders. He had escorted the captives back from the Lower Reach.

  “I will show you!” Emilee said. “Nathaniel!” Emilee called. Nathaniel emerged from the crowd, to greet the King.

  “My King,” he said proudly, embracing his good friend.

  “What are you doing in the meadows?”

  “Otta’s orders,” he said. “He sent me out here to look after the gypsies, and by teaching them to fight, they will be better able to look after themselves.”

  “Well done,” Bastion said, pleased. He would have done the same thing.

  “It is not so good for you to be here in the west meadows unprotected, my King,” Nathaniel said.

  “But I have you here!” Bastion said with a laugh.

  “And me!” Emilee said. “I’ll protect you.”

  “I accepted a King’s mandate to protect you,” Yana said, standing up.

  “And me!” Dimmie shouted, along with the others that had been learning to fight. “And me!” they all said. Nathaniel had to laugh with them all. The King was well protected indeed. Never had it been so, in the midst of a gypsy caravan. Nathaniel pulled back, his staff in hand. Emilee saw him, and side-stepped in the same direction, picking up her staff that had been leaning on a wagon. The others stood back to watch, as a skirmish was afoot.

  Emilee squared off in a crouch that made her look downright dangerous, wielding her staff. Nathaniel crouched as well, twirling his. Crack! Emilee defended against a blow. She swung back at Nathaniel, making him jump back to avoid it. He swung again, and she defended, stopping his swing, and then circled around so quickly Bastion was shocked. That girl could move! She swung the staff at his feet, making him jump straight up. He barely landed
before she jabbed him with the blunt end of her staff, striking him in the side, making him reel back. He righted himself, and waited.

  Emilee charged in, pushing her right arm forward to swing for his head. He ducked and barely escaped, moving around her side and shoving her down, making her tumble. She got up with such agility that it looked like she meant to tumble, and landed on her feet with a dagger in her hand that she pulled out impossibly fast, pointing it at Nathaniel.

  Nathaniel stood upright and bowed, as the onlookers clapped and laughed. Emilee stood up and sheathed her blade, bowing in return.

  Yana went up to her and put her arm around her.

  “You are a good fighter, Emilee!” Yana said, impressed.

  “I want to be a black rider!” Emilee said. Bastion put his palm to his forehead.

  “You’re in trouble now, Nathaniel,” he said to his friend.

  “I’ve been in trouble as long as I have known you, my King,” he said, bowing to him as well.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  A hooded figure walked the streets of Jedikai. A gypsy man, wearing unremarkable clothing, moving along leisurely. Among the gypsies now strewn happily about the city, he was entirely unnoticed. He was glad to see them all getting comfortable. The music and the food were good, and the city appeared to be in high spirits.

  The people he was going to see, however, would not be so enthusiastic. He knew that the rift between the gypsies and the citizens was not one that could be solved with any one simple act, and not everyone welcomed the gypsies here.

  He passed through the streets, innocuous and unassuming. He arrived at the door of a wealthy merchant who resided in Jedikai. This had to be the place, he thought, judging by the carving of the sparrow in the woodwork on the door. He rapped on it hard. It was thick, offering little resonance.

  A panel on the door opened up.

  “I am here to see Otta,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “The administrator.”

  “Who calls?” the voice asked in a near-whisper.

  “Draiman.”

  _____________________

  The Gypsy Queen- CHAPTER 17- “dream”

  Draiman entered, and was led by an old woman to a room in the back of the house. It seemed to be a place of business, of backroom deals done in secret. It was probably the master of the house’s favorite place, away from the women. Draiman waited, growing impatient as he paced the floor. There were several books on display behind the desk, a sure sign of wealth. They were thick tomes, in a language Draiman didn’t understand. He decided to help himself to the liquor set out on a sideboard. It was smooth like a very expensive wine, but he couldn’t quite tell what it was.

  The door creaked open, and Otta looked in.

  “Come with me to the roof,” he said. He followed him up two narrow flights of stairs, and then out to a small overlook built into the roof. Draiman looked out over the city with amazement. He had not seen it from this vantage before. It was a huge city, but less spread-out than Sardica, more compact. Many of the buildings were taller, better for accommodating more people within the city walls. There were many outlying villages in the kingdom, but Jedikai- Draiman had to admit- was impressive. The spot Otta had chosen was a good one; they would have total privacy, unless they shouted. There was just enough room for them to sit on the two little chairs provided, that faced the palace.

  “It is good to see you in our city,” Otta greeted him warmly, sitting down. “I trust you had no difficulty getting here.”

  “With all the gypsies the city has attracted, it is easy to blend in,” Draiman said.

  “Yes,” Otta said, “I like the gypsies here. I enjoy the music and the food, but not all the citizens here feel the same way.”

  “Not all the gypsies like the city folk as much as it seems, either,” Draiman said. “It is a tradition driven by the gypsy’s love of stealing and shady business.”

  “And settlers who tend to be cruel in return,” Otta finished. “I am seeing some real difficulty in managing the citizens here. The royal funeral is this evening, and the new King has not made many friends among those who hate the gypsies.”

  “Especially with the likes of Yana running around the palace,” Draiman said. He was right, Otta thought. She was the most difficult part- some seemed to love her and welcome her, some of them hated her just for being a gypsy, and could revolt if she became queen.

  “You know Yana?” Otta asked.

  “Ohhhh yes, I know her.”

  “What can you tell me of her?”

  “Well... you know that gypsies love their stealing and shady dealings,” Draiman said, “you can wager that Yana is no different. I have not traveled with her for a while, but... I have heard things. She is no saint.”

  “She seems to be one of the better of her kind,” Otta offered.

  “Sure. But you better believe she is still a gypsy. You might do well to be rid of her before she becomes queen,” he said. Otta nodded.

  “That would certainly make my job easier,” Otta said. “It would solve many problems... but create new ones. The new King would stand in my way,” he said.

  “I would much prefer for you to be the new King, Otta,” Draiman said in a brotherly tone. Otta’s ears perked up. Draiman was up to something. Otta did not trust Draiman at all. He decided to play along.

  “I have always wanted to be King. I served Bastion’s father for his entire Kingship, some twenty five years. But it would only happen if something happened to Bastion, and now that he will stay in the city, I expect he will outlive me.” Just the mention of Bastion’s name sent a little charge of hate through Draiman’s veins. He had been letting it grow.

  “Will he still lead the black riders?” Draiman asked.

  “The black riders... I do not know if they will even continue. They are no longer a secret,” Otta said. “Perhaps with the new towers he is building, he will be content with a regular army for defense.” Otta pointed outward to the towers that Obadiah was building at Bastion’s bidding.

  “Many of the people are afraid of the black riders, Otta,” Draiman said. “They are heroes to some... but some fear they could be next. Many feel that they are cowardly. They fight dirty. No fair trials. No honest fights, like two armies in battle.” Otta nodded again. He had heard those complaints before. It worked much better when they were a secret, a legend, an allegation that couldn’t even be proven for sure. That was how Otta had set it up. Bastion had ruined that, even as he accomplished his victory in Kaffa. Otta felt it was likely because of the gypsy girl.

  Otta knew that becoming King was not entirely what Bastion wanted... but for every problem the throne created for Bastion, it seemed like it created two for Otta.

  “It would help for you to shut down the black riders, or make them lay low. Maybe even disband them for good,” Draiman said. “Let people outside the city sleep a little easier.”

  “With Bastion’s victory in Kaffa, there may be little for them to do.”

  Draiman felt his hate for Bastion surge at that comment, mixed with some fear. That meant that Volga was surely dead. Draiman had many ties with slave traders. If Bastion found out, the riders would kill him without mercy. He hated them not just because they were disrupting his trade, but because he had to always fear them. If his idea worked, he would destroy them too.

  “I just hope they stay away from me,” Draiman said. “The Ursari are a peaceful tribe.”

  “You are a friend to me,” Otta said. “You will have nothing to fear.”

  “That would be even more true if you were King,” Draiman said. “What if there was a way?” He knew he was pushing it, but he had to know.

  “In politics, it is often necessary to make sacrifices for the greater good,” Otta replied. “Running a kingdom can be a dark business. I just don’t see a way, for me.”

  Draiman smiled- he knew Otta had to be dirty. He felt a thrill rush through him- the same kind of thrill he got whenever he was about to stea
l something, especially slaves.

  “Well, I don’t see a way either. But there may be something brewing,” Draiman said. “I have sent a messenger for news. Anything I discover, I will share with you right away.” Otta handed him a small bag of coins, his traditional payment.

  “Thank you my friend,” Draiman said.

  “It is good to see you here in the city,” Otta said. “Where will you be staying?”

  “I have a camp outside the west meadows,” Draiman said, “But I may stay here in Jedikai tonight, maybe drink a while.”

  “Just don’t cause any trouble. Drunken brawls with gypsies and citizens will not help me,” he said, extending his hand.

  “You have my word,” Draiman smiled, shaking his hand. “I only want to help.” With that, Draiman descended the stairs and exited the house, passing through the streets discreetly, just as he had arrived.

  Volga was surely dead, Draiman thought. If Degonyat was not dead, he would likely be planning something. Draiman was excited at the scenarios his imagination provided- dreams of raiding the palace, of slaying Bastion, of taking as many slave girls as he wanted, partaking the riches of Jedikai. No thought was too evil for Draiman to indulge. He sneered under his hood at the ideas, especially his favorite. A way he could hurt Bastion no matter what else happened.

  A young gypsy named Yana.

  Otta looked out over the city, seeing the funeral procession organizing. He looked out over his beloved city, thinking of the King, the things they had been through on its well-trodden streets, and the things yet to come. Otta had confirmed his suspicions of Draiman, and that there may be a serious backlash for Bastion’s actions. The only question in Otta’s mind- how could he move the pieces and players around for the outcome he wanted? He took one last look, and headed for the palace.

  ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

  Bastion and Yana stood in front of the palace, along with many others. The Chamberlain, who had organized the ceremony, the Magistrate, and many more who contributed to the governing of Jedikai. The funeral procession was according to tradition- starting at the gates, passing through the three largest streets in the city as they ascended, finally arriving at the palace. The royal band followed the lead wagon, playing the song of the King. It was often heard at formal events, but rarely at parties or elsewhere.