He was bending over to move the chair when he felt something drop from his pocket. In the hay at his feet was the copper bracelet. Gaesil stooped to retrieve it, thinking to place it in the box under the seat of his wagon, but the wagon was unguarded behind the stall. A safer place still, he reasoned, was his own wrist. He slid the cool piece of orange metal over his hand and settled it on his bony joint.
Before long, fairgoers were aware of his presence. A number bemoaned that they were without their broken and mendable items, but many promised to return with their dull knives, leaking pots, and a host of other minor travesties, locals fetching from their homes and other merchants from their wagons. Soon, Gaesil had as much work as he could manage. The thick needle and coarse thread fairly flew in his hands as he cobbled old, worn leather to new. Blades big and small gleamed in the sunlight after quick, expert passes over Gaesil’s whetstone. He mended three leaking wooden buckets, added straw to one spartan broom, and sold out of nearly half of his forty-bottle supply of pine oil soap in just three hours.
He was oiling his whetstone for the next wave of knife sharpenings when the greasy jar slipped from his hands, splashing globules of smelly, dark tallow up into his face and over his hands. Snatching up a clean rag, he mopped up the mess as best he could without water and soap. Seeing several drops on the bracelet, he wiped them off on his trousers and pushed the bracelet up under the gathered cuff of his tunic.
It was late afternoon, several hours before the festival would shut down for the night. Gaesil sat on a chair and propped his chin up on his palm, watching the crowds drift by the stall. Out of the corner of his eye he became aware of the hooded figure of a young woman standing across the main thoroughfare to the right, watching him. Realizing she’d been spotted, the woman cut through the flow of traffic and approached the stall.
Large eyes the color of the sea regarded Gaesil from beneath a generous silk scarf, wrapped so intricately about her head that only her pale, almost milk-colored, unlined face was exposed. The merest wisp of silver-white hair escaped at her right temple. Drawn with a string at the neck, her finely woven cloak flowed from shoulders to ankles in a soft indigo cloud.
“Excuse me for staring,” she began, her low voice as soothing as waves lapping at the shore, “but isn’t this Flint Fireforge’s stall?”
Gaesil stopped his own scrutiny. “Yes, it was—I mean, is, but Flint was, um, called out of town unexpectedly.”
The woman looked very concerned. “Out of town? For how long?”
Gaesil looked embarrassed. “Well, I don’t know. He could be back today, or perhaps not for some time …” In truth, the tinker had no idea how soon, if ever, the dwarf would catch up to the kender.
“Not for some time?” The woman’s eyes darkened angrily. “But he was supposed to meet me here.” She looked near to panicking.
“Are you a friend of his? Maybe I can help you,” Gaesil offered kindly, feeling pity for her obvious distress.
The unusual-looking woman turned aside and brushed dust from her pale face with a gloved hand. “No, I’m not. And I don’t think you can help … No one can, except Master Fireforge. I’ll come back later.” Before Gaesil could respond, the woman turned and disappeared into the throng of people before the stall.
Gaesil stood, shaking his head sadly. Something about the exotic-looking woman touched his heart.
Something also touched his wrist. For no apparent reason, Gaesil felt the bracelet growing warm on his wrist. He also felt dizzy, for no apparent reason. Then his stomach felt upset, and then he felt positively ill. But the feeling passed within moments.
Much to his astonishment, Gaesil realized that he was looking at his wagon, even though it was behind him, on the far side of a curtain, and his eyes were closed! He had no idea what was happening, but he noticed that a piece of merchandise was missing from his wagon—an oxen yoke that he kept lashed beneath the box was gone.
When Gaesil opened his eyes, the wagon had vanished. Once again he was seated in a borrowed booth at Solace’s festival.
Of course, Gaesil immediately began wondering what had caused his strange manifestation. He was just curious enough to thrust his head through the curtain and check the wagon. Sure enough, there was the yoke, right where it was kept. So what had the vision meant? Was someone going to steal it from the wagon?
This oxen yoke was a particular sore spot to Gaesil. Hepsiba had bought it from a neighbor who was critically short on cash during hard times a year ago last fall. She’d paid almost nothing for it, telling Gaesil that he could resell it for much more. But resale was not Gaesil’s business and he resented both the meddling in his work and the way she had taken advantage of a neighbor. Still, the yoke was dutifully hauled from show to show and put on display, only to be lashed beneath the wagon again when the show ended.
Now he had clearly seen the wagon with no oxen yoke, and that was the only thing outstanding about it. He decided that this had to mean one of two things: either he would sell it here—which he doubted—or someone intended to steal it here—which he doubted even more. In either case, he decided he should bring the yoke into the booth, both for display and protection.
It took him only a few moments to move the ugly thing into the booth. Just as he propped it against the corner barrel, a customer approached. The man was obviously a farmer, judging from his calloused hands and rough clothing. He eyed the yoke carefully and expertly, then spat and asked, “How much?”
The question caught Gaesil badly off guard. Since he never really expected anyone to buy the yoke, he had never considered how much it might be worth. He decided to try the age-old dodge: “Make me an offer.”
The farmer examined the yoke again, handled it, turned it over, then spat again. “I’ll give you one steel and three copper.”
The tinker had sworn long ago to take the first offer he received on the yoke, just to be rid of it. He was about to say, “Sold!” when a different thought struck him. He noticed how warm the bracelet had grown on his wrist.
He pulled the Eye from his pocket and tossed it onto the sawhorse table: Earth. Good luck!
Feeling cocky, Gaesil decided to haggle. “Two steel, one copper,” he countered. The farmer considered that, weighed the coin pouch in his hand thoughtfully, then said, “Got to get at the planting. I’ll go as high as one steel, eight copper.”
“Sold!” Gaesil announced. Grinning like he hadn’t in years, he cheerfully passed the yoke over the counter and accepted the man’s money. No sooner was the farmer gone than Gaesil disappeared behind the curtain to examine the bracelet more carefully.
Was it lucky, he wondered? That could have been a coincidence, or just normal luck. Nothing could prove the unlikely transaction had been influenced by the bracelet. As these thoughts raced through Gaesil’s mind, they were suddenly pushed aside by a keen awareness of customers turning away from his booth.
He pushed the curtain aside and stepped out front. Three ladies, each carrying a basket full of knives, broken needles, and cracked hinges, and wearing three sad faces, were about to leave the front counter. On spotting Gaesil, their faces brightened. In minutes, Gaesil had enough work from those three to fill his afternoon.
Two more times that day, the tinker picked up business by acting on hunches. Watching the last of the crowd leaving the festival at day’s end, Gaesil marveled at the weight of the coins in the pouch at his waist. He had never had such a good business day, ever. And though he could not explain it, he was certain he owed it all to the dwarf’s lucky bracelet. What a powerful talisman it must be; it could make any man rich! It would be a shame to return it to the dwarf, but Gaesil was an honest man, and give it back he would. He only hoped the dwarf did not return until after the fair ended.
Quickly the tinker collected his tools and paraphernalia and returned them to their proper places in his neatly organized wagon. His growling stomach reminded him he had eaten nothing since dawn. He contemplated a supper of dried meat and stale crackers
in the wagon, prepared by Hepsiba in Dern the day before. But after such a day as this, he wanted laughter and good food. He knew from customers that there was an ale tent that stayed open long after the other merchants had closed down for the night. Locking the door of his wagon behind him, he set off to follow the sounds of merriment.
The tent was run by the owner of the Trough, a disreputable drinking house Gaesil remembered passing on the southern road into Solace, and the only competition for the Inn of the Last Home. If the main pub was anything like the tent, it wasn’t much competition, after all.
Two dingy, flickering oil lanterns hung on poles before the opening to a sand-colored, square canvas tent with an angled roof, peaked in the center with a pole. One corner had collapsed and not been repaired. Thin, knotty planks were placed over the muddy walkways between the tables and makeshift bar, but they had long since sunk into the mud. Cold, dirty water lapped at the patrons’ boots, to a depth that even straw or sawdust would not have helped.
The patrons themselves reminded Gaesil of the sewer rats who frequented the dingy, low-ceilinged ale dens so common along the waterfronts in port cities. Although he doubted he would find either good food or laughter here, he was too tired even to contemplate the long walk across town to the Inn of the Last Home. Dinner was here or in his wagon. Here, at least, he wouldn’t be bored. He wanted to celebrate his new good fortune, so he decided to stay for a few mugs.
He made his way over the planks to an open table at the back of the tent, near the sagging corner. Waving his arm, he eventually caught the attention of someone behind the bar. A short, dumpy young man in an overly tight, mud-spattered tunic waded at a leisurely pace through the tables to Gaesil’s.
He scowled down with piggish eyes. “Yeah?”
“I would like a mug of your best ale,” Gaesil said pleasantly.
“That it? We only got one kind, and you coulda ordered it at the bar. I only come around for food orders. You gotta order food if you’re staying for the entertainment.”
Gaesil’s eyebrows arched in surprise. He vaguely remembered seeing a sign attached to the outside of the tent that read “Amateur Night at the Trough. First prize, free dinner. Come one, come all.” Gaesil decided the evening might prove diverting, after all. “All right, what are you serving?”
Not meeting Gaesil’s eyes, the unpleasant young man jerked his head impatiently toward the door of the tent. “Menu’s up there.”
Squinting across the considerable distance in the dim light, Gaesil saw a small, ill-lettered sign propped on the bar that read, “Two eggs—one copper; Bread—one copper; Ale—three copper. Tonight’s special: eggs, bread, and ale—five copper.”
“Uh, I’ll have the special,” Gaesil said with a gulp.
The young man left, yanked a filled mug from the bar, and waddled back to slap it down on Gaesil’s table, splashing out a foamy shower. “Food’ll be up eventually,” he said, slogging off to wait on another patron.
Even the rude waiter could not spoil Gaesil’s good humor. Taking a pull on his ale, he winced; it was, without a doubt, the worst ale he had ever had, tasting more like ditch water mixed with vinegar. Still, it made his head buzz after just a few sips, which was something to recommend it. In fact, the more the ale tugged at his senses, the better it tasted. Even the tent began to look, if not cheerful, at least less swamplike.
By the time the surly young waiter brought Gaesil’s eggs, their broken yolks swimming in watery, uncooked whites, the tinker was ready for another mug. He ordered two at once, to minimize his interaction with the waiter.
“When does the entertainment start?” Gaesil asked.
“I don’t care.” The youth marched back to the bar.
Gaesil looked at his plate. A crust of moldy brown bread floated in the eggs. He snapped off the fuzzy part and used the good portions to mop up the egg whites. Popping a bite into his mouth, he swallowed after minimal chewing so as not to taste it for too long. Fortunately, he had an iron constitution and was accustomed to lousy cooking. The culinary arts were not Hepsiba’s strong suit, as if she had one. Gaesil snorted, and ale foam stung his nostrils. He hadn’t imbibed at any sort of drinking establishment since shortly after his marriage. Hepsiba definitely would not approve, if she could see him now. That thought, and the ale, made him feel very good.
While he was reflecting on his situation, a short, obese man wearing a fancy green velvet coat with gold piping and buttons stretched to bursting climbed up on several bales of hay near the bar. His pug nose looked right in place on his jowly face and reflected as much light as his hairless scalp. He tugged constantly on the facing edges of his coat, belying an otherwise haughty pose.
With no introduction, the man launched into a story. He got very little attention from the crowd—not because it was difficult to hear in the noisy tent, though it was, but because the story seemed to make no sense.
“I was talking with the pig,” he concluded with an expectant look, botching the punch line of the centuries-old joke. The noise level rose to a crescendo as boos, whistles, and hoots chased the fellow from his makeshift stage.
The unfortunate bard held his head high as he walked back to his table, just one over from Gaesil’s, his thinning pate ducking the chunks of moldy bread that whistled past him. “A bunch of ruffians and malcontents,” Sir Delbridge muttered, rings flashing on nearly all of his pudgy fingers as he scraped his belongings from the table and into his pack. The jeers turned to whistles as a comely young woman in a tight gingham dress took her turn and began singing an off-key and off-color tune.
“Buy you a drink, sir?” Gaesil called to him over the noise. “You look like you could use one.”
Delbridge Fidington made it a policy never to turn away anything free. “Thank you, good sir,” he said with a nod. He eased his sizable form into the chair nearest the tinker. “I am feeling a bit parched. Performing drains one so.”
“Was this your first time on stage?” Gaesil asked, struggling to chew a bit of the stale, moldy bread. He hadn’t thought the bard’s act as bad as the rest of the crowd, but then bards weren’t his area of expertise.
Delbridge looked insulted. “Good heavens, no. Surely you’ve heard of Sir Delbridge Fidington? I received my title from Queen Wilhelmina of Tarryn herself, for service faithfully rendered as court bard.”
“Uh,” Gaesil gulped, “I don’t leave Abanasinia much, and seldom hear bards. I don’t believe I’ve ever heard of Tarryn, let alone Queen Wilhelmina.”
“It’s a small but vital kingdom in, uh, the eastern Plains of Dust.” Delbridge dismissed the point with a wave of his hand, which also brought the waiter over.
“My new friend here has insisted upon buying me refreshment,” Delbridge said happily to the same fleshy youth who had waited on Gaesil. “A cup of your best mulled wine, my good man.” To save himself work, the waiter had taken to carrying filled mugs; he dropped one before the bard.
Delbridge peered with disdain over the rim of the mug. “But this looks like—”
“—ale. It is.” With that, the youth left.
Gaesil smirked ruefully. “I’m afraid it’s all they have. It’s not so bad after the first couple of sips.”
Delbridge looked skeptical, took a sip, and nearly choked. “Say, you’re right,” he said after a moment, downing another gulp. They sat in companionable silence for a few moments, nursing their drinks.
“So why aren’t you still court bard for Wilhelmina?”
“Who?” Delbridge was beginning to feel the effects of the alcohol. “Oh, her. I grew weary of telling the same old tales. Bards need to hit the road, I mean, experience the common life every so often to refresh their repertoire.” He glanced around with disdain at the muddy tent and its coarse patrons. “This, however, is a little more common than I had anticipated.”
Delbridge brushed a piece of lint from his velvet lapel, then straightened all of his many finger rings. “I’ll be heading someplace where you won’t find such
riffraff, I’ll wager.” He blew his pug nose with a great honking sound into a large, threadbare silk scarf. “I won’t be sorry to see the last of this town, I can tell you.”
“Gee, I’ve had great luck here,” Gaesil said, taking a swig of his ale. “Did more work today at the festival than any five last year.” The tinker was having a difficult time staying on his chair. Or maybe the table was shifting; he wasn’t sure.
“Swell,” Delbridge muttered, forgetting himself.
“It’s because of the dwarf’s lucky bracelet, you know.” He looked down at the legs of his chair, clutching the edge of the table to keep from falling. “Have you noticed the furniture moving in here?”
“Lucky bracelet?”
“What? Oh, the bracelet.” He wagged his finger at the bard almost accusingly. “I saw it happen!” He drew back his cuff and held the bracelet up for inspection. “Four times today this very item got hot just before I had these strange notions, visions almost, and then customers showed up!”
Delbridge peered closely at the piece of jewelry. “You mean you predicted the future?” he asked skeptically.
“I guess you could say that.” Gaesil peered at him through bleary eyes. “That would make a good story, wouldn’t it? Do you suppose it’s an omen?” Quickly he tossed the Eye behind his hand. He thought he saw Water, the sign of ill luck; he blinked to clear his vision, but he could barely make out the symbol in the dimly lit tent.
Watching him, Delbridge laughed and rose to his stubby feet. “I think it’s a sign that you’ve had too much to drink and you’re mind is playing tricks. Perhaps I should help you home.”
The tinker shook his head until it lolled, and waved off the offer. “No need. I’m staying in my wagon on the grounds here and can do jus’ fine.”
“Then I’ll say good night.” The bard patted his round stomach and clapped Gaesil on the back good-naturedly. “My thanks for the drink and the talk. I hope your luck continues and mine improves.” With that, he turned up his lapels in anticipation of a brisk spring breeze and left the noisy tent.
Wanderlust Page 8
