The Gypsy King

by Maureen Fergus

  Jostling Rachel awake, Persephone quickly explained all this, then sat back and waited for Rachel to clap her hands with excitement at the prospect of freedom.

  To her surprise and dismay, however, Rachel only frowned and said, “I don’t know.”

  “What don’t you know?” asked Persephone, trying not to sound impatient.

  “I don’t know if I want to escape,” said Rachel. “Last night, when I overheard Azriel speaking of the destiny of the girl who looked like us, I thought … well, I thought that I should like to have a destiny such as that.”

  Persephone stared at her blankly.

  “I want my life to matter, Persephone,” explained Rachel. “My father died of the Great Sickness when my mother was with child, but before he did he told me that he believed I was meant to do something important with my life. When my mother came to her time, I thought that perhaps helping to deliver her baby was the important thing I was meant to do. But the child—my brother—was born dead. So then when my mother fell ill, I thought perhaps that saving her was the important thing I was meant to do. But she died, too, and since then I have done nothing but survive. I do not know if the prophecy of the Gypsy King is a true one or not, but I think that I would happily lay down my life in the pursuit of it.”

  Before Persephone could muster an argument to these exasperatingly selfless sentiments, the door of the hut opened to reveal the smiling faces of Azriel and the little boy from the night before. Azriel was carrying a brimming basin of water; the boy was carrying soap and towels. They were halfway across the room when a sound outside the hut made Azriel glance over his shoulder. The next instant Cur burst through the doorway and such was his eagerness to reach Persephone that he apparently felt he had no time to run around obstacles in his way but must run straight through them instead. As it happened, the only obstacles in his way were Azriel’s legs, and before Azriel could jump, dodge or even curse, they were violently swept out from under him and he crashed to the hard-packed dirt floor with a thud, a splash and a clatter.

  Biting her lip to keep from laughing, Persephone peeked past Cur (whom she was hugging tightly in spite of his tremendously naughty behaviour) to see Azriel looking pained, outraged and wet. The little boy wasn’t nearly so concerned with sparing Azriel’s feelings; pointing one chubby finger at his drenched tribesman, he clutched his belly and laughed heartily.

  “Um, are you all right?” asked Rachel timidly.

  “Fine,” growled Azriel, flicking his dripping auburn curls out of his eyes so that he could better glare at Cur, who promptly started barking at him.

  At this, the child clapped and laughed harder.

  “It’s not nice to laugh at people, Sabian,” grumbled Azriel as he clambered to his feet and shook like a wet dog.

  “Oh, he wasn’t laughing at you, Azriel—he was laughing with you,” protested Persephone, who was still struggling to keep a straight face. “Isn’t that right, Sabian?”

  “No,” said the little boy solemnly as he reached up to scratch his nose. “I wath laughing at him.”

  Several moments of unrestrained hilarity followed this guileless confession, and Azriel suffered them with an air of severely injured dignity. “We leave for Parthania within the hour,” he finally huffed. “I’ll fetch more water, and after you’ve washed, you may join me to break your fast and discuss plans.”

  The second basinful of water was delivered without incident, and after Persephone and Rachel had scrubbed their hands and faces and tidied their hair, they headed outside in search of Azriel. They found him seated at a table set beneath a sturdy canopy of thatching; across from him sat the red-headed Tiny and the beautiful Fayla.

  His injured dignity seemingly having made a complete recovery, Azriel gallantly jumped to his feet and indicated to Persephone and Rachel that they should sit on the bench next to him. “There is sausage, porridge, boiled eggs, pie, ale and leftover hare stew,” he said, gesturing to the bounty spread across the table. “Eat and drink as much as you like.”

  Rachel did not need to be told twice. Eagerly, she stood and ladled up an enormous portion of thick, steaming porridge into the bowl before her, laid five sausages over top of the porridge, piled three eggs on top of the sausages and gave the pie and the stew a look that promised she’d be back for them in due course. Smiling broadly, she sat back down, poured herself a large mug of ale and dug in.

  Persephone ate too, but with significantly less gusto, owing to the looks that Azriel’s beautiful sweetheart was giving her. The previous evening, he’d left for bed almost immediately after the great reveal, and even though he’d looked perfectly capable of taking off his own boots and pulling the blankets up to his own chin, the beautiful Gypsy girl had insisted on accompanying him to give him what assistance she could. Objectively speaking, even now Persephone thought that the two of them had made a rather disgusting spectacle of themselves, what with Azriel limping along (even though it was his arm that was injured) and Fayla glued to his side, tenderly crooning and fussing over him (even though he was a grown man and not some ridiculous overgrown baby). Not that it mattered to her, of course, but—

  “… the matter?” Azriel was saying.

  “What?” blurted Persephone.

  Azriel leaned so close that she felt the warmth of his uninjured arm pressed against hers. “I asked if something was the matter,” he murmured, gesturing to her barely touched plate.

  “No,” she mumbled with a darting glance at Fayla, who was staring fixedly at their touching arms.

  Azriel did not seem to notice Fayla’s stare. With a frown he pressed even closer to Persephone—so close that she could feel his warm breath tickling her neck. “Are you sure there’s nothing the matter?” he asked.

  Persephone nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

  Across the table, Fayla narrowed her eyes and folded her arms across her chest.

  A blissfully oblivious Azriel proceeded to explain to Persephone and Rachel that the journey to Parthania would take about five days. They’d all be disguised as Erok lowborns for the first four days, he explained; after that, Fayla would dress as a noblewoman, he and Tiny would play her armed escort, and the two of them would play her servants.

  “Her servants?” exclaimed Persephone with ill-disguised dismay. “Why do we have to play her servants?”

  “Because we need someone to play a noblewoman,” explained Azriel, “and noblewomen always travel with servants.”

  “Well, fine, but … I mean … I just don’t see why she gets to play the part of the noblewoman,” spluttered Persephone, cringing to hear how childish she sounded.

  “Acting the part of a noblewoman is harder and more dangerous than you might think, Persephone,” said Azriel. “The slightest gesture or turn of phrase can give you away, as can the inability to answer simple questions upon the instant. Do either you or Rachel know enough about any noble family in this realm to pass yourselves off as a distant—and thus safely obscure—relation? Could either of you comfortably speak at length about this noble family’s long and distinguished history, or give me the name of the eldest brother of your so-called noble father’s second wife? Could you tell me which nobleman sits next to your so-called great-uncle at the Council table, or describe in detail the most recent execution you attended? Could you spit in the eye of a New Man soldier who was accusing you of imposture and demanding that you get down on your knees and beg for a swift death? You may think you could—and you could be right—but Fayla knows she could, for she has done it before and done it well enough to save lives.”

  “You’ve spit in a soldier’s eye?” Rachel asked Fayla in a wondering voice.

  “The wretch is lucky I didn’t have him flogged to within an inch of his life,” said Fayla, sounding as haughty and cold and noble as could be.

  Rachel laughed aloud at her cleverness.

  Irritably wondering why Azriel’s sweetheart had to be beautiful, brave and clever, Persephone shoved a whole sausage into her mo
uth and muttered, “Very well. Fayla will play the noblewoman. What else do we need to know?”

  “For the first four days we’ll be travelling through sparsely settled country where our greatest danger will be bandits,” explained Azriel. “That is why we’ll be dressed as lowborns, for to have Fayla dressed as a noblewoman in the wilderness would attract those who would think nothing of robbing and ravishing a noblewoman, slitting her throat and the throats of all those in her company and dumping their bodies where none but wild beasts would ever find them.”

  Rachel covered her mouth with her hand but said nothing.

  “When we get to within a day of Parthania, the countryside will become more populous,” continued Azriel. “There, having Fayla dressed as a noblewoman should protect us from being rounded up by New Men and also from the bored sons of nobility who enjoy making sport of lowborns almost as much as they do hunting and carousing. It will also help get us into Parthania, for lowborns, slaves and other undesirables are not allowed passage through the gates of the imperial city unless they can prove that they are on the business of someone more important than themselves. While we could almost certainly come up with a convincing story in that regard, it is a safer and more desirable thing by far to walk through the gates unmolested.”

  “What happens once we’re inside?” asked Rachel.

  “We find somewhere for Fayla to change back into her lowborn clothes so that she can make her way into the slum and retrieve the child,” explained Azriel.

  “Why not send him to fetch the child?” asked Persephone, pointing at Tiny. “Or you? I would think that a big, strong man would stand a better chance of success than a mere girl.”

  “You would think so,” growled Tiny, who did not seem to appreciate hearing the beautiful, brave, clever Fayla referred to as a mere anything. “But among the Erok, hauling children around is women’s work, so if a man was seen carrying a child it would instantly raise suspicion.”

  Azriel nodded. “After Fayla returns with the child, she will change back into her gown and we’ll begin the return journey at once. If all goes well, we should be back here within a week.”

  For a long moment, there was only silence around the table as the five of them contemplated the many reasons why things might not go well.

  Then Rachel said, “And have you any idea at all how we’re to go about finding and crowning the Gypsy King, Azriel?”

  Smiling slightly, Azriel shook his head. “I’m sorry, Rachel, I don’t. However, if Cairn can have faith that the answers we seek will be provided as they’re needed, then so can I.”

  Plans discussed and their fast broken, Persephone and Rachel returned to the “guest cottage” to change into the disguises Azriel had provided. In addition to identical drab, shapeless smocks that hung half-past the knees, there were identical dirty head wraps and identical pairs of soft-soled ankle boots that looked (and smelled) like old men’s crusty socks.

  “I cannot believe that we have to wear these horrible things and she is going to be dressed as a noblewoman!” complained Persephone as she picked something sticky and brown and disgusting off one of her “boots.”

  “Not at first, she isn’t,” comforted Rachel as she gamely tied a length of limp cord around her waist. “And consider this—these items are far more durable than our threadbare old ones.”

  Persephone—who admired beauty and elegance in clothing infinitely more than she did durability—merely grunted and adjusted her smelly head wrap. She then ripped a large hole in the right pocket of her ugly new smock so that she would have easy access to her dagger (which had been returned to her by Tiny) and transferred to the left pocket her bit of lace, her rat tail and—after promising herself she’d throw it away later—the auburn curl.

  When she and Rachel finished dressing, they went back outside to find Azriel, Tiny, Fayla and the rest of the Gypsies waiting for them at the opening of the tunnel that ran beneath the waterfall. Persephone was trying to figure out how Fayla was managing to make her lowborn disguise look charming and rustic (instead of ugly and disgusting) when she heard the familiar sound of a much-beloved horse losing his mind with joy at the sight of her.

  As she turned to greet Fleet, she noticed that he was wearing a saddle and panniers as well as several large packs. “What is this?” she asked Azriel in amazement.

  Azriel gave a long-suffering sigh. “Well, since we are going to need a horse and since we know that this particular beast will find some way to follow you and make a complete nuisance of himself anyway, I decided to bring him along from the start.”

  “I’m amazed that he stood still to be saddled,” marvelled Persephone.

  “I’ve never seen a horse eat so many carrots,” grunted Tiny, by way of explanation.

  “Even so, he’s always felt that doing the bidding of humans is beneath him,” confided Persephone.

  Azriel rolled his eyes. Then he, Tiny and Fayla bade farewell to Cairn and the other Gypsies, who responded with heartfelt cries of goodbye and good luck.

  “And good luck to you,” said Cairn as she watched Persephone peel Sabian’s chubby little arms from around her legs. “I shall look forward to our next meeting.”

  If good luck is with me, you shall never see me again, thought Persephone.

  But, of course, she didn’t say this. Instead, she murmured something to Cairn about sharing her sentiment, whistled for Cur and followed Azriel and the others into the darkness of the tunnel.

  SIXTEEN

  THAT FIRST DAY of the journey, Azriel set such a pace that by the time they finally stopped for the night, Persephone was almost indecently excited by the thought of a few bites of hot food and some much-needed rest. Most unhappily, before they could even pluck the two fat grouse that Fayla had brought down with her bow, it started to rain.

  “Oh, no,” groaned Persephone as the light sprinkling rapidly gave way to a torrential downpour.

  With a cry of dismay, Azriel shouted for them all to run for the shelter of a nearby rocky overhang. Though Persephone was fairly certain that Fleet was not included in the “all,” he insisted upon joining them anyway. Unfortunately, his steaming bulk took up most of the shelter provided by the overhang, so his human companions were reduced to crowding around him while they supped on strips of dried meat, soggy cheese and biscuits hard enough to crack teeth. After washing down their meagre meal with a few sips of tepid water from their water skins, they huddled together waiting for the chill rain to ease up so that they could lay out their bedrolls with some hope of not having them instantly drenched.

  “This reminds me of the night afore we found Azriel,” said Tiny gruffly.

  “Found Azriel?” said Rachel in surprise.

  “That’s right,” said Tiny. “Found him huddled at the edge of our cook-fire pit. A well-fed, comely lad of about seven years, he was dressed better than an Erok lowborn but not as well as a nobleman. He was mute for the first year or so, and once he started talking he couldn’t tell us a single thing about himself. It was as though he hadn’t even existed before that morning we found him! Isn’t that right, Azriel?”

  “That’s right, Tiny,” agreed Azriel impassively as he stared out into the darkness.

  Persephone—who’d long believed that memories were the only things that couldn’t be stolen away—felt an unexpected rush of sympathy for Azriel. Reaching out, she laid a hand on his arm. As she did so, something occurred to her. “But if you don’t know who you are or where you came from,” she said, “how do you know you’re a Gypsy?”

  At her words, Tiny gasped and began choking on a sip of whatever it was he’d been sneaking from his hip flask, and Fayla threw Persephone a cold look.

  “He has the look of one, and whoever left him knew how to find us,” said the beautiful Gypsy girl. “And even if it weren’t for those things, he came to us as a child, was adopted and willingly received the mark as a man and that’s the same as blood to us.”

  Stung by Fayla’s rebuke and feeling as
though she owed Azriel something for having questioned whether he really belonged among the only people he’d ever known, Persephone mumbled, “Well, uh, as it happens I don’t really know who I am or where I came from, either. I lived in a manor house near the slave markets of Wickendale until five summers past when my master lost me in a game of dice.”

  “A game of dice?” said Azriel softly, turning his gaze upon her.

  Looking up at him, Persephone nodded. “He lost me to a tavern owner who insisted upon collecting payment that very same night. I … did not go quietly,” she faltered.

  “So the ‘true owner’ you spoke of was a tavern owner,” murmured Azriel.

  “No,” Persephone told him. “The tavern owner sold me after just six months. Well, he gave me away, actually. To the man I stabbed.”

  “Oh, Persephone, you stabbed a man?” squeaked Rachel, her eyes wide and her breath a frosty cloud.

  Having forgotten that there were others listening besides Azriel, Persephone started at the sound of Rachel’s voice. “I only stabbed his hand,” she clarified as she hugged herself for warmth, “and only after he tried to stick it up my skirt.”

  “So the ‘true owner’ you spoke of was this disgusting beast,” growled Azriel.

  “No,” she replied. Now it was her turn to stare out into the darkness. “The man I stabbed sold me to an overseer at the Mines of Torodania. I was locked in one of the restricted sections of the mine. The other children and I were not allowed aboveground at all, and we were only given food and water if we delivered our quota of gemstones. Many were unable to do so, of course. Some of them died and rotted where they fell, while others grew feral. They were vicious and they would eat … anything.” She looked down at her hands. “They ate my only friend.”