Eight

The Wrong Crowd

The rain poured down in a solid sheet. Gratia sat in the shop doorway staring out into the glum, endless drizzle. Her side was still painful and she had a feeling it would probably remain that way for quite some time. Her head was now groggy from the drinks she had been offered the night before, and there was a faint smell of stale tobacco hanging around her clothes.

A grey alley cat shared the opposite corner of the entrance to the darn shop. Across the road was the bakery which had sprung into life a good few hours ago and was now emitting deliciously alluring wafts of freshly baked bread.

After a couple of minutes, Gratia stiffly got to her feet and made her way across to the small room to purchase some loaves with her newly earned wealth. By the time she had reached the door, her clothes were already soaked through, so there seemed little point in finding shelter under which to eat. All the same, she found an alley with an overhanging gutter under which to protect her scone from getting soggy.

It was dark in the alley. There was rags and garbage strewn across the ground and it resembled little more than a large rubbish dump. Slouching with her back against the wall, Gratia began to chew thoughtfully.

So this was it. This was what she had left her nice, clean home for? She let out a deep sigh. And they accused the gypsies of being scum? Half the people here were savages and the other half were drunk – occasionally there were people who fitted both descriptions. And it smelt. When she had first come to Lariaan she had liked the smell. In fact, it hadn’t been a smell, it had been several smells, no, hundreds of smells, most of which she had never experienced before. Now that she had been here a good few days, all the smells seemed to mix together and become one sickly sweet city smell; an unclean smell. Oh, how she longed for the crisp, fresh air of her home valley.

For the past three days she had been living on the streets, almost invisible to those who passed by. No one ever cared to look to the gutters, to the people who sat by them. She was lucky in a way, she had looks. They were becoming a little frayed around the edges, her hair was getting matted and there were dark smudges under her eyes, but she was still bearable to look at. She had put these looks to good use, returning to the tavern and performing her little trick again, the punters none the worse for the experience. In fact, none the knowing. But there wasn’t usually much reward in a drunk’s pocket, so she had taken to performing in the streets. There was usually a fiddler or a flautist playing a little tune that she could dance to. You could certainly pick more from the pocket of a gentleman.

In her eyes, what she did was not exactly wrong. These were people with money, an item she did not have the privilege of possessing herself. So, what was so bad about sharing it a little with the less fortunate? It wasn’t as if she were robbing a man blind, she was just taking a little from many; evening it out. Besides, she had to eat, and if someone had gone to the trouble of baking the bread, the least she could do was pay for it. Did it really mater where the money came from?

Gratia was astonished that she was even debating this in her mind! Gypsies weren’t supposed to have such things as morals or conscience, that’s why ‘civilisation’ disliked them so much. So why should she disappoint her public. If the truth be know, there were far worse things she could do, but she didn’t because she wasn’t a bad person. Well, she wasn’t. Not a truly bad person. She stole because she had to live, and she didn’t hurt anybody, she had never murdered anyone or deliberately hurt them, she wasn’t that sort of a person.

The memory of the hound’s pained face flashed into her mind.

It was in pain! It would have been cruller of me to leave it. I released it from its misery! It was no more than stealing. I steal because if I do not I shall die. I killed the animal because if I had not it would have killed me. I would have died. Besides, It gave me penance for my crime. 

Gratia rubbed her side and winced.

The rain gradually began to subside a little.

All of a sudden a large black figure fell from the sky and landed in one corner of the alley. Quickly, it straightened up and bowed to her. Then it pressed itself flat against the wall, winked at her, and held its finger to its lip, motioning for her to keep quiet.

There was an almighty clatter from the rooftops and two more black figures jumped the gap between the roofs overhead. After a couple of seconds the figure relaxed and slumped to the ground with an exasperated sigh. A large smile crossed his lips.

Gratia stared at the man who sat against the opposite wall. He was tall and lanky looking. He had a head of jet black hair that shone with health, and he was dashingly handsome. He was dressed in a pair of baggy black silk trousers held up with a black silk sash. His jacket was of well tailored black leather and there was a long black leather dagger sheath strapped to his side.

He turned his head to look at her. A quizzical glance did nothing to encourage him to explain himself. He stood and, in a swaggering walk that suggested he was conceited and proud of it, made his way to the main street. He looked gingerly out in both directions and then turned back to her.

“Come on, we’d better get out of here.”

He held out a hand to help her up.

“We?” She asked, raising an eyebrow.

“Fine. I didn’t realise you were here by choice. Takes all sorts, I suppose.” He shrugged and turned right at the end of the alley, disappearing into the fog that had now completely engulfed Main Street.

With the reflexes of a cat, Gratia leapt to her feet and went after him. She followed the man’s silhouette to the side of a large white-domed building somewhere down a side street she did not know the name of. The man stopped at the door, looked both ways, not that he could have seen anything in the fog, and knocked hard twice. Gratia slunk into the shadows and watched. There was a muffled voice, an exchange of words that she couldn’t quite make out, then the door opened and the silhouette disappeared into the building.

Now Gratia was curious. She crept to the door and examined it for any clue of what lay behind. There was none. Shrugging, she rapped on the door twice, just as she had seen the other man do. 

A voice came from within.

“Ohw seog ereht? Eman flesruoy! Dneirf ro eof?”

It was a tongue she did not recognise. For a brief moment she contemplated leaving it well alone, but the curiosity was gnawing at her like a pup on a bone.

Biting her lip in thought, she decided to answer in her gypsy tongue. If people were going to fool with languages, who was she to hold back?

“I am the–” She was about to say “gypsy Cilarie,” but then remembered the reception gypsies tended to get in this city. “Princess of Shaihien, and I demand you let me in!”

There was a long silence, but still she reasoned that to say something was far better than to say nothing at all. There was a muffled laugh from behind the door. To Gratia’s amusement she herd someone say in a common tongue, “Oh stop fooling Yo’shan.”

There was a cough as someone cleared their throat. “Bugger off gypsy, we don’t want any today.” There was another muffled laugh.

Gratia’s blood boiled. So they had recognised the language, if not what she had said. “I am not selling anything, and for your information I am not a ‘gypsy,’ either.” The moment the words escaped her lips she was ashamed at what she had just said. She had turned away Gale’s charity because she had been so proud, and now she was going to “kneel in the dirt” for a bunch of town louts who were obviously up to no good.

“Oh! Is that so, now? Well, well. Then you can answer me this like all others who wish to enter: In a marble hall, as white as milk, lined with a skin, as soft as silk, with a fountain, crystal clear, a golden apple doth appear. No doors there are to this stronghold, yet thieves break in to steal the gold.”

Gratia’s brow creased and her eyes narrowed in thought. Back in her home camp there had been an old gypsy woman who would sit and tell each generation of children her riddles, but this one Gratia had never heard.

Picture it. Picture it. A white hall. A padded white hall. A fountain. A fountain of gold. White corridor filled with gold, and it is sealed at either end, and... and...

Gratia’s face lit up with a sudden revelation.

“An egg!”

There was a nervous cough from behind the door. “Err, yes. Yes, very good. Right, err.” There was another cough “A bannock of bread and a sheet full of crumbs–”

“The moon and stars!” she said without hesitation, for she had heard it before many times. It was an old one.

There was an uncertain pause. “Password.”

“Oh, Yo’shan! Let the bloody woman in for heaven's sake and stop this tomfoolery.”

“Oh, right, and you suspect we should invite the neighbours in for a cup of cha whilst we’re at it, eh? Maybe we should just go grab a few dancing women from the taverns, just to decorate the place a bit, and maybe we can–”

There was the distinctive sound of a flick knife being unleashed.

“And maybe you should just shut your mouth, eh?”

There was another nervous cough. “Hey, okay, okay. Cool it or I’ll really give you something to fight about.” Though the threat lacked conviction.

Slowly, with a dramatic creek, the door began to swing open. Before her stood a tall man with a hugely expanded gut. His face was masked with a large ginger beard and ‘tache. Huge sideburns framed his face, and a crop of deep-reddish hair mopped his brow. A loose plat, as thick as a man’s forearm, hung down his back, giving the overall impression of a large, stuffed pig. Behind him, sprawled on a rug by a fire lay the man she had seen in the alley. In his hand was a drawn flick knife, a good few inches long. He wasn’t looking at her, though. He was staring into the flames.

The large man she took to be Yo’shan stood back with a sigh and allowed her to pass. There were two more figures in the darkened room. One was a young boy, no more then sixteen, sitting in a high-backed red leather chair. He had scraggy blond hair and passive, muddy-brown eyes. In his hands were large chains and expensive looking necklaces. He did not look up. The other was a tall, beanpole of a man with amazingly pointed ears, the likes of which she had never seen before. His whole form was odd. His face lacked definition, it was purely an oval of milky-white skin, gathering at the chin into a small goat’s beard of dark-brown hair. His mane was waist-length and completely straight. A waterfall of dark hazel, parted down the centre. His eyes were like slits. He looked up from his green velvet chair and smiled politely at her.

Yo’shan closed the door and sat down on a stool behind it, as if guarding it against a battering ram. With the door shut, the room was dark and gloomy. The furniture was raged, and the carpet was worn and patched with scraps of materiel that did not match in the slightest. The dark-haired man rolled his head to look at her.

“Yo’shan! Get the good woman a brew of cha, have you abandoned all your manners?”

Yo’shan scowled at the man, but instead of protesting as he looked fit to do, he simply stood, walked to the fire and began to ladle some tea into a chipped clay mug. His large round figure blocking out most of the light momentarily.

“I am sorry about my friend, he has not been in the company of a lady for some time. He forgets how to treat them.”

Gratia considered asking why he should not pour the tea himself, but decided, in the interests of staying in the warmth and shelter, that perhaps this time she should keep her mouth firmly shut. She began sipping at the mug. It was surprisingly good.

The man on the floor stared back to the fire. 

The elf in the velvet chair cleared his throat, smiled politely again, stood, and left through the door she had come in.

The man on the floor clicked his fingers. The youth on the leather chair glared at him, threw his booty to the floor and stomped off sulkily through another door to the left. In one move, almost like the flow of water, the man on the floor rolled to his feet and landed in the leather chair that the boy had just left. He crossed his legs, rested his arms on the chair’s, and studied Gratia thoughtfully. Meanwhile, Yo’shan remained seated by the door, paying no attention whatsoever, deeply engrossed in his own thoughts on a speck of dust.

To Gratia’s astonishment, the man spoke in the Gypsy tongue.

“So, where are you really from?”

“Erm. I come from a small valley, a long way from here.”

“Who are you?”

“Who am I? I think that should be my question.”

“Ah, but I asked you first.” The man smiled. It was not an unpleasant smile, not a leer nor a grin, just a nice, warm smile.

“I am the gypsy Cilarie. Gratia Cilarie.”

“Ah. But who are you? Hmmm? Who is Gratia Cilarie? Is she a woman with wealth and power, who sleeps each night in a bed made of rose petals and has servants do her bidding at every click of her fingers?” He snapped his fingers for effect. “I think not. I think perhaps you are exactly the opposite, yes? You live in the gutters and eat little. You sleep in doorways and get wet when it rains. Yes?”

Gratia shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She felt as if the man’s eyes were boring deep into her.

“Who were you running from?” she asked, making no attempt to hide the change in topic. If anything, her sudden diversion was a guilty plea.

“Only the watch. They just never know when to quit.” The man’s smile radiated humour.

Gratia swept the room with her eyes. A frown crossed her face. It was a very empty room, really. Dusty, small and empty. There were the two chairs, and the stool by the door, and there was the large open fire, but that was about it.

“I could help you, Gratia. I am what you need.”

“I can see. But I am not like you. I steal because I have no other way to survive.”

“Then we are exactly alike, Gratia. You see how bare this room is? We use what we take only to feed ourselves.”

“Could you not find more honest work?”

“Could you not?”

Gratia paused for a moment, caught out by her own question.

“You are a gypsy?” she asked him.

The man nodded. “That I am.”

“Your skin is very pale for one of such a race.”

The man merely shrugged and looked to the corner of his black silk shirt, which he began to fiddle with absently.

“So, shall you join us or nay? There is safety in numbers after all.”

Gratia considered this for a moment.

“I still do not know your name, sir.”

“Nalon. Nalon Sage.”

“That is no Gypsy name.”

The man sighed.

“I was abandoned as a baby. Left at the altar to the town church. I was named by the cleaner woman, she adopted me. Do you wish to pry more or am I still not trustworthy?”

“You are a thief, you shall never be trustworthy.”

Nalon threw back his head and laughed. His whole body rippled with the exertion of emotion.

“You learn fast, m’lady. We grow more alike by the minute.”

For the first time in many days, Gratia also threw back her head and let a trickle of laughter escape.