Juliet E. McKenna - Einarinn 3 - The Gambler's Fortune

The Gambler’s Fortune

the third tale of einarinn

Juliet E. McKenna

3S XHTML edition 1.0

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One

Songs of the Common People

Being gathered on travels throughout

the Tormalin Empire in the reigns of

Castan the Gracious and Nemith the Wily,

by Maitresse Dyesse Den Parisot

The House of Den Parisot has dwelt in the Nyme Valley since the days of the

earliest Emperors. As the wisdom of Tormalin advances to embrace ever wider

lands, the men of the House work ceaselessly in the service of their Name and Den

Parisot responsibilities now run from farthest east to the very fringes of the Great

Forest. The bonds of affection between my husband and myself were so sorely

tested when these obligations drew him from home that I resolved to go on the

road in his company. While fulfilling my wifely duties on our travels, I made a

study of the tales and music we heard and present them here for a wider audience.

Music is always a proper occupation for women, from the lullaby that soothes the

fractious babe, to the genteel airs we teach our daughters, to the round songs we

share in good fellowship. In these songs gleaned from the commonalty of the

Empire, I have found beguiling melody, tales to provoke tears and laughter and

no little wisdom. Much of value and beauty has been found across the Empire to

ornament the great Houses of Tormalin and music is but a less tangible wealth to

enrich us.

I present these songs as an entertainment, and too, as evident proof of all that

unites the Empire, however many leagues might divide its peoples. While we

beseech Drianon’s blessing on our fields of wheat, so the people of the boundless

plains commit their mares and foals to her care. I have been welcomed in Ostrin’s

name to the leathern tents of cattleherds, just as devoutly as on the threshold of the

Imperial palace. Divine authority pays no heed to bounds of time or distance and

the same is true of music. A song of woodland birds sung to a babe beneath the

leaves of the wildwood will beguile a silk-swathed princeling just as happily.

Stirring adventures from northern mountains will warm the blood of youths in the

cohorts and teach them much of courage and duty besides.

Harmony delights the ear more than the solitary voice. A threefold cord is not so

easily broken as a single strand. Brothers united in common purpose fare better

than those divided by rivalry or suspicion. Such truths are acknowledged the

length and breadth of the Empire. You will find these and more besides in this

collection.

—«?»—

Selerima, Western Ensaimin,

First Day of the Spring Fair, Morning

There’s a certain kind of man whose common sense shrinks almost exactly as fast

as his self-conceit swells. Perhaps it’s an inevitable law of nature, one of those things

Rationalists will bore on about, given half a chance. Whatever, there are enough of

them about, especially at festivals, to let me turn a rune—or in this case, a

nutshell—for profit any time I choose.

I leaned forward and smiled confidingly. “You’ve been watching close now,

haven’t you, friend? Care to risk another penny on it?”

The stout man’s eyes flickered upward to my face, halting for a breath at the

tempting ruffle of my loose-laced shirt. As his gaze left the crumb-strewn tabletop,

my fingers moved unseen beneath my other hand to make sure I’d be taking his coin

once again.

“I’d say I’ve got it this time,” he chuckled, confidence gleaming in his eyes like

the fancy braid on his cuffs. Still smiling, I held his eyes with mine although a

whisper of cold air on the nape of my neck stirred the hairs like those of a wary cat.

A door behind me was being held open for some reason pressing enough to let the

tavern waste its heat on the chilly spring day outside.

The merchant made up his mind and reached for the middle of the three nutshells.

I laid a soft hand on his hairy fingers. “Copper to choose, silver to see,” I dimpled,

all innocent charm.

“Fair enough, girlie. I’ve got you this time.” He tossed a copper onto the table

and snatched boldly at his chosen shell. As he gaped at the bare wood beneath, I

managed a look of wide-eyed startlement to match his own surprise. Several

onlookers laughed, but I never do that, not since my early days on the road. A

disgruntled cowherd once backhanded me across the face, losing his sense of

humor along with his meager hoard of pennies.

“Saedrin’s stones, I could have sworn I had it that time!” The merchant rubbed a

fat hand over sweaty jowls and reached again. As I spread a warning hand over the

shells, I heard the scrape of nailed boots coming down on flagstones with a

measured tread.

“Silver to see, you know the game,” I braced myself in my chair, unnoticed but

ready to rise.

Frustration never lets them not know. The merchant tossed an ill-tempered and

tarnished penny at me, which I swept briskly into my pocket. As he picked up one

shell then the other to reveal the errant kernel, I let the eager bystanders close in to

the table.

“But how, by all that’s holy—” the luckless mark looked up, exasperated, but the

townsfolk in their holiday best had me effectively concealed from view. I edged

away. A tug at the laces drew my shirt to a more respectable neatness and I paused

for a moment in the shadow of the stairwell to reverse my jerkin unseen. Unhurried, I

pulled the far door closed behind me as I shrugged into dun homespun, pulling the

gaudy scarf from my head and stuffing it in a breeches pocket. There was no

mistaking the bellow of a Watch sergeant behind me, asking who had been running

the game. Various gullible fairgoers whose coin jingled in my purse would doubtless

be eager enough to give him a description. A woman unremarkable of height or

build, they’d say, but with a bright red jerkin and a headscarf patterned in yellow and

crimson imperfectly concealing her straight black locks. With that scent to follow,

the Watch were welcome to try and find me to demand a cut of the coin. Using my

fingers, I combed through the soft auburn waves of my hair and plucked out a few

errant wisps of dyed horsehair. I let these fall inconspicuously onto a brazier burning

incense in the doorway of a little shrine to Halcarion. The smoke could carry my

thanks to the Moon Maiden, for keeping my luck bright for another day.

Five chimes rang from the nearby Wool Audit Hall and a hurrying peddler

bumped into my back as I halted. I scowled at him, suspicious hands checking

purse and belt-pouch, but a second glance showed he was no pickpocket.

“Your pardon, fair festival,” he muttered, trying unsuccessfully to keep to the

flagway; the gutters were already choked with dung and garbage. The holiday was

barely started but the city’s population was doubling or trebling for the Equinox fair.

Still, by the end of five days’ celebrations there would be drunks and paupers

enough buying their way out the Watch’s lock-up by clearing the streets.

Tall wooden houses loomed over the cobbled street, three and four stories high;

each stepped a little farther out. The newly limewashed plaster of the walls shone

bright against the dark oak beams in the spring sunshine. Shutters swung open above

my head as some busy housewife hung featherbeds out to air. Dust billowed from

open doorways as floors were swept clean for the festivities. Memories ten years or

more past teased me. I could almost have been back in Vanam, Selerima’s nearest

rival among the great trading cities dotted among the patchwork of fiefdoms that

make up Ensaimin. But I had taken myself off from my so-called home and fallen by

Halcarion’s grace into the far more rewarding, if more risky, life of chance and

gaming. I was no harried housemaid, roused before dawn to scrub and fettle.

Looking down at my well-kept hands, remembering them red with toil and a winter’s

chilblains, I rebuked myself and slipped off the gaudy ring I’d been wearing as I

separated the local clods from their coin. Some Watchman more alert than most

might just be looking for such a bauble.

A more distant tower struck its own brazen version of noon with a handful of

rising notes. I gathered my wits; the diverse opportunities of the fair were distracting

me. This was no time to be yearning for a high-stakes game of runes or raven. The

game I was setting the board for promised to set me up for life, if I made the play

successfully. I just needed the final pair of pieces. Walking briskly past the tuppenny

liquor houses where I’d spent that morning turning a pretty profit, I took a narrow

alley to the off-hand and came out onto the broad, sunlit sweep of the high road.

There it was, the lofty tower of the guilds’ Conclave Hall, decked out with flags and

pennants to proclaim Selerima’s wealth and power to all and sundry flocking to the

fair from ten days’ travel in any direction. All the adornments couldn’t disguise the

ramparts, the watchtowers and the high narrow embrasures for the crossbow men,

though. It might be a handful of generations since Selerima last had to fight for its

rights but the city fathers still make sure young men do their militia drills in the

exercise halls maintained by each guild. I wondered about trying my luck in a few of

them. No, no one would be shooting bales of old hay full of arrows with all the fun

of the fair to be had.

If the Conclave Tower was to my sword-hand, I needed to go uphill. I wove

through excited crowds with practiced ease to the luxuriously appointed, stone-built

inn where I was currently sleeping. Sleeping very well too, on soft goose feathers

and crisp linen, a meek lass hurrying to light my fire and bring hot water for my

washstand first thing every morning. High spirits put a spring in my step as I

sauntered toward the gentlefolk’s parlor.

“Livak, at last! I was wondering where you had got to.” My current traveling

companion hurried down the stairs. The dour expression on his thin face did nothing

to dampen my sunny mood. “You could have left a note or message,” complained

Usara mildly, raising a hand to summon wine. We seated ourselves at an expensively

polished table.

“It’s only just past noon.” I nodded to the boy, who filled my goblet and earned

himself a copper to ensure a discreet withdrawal. “The streets are busy, hadn’t you

noticed? Sorry, you’re not used to big cities or festival crowds, are you?” I blinked

mock contrition over the rim of the elegant crystal.

Usara answered me with a half-smile. “Have you managed to find these friends of

yours?”

“Not just yet.” I shook my head, unconcerned. “I’ve left messages at the likely

taverns, the more adventurous brothels. They’re bound to arrive sometime today or

tomorrow.”

Usara frowned. “This is all very vague and uncertain. How can you be sure

they’re even coming to Selerima?”

“I know because Charoleia told me they were coming here. They wouldn’t lie to

her and she has no reason to lie to me; we’re friends and that means we trust each

other.” I took a sip of excellent Tormalin wine. Selerima might have shaken off the

honor of being the Old Empire’s most westerly city long since but merchants have

always maintained links with the East and for more than the convenience of a

common language. This vintage had been carried clear across the civilized world to

delight discerning patrons at this elegant hostelry. The flagons had probably traveled

nearly as many leagues as me.

Usara ran a hand over his thinning sandy hair. “That’s all very well, but what if

something unexpected has occurred? You’ve no way of knowing, so I think it’s best

if I—”

“No,” I leaned forward in my chair and cut off his words with an emphatic sweep

of one hand. “I’m the big dog with the brass collar here. This is my game and I say

how we play it. You’re only here as a favor to your master by the grace of mine.”

Usara’s lips thinned with irritation as a faint wash of color rose on his high

cheekbones. I thought it wise to give a little carefully judged ground. “We’ll give

Sorgrad and Sorgren until tomorrow evening to contact us. If we’ve had no word by

then, we’ll think again.”

The annoyance faded reluctantly from Usara’s pale complexion. “What now?”

“We eat,” I gestured to the maidservant waiting patiently by the hatch to the

serving room. I could see a wonderful range of delicacies brought up from the

kitchens being suitably plated up and garnished and our table was soon spread with

an elegant array of creamware dishes. I savored the enticing aromas, always gratified

to be eating the sort of food I’d grown up seeing carried up the back stairs by

footmen and the house steward. The girl brought fine white bread, the first, sweet,

grass-fed mutton, seethed pigeon breast with its broth thickened with egg and herbs,

a grand salad of spinach and cresses, decorated with nuts, raisins, pickled buds and

crystalized flowers, lightly sauced with verjuice and green oil. Usara seemed rather

less impressed than me, but he probably ate like this every noon, not just on high

days and holidays like we lesser folk.

He wiped his mouth on a brocaded napkin. “What have you been doing this

morning?”

“As I said, leaving word in likely places.” I didn’t see any need to tell Usara I was

topping up my purse. I wasn’t paying for any of this luxurious living but I needed a

reason to be hanging around in the tap rooms, didn’t I? “How about you?”

“I’ve been around every guild hall asking for entry to their libraries or archives,”

scowled Usara, “but the liverymen are entirely taken up with the fair.”

That was chafing him like an ill-fitting boot, used as he was to instant respect and

unquestioning cooperation. I stifled a smile with my own napkin. “The festival’s only

five days long. You can look at the archives or whatever after that. It’s taken us the

best part of a season to get here so a few more days won’t tip the balance either

way.”

Usara nodded mutely but I could see dissatisfaction lurking in his warm brown

eyes as we applied ourselves to our meal. I had better do something before he took

himself off on his own initiative. I wasn’t having him toss a random rune to spoil my

plans.

Using a licked finger to collect the last sweet crumbs of a curd tartlet, I pushed

aside my plate. “Let’s see what kind of show this city puts on.”

“You think we’ll find these friends of yours in these crowds?” Usara would never

have been so openly scornful when we’d started on the long journey from Toremal.

Well, it was about time he felt at ease with me.

“There aren’t that many Mountain Men in the cities, so I suppose we might,” I

said. “They mostly just trade with villages on the edges of the uplands. But no,

Sorgrad and ’Gren prefer to go unnoticed. You don’t get far in our line of work if

you stick in people’s memories.”

Usara looked skeptical for a moment then favored me with a sudden bright smile.

“It’s got to be more interesting than sitting here all afternoon. As you say, we don’t

see spectacles like this in Hadrumal.”

His words were lost in a carillon of bells from every side of the city. We hurried

out to the broad front steps of the inn and found the flagway packed tight with

people. Watchmen burnished for the festival were clearing stragglers out of the way.

Standing on my toes, I could just see the first of the huge guild symbols being

carried high by journeymen of the trade. Then a heavily built man with a lavishly

plumed hat blocked my view entirely. I tugged at Usara’s arm. “Let’s find

somewhere better to stand.”

Not much taller than me and scant measures heavier, he was similarly struggling to

get a sight of the procession. Judicious use of elbows and brooch pin helped us to

an alley entry where the jutting foundation stones of a Tormalin-built hall gave us a

vantage point. I gave Usara a hand up and we saw a massive pair of scissors

bobbing down the high road. Made of wood painted and gilded to look like metal,

they incidentally demonstrated the wealth of the Tailors’ Guild, of course. Liverymen

bowing and waving in fur-trimmed robes followed the journeymen sweating under

the honor of their burden. Finally the warden of the guild appeared, carried aloft in

his padded chair on the shoulders of apprentices, presumably chosen for even height

and stout muscles. Louder cheers identified loyal craftsmen keen to show allegiance

and have their fealty noticed by the masters of their trade.

Fullers and dyers followed with an unexciting display of cloth on tenterhooks

teased and harried by rising breezes. The skinners and furriers came next, garnering

far more approval from the masses with journeymen wearing monstrous heads:

wolves with mad silver eyes and crimson tongues lolling over bloodstained teeth,

bears with snarling, foam-flecked jaws. One lithe figure dressed as a cunning marten,

complete with mask and tail, dodged among them, while another in the long leather

apron of his trade pursued him with a knife as long as my arm mocked up out of

wood and paint. I laughed along with everyone else.

“This makes festivals in Hadrumal look a bit staid.” Usara bent close to my ear to

make himself heard.

“Selerima puts on nearly as good a show as Vanam,” I shouted appreciatively.

Tanners followed next, then leather workers. The procession wore on, each

guild’s standard raised above the Great Gate before they dispersed to feasting at

their own audit hall. The banners proclaimed the myriad skills and trades earning

coin for the cities of Ensaimin strung along the rivers, bringing valuables from

mountains and forests and dotted the length of the Great West Road that carries all

manner of staples and luxuries to the ancient Kingdom of Solura in the west, to the

diminished Tormalin Empire in the east and for anyone in between with silver to

spend. Saddlers, fusters and lorriners gave way to coopers and joiners; pewterers

and cutlers were followed by blacksmiths who disdained the counterfeits of the other

guilds. Journeymen carried a massive hammer wrought of polished wood and

gleaming steel between them, muscles rippling.

The goldsmiths alone of the crafts allowed women in their procession,

prosperous wives and haughty daughters on the arms of the liverymen, decked out

with rings by the handful, necklaces and earrings jingling, brooches and pins

securing dark blue gowns and head-dresses. To my mind the effect was rather

spoiled by the glowering of heavy-set apprentices marching alongside, before and

behind, each swinging a hefty cudgel. I don’t suppose it was any coincidence that

the bladesmiths followed, daggers, swords and steels bright in the sunshine as

apprentices brandished their trial-pieces in flourishes threatening to take off any

greedy hands. I wondered idly if the ladies would be still wearing their finery at the

guild feast and how hard it might be to find a maidservant’s dowdy dress.

Finally the fitful breeze brought a tempting scent over the heads of the throng.

Silversmiths and copper workers got scant attention as the crowd turned expectantly

to the bakers and brewers, the butchers and grocers. A massive loaf carried high

above the heads of the throng was an impressive sight and the heady smell of yeast

from vats of ale being wheeled along even managed to outdo the sweaty odors of

unwashed bodies. Links of cooked sausage joined buns and sweetmeats tossed out

on either side, and cheap earthenware beakers of beer were handed around. The

crowds began to move again, people filling the road as the last craft passed, eager to

get a share of the largesse and save the price of a meal. Peddlers and pie men

appeared with jugglers and entertainers. All were looking for a share in the festival

pennies hoarded through the latter half of winter and the first half of spring. Some

canny minstrel raised a boastful song proclaiming Selerima’s might and bright

pennies pattered into his upturned hat.

It was pleasant to stand aloof, no need to scramble for bread and meat, the days

long past when I would salvage a meal from the gutters, brushing off the soiled straw

and nameless filth. “Come on,” I caught at Usara’s sleeve as he stared, rapt, after the

parade. “Let’s get down to the fairground and see the fun there.”

—«?»—

Selerima, Western Ensaimm,

First Day of the Spring Fair, Afternoon

“Where do we go next, Jeirran?”

“You’ve tried every assay house, every tinsmith?” Jeirran planted booted feet

firmly on the cobbles, defying the stream of locals flowing past intent on holiday

amusements. “What about pewterers, there must be plenty of those?”

His three companions were less certain in their stance. Both men and the woman

had the fair hair and pale eyes common to Mountain Men but their faces showed

shared blood as well, the same solid features and sturdy frames.

The two men exchanged a somewhat hesitant glance before the elder spoke up.

“Three places out of five are shuttered up for festival. Where we can get an answer,

no one will do business.” Irritation overcame his reluctance to speak. “Not with us

anyway. They all say the same thing, Jeirran; they buy their metal from the traders

who come down from the hills.”

“And did you find out what prices they’re paying? Five times what Degran and

his cronies are paying us, I’ll wager,” interrupted Jeirran, exasperated. “You

explained it exactly as I told you to, Keisyl? We can deliver finer ingots for a fifth

less cost?”

“And they say show us your ingots,” the older brother retorted. “No one’s

interested in ore samples. We need to bring down metal—”

“The ore samples show the quality of what we offer!” Jeirran broke in. “We’ll

smelt the ores and deliver the tin, but we need coin to meet our needs. Are you sure

you explained it properly?”

“Yes, Jeirran, we’re sure.” The younger broke off to scowl after a burly fair-goer

barging past with scant apology. “Those that didn’t laugh in our faces told us to talk

to the metalworkers’ guilds, said they might be interested in staking us for a share in

the profits.”

“The guild halls are shut for the festival but it might be worth staying on—” Keisyl

lifted his voice above the hubbub of the crowds. The girl hushed him but he patted

her arm. “There’s not one in a hundred here understands what we’re saying, Eirys.

Don’t fret.”

“The whole point of dealing direct with the lowlands is to keep all the profits for

ourselves.” Jeirran did not bother to hide his contempt. “We could find three

trustworthy kindreds inside a day’s travel who’d be more than happy to take a share

in return for timber props and furnace charcoal, spare sons to dig the ore like as not.

Make a deal like that and you sign away any hope of filling your coffers or making a

decent marriage before Maewelin claims your bones!”

“A half-share in worked metal has to be better than whole claim on ore ten

measures underground and no way to reach it!” the younger brother objected with

some heat, folding muscular arms over a brawny chest.

“Do you ever listen to a word I say, Teiriol?” Jeirran turned on him. “If we can be

sure of selling the metal down here, we can buy in what we need to put in a deep

mine ourselves, hire in labor like the lowlanders. That way we keep all the profit.”

“I don’t like discussing our business in the open street like this!” In the girl’s

face, the broad foreheads and square jaws of the men were softened to an appealing

oval framed with delicate curls artfully drawn forward from the knot of her golden

hair, but her lip was quivering in an ominous pout as she drew in her skirts, trying to

keep the others between herself and the townsfolk. “I want to go back to the

boarding house,” she burst out. “I’m fed up with being jostled and stared at. You

shouldn’t treat me so, Jeirran, I’m your wife and I deserve better. It’s downright

disrespectful and—”

“Very well, as you wish.” Jeirran clasped his hands behind his back, knuckles

white as he sought to contain his frustration. “Keisyl, take your sister back to our

rooms, if you please.”

“I want Teiriol to come with me,” the girl interrupted petulantly.

“As you wish. Keisyl and I will see you at sundown. Oh, Eirys, don’t start

crying!” he snapped with exasperation.

“I’m sorry.” Her flower-blue eyes brimmed with tears, the pale rose of her

complexion vanishing under an unappealing bloom of scarlet. “I’m sorry, but I don’t

like it here. It’s noisy and dirty and the people are rude and—”

“Come on.” Teiriol put a comforting arm around his sister’s shaking shoulders

and led her away on the inner side of the flagway where she was protected by the

buildings on one side and himself on the other. Eirys pulled up the hood of her

fur-trimmed cape and clutched it tight. Teiriol spared a fulminating backward glance

at Jeirran. Keisyl watched them go, his expression a mixture of relief and concern.

“Why did you insist she come?” sighed Keisyl, running a hand over

close-cropped blond hair. He loosened his own cape with blunt-fingered hands to

reveal a creamy linen shirt bright with embroidery. Weariness shadowed the pale skin

beneath his azure eyes. “I’m sure it’s not fitting to expose her to all this barbarity.”

“I wasn’t about to leave her at home,” spat Jeirran. “Your mother’s spent every

day since Solstice telling Eirys any three men she could name would care better for

her lands. Give Ismenia half a chance and she’ll be telling Eirys to repudiate me

inside a half-year of marriage.” Rising color threw his golden beard into unflattering

relief. Neatly trimmed around full lips, it did little to soften a square jaw set above a

bullish neck. Jeirran’s hair was longer than Keisyl’s, swept back from a wide, high

forehead to curl down to his collar in wiry yellow waves. For all the bluntness of his

features, he was undeniably handsome and carried himself with that knowledge.

“I don’t think Mother will be any too impressed if you bring her home with some

foul lowlander disease.” Keisyl glared at Jeirran, sufficiently taller to make it an

effective tactic. A couple of seasons’ seniority added to the harshness of his tone. A

ragged lad with startled eyes ducked past, clutching a loaf to his chest.

“There’s no reason to imagine dangers like that, not this early in the year.” Jeirran

forced himself to a more conciliatory stance. “We’re keeping ourselves to ourselves

and we’ll be back in our own air soon enough. That should cheer Eirys up.”

“And what will we have to show for our trouble?” demanded Keisyl. “You’ve

been telling us all winter this fair was the only place to come and trade for better

prices. So far no one will even take a look at our ores, let alone discuss a deal.”

“So these people are too stupid to see buying without a middleman adding his

profit saves them coin! I’ll try some of these so-called smiths myself tomorrow. I

speak lowlander tongue better than you and it’s about time you tried to entertain

Eirys. Today we find a buyer for the furs. If necessary we’ll use that coin to buy

what we need. We can drive a decent digging into the back of the lode and make a

start ourselves.” Jeirran nodded firmly. “We’ll bring ingots next year, so fine even

these clods can’t ignore them. There’s more than one way of snaring a coney.”

A child bright in her holiday best turned her beribboned head at meaningless

words in unknown accents. She tugged at her mother’s skirts, but the woman

bustled her away, sparing a glance of surprise and suspicion at the men.

Keisyl smiled at the child. “How do we go about that, when every furrier will be

as intent on his holiday as everyone else?”

“There are plenty of merchants dealing in hides and skins at this fair,” Jeirran

stated confidently. “I was talking to some while we waited to pass the gates.”

Keisyl’s expression brightened. “Why didn’t you make a deal there and then?”

“None of Degran’s men wintering in the valley bottom thought to mention a ban

on all trading before the official opening of the fair.” Grievance soured Jeirran’s

voice.

“So when is that?” Keisyl’s question was lost as a heedless group of youths

chased a stray dog past. Even the shortest of the ebullient boys was a good head

taller than either Mountain Man, though not the tallest was as broad in the shoulder.

“When is that?” he repeated.

“The man at the rooming house said it’s after the guilds’ procession is done.”

Jeirran set his jaw and forced his way through the busy street, upland muscles

earning him irritated glances that he ignored. “The fairground’s down by the river,

this way.”

Moving with the flow of the crowd soon brought the Mountain Men to the Water

Gate. A sudden surge carried them through the clogged arches and they found they

were outside the walls. Jeirran’s expression cleared a little to see blue sky uncluttered

by looming buildings. Scant moments later the crowd ground to a halt and a fierce

scowl carved its habitual lines between his pale eyebrows.

“What now?” he hissed at Keisyl’s shoulder. The other man muttered an oath and

lifted himself on the toes of his boots to try to see, but the expectant throng hemmed

them in uncomfortably. The murmur rose to a new pitch of excitement before a shrill

of brassy trumpets demanded silence. By the waterside, an unseen fruity voice was

Juliet E. McKenna - Einarinn 3 - The Gambler's Fortune

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