He brought the rest of his fingertips together. “Lastly: our rate of sheep and goat, lamb and kid consumption is alarming, and will only grow with you. A prosperous circus should be able to afford your upkeep.”
“Prosperous?” Ragwrist objected. “You haven’t seen my accounting recently. Bled by—”
Rainfall ignored the interruption. “And consider this: You will eventually sprout your wings, perhaps wish to find a mate. You’ll have more knowledge of the lands, though I should like you to return now and again—in fact, the law will require it.”
“Why is that?” Wistala asked.
“The thane will have you declared legally dead if you do not show yourself at least every five years. Of course, there are provisions, were you to be serving in the Hypatian forces, for your existence to be verified, but I mention it more in hopes of receiving visits from you than as a legal matter.”
“We come up the Old North Road every two or three years, in any case,” Ragwrist said.
“What would I do? Stand like an exhibited animal?”
“That would hardly pay for your food,” Ragwrist said. “Wistala, I will offer you the same terms all my other entertainers get. You pay me each new moon for your food and sheltering—”
“He only adds the smallest of surcharges,” Dsossa said.
“Ho!” Ragwrist said. “I take great trouble managing the supplies; I’ve yet to receive thanks for procuring palatable wine among the Vang Barbarians or those Pellatrian ascetics! But back to the deal: I receive a tenth-part of such coin as you acquire in your displays—”
“Fair warning,” Brok said. “If you keep three coins in ten out of his clutches after upkeep and surcharges, you’re doing very well!”
“If I’m such a scoundrel, I wonder why you’ve been with me these threescore years, my good dwarf?” Ragwrist asked.
“There are skimmers in all walks of life, but few do it with such pleasant smiles and compliments,” Brok replied.
“And I’ve a soft heart and softer head for honeyed words,” Dsossa added. “Being cheated by Ragwrist is painless.”
Ragwrist extended his arm and pointed to a patch at the elbow of his shirt. “Cheated! Do I look like a rich man? My teeth are worn down from biting off the ends of pencils to keep accurate track of expenses, and my voice grows hoarse haggling over quality of flour, all so my beautiful riders may keep flesh on breast and hip.”
“They would happily be spared your frequent evaluations of same,” Dsossa said.
“I will sympathize after I see the accounting books of the Diadem dwarves, who you yearly visit with chest-laden pony,” Brok said.
“This is the reward for generosity, Wistala!” Ragwrist said, turning to the young drakka. “Wild tales! Accusations.”
“How would I earn?” Wistala asked.
“A dragon is an attraction, certainly,” Ragwrist said, pulling his hair behind his elegantly shaped ears. “One so well-spoken even more so. But while your aspect inspires admiration, and later awe as you grow, we must marry that quality to a reliable moneymaker for you and the Circus at large.”
“I’m all interest,” Rainfall said. “I thought she might just do fireworks.”
“Any competent chemist can make better,” Ragwrist said before turning back to Wistala. “I mean for you to be my new fortune-teller.
Intanta all this year has begged to return to her family, now stretching four generations beyond her, but I’ve hesitated, for her protégés have been disappointments.”
“I’ve tol’ ye manys,” Intanta said with a yawn. “A fair smile’s fine, but sen’ a girl of wits. Lev’ her know when to keep those teeth hi’ and be silent, for the signs are best read in silence.”
Some of Wistala’s warmth for Ragwrist left her. “I’ve no gift at that sort of thing. I can hardly foretell the afternoon weather on a fine morning.”
“It’s part skill, part showmanship,” Ragwrist said. “You can better both with practice.”
“To tell folk what they wish to hear takes no skill a’tall,” Intanta said. “The trick is the know of which wor’ their ears long for. Aye, there’s the magic.”
“That seems like . . . lying,” Wistala said.
“Not lying,” Ragwrist said. “Offering—guidance. Insight. Your opinion. People bring their dreams and fears into Intanta’s tent, and come out happier and better prepared for meeting both. Is that so bad?”
Wistala felt confused and crunched some fish bones to hide the fact.
“Ragwrist can talk a falcon out of his talons,” Brok said.
“I should decline,” Wistala said. “Kind as your offer is.”
“Don’t be so hasty!” Ragwrist said. “Talk to some of the other performers. Join the circus and see the world! See the fishing boats come in across an Antodean sunset, or the Grand Arena of Hypat, the crystal waters of Ba-drink under the mountain towers of the Wheel of Fire, the red pennants flying from the walls of Kark—”
“Rainfall! Save us from this travelogue!” Brok said. But Wistala didn’t hear him. She’d stopped listening as soon as Ragwrist mentioned the Wheel of Fire.
“How often do you visit these places?”
“We have regular routes,” Ragwrist said.
“And you’ll return to this good elf and enjoy his gentle talk that washes all road-weariness away,” Dsossa said. Wistala marked warmth in her gaze and new softness in her voice.
“When does the circus leave?”
“We’ll perform again tomorrow, and then pack up,” Ragwrist said. “The winter is rather ahead of us.”
“You will have my answer before you leave.”
Wistala spent a sleepless night thinking of dwarves and the Dragonblade, promises and parentage. Unable to sleep, she walked around and around Mossbell and the barn, until one of Widow Lessup’s daughters tossed the cold ashes from last night’s fire on others in the dustpile.
The next day Hammar and a party from Galahall rode in to see the circus and sample the wine and drink of the inn. Rainfall, at the urging of his granddaughter, offered him the use of Mossbell’s stables. Fortunately his party arrived early, before Lada was properly dressed and coiffed.
Hammar paid only the briefest call on Rainfall, and Wistala watched from her former nook. After barely perceptible bows and cold pleasantries Rainfall invited Hammar to dinner after the show.
“I will decline,” Hammar said, refusing a chair brought by Forstrel with a wave. When he didn’t have the oversize helmet on his head, he was a more pleasing youth, especially when clad in a dark riding cloak and festive winter neck-cloth.
“Have you read my letter?”
“Unless you have any proof beyond the words of a girl of dubious parentage, I wondered why you bothered.”
Rainfall leaned forward. “Both of us are guilty of hard words to each other in the past. I fought your assumption of the thane-title on your father’s death, and you have coveted my property as more suitable ground for the thane-seat than Galahall. The coming child gives us a chance at alliance in Hypatia’s interest, if for no other reason. I offer you this chance before we become enemies.”
“Open enmity?” Hammar asked. “That’s not like you. As to chances, I’ve higher title, better men, and enough good yew bows to feather the creature better than that torn pillow. You took too great a gamble when you put so much hope into one scaly beast. Its head will adorn my trophy room.”
Rainfall cocked an ear toward her panel door, perhaps fearing a telltale creek.
“She’s a Hypatian Citizen, and I hear murder being threatened against her in my own receiving hall. Hypatian law is greater than any man, yea even a thane.”
“Law is only as strong as the men to enforce it,” Hammar said. “And here, I’m the law. I’ll wish no good day to you, elf.” Hammar turned on his heel and strode out the door.
“I sometimes wonder if it would be easier to just give him Mossbell,” Rainfall said to her when she emerged.
“How can I ease your cares?” Wistala asked.
“You’re careworn enough, stomping around the grounds last night. Go watch the circus and forget all worries.”
So Wistala watched the antics again from a discreet corner of the inn’s roof, sheltered from the wind by a warm chimney. The audience, prosperous farmers and tradesmen, were better dressed today, and had ridden from farther away to attend, answering the calls of Ragwrist’s announcement-riders. Jessup’s Inn—she couldn’t call it the Green Dragon, the name seemed silly to her—had a number of parties staying.
Numerous bills and messages were tacked to the notice-post in front of the inn, surrounded by those literate enough to read and discuss the news as they passed, but the local talk of villains wanted for hanging and auctions left off when Lada walked across the road from Mossbell, intent on seeing the circus and attended by Forstrel.
