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Chapter 9:
The Autumn Horse


I


Aleria had seen the oaken horsehead only once, but its ruby eyes shone in her memory like those of heroes in romantic poems. She thought of their luster that evening as she lit the twin ceiling lanterns, laid out her map, and readied for her visitors.

She wished she could obtain the gems without assistance. For the sake of the rubies, Bellarix and his cadre could be endured. In ideal circumstances, she’d have sailed back to Derva and assembled a top-shelf crew. But that would mean delaying another year, and she just wasn’t that patient. Besides, she’d worked out a way to explain her plans so that even the most stupid of men would understand them.

As fate had it, the thickest of Bellarix’s band turned up first, a filthy brown wineskin drooping from one meaty hand. Aleria welcomed him inside and Dolgrin ducked under the low lintel.

“Good evening to you, Aleria.” He politely bowed his head, then lifted the wineskin to his lips and tipped it high. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, then stared dully at her before thrusting the wineskin forward. “Would you like some?”

Not only was the wineskin filthy, it reeked. “No,” she said, and added: “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” Dolgrin was huge and dim and perpetually sunburned. He was also oddly sweet, the only one of the band for whom she held any genuine affection. In his limited way, Dolgrin was reliable.

“What is that stench?” a male voice exclaimed. Valentius strode in without so much as a knock, his lean face pinched into a look of sour disapproval.

“It might be this.” Dolgrin raised the offending wineskin. “I didn’t think it was that bad.”

“Not that bad? It smells like a drunk peed on a dead dog. Where did you get it?”

“It was lying along the road. Someone threw it out, and it was half full of wine.” Dolgrin shook his large, well-cropped head in astonishment.

“Get rid of it,” Valentius ordered. “It stinks up the whole place.”

Dolgrin’s brow furrowed. After a moment he turned to Aleria. “Does it really smell that bad?”

“I’m afraid it does,” she said. “I have more wine, if you like.”

“Oh, that would be fine, then,” Dolgrin said agreeably. “I’ll just pitch it out back.”

“Throw it far.” Valentius walked over to the table she’d pushed to the center of the room and sneered at the map. He was making doubtful noises as Bellarix arrived at last, trailed by the final two members of his band.

Their leader claimed his grandsire had been a Ceori chieftain and wore a thick blond mustache with long dangling ends as if to emphasize the relation. Like the others, he was dressed as a plebian laborer, with a belted, knee-length tunic, and strap sandals. He wore his hair short.

She greeted him, handsome, dead-eyed Felix, and his shock-haired brother, Minos, and reminded them she had wine just as Dolgrin re-entered. Somehow the stench still clung to him.

Valentius, bent over the map, made a pronouncement behind her. “This looks like it’s going to be pretty involved.”

“There are a lot of steps,” she conceded, “but they’re simple ones.”

“Let’s hear her out,” Bellarix said. He had a habit of sounding reasonable, but she had never truly trusted his perpetually bland expression.

“I still don’t see why we can’t just rob the temple,” Valentius said. “We can get through the locks and a few guards.”

Aleria responded respectfully. There was no need to encourage the man’s vindictive streak. “That might be true. But this means much less risk, and also gives us the cash box from the festival.”

Valentius scoffed. “That’s small change compared to what the rubies on that horse head statue are worth.”

“We’ll need the ‘small change’ to keep us going until we find a buyer for the rubies. And that box will contain hundreds of sesterces. It’s worth our time.”

Bellarix pulled on the absurd pointed end of his mustache. “She’s right.”

Dolgrin poured out wine cups for everyone. She’d dipped into her own reserves to provide her cover as a wine merchant, and she was into the last of the stock.

“Well, let’s hear it then,” Valentius said, and took Dolgrin’s cup.

Aleria had sketched the street and the new grain depot, along with the dirt track to the east, where the race would be held. There were the bleachers on the village side of the track, the road behind it, and the squares and rectangles representing businesses and homes on the main street. She’d even carefully drawn the imagery shown on inn placards so the men could orient themselves. As maps went, she thought it a fine one.

She pointed to the left, where she had depicted a square fronted with pillars beneath a triangular pediment. “On the day of the festival, just after dawn, the escort will place the trophy horse head on a wagon, held upright on a pedestal so it can be seen up and down the street.” It would be surrounded by garlands, and hung in green, in honor of the Greens’8 victory last year.

Aleria checked her audience. Valentius listened while frowning, and Felix was cleaning his nails, but so far she had their attention.

“The magistrate and the city elders will march it to the field, where the local priests of Eperon honor the Autumn Horse, and after the priest stops chanting the horse head will be mounted here”—she stopped to tap the front center of her depiction of the stands—“on a marble post. Once the opening ceremonies are complete, the circus will begin its performance. It’s to last almost three hours. The entire time, the crowd will be filing in, paying their fees for the privilege of the view from the bleachers. And every one of the coins goes straight into the lockbox.”

She paused again to make sure they understood this point. “They’ll keep taking money for admission straight up through the end of the circus performance. Then the lock box goes over here, on this wagon, where it will be kept under guard.” She tapped her finger on the wagon image at one end of the track. “You’d think it would be trundled immediately away for safe keeping, but it’s not.”

“Why not?” Dolgrin asked, his voice mild. Though not a bright man, he was a curious one.

“Because the guards want to see the race, too. Everyone, and I do mean everyone, is going to be on that field or near it.”

They all nodded at that, because they’d be there themselves if they weren’t planning a robbery.

“After the circus, anyone who couldn’t afford the fee is allowed in to see the race of the Autumn Horse.” Aleria was readying to describe the next step when Bellarix interrupted.

“Is that supposed to be some of us?” He pointed to a pair of stick figures she’d drawn beside the wagon.

“Yes.”

“Which one is me?” Dolgrin asked. “Is it the taller one?”

She hadn’t meant to suggest that level of detail, but was willing to humor him. “Yes.”

“I’m not bald,” Dolgrin objected.

She took up the stylus and dashed a few lines suggestive of hair.

Dolgrin nodded in approval. “Which one is Bellarix? Shouldn’t he have a mustache?”

Aleria expected Bellarix to stop this nonsense, but he instead shot her an inquiring look. He hated to have time wasted on the nonessentials, as he put it, but when it came to his mustache, he was extraordinarily sensitive.

And so she drew one upon the oval face of the tiny figure beside Dolgrin. She thought that would be the end of it, but she’d finally drawn the full interest of Felix.

“Where are we?” he asked.

“Yes,” his brother Minos added, with a dejected air, as though he fully expected not to be included. “Where are we, then?”

She recognized she’d be unable to get any further until she addressed this sudden fascination with art. She applied her stylus to the inkwell and the map and very soon two additional figures stood upon the far side of the grain depot, complete with hair. She set down the stylus, sure she could finally return to more germane matters.

Minos frowned. “One of them has girl hair.”

“That must be you,” Valentius said with a sly smile.

“It is not!” Minos objected. “It must be Felix.”

“I’m not a girl,” Felix said.

Gritting her teeth behind smiling lips, Aleria sketched in a third figure, working to ensure his hair was as short as the first. “There.”

“Who’s the girl?” Dolgrin asked.

“Yes.” Minos pointed at the middle figure with longer hair. “Who’s she? Is that you?”

“No. She’s just passing through,” Aleria said, “and isn’t important.”

“Maybe she’s my girlfriend,” Minos said hopefully.

Valentius sneered. “You don’t have one.”

“But I could!” Minos objected.

Felix smiled confidently. “It’s probably my girlfriend.”

“Maybe I’ll find one in the depot,” Minos asserted.

“Boys!” Bellarix held up his hands. “We’ve lost the trail. How she draws us isn’t important.”

So long as you have a mustache, Aleria thought.

He continued: “The money and the rubies are important. Let’s get back to those.” He cleared his throat, then faced Aleria. “You were telling us that the money goes on the wagon. What about the horse head?”

She halfway expected Valentius to ask where he was, but he didn’t interrupt, so she answered Bellarix. “The villagers believe the sacred rubies impart fortune to the team that won it last year, while it can see them on the field. And the other teams think that’s an unfair advantage. So the priests have another ceremony, then the head is placed in a wooden container and formal representatives of the last year’s team carry it to a nearby shrine, where it waits in its case until after the ceremony. Because I’m with the Greens, I’m part of that handoff. The rest of the Greens will want to see the race. They’ll leave. But I’ll chat up the priest; he’s already kindly disposed toward me.” She nodded to Valentius. “And your build is about the same as the Greens’ leader, so the priest won’t know you’re not him when you pretend you’ve come back down to get me, not until you’re close. I’m sure the two of us can handle him.”

“And we’ll just sneak out then, from the shrine, with the horse head?” Valentius asked skeptically.

“We might be able to manage that,” Aleria said. “Everyone will be watching the track, and most of them will be drinking. But. There will also be an even bigger distraction.”

“What are we doing?” Dolgrin asked.

She pressed a finger to the wagon she’d drawn. “I’m getting to that. What’s supposed to happen is that the riders do some tricks, then the race starts. But that’s not what’s going to happen this year. Round about the time that the trick riding competition is going on, you two”—she pointed at Felix and his brother—“are going to be setting the rubbish pile behind the new grain depot on fire. It needs to be smoldering obviously.”

Minos studied the side of the depot intently, as though he were willing the figure of the woman to life.

“We know how to set a fire,” Felix said.

“Oh, I’m sure you do, but this one will take a little finesse. It has to be large enough that the smoke will be seen, but not so large it’s already out of control and can’t be stopped. The people have to feel they’ve got a chance to put it out.”

“She’s right,” Bellarix said. “It has to be done properly.”

“Aren’t they going to be distracted enough by the competition?” Valentius asked.

“Yes,” Aleria conceded. “But the cart with the money is at this end.” She tapped the map’s far side. “The fire will be on that end.”

“Oh, that’s clever,” Dolgrin said with genuine appreciation.

“Thank you. So while everyone’s distracted, that’s when Valentius and I come out of the shrine, and head for our wagon. Which Bellarix and Dolgrin will have driven up near the money wagon. The moment Bellarix sees the smoke he’s going to run over and start shouting to the guards and make sure they see it. While they’re distracted, Dolgrin will lean in and get the chest, and pop it into our wagon.”

“And no one will see this?” Valentius asked skeptically.

“Remember that there will be a whole lot of distractions at this point,” Aleria said. “I have it on good authority that the two old soldiers in charge of the coin chest are thoroughly smashed every year by the time the race starts. They should be easy to distract. If not, well, Dolgrin may have to bash a head or two.”

“I’m good at bashing,” Dolgrin volunteered.

“Valentius and I will put the horse head in our wagon, and then the four of us ride out of town. We meet up with Minos and Felix at that old villa four miles west, beyond the bridge.”

“Is that where we split the money?” Felix asked.

Bellarix answered. “We split some of it, yes. But we need money to travel until we find a buyer. And to recover our outlay for our pretend wine merchant here.” He looked to Aleria.

Most of the investment had been hers, but she didn’t correct him. “I know a man in Derva who ought to pay a fine price for the rubies. It shouldn’t be hard to buy passage this time of year. And we can travel in style, if you like.”

“It seems a good plan.” Bellarix put his hands down on the table and stared down at the map, as if looking more closely would reveal some heretofore unnoticed problem. He tapped the little image of a Dervan military helmet she’d drawn at either end of the field. “And the guards will be the first heading down to organize the buckets when the fire starts.”

“This little town is so proud of its new grain depot most of the crowd will be rushing down to help put out the fire,” Aleria said. “And a fair number of them will be drunk.”

“Chaos.” Bellarix straightened, smiling.

“I’m surprised no one else has tried it,” Valentius continued. “Because it seems obvious, now that you’ve explained it.”

Of course he would work to be insulting. Aleria blanked her expression. Also, most people would be troubled by the sacrilege, but she didn’t point that out. “The best plans are always the simple ones.”

“I like it,” Bellarix said with finality. “What do you say, boys?”

The others all voiced their assent.

Bellarix twiddled his mustache. “What do we need to do in the meantime?”

Aleria allowed herself only a slim smile of satisfaction, and then explained, slowly, what kind of wagon they ought to procure, and how it needed to be painted.



II


In the early morning, Hanuvar followed the messenger boy out to what the village titled its Grand Racing Course, although it was really only a long row of wooden stands facing a dirt track. Despite the fact the race still lay three days out, a number of idlers lounged in the stands, their attention centered upon Septimus the horseman, wincing in the grass as one of the circus healers kneaded his calf. A band of village aristocrats huddled with concerned looks near the circus owner, Mellika, who had planted her decorative staff like a flag. She conversed most intently with a haughty woman of middle age whose height was further emphasized by an immense cone of curling hair.

Mellika saw Hanuvar and smiled in a mix of good fellowship and relief. She had a friendly, appealing face. Between her easy air of authority, suggestive of age, and her boundless energy and smooth skin, Hanuvar hadn’t been able to decide if she was a well-preserved woman of middle years or a relative youngster.

With her free hand she beckoned Hanuvar to join their group. “Ah, Helsa.” She used the name Hanuvar had assumed when he joined the circus. “You’re just the man I wanted to see.”

Mellika introduced him with a bow and a hand flourish. “May I present Helsa, our master of horses.” Hanuvar accepted this sudden promotion without comment. As befitted his position as a circus stable hand, he had been polishing the metalwork on the horse bridles when the messenger boy found him.

“Helsa, these are the Blues who’ve sponsored our circus.” Mellika then rattled off their long Dervan names, which Hanuvar memorized with little interest.

“This man hardly seems of the same class as Septimus,” said Olivia, she of the majestic hair.

“He is not a trick rider, it’s true,” Mellika conceded. “But it may be that Septimus was too eager to impress. Helsa will take a more measured approach.”

He found himself under Olivia’s intense scrutiny. Judging by the twitching of her nostrils she had detected the scent of horse manure upon him.

She was almost surely an eques’s wife or widow, for the three men beside her wore gold eques’s rings on their left hands. The modern equites were almost as important as patricians, and many were far more wealthy than their social betters, for the Dervan ruling class found it beneath their dignity to put money into anything but property.

All of late middle age, the men beside Olivia wore finely tailored tunics, and one had even donned the lightweight toga praetexta.9 Their receding hairlines were well barbered and dyed and their faces were plump and jowly. Their eyes were dark beads that would have been at home upon an abacus, so clearly were they calculating his worth to them.

“Well, what can you do?” Olivia asked.

The cluster of equites studied him, braced for disappointment.

Hanuvar had known far better horsemen than himself, but war from the saddle had honed a number of skills he could repurpose as a less sanguinary exercise. “I know a number of mounting and riding maneuvers. I’m fair with a javelin from the saddle, and am better with the sword, if targets could be set up.”

Mellika flashed her brilliant smile. “Helsa has all the skill that you will need, my lady, providing that your nephew is an apt pupil.”

Olivia looked off to the left as though she had just taken an especially large bite of herring that had gone wrong. “Apt,” she repeated doubtfully.

Hanuvar followed her gaze toward a group gathered about a slim, pop-eyed youth of around twenty, topped with a shock of red hair. He had seen ostriches once, during a Ruminian festival, and the young man’s blank, protuberant-eyed stare was not entirely dissimilar.

“I’m sure Helsa will be up to the task,” Mellika said.

Olivia nodded decisively. “Good. Tell this fellow to begin the training at once. Rufus!”

The youth smiled, patted the arm of the busty young woman beside him, and hurried forward.

Mellika gestured to Rufus as though she were presenting a magnificent treasure. “Septimus was instructing this young man when he had his accident. The rider the Blues had intended was injured only a week ago, and young Rufus volunteered as his replacement.” She turned to Olivia and spread her hands. “Let me consult briefly with Helsa, and then he will begin.” She pulled Hanuvar aside.

Mellika’s expression was apologetic as she spoke, low-voiced. “I’m sorry about this, but I couldn’t think of another option. Septimus has a bad ankle now and knocked himself silly. These Blues haven’t just sponsored the show, they’re paying a considerable sum to help tutor this young man. Shenassa told me you are a fine horseman. Can you help?”

Hanuvar glanced at Rufus, tripping over his own foot as he returned to the woman and a little group of pampered youngsters. “How long do I have?”

“Three days.” Mellika sounded even more apologetic.

“That’s not a long time.”

“The locals have a yearly ceremony and all the local factions are involved. Red, Blue, Green, and White.”

“The Blues can’t hire a seasoned rider?”

“Their rider has to be a member of the local organization, or they’d all hire ringers each year.”

“I see. And there’s a kind of exhibit before the actual race? Where they show their prowess?”

“Exactly. Nothing extravagant, but tricks to win over the crowd. Whoever gets the best reaction gets the best placing on the track. That’s what they want you to help him with.”

“I understand.”

Mellika led the way to Rufus and his circle of peers.

Of all the tasks Hanuvar had performed while making his way toward Derva, this seemed likely to be the strangest. Had it not been for the warning he’d received that his travels with Antires were too distinctive, he would already be several days further along his route, but working with the circus provided necessary anonymity. Even as a new “master of horses,” he thought the provincials would take little note of him, one more plebian amongst a performing troop.

“Ah, hello there,” Rufus said in a cheerful, piping voice. “Helsa is it? I’m Rufus. Are you a slave, or a freedman?”

“A freedman, sir,” Hanuvar answered.

“I thought as much. You do retain a bit of a servile air.”

“You’re an observant young man,” Hanuvar replied.

“Well, let’s get on with it. Show me some tricks.”

“I think, first, I’d best see how well you ride.”

The young man’s eyes widened as though he had received deathly insult. He silently consulted a shorter youth with a wild tangle of straw-colored hair, and that worthy let out a low murmur of disapproval.

“Helsa means no offense, young sir,” Mellika said hastily. “But he probably wants to see what you know before he knows what to teach.”

Rufus replied stiffly. “I assure you that I will certainly be capable of learning anything you show me.” The young people with him looked to each other with slight smiles.

Hanuvar spoke patiently. “A craftsman might explain it thus, young sir. I can’t very well tell you how I’m going to paint the bricks until I actually see what the bricks look like.”

“Well.” The young man’s brow wrinkled and he fell silent. He appeared to consider Hanuvar’s statement with gravity, and finally conceded with a nod. “That’s cleverly said, actually, Helsa.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Hanuvar asked Mellika to have his horse saddled and brought over.

A little blond slave hurried across the sward to Rufus, leading a handsome gray stallion with white points and a narrow head. Mellika and the healer walked off with the limping Septimus, who was supported by the circus strong man. The equites departed the field, although the gaggle of young men who’d stood with Rufus remained, as did the idlers, two of whom were watching him with considerable interest: an especially large brute of a man, and the busty brunette who’d been at Rufus’ side. He recognized neither. The brute was too young to have served against him.

Rufus hauled himself into the saddle of his stallion with fair agility, turned the animal with his legs, then sent him riding down the track toward the newly built granary, a large, freshly whitewashed rectangular building standing two stories high. Prominent signs had been erected around the structure declaring no one was to climb to its roof, which would afford an excellent view of the race.

As he rode, Rufus kept a good seat, demonstrating far more athleticism than Hanuvar had expected. The young man took the animal twice around and circled Hanuvar once, smiling as if he had already won the competition.

By then Hanuvar had seen the circus messenger boy approaching with his roan, and he whistled. Immediately the animal trotted toward him, the boy hurrying to keep up. The gelding stopped with a snort at Hanuvar’s side. Rufus’ eyebrows lifted in astonishment. Hanuvar set one hand on the saddle and vaulted into place while the animal held still, head high.

“Oh, very good,” Rufus said.

Hanuvar tipped his head in acknowledgment. “If I’m to demonstrate some tricks to you, sir, it might best be done away from the eyes of others.”

Rufus took a moment to digest this, then his expression brightened.

“Oh, I see. You think there might be spies from the Greens out there. Oh, wisely reasoned, Helsa. We might manage on my private fields. Come, then. Percius, you don’t have to race us, boy. He’ll exhaust himself trying to keep up,” he said confidentially to Hanuvar. “Loyal but not especially clever, you know.”

“Loyalty can be harder to find than cleverness, sir,” Hanuvar said.

“Oh, astutely said.” Apparently wisdom was so absent from his everyday life that nuggets of it gleamed like gold. “I think that we shall work well together, Helsa.”



III


That same evening, the leaders of the Greens gathered in a private back room of the Gray Duck tavern. Aleria quietly nibbled a greasy sausage, listening as the men groused about their chances in the upcoming race. She wasn’t the only woman in the room, for serving girls periodically arrived with pitchers and platters. But only she and young Sonia were formal Greens.

By the simple expedient of keeping the Greens supplied with inexpensive wine, Aleria had made herself indispensable to the local leaders. They had won the race of the Autumn Horse for the last two years running, and through cultivation of their company she had not just been granted close access to the horse head, but learned about the elaborate arrangements involved in its protection and display.

She’d long since learned all she could from them and now joined them chiefly to ensure they dared nothing further to jeopardize her plans. If the Greens were caught interfering, they would be expelled from the race. More importantly to her, disgrace of the previous year’s winning team could alter certain ceremonies involving the horse head, ruining her carefully laid plans. Last week one of them had been so worried about the original rider from the Blues that he’d arranged an accident that broke the man’s leg. Fortunately, when Otho had tossed a branch into the horse’s way he’d somehow managed to avoid being seen.

Now Otho was loudly expressing his concern over the Blues’ new trainer, pounding his ham-hock fist into the table with such emphasis that those seated near him snatched their sloshing cups from the wooden surface. Pullio, the lean leader of the Greens, brushed wine droplets from his tunic with a hairy hand and glared across the table at pot-bellied Otho. “We don’t have anything to worry about with Rufus. That idiot has no imagination. And he’s clumsy besides.”

Sonia smiled mockingly. “His friends have a pool running with good odds he’ll trip and injure himself before the race.” The men laughed and shifted their attention to her. Sonia patted the front of her dress, as though brushing dust from it, but more likely intended to draw male eyes to her shapely figure. “Yet I’m not sure you’re entirely right, cousin,” Sonia said to Pullio, her voice sweet and high. “He thinks this new trainer is talented, and he’s learning a whole bevy of skills. Rufus has been sworn to secrecy about them.” Sonia had easily found her way into Rufus’ circle with a few wiggles and enraptured stares while the young twit talked of horses. “I managed to watch a little, before this new trainer of his insisted I had to go, and some of the moves looked impressive.”

Pullio lowered his cup. “Who is this circus man?”

“Just a freedman,” Sonia answered. “An older fellow. I hear he used to be some big horse trainer for the Circus Maximus.”

Those, at least, were the rumors.

Pullio frowned, then came to a decision. “We need to stop worrying and sit tight. Albanus has this in the bag. His horse can outrun the Whites and the Reds, and he’s far more clever than Rufus.”

“Do you mean Albanus is, or the horse?” Sonia asked, and everyone but Otho laughed.

The big man grunted skeptically and waited to speak until the chuckling stopped. He interjected, truculently, “Rufus has a good horse. We’d be safer if we broke his leg too.”

“Otho!” Sonia said sharply. “That’s awful. You can’t hurt the poor horse!”

“I mean Rufus,” Otho said.

Sonia looked relieved. “Oh, that’s fine then.”

“No, Otho,” Pullio said. “If you get caught, we’re out of the race!” He added in a hissed whisper, “We’re lucky that didn’t happen with your first stunt.”

Otho mulled that over. “What if I break the new trainer’s leg?”

“That’s just as suspicious,” Pullio said. “No more leg breaking. Am I clear?”

“What about bribing this circus trainer?” Sonia suggested. She looked over at Pullio, then shifted her gaze to pale Oscar, then to Otho, and, finally, to Aleria.

“To do what?” Aleria asked.

“To stop training him quite so well, of course. Or to give Rufus some bad advice.”

Pullio mulled that over. “We’d have to be careful. Attempted bribery could be reported.”

Aleria decided it was time to take matters into her own hands. “I can feel him out, and get his measure.”

She tried to gauge Pullio’s thoughts as he considered her offer and fixed her face with a confident half smile.

Otho growled. “I don’t like it.”

“Afraid Aleria will fall for an old circus trainer?” Sonia asked sweetly. Otho only growled again and shot Aleria a look. It was no secret he favored her, though she’d done nothing to encourage or sustain his affection.

After only a little more thought, Pullio assented to her proposal, urging her to reveal nothing more than necessary to the trainer. Oscar and Sonia agreed as well. Otho was the only dissenter. Soon, armed with information that the circus folks had been dining at the lower-class Red Boar, she set out in search of her prey.

She sipped watered wine in the corner of the dim old building, watching the evening crowd for a good quarter hour before Helsa finally turned up. There were far more interesting-looking circus folk to see: the grinning strong man, the dark Ruminian woman, and the acrobats, smooth and graceful in their movement even when seated at the low bar tables. Compared to them the trainer known as Helsa was positively drab, from the collar of his plain, soiled tunic to the bottom of his dusty sandals. He certainly didn’t dress like a successful man. And that might make him far more open to outside sources of remuneration.

She watched him, gauging his nature and appetites. Wine passed freely among the rest of the tavern goers, but Helsa drank sparingly, talking in a low voice with the handsome Herrene seated across from him.

Helsa continually surveyed the room, not as a nervous man, but as one cognizant of his surroundings, reminding Aleria of herself. A good thief had to know the entrances and exits and have a sense as well of the people to every side. Why a horse trainer should practice the same habits she could not guess.

He caught her looking over at him, and he didn’t take the chance eye contact as an invitation. He merely stared back before resuming his scan.

An intriguing fellow, older, but fine featured, she decided, and in good shape. The more she watched him, the more she wondered who he really was, and if he, too, was here in the village for reasons other than the ostensible ones.

His eyes caught her own again, and she felt the impact of their scrutiny. Here was not a man hunting a pretty face. Behind that regard was a man sizing up a threat.

She rose from her stool, side-stepping a table over which some Reds were dicing with circus folk while a man she recognized as a White promoter looked on.

She smiled when she came close. She glanced at the Herrene, watching with an amused expression, then addressed Helsa. “They say you’re the gifted new trainer.”

“What do they say about you?” he asked.

She had thought to place him from his accent, but he had a provincial drawl. She appreciated his redirection, for many men would immediately have sought to impress her with exaggerated tales of prowess. “It depends on who’s talking. Why don’t you buy me a drink and judge for yourself?”

His gaze seemed to weigh her, though she could not guess what his determination was, for his expression remained neutral.

“All right,” he said.

“I was leaving anyway. I’ll bring you back a pitcher.” The Herrene clapped Helsa on the shoulder. A few grilled sausages and onions remained on the tray between them and Helsa offered them to her, but she demurred. She’d eaten her fill at the Gray Duck.

“I’m Aleria,” she said.

“And I’m Helsa. What brings you to my table tonight, Aleria?”

“You intrigue me.”

He might have returned the compliment, but he again surprised her with a blunt rejoinder. “And why’s that?”

“You don’t belong here. I mean generally. Either at the tavern, or with the circus folk.”

The Herrene returned with a small amphora, checked with Helsa as if to be assured all was well, then departed.

Helsa poured out a cup for her and sat back, hand to his own half-full cup, though he did not drink. “Where is it you think that I belong?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet.”

“You seem out of place yourself. What are you doing in this village?”

“Selling wine. I’m a wine merchant, recently relocated.”

“Are you with one of these factions?”

“The Greens.”

“The Greens,” he repeated. “Now that’s the plebians, isn’t it?” He sounded as though he wasn’t sure, but Aleria guessed he was asking the question more to hear how she answered.

“Not exclusively. That’s how it started, of course, but the loyalties get sort of mixed up over the years. Landowners free some of their slaves, and then the freedmen have to be loyal to their former family’s team, and then that becomes tradition. You know how it is.”

“Are you as devoted a fan as the rest of them here?”

“I like the races,” she said, then, because she wished to stay on his good side and he seemed skeptical, she continued, “but I don’t let it run my life.”

“It seems to me that if everyone weren’t trying to pull each other’s levers, they could have a nice little place here.”

“I hear it’s not usually this tense. The race allows people to take out their frustrations in healthier ways. They can shout and roar and drink and most times they won’t get their knives involved. You let people do that a few times a year and they’ll get along the rest of the time.”

“That may be true,” he said, and sipped.

He was difficult to read. She decided to try prying him open by leaning forward on one hand and smiling in an inviting way, but at the last moment the smile shifted from that of a coquette to one honestly inquisitive. The phrase she used was a stock one, but this time she actually meant it. “You’re an interesting man, Helsa.”

“I try not to be. What is it you want with me?”

She let her smile broaden ever so slightly. “What do you want with me?”

For a brief moment she thought he was reaching for her hand, then saw him lift one of the onion chunks. “What I want is a night without complications.” He popped it into his mouth and chewed.

“And you think I come with complications?”

He swallowed and reached for his cup. “A beautiful woman doesn’t approach a middle-aged horse trainer to offer anything but. I’m just glad the Greens didn’t send that woman who’s after Rufus.”

She dismissed the idea of pleading ignorance, and couldn’t help laughing. “Gods, she’s so obvious, isn’t she?”

“She only uses three different poses.”

Aleria affected Sonia’s favorite stance, thrusting out her chest and biting her lower lip, her eyes blank.

Helsa laughed and she fell to laughing with him, and she suddenly realized her own guard was down at the same time he must have realized his was. He broke off. “What is it she’s after? He’s too zealous to throw the race.”

“Are you worried about him?”

“I feel responsible for him.”

“I think you like him!”

“He’s not a bad sort,” Helsa said casually. “He’s kind to his slaves and his horse. And he’s absurdly earnest.”

“That sounds refreshing.”

“Were you hoping to bribe me?”

“Oh, the Greens think they’re great schemers. When I heard them worried about you, I promised to talk to you myself so they wouldn’t do something incredibly conspicuous, or stupid. Or both.”

“What are you going to tell them?”

“That you’re onto us and that we’d better lay low.”

“Do you think the rest of them will?”

Before Aleria could respond, his eyes tracked past her shoulder and he climbed to his feet with the smooth alacrity of a younger man.

She turned as Otho stopped at the side of their table. His thick belly heaved in a deep breath, as though gathering air for a dive or a battle cry.

“Otho,” she started, but the big man cut her off and shook a meaty finger at Helsa.

She could smell the alcohol on his breath as his voice rose above the conversational murmurs filling the low-ceilinged room. “You stay away from my girl.”

“I’m not yours,” Aleria said with a growl. “And I’m not a girl.” Helsa would think she had set him up for this. Worse, if Otho did injure Helsa, the trainer could tell everyone the Greens were deliberately interfering with the Blues. She climbed to her feet. “Leave us alone, Otho. Don’t be an idiot! We’re just talking.”

Otho ignored her and pushed at Helsa’s shoulder. The horseman swung away from the hand, and Otho stumbled off balance into the table. The amphora wobbled and she grabbed it before it crashed to the floor.

Nearby patrons quieted and turned. One of the servers was looking their way, but they hadn’t grown loud enough yet to attract the barkeep.

Aleria addressed Otho sharply and put both hands to one heavy bicep. “Get away!”

The big man shook a fist at Helsa. “You even look at her again, I’m going to break your”—Otho’s expression clouded, possibly because he suddenly remembered he had been told not to be involved in any more leg breaking—“sandals,” he finished awkwardly.

Helsa tried bravely not to look amused, which set Otho snarling. “Think that was funny, do you?”

The horse trainer watched with cool alertness. Aleria wasn’t entirely sure what it was in his stance or his gaze, but it was as if a mask had slipped. Here was a man familiar with killing another.

Helsa stepped nimbly outside Otho’s blow, slapping the arm aside with one hand as he pushed it with the other, driving Otho into the brick wall. The larger man struck with enough force to drive out his breath, and then stumbled to his right, into a nearby patron and his table. Wine mugs twirled into the air and one of them smashed into Otho’s forehead.

Helsa slid into the aisle, avoiding a mug that hit a table and sprayed another patron’s chest with wine.

The tavern erupted with curses, and shouting men rose with clenched fists.

Aleria was already on her way to the street. She was surprised to find Helsa there a moment after, even as bedlam erupted behind them. Many men looked for any occasion to let steam off with a good fight. Helsa apparently was not among them. He headed away, sparing her a glance as he did so.

“Complications,” he said.

She chuckled.

He paused. “Was there something more you wanted, Aleria?”

“I assure you I didn’t want that.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you. Good night.” He turned and strode into the darkness, even as the whistle of the city guard patrol sounded and a quartet of soldiers jogged down the main street.

Aleria faded into the shadows and started back toward her lodgings. She sensed that Helsa was running some kind of gambit of his own, though she didn’t think he was after the same goal. Still, he would bear watching.



IV


Rufus was a late riser, as Hanuvar could have predicted, but once he was in the saddle the young man was game for any challenge. The redhead threw himself into the practice of a running dismount. And if he spent almost as much time falling onto the grass as he did landing on the saddle, Hanuvar might question his coordination but never his optimistic spirit.

Sonia called on him midmorning, appearing to have worn the dress of a much smaller woman. When Rufus requested a break to speak with her, Hanuvar reminded him not to discuss any particular drill.

He gave the two of them time to chat and down some fruit juice, and for her to fan herself and thrust out her chest some more, then he politely suggested Rufus resume training.

Even after they’d walked off Sonia didn’t leave.

The slave boy was offering the reins to his master when Hanuvar nodded back at her.

“She’s still there.”

“Oh, she just wants to watch a bit.”

“I don’t think that’s wise, sir.”

“She’s a staunch Blue, Helsa.”

“I just mean that she’s clearly a distraction. An athlete such as yourself, working under time pressure, can only be focused upon two things.” He realized then he’d unintentionally suggested the assets of which Sonia seemed proudest, and continued: “Himself, and his horse.”

Rufus nodded with the solemnity of a junior officer being told he had to lead a scouting foray deep into enemy territory. “You’re right, Helsa. I’ll go tell her. It’s hard to disappoint a lady so attentive.”

He dashed back to order her gone. By the way she clung to his arms she was clearly pleading her case, but eventually she swayed off, followed by her own attendant, and a blushing Rufus rejoined Hanuvar. Once again Percius, the slave boy, presented the reins and this time Rufus took them.

“I hope you remained circumspect with her, sir,” Hanuvar said.

“Circum what?”

“That you shared nothing of your training.”

Rufus’ expression cleared. “Ah, of that you may rest assured, Helsa. Well, let’s be on with it, shall we?”

Once again, he applied himself to Hanuvar’s instruction, and by midday Rufus’ running saddle dismount no longer mimicked the grace of a flour sack tossed from a window.

Hanuvar permitted a second break just after stern aunt Olivia stopped in to assess her nephew’s progress. Her expression showed no particular joy, but when she didn’t seek Hanuvar out to complain, he judged her pleased. She sat and spoke with Rufus at length under a stone portico while the young man looked longingly at the food his slaves had brought.

By prearrangement, Antires turned up, and Hanuvar joined him in the shade of the overgrown mulberry bushes at one end of the track. The house slaves presented him with some simple fare, which he shared with his friend.

Antires watched the distant Percius brush down Rufus’ stallion, waiting until the slaves had withdrawn before he said anything beyond pleasantries. “I think that animals get better treatment than a lot of the slaves around here.”

That was always the way, and Hanuvar didn’t bother responding. “What did you see?”

“There are people watching from the estate edges, like you expected. The guards drove them off, but the watchers got at least a little sense of what you were doing. How’s the young lord coming along?”

“For someone with only a little aptitude, he’s not doing badly.”

“And what does his aunt say?”

“She hasn’t said anything to me, and I mark that a good sign. So long as Mellika is happy, I’m happy.”

“How’s your accent holding up?”

“Just fine. It’s good practice. Is the circus’ little acting troupe warming to you?”

“Bit by bit. Mellika’s holding a big party at the Red Boar this evening. We’re on orders to turn up and take some toasts, but not to drink too hard.”

“You’re warning me not to drink?” He would’ve thought Antires knew his habits well enough by now.

“Sorry, no, that’s just the way she said it. I’m warning you she wants you to turn up. Seems like the leaders of the Blues want you to give a speech.”

“Lovely.”

“I’d figure that you’d have plenty of experience giving speeches.”

“It doesn’t mean I like them.”

The aunt departed at last, striding back to the villa like a warrior queen marching to battle. Rufus set to his meal. He only took a few more bites before a young lady with dark hair walked out from the villa, shadowed by an older matron. Rufus rose quickly and gestured to the repast.

“Is that our young gentleman’s paramour?” Antires asked. He sounded confused.

“That’s a different one.”

He nodded. “She’s a little stiff.”

“The other one is considerably less so.”

Antires smirked. “She’s the one who nearly broke Septimus’ head when she bent over to retrieve a hat, isn’t she? I guess he was so busy looking at her he didn’t notice he’d told the horse to jump.”

“That’s what I hear. And that’s how I got this work.”

“And that bean pole there has both women interested?” Antires shook his head in disbelief. “It’s difficult to imagine anyone heartsick over him.”

“These people set a lot of stock by these yearly races. He’s a celebrity now.”

“And everyone knows celebrities are better in bed,” Antires remarked drolly.

“They just have a better class of bed.”

Rufus’ interview with the second young woman appeared far more formal than the one he’d held with Sonia. Its duration proved shorter as well. The young woman and her chaperone left without difficulty, and then Rufus walked back over to the track. Hanuvar dusted himself off. “Time to get back to instruction.”

“I’ll make myself scarce. See you this evening.”

Hanuvar bade farewell to his friend and rejoined Rufus at the horses.

“Ah, did you enjoy your meal then, Helsa? A handsome bloke, that. Were you meeting your own love?”

“Ah, no, sir. He’s a friend from the circus.”

“So you’re a man for the fairer sex then, like me.”

“I suppose so, sir.”

“Oh, come now, Helsa. Don’t be modest.” Rufus grinned and rocked back on his heels. “A handsome fellow like you. I bet you’ve roisted a few beauties in your time.”

“That’s not how I’d put it,” Hanuvar demurred.

Rufus elbowed him. “Two good-looking fellows like us, we know the score, don’t we? There’s nothing women like more than a winner. And while I bet you’ve never won anything as important as I will, I’d just about wager you’ve managed some sort of prize over the years.”

“I suppose I’ve had some successes,” Hanuvar admitted.

“Well. Shall we be on with it, then?”

“Very good, sir.” Hanuvar gestured to the man’s stallion. “Let’s run through the dismount again, then be on to one or two more tricks. Tomorrow’s the big day.”

“Goodness. It really is tomorrow, isn’t it?” Rufus suddenly stilled.

“Is there something wrong, sir?”

“Believe it or not, I had lost track.”

“You’ve a fine horse,” Hanuvar reassured him. “And you’re learning much faster than I expected.”

“Thank you!” The youngster’s beaming smile was without pretense. “Well, then. Let’s be on with it.”



V


While he had pretended to be reassured by Helsa, worry plagued Rufus for the rest of the day. He managed, just barely, to learn the trick of standing upon the saddle after the freedman had anchored some cunningly placed leather loops to it. The maneuver was a little dangerous, but the boys and both of the ladies he courted would surely be impressed.

Though sorely bruised, Rufus would have felt pleased and even proud with his progress if he hadn’t been nagged by the thought of an uncomfortable decision he would soon have to make.

When his three closest friends took him out that evening for a celebratory tipple at the Gray Duck, he managed conviviality for a while, especially with Linus fronting the drinks. But Rufus grew more and more troubled while Linus bantered back and forth with Tully about the quality of the various horses. Gordius, of course, was more than halfway inebriated before they even arrived, and got most of the rest of the way there by consuming his supper in liquid form.

Finally, Linus noticed his friend’s reticence. He flipped back his wave of hair, shiny as a horse mane, and looked across the bar table at his friend. “What’s got your goat, Rufus?”

“I’m fine,” he said, and smiled.

“He looks like he’s seen a ghost,” Tully said. “What a ghastly smile.”

“Pressure getting to you?” Linus suggested. “I thought you were all keen over your new trainer.”

“I am keen,” Rufus asserted. “You’re not betting against me, are you?”

“Me? How could you say that?” Linus’ wounded air seemed somehow less genuine when he flipped his hair back again.

“Never,” Tully assented. His thin-lipped mouth, ever ready with a laugh, drew into a solemn line.

Gordius drank.

“But confess to your friends, eh?” Linus leaned across the table. “We won’t tell a soul.”

Normally Rufus would have trusted these men with his life—they were his best friends, after all—but something in their eagerness made him just the slightest bit cautious.

“Have you been bungling the training?” Tully asked, his freckled forehead wrinkling. “You look a little worse for wear.”

“I’m doing fine,” Rufus assured them. “This Helsa fellow is the tops. A skilled trainer. He knows his business.”

Linus looked skeptical. “Then why the miseries?”

Rufus leaned across the table and whispered. “I don’t think you realize the other pressure I’m under tomorrow.”

Linus exchanged a glance with Tully. “Not if you don’t tell us.”

Gordius smiled blandly.

“We’re not good guessers, though we could have a go at it,” Tully suggested.

“Oh, I like guessing games,” Gordius declared. “Eleven.”

“Shut up, Gordius,” Linus said. “Go on then, Rufus. Quit with the drama and slice the cake, as they say.”

It proved an embarrassing matter to explain, so Rufus hesitated before blurting his answer. “It’s just that riders usually choose a lady’s colors to wear on their sleeve. And that means I’ll have to commit to one of the two I’m courting.”

“More like they’re courting you,” Tully said. “From what I’ve seen.”

“Yes, well, I had been looking forward to tomorrow but now I wish it would never come. You see, I’ll have to choose between them and they’re both such sweet girls. By committing to one I’ll dash the other’s heart.”

“Oho!” Linus said. “So marital wreaths are in your future then?”

“Or at least serious talk of betrothals,” Tully guessed.

Rufus supposed that was true, and, realizing it, took a deep drink.

“I don’t see what the problem is.” Linus waved dismissively. “Choose the one you like best.”

“I like them both,” Rufus protested.

Tully offered his solution. “Marry one, take the other as your mistress.”

“Brilliant.” Linus clinked his cup against that of his freckled friend’s.

Rufus was irritated. “I can’t do that.”

“Wear a favor from each on a different arm,” Gordius suggested.

Linus spared Gordius a brief look. “Either drink less so you’re more useful, or drink more so you’ll pass out. Well, Rufus, which one do you think would be better in bed?”

While he could not help wondering about such things, he would never have spoken about them in public. “That’s rather crude, don’t you think?” Rufus asked. He was starting to wish he hadn’t mentioned any of this to them.

“Crude but important,” Tully said.

“Hey. You! Rufus. Where’s that trainer of yours?”

At that gruff-voiced query, Rufus looked up to discover a large, pot-bellied man waiting in the aisle beside their table. One side of his face was purpled and swollen, and his forehead was covered with scratches. He looked slightly familiar, but Rufus couldn’t remember ever being introduced. “He, uh, I’m not entirely sure. Why do you wish to know?”

The man smashed his fist into his palm. “He’s got a date with my fist!”

Tully’s eyes lit mischievously. “Is he already acquainted with your fist, or is this a first-time matchup?”

Linus chuckled.

The bruised man gesticulated fiercely as if to demonstrate the force he intended to place behind a punch. “It’ll be the first time,” he said, “but it’s going to get intimate!”

Linus hooted with laughter, and Tully joined in.

Rufus didn’t follow, but the big man’s expression darkened. He loomed over the table. “That’s not what I meant. I oughta pound you!”

“At least bring me flowers first,” Linus said. And even under that threat he, Tully, and Gordius exploded with laughter.

The big man snarled, clenching and unclenching his fists, then made a dismissive gesture. “Keep laughing. You won’t be laughing much longer.”

He turned and stomped off.

“That’s where he’s wrong,” Linus said, and the three of them sniggered again.

“I don’t see why you’re laughing,” Rufus said, frowning.

“Poor Rufus,” Tully said. “We’ll explain when you’re older.”

Rufus stood.

“Don’t take offense.” Tully patted the table in front of him. “We can explain if you’d really like.”

Rufus shook his head. “It’s not that. I’ve got to go warn Helsa that man is after him.”

“You’d best hurry, if you want to beat him there,” Linus said, and then he and the other two dissolved once more in laughter.

Rufus headed toward the track and the circus tents arrayed behind it.

A cordon of folk sat at a bonfire, obviously a kind of loose guard, but they proved friendly once he told them Helsa was training him for the races and that he needed to consult with him. They pointed Rufus to where the trainer pitched his tent, and he made his way there.

Helsa’s lodging proved a small affair, a tent barely man-high, an old, stained cloth thing held upright in the four corners and peaked in the middle. He called out to Helsa from outside, and then, hearing no answer, peered inside. It was empty apart from a cot with a sleeping pallet, a pair of saddlebags, and a trestle table and stool.

Rufus couldn’t decide whether he felt more uncomfortable waiting outside or invading the man’s space. He didn’t want to look foolish sitting in the dirt, and moved inside, only discovering that once the flap fell shut it was easier to find a stool with one’s shins than one’s hands, and tripped head long.

He had just managed to right himself and take his seat when the flap opened upon a figure holding a lamp.

Rufus shielded his eyes from the glare and then recognized the broad-shouldered figure in the doorway.

“Ah, Helsa,” he said. “I’m glad you’re here.”

His mentor sounded slightly less welcoming than he had anticipated. “You’re in my tent.”

“I’ve come to warn you about a large, angry man. I think he means to challenge you to fisticuffs.”

Rather than looking alarmed, Helsa fought down a smile. Typical of the man, to metaphorically laugh in the face of danger.

“I’ll be alert for him,” Helsa promised.

“And there’s something else.”

Helsa ducked to pass through the entry then hung the lamp from a hook thrust out from the central pole. He considered his employer sternly.

“I need your counsel,” Rufus said.

“You’ve had too much to drink, and the night grows late.”

“Yes, but it’s the strangest thing. I feel as if I can see more clearly tonight than ever. Be honest with me, Helsa. Have you ever wakened to the fact you’re surrounded by idiots?”

“It has occasionally been apparent.” Helsa took a seat on his cot. “Is it just that you’ve taken up philosophy, sir, or has something in particular happened?”

“Philosophy? No. I have realized my friends may not have my best interests in mind. Certainly they are no good at advising me on affairs of the heart. I face a difficult choice, Helsa, and I am dispirited.”

“What’s happened?”

“Tomorrow, I will have to take a lady’s colors and wear them about my arm as I ride. I will have to choose between two beautiful women. One of them will be terribly crushed.”

“I see.”

“You’ve seen them. They’re both quite charming. My aunt approves of neither.”

“Perhaps you should choose neither, then, sir.”

What a terrible idea that sounded! “And have both girls mad at me?”

Helsa exhaled slowly. “Putting aside your aunt’s wants, you should ask the woman you like best. Which one do you enjoy being around most?” At seeing Rufus’ puzzlement, he continued. “Perhaps if you thought about their characteristics, in a list. Is one better to talk with, or a fan of poetry you enjoy, that sort of thing.”

Rufus smiled in understanding. “One has lips as red as strawberries and the most delightful complexion. And, I blush to say, she is rather well endowed. The other is equally fetching in a long-limbed way.” He sighed. “I’ve no idea which to choose.”

Helsa cleared his throat. “It strikes me that you are listing only their physical characteristics, sir.”

“Well, I’m not really interested in talking to them. Gads, what a bore that would be. Lots of nonsense about flowers and babies and moving furniture about to find the most pleasing arrangement, and long dull debates about when to change the seasonal hangings.”

Helsa proved he was a man of discernment, for he nodded. “That does sound a trial.”

“I knew you would understand. Have you ever known marital bliss?”

“Occasionally.”

“But no more? That’s the spirit. You may be surprised to learn this, Helsa, but I envy you. You can romance a new woman in every village, if you like, or stay well clear if you don’t want the drama.”

“You’ve guessed my life path well, sir.”

“You’re lucky to have such a rootless, carefree existence. Me, I am beset by obligations.” He put his head in his hands. “Gods, what am I to do?”

“Here’s a thought,” Helsa said. “Choose the kindest.”

He looked up. “How do you mean?”

“The one who seems kindest to her slaves and animals. That makes it more likely she’ll be patient with children and husbands.”

“I don’t suppose that’s terrible advice.”

“Here’s more advice. Get back to your home and get some sleep. Drink no more this night.”

“Yes. Yes, of course you’re right.”

“Did you come here alone?”

“I did.”

Helsa must have been suffering from a headache, because he briefly put his hand to his forehead and massaged it. He spoke as if in pain. “You do realize, sir, that any number of people would be very happy if you turned up injured or worse tomorrow morning?”

“Do you really think so?” He saw from Helsa’s level gaze that he must.

“Come along.” Helsa rose and took the lantern. “I’ll walk you home.”

“You’re very good to me, Helsa.”

“I know, sir.”



VI


Aleria was no stranger to patient waiting, and had done so in worse company than with Dolgrin and Bellarix. Valentius was a different matter. The morning of the race she sat near the three in an alley northwest of the track, beside their wagon. Dolgrin leaned pensively against the wall in the shadows, drinking down a wine skin. Valentius had teased him about finding another discard, but had grown tired of the game and begun to fiddle with conveyance components. He finished checking each of the wagon spindles, then he paced the length of the wagon on both sides, as though it were a boat and he searched for leaks.

At least he wasn’t pestering her, though he kept looking over at her, as if wondering something. She didn’t ask what.

The appreciative roars of the crowd only a few blocks away filled her with curiosity, and it was easy to imagine the circus folks leading animals in tricks. It was hard to picture Helsa in a garish performance costume. Was he really a circus man?

Valentius drew a circle in the dirt beside the wall of the boarding house opposite, then chucked clods of dirt toward it.

After the hundredth or so plop of dirt into the circle, Aleria decided for his own good she had to leave. Otherwise she was going to brain him.

She dusted off her legs as she rose.

“Where are you going?” Valentius said. “I thought your plan said not to leave for a little longer.”

“It’s woman’s business.”

Valentius fixed her with a lizard-eyed stare, then returned to his game.

She headed onto the street, brushing dirt from the bottom of her dress. She hadn’t taken more than a dozen steps when she recognized Sonia swaying toward the grounds of the track, followed by her maid. Before Aleria could duck out of the way, the slave called her mistress’s attention and Sonia turned to wave, waiting for Aleria to draw even.

Today the younger woman must have had her slaves work over her appearance for long hours. Her hair hung in enchanting ringlets. Her cheeks had been expertly rouged and her eyes done in kohl so they appeared miles wide. Rather than looking as though she’d been sewn into her dress, today her stola was tight only at bodice and waist, as though she were modest and it was an accident that her low neckline revealed so much flesh.

“Why, Aleria,” Sonia said. “I thought you would already be watching the circus. I imagine most of the good seats are taken.”

“Why aren’t you there?”

“Beauty takes time.”

“Planning to break more hearts today?”

“I’m always ready for that.” She smiled. Her lips had been smeared with henna. “I’m going to talk with Rufus before he rides.” She lifted a little flask she’d brought. “And tell him this is for luck.”

“Oh, Sonia, you’re not going to drug him, are you?”

“You yourself said that trainer of his knows his business.”

Aleria started to object by saying drugging Rufus might get him hurt or killed, and then realized she had no business caring what happened to him. The schedule was unlikely to be changed at this point no matter what Sonia did.

The other woman must have seen the emotions flitting over Aleria’s face. “What’s wrong? You don’t approve?”

“You should be worried that he’ll realize what you’ve done, or that someone else will, after the effect.”

“Afterward, I’ll be long gone, and my cousin will send me out to Derva with a nice little bag of coins.” Sonia beamed.

“Good luck with that, then.”

“Thank you. Aren’t you coming in to the stands?”

“No, I have some errands to run.”

“Well, don’t delay too long.” After a final searching look, Sonia departed.

It annoyed Aleria that such a blunt, rank amateur was having any measure of success.

When she finished her freshening up and returned to the wagon, Bellarix was pacing while pulling on the left end of his mustache. He visibly calmed upon her return, then motioned her into the alley, quickly, as if he were worried about discovery.

“Hardly anyone’s on the street,” she said.

“You were gone a long time,” Bellarix objected.

Dolgrin met her eyes and then looked away, as if he were sad or embarrassed.

“What’s wrong?” she demanded of Bellarix.

He motioned her forward. “It’s the wagon. Look!” He pointed to the bed.

She guessed they’d somehow ended up with warped wagon boards or a wonky axle, and it wasn’t until she leaned over the side and heard a footfall behind that she realized how foolish she’d been. She had just started to turn when something crashed against the side of her head.

Though stunned and in pain, it was the betrayal that hurt most, and she tried to prop herself against the cart as she turned, though her feet didn’t want to support her and the world spun. She saw Valentius first, looming in the background like a bird of prey. Closer was big Dolgrin, face downcast, though he held the ball of fabric stuffed with sand that had been used to hit her.

She saw him mouth the word “sorry” even as Bellarix pulled the greased end of his stupid mustache. “It’s a good plan,” he said. “But we don’t need you.”

And then Dolgrin hefted the sap. She tried to twist away but tripped over her own sandal. She felt a jolt at the base of her skull and slipped into cool darkness.



VII


It thrilled Rufus to lead his own horse down the boulevard, right behind the dignitaries. By ancient tradition he would not ride the animal until after he arrived at the grounds.

He was disappointed that he’d have to miss the circus. He had heard they had acrobats and magic tricks, combats from very polished gladiators—though never to the death—scenes from great plays, and a variety of animal shows. He always liked the animals.

When they reached the grounds, it looked as though an invading army had camped out, for the bleachers were stuffed to the brim, and with the horse race just getting ready, men, women, and children were spreading blankets along the grass to either side of the stands. None were allowed near the circus equipment and stages set up in the track’s center. These last were empty now, and the entertainers with their animals removed so that their sounds and smells would not distract the race horses.

The circus banners still hung above the stand facing the bleachers, and slaves of the race officials were replacing them with festive flower arrangements as a venerable priest, waving a yellow cloth, droned on in front of the four racehorses. Rufus couldn’t understand a word of the ancient language the priest muttered, but reckoned it would sound more impressive if the man wasn’t slurring in a senile drone.

Finally, that ordeal was complete and he turned his horse over to Percius. He stepped away from the other riders to join his friends and well-wishers. They were numerous, and their advice ranged from a stern admonition from his aunt not to ruin everything to a friendly arm clasp from Gordius. Helsa was there, too, urging him to trust his instincts and attempt only what he felt comfortable doing. He looked as though he meant to say more, but Helsa was ambushed by Rufus’ aunt and harangued at length about her hopes for her nephew and dire threats should he prove a disappointment.

Rufus had made it a habit to avoid his aunt during her monologues, and thus pretended profound interest in the magistrate’s speech and eased away. The magistrate’s pronouncements, though, proved a crashing bore. Rufus anticipated that five or six more politicians waiting nearby would have something to say, at length, and then there would be another blessing or two.

He searched the crowd for Maria, and didn’t see her. Sonia, though, had found her way through to his elbow, and proved more comely than he had ever seen.

“Rufus, oh, I’m so glad I was able to see you,” she said. “There’s something very important I have to say.”

“Ah. Yes. It is always a pleasure to see you, too, Sonia. But there’s something important I must tell you.” He cleared his throat and was readying to give her the bad news, but then she took him by the arm and dragged him on. Her grip was surprisingly strong.

“Come along. We must speak in private. Absolute secrecy.”

“The ceremony’s going to start soon,” he objected.

“Nonsense. They’ll prattle on for a good long while.” She smiled encouragement, and led him through the cordon of nearby Blues and assorted onlookers. At first he thought she might mean just to get behind one of the supply wagons, but then he saw she was leading him on for the grain depot itself. He had thought it was closed, but a side door stood open, and she led him within, stopping just on the other side.

Outside all was bright and warm. Within, the warehouse space was cool and dark. It was to be consecrated in the next week; currently it was being used to house the more exotic circus animals. A row of lanterns hung along distant pylons, and by their receding yellow eyes he saw rows of wagons set up with cages, as well as the distant bulk of an elephant, eating from a mound of hay.

“You should look at me, Rufus,” Sonia said. “Goodness. Alone in the dark with a woman and all you can think about are those animals over there.”

“Yes, ah. Yes. You are quite beautiful, Sonia. But—”

She pressed something into his hands, and he looked down to discover he now clutched a small brown flask. She passed along its stopper.

“I didn’t want anyone else to see this,” she said. “It’s been blessed. This will surely bring you luck if you drink it.”

“Ah. Yes. Sonia, I think you should know. It’s only fair.” He was starting to say that he wasn’t going to wear her colors, but she interrupted him once more.

“It doesn’t smell like very much, but it doesn’t really smell bad, does it?”

Politely he brought it up to his nostrils. He sniffed dramatically.

“You see? Go ahead. Drink it down.”

In sniffing, Rufus had caught wind of another scent, and he stepped away from her.

“Rufus,” she said, sounding frustrated, but he was walking away from the animals and into the darker recesses of the building.

“Rufus! Where are you going?”

“I smell smoke,” he said, and continued his advance, corking the flask as he went.

The inside of the grain depot was divided into a series of large open rooms separated by high stone walls, and the structure itself was elevated several feet above the ground. He supposed that the areas were intended for different sorts of grains, or grains for different buyers. He wasn’t really certain and didn’t actually care, but he shared the same concern for fire in public buildings felt by every respectable Dervan. He saw a spark off to the left, and stepped around a corner to investigate. A pair of men stood beside a stack of wood alive with flickering lines of flame. The red and orange fire cast their shadows against the whitewashed wall.

“Throw some more oil on it,” ordered the one further out, and the other lifted an amphora and sloshed some liquid onto the wall. Rufus was incidentally aware that he was often the last man on the uptake, but this time matters appeared astonishingly obvious. These men were deliberately setting fire to the new granary.

“You there,” Rufus cried, pointing accusatorially. “Stop that immediately!”

Both men turned and looked at him, and he realized then and there he had made a dreadful mistake.

They topped him by half a head, and moved with the manner of gladiators, constructed of solid muscles from heel to head. The first came at him and a knife appeared in his hand as if by magic.

Rufus only became aware of the presence of Sonia behind him when he heard her scream. “Rufus! Get back!”

“What have we got here?” the knife man asked. Behind him the fire was licking up the walls.

“It’s my girl,” the other man cried. “From Aleria’s picture!”

Sonia screamed and fled. The second man, laughing, tore after her.

The knife man advanced on Rufus. Normally he carried a knife on his person as well, but Rufus had divested himself of it, in the thought he would ride faster the less he weighed. Now it occurred to him he might not be riding anywhere, ever again, and it was a mite sobering.

He continued to back away, knowing that if he were to turn and run, this man would be on his back in an instant. Surely there had to be some circus folks tending their animals back here.



VIII


Olivia was promising she would write ruinous letters to her friends and relations in the provinces if her nephew should happen to lose the upcoming race on account of any of Hanuvar’s instruction, but he had stopped paying attention. During an earlier portion of her extended harangue, he had noticed Sonia dragging a blank-eyed Rufus off, and while this worried him, he decided to do nothing until she led him into the grain depot.

He would not normally have interfered with a lover’s rendezvous, but Rufus remained blithely unaware that the woman posed any danger. Probably she just sought to delay his start to the race. But then she might be seeking to have Rufus waylaid by thugs from the Greens.

And so Hanuvar raised a finger while the aunt was in midword, said “Pardon me,” and broke away at a jog. He heard her exclaim, “Well, how very rude!”

It seemed as though various men, women, and children were deliberately setting themselves in his way as Hanuvar hurried toward the granary. Even as he fought forward, he questioned why he was striving so hard to look after the young man. In part that was because his aunt might very well cause difficulties for Mellika and her circus if Rufus failed to make good account of himself. Given that Mellika was providing a comfortable home and means of disguise for him, Hanuvar felt duty bound to protect her interests. But he knew there was something more to his actions even than this.

Once he stepped into the granary he moved to one side and waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Off to his right many of the circus animals were caged or stabled, which still astonished him. Apparently the locals weren’t worried about contamination. To his left, though, he heard voices, and saw a flicker of orange flame. Something was burning.

He started forward, then heard a woman scream, and broke into a run.

He arrived in time to see a man racing away with a woman over his shoulder. Sonia. Rufus was backstepping from a knife wielder. At sight of Hanuvar, the knifeman turned and bolted after the other.

Hanuvar stopped briefly beside Rufus, even as he heard shouts behind him of fire. “Are you unharmed?” he asked.

In the dark recesses of the grain depot where the figures had run, a rectangle of daylight appeared. Someone was opening a door, and Sonia was still screaming.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine. They’ve got Sonia!” Rufus cried. “I’ve got to save her!”

“I suppose someone will have to,” Hanuvar said. Rufus started for the distant door, then stopped short as Hanuvar laid hand to his shoulder. “Two men, armed. You don’t have a sword. Get help; I’ll go after them.”

“But you haven’t a sword either!”

“I’ll manage. Hurry!”

Hanuvar sprinted off. The fire was licking up one side of the wall. Behind him he heard the excited clamor of the crowd. The circus people should be able to get their animals out, but whether or not a water brigade could be organized to save the granary was another matter.

Hanuvar’s way was lit by the glow of fire, but it took a moment to locate the actual exit. He stepped over the cast-off crossbar, then pushed open the door. He paused for only a moment, listening, then stepped outside.

The afternoon sun was just past its midday high and illuminated the green field on the far side of the granary, as well as a rubbish pile, and the wagon pulled up along the roadside, into which one thug was dropping a limp Sonia while the other hurried to catch up. Three other figures were already seated on the conveyance and one with a flamboyant Ceori mustache was demanding to know what they were doing with a woman.

He looked up as the gaunt man in the driver’s seat beside the Ceori shouted and pointed to Hanuvar, then the Ceori whipped the horses into motion.

Hanuvar arrived at the roadway just as the wagon’s two-horse team streamed off into a full gallop.

He was able to see into the back, where the two thugs sat with a larger fellow, all three wrestling a struggling Sonia. With them were two wooden chests, one of which was decorated in silver filigree. He decided against chasing, and doubled back to get a horse and guards. The irony that he, Hanuvar, was running to ask assistance from legionaries was not lost upon him.

The race crowd was in motion towards the grain depot. Where a centurion had organized a water brigade; the circus folk raced headlong into the blazing structure, emerging with panicky beasts or wheeled cages of the others, but everyone else was either carrying buckets or watching in amazement as the fire blazed up along one wall.

Hanuvar kept to the crowd’s fringes, searching for guards or a horse. Finally he saw Rufus and Percius leading two animals.

Hanuvar shouted and made for him, and that was when a large figure blocked his way.

At first he didn’t recognize the pot-bellied man with the bruised face, and then he placed him as Otho, who’d accosted him the other evening while he’d sat with Aleria.

The man struck one fist into a palm. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you. You broke one of my teeth. Prepare for a pounding!” Otho’s eyes widened, as if he had suddenly become keenly embarrassed. “What I mean is, you’re going to be pretty sore when I’m done with you . . . Gods damn it!” Otho froze and his mouth worked without making noise, as if by motion he could generate the words he wanted.

Hanuvar had neither the time nor the inclination to let him find the preferred phrasing for his challenge. “Get out of my way.”

“No, you’ve got this coming. We’re going to settle this right now!” Otho furiously pumped his arms and shuffled forward and back, as if daring Hanuvar to advance.

Hanuvar faked a strike with his left, and when the big man shifted he drove in with all his speed and strength and struck the end of Otho’s chin. The man’s head tipped up. His eyes rolled back and then he sank with the coordination of a bean sack. Hanuvar sidestepped his collapse and darted toward Rufus.

“They put her in a wagon,” Hanuvar shouted, pointing down the street.

“I saw! I got us horses! Are you game for a chase?” Rufus didn’t wait for an answer. He leapt into the saddle—one of the maneuvers he’d been practicing—then bolted down the road.

The little slave boy gravely handed the reins of the other animal to Hanuvar. “Don’t let my master get hurt,” he said. Hanuvar, touched by the boy’s loyalty, squeezed his shoulder.

He flung himself into the saddle. This animal was not a fine racer like Rufus’, but the white gelding loped forward. Hanuvar wondered if Rufus had found time to ask for help of legionaries or if they would have assisted. All the ones he’d seen were in the fire brigade.

Beyond the grain depot lay nothing but farm fields. The wagon driver was far along, but Rufus’ gray stallion was already near. As Hanuvar fought to close the distance, Rufus reached the wagon’s side.

One of the thugs leaned out from the wagon’s side rail and lashed at him with a whip. Rufus veered. The thug readied to whip again and then the cart hit a huge rut that set him stumbling toward the wagon’s center. There he tripped backward over Sonia, missed the outstretched hands of one of his comrades, and fell off the wagon side. He was fortunate to tumble into the grass.

Still pacing the wagon at a gallop, Rufus climbed into his saddle and stood. Hanuvar sucked in a breath, as if readying for a blow.

Yet Rufus leapt with astonishing dexterity into the cart.

Hanuvar was impressed for only a moment, because while Rufus landed on both feet, he promptly fell into the wagon bed. He didn’t rise.

Hanuvar maneuvered his horse past the groaning figure by the road side, mentally urging Rufus to rise before the others killed him. The smaller of the men in back was already crawling forward, his progress impaired by the wagon’s jolting.

The driver’s lanky companion kept looking over his shoulder at Hanuvar.

Ahead lay a small stone bridge erected over the glistening blue ribbon of a country stream.

Hanuvar was closing on the wagon’s rear when swift hoof beats sounded behind. Another rider galloped past: Aleria, on a beautiful black mare, her disheveled hair streaming behind. Her mouth was twisted in fury.

Odd, Hanuvar thought, that of anyone who might ride to assist, it was her. A quick glance back showed him the village a good half mile to their rear, occluded by smoke and road dust.

Aleria rode in upon the left flank so Hanuvar came in on the right, drawing parallel with the wagon bench. The gaunt, sneering man beside the driver leaned out and slashed with a short sword. Hanuvar swerved, then tossed his knife underhand. The gaunt man twisted and Hanuvar’s weapon drove into the shoulder of the mustached man at the reins. The driver shouted, and gave what must have been an involuntary jerk. The horses veered left, away from the bridge and down the gentle, grassy slope toward the stream.

Aleria took advantage of the commotion and leapt nimbly from her horse into the back of the wagon, cushioning her own blow by landing on the smaller of the men in back.

As Hanuvar closed on the side of the wagon once more, the gaunt man slashed and missed, then was jostled when a wagon wheel hit a low spot in the grass. His hands flew up and his blade just missed jabbing the driver’s head. Something yellow and fuzzy flipped through the air.

Even over the rattle of the wagon Hanuvar heard the driver’s wail of despair. “My mustache!”

The gaunt man lost his balance as a front wagon wheel struck a rock. He tumbled from the craft and landed senseless in the grass. Hanuvar’s horse leapt over his rolling body.

The driver had lost control and the frenzied horses tried to veer from the burbling stream, now no more than a child’s spear toss ahead. The water course looked an image from a rustic fable, complete with a span of rounded, mossy boulders rising from its center.

The smaller man Aleria had landed on lay limp beside Sonia, now pulling herself up. The larger man was lifting his fist for a blow when Rufus stirred and threw himself at the fellow’s enormous fist, holding it back before it could connect against Aleria.

It was at that moment the horses turned too sharply and the wagon tilted.

Everything inside the bed was flung into the water: the smaller man, the big man, Sonia, the two chests, Rufus, and Aleria herself. The driver somehow sailed further, landing belly first on a flat boulder and then sliding off to drift downstream, struggling feebly.

Hanuvar slid off his horse and waded in. He first encountered the smaller of the assailants, lying face down in the water, and Hanuvar felt obliged to drag him to shore before he drowned.

Rufus, meanwhile, had pulled Sonia to the shore. Her arms had fastened upon Rufus with an odd sort of evaluating look very different from her mooning-calf gaze.

The big man surfaced on the far side of the stream beside a little flask. He considered his surroundings, frowned, then spotted the container. He tore the cork from its top. He sniffed it once, then quaffed the contents as he advanced for the shore and Hanuvar. A peculiar expression crossed his face as he reached waist deep water, as if he had suddenly remembered it might be time for a nap. By the time he arrived on shore his steps were uncertain. He plopped down on the shore, blinking heavily.

Hanuvar spared him only a moment’s consideration before wading after Aleria, who had dived into the stream’s center. One of the chests had smashed open and broken wood was floating downstream after the driver.

Aleria resurfaced, met Hanuvar’s eyes, then dove again. The horses had trotted only a little further along the river bank and now stood, bewildered, fastened still to the wreck of the wagon.

“Rufus,” Hanuvar called, “you should send Sonia for help. If she’s up for riding.”

The young man considered that advice, looked down at the woman, and nodded in affirmation. “An excellent suggestion, Helsa.”

“And I think the leader is drifting down stream,” Hanuvar continued. “You should chase him on your own horse. But be careful. He’s likely to have a knife.”

“You’re so brave,” Sonia said to Rufus, clutching him by the waist as he guided her up the bank. Somewhere out in the grass one of the other bandits groaned feebly.

Scanning his environment, Hanuvar found no enemies but the man weakly coughing up water on the shore near the larger fellow who had lain down in the grass. Spotting silver-filigreed wood upstream, he splashed onward and discovered the more decorative of the two chests wedged against a craggy boulder.

The chest was a smashed ruin, but the crudely carved horse head with the immense ruby eyes inside proved undamaged. By the time he lifted it clear, Aleria was pushing through the waist-high stream toward him, joining Hanuvar closer to the far shore, where the water was only calf deep.

She halted in front of him, eyes narrowed dangerously.

He looked up, saw Sonia riding at a slow, awkward canter toward the village on Hanuvar’s borrowed horse. Rufus climbed into the saddle of his loyal stallion. Hanuvar watched the young man gallop off, then brandished the horse head before Aleria. “This is what you were really about, isn’t it? You don’t care about the race any more than I do.”

“That’s right.”

“What’s your connection with these kidnappers?”

“They’re bandits, not kidnappers.”

“Then why did those men take Sonia?”

“The short answer is that they’re idiots. They’re all idiots.” She sighed in disgust. “And I was an idiot for working with them.”

“Was it you who planned to set the grain depot on fire?”

“I planned everything, but they were supposed to set fire to the refuse pile behind it. This is what I get for putting my faith in men.”

“I think it’s more the quality of your help than the gender.” He passed over the horse head.

Aleria’s eyes widened and she looked down at the rubies, then back up to him, suspicious once more. “I suppose you want a cut.”

“Where are you planning to sell the stones?”

“I’ve a buyer in Derva.”

“Staying there long?”

She eyed him shrewdly. “You don’t seem stupid enough to believe I’d leave money for you there.”

“This winter or spring I might have a job in Derva I’ll need help with.”

She continued to weigh him with her eyes, then seemed to come to a decision. “All right, mystery man. I’ll give you ten percent for helping me out of this mess. Ask for me at the Muse’s Grace near the fountain of Thorius. If I’m nearby, maybe we can work together.”

“I’ll look you up.”

“I’d best get moving. Villagers might turn up any moment.”

He gestured for her to proceed, and she moved ashore, then paused to address him over her shoulder. “Is Helsa your real name?”

“For now.”

She laughed. “See you around, Helsa.”

She used a small, sharp blade she pulled from her hair to free the gems, hid them in an inner dress pocket, then tossed the sculpture of the Autumn Horse into the water and vanished through the brush. Hanuvar watched the wooden head drift downstream as he wrung out his tunic.

He was freeing the horses from the wagon’s wreck when Rufus cantered back a short while later.

“He got away,” the young man announced, dispiritedly. “Do you know what this was all about?”

Hanuvar eased the halter off the second horse, which high-stepped away to join his companion in cropping grass further upslope. He turned to Rufus and pointed to the men lying along shore. “I believe these bandits stole the head of the Autumn Horse and some coins, most of which are on the river bed. I saw the horse head drifting south.”

The redhead’s mouth fell open. “Gods. That’s terrible! I wonder what kind of omen that is?”

“The omen is that you saved the young lady and foiled the robbers.”

Rufus considered that and still found an objection. “But the horse head is lost! What a misfortune.”

Hanuvar sheathed his knife. “The head may still turn up. And you emerged a hero. With a little luck, that fire will have been put out before much damage got done, thanks to you.”

“Thanks to me?” Rufus asked doubtfully.

“You were on the scene in a timely way,” Hanuvar pointed out.

Rufus climbed out of the saddle, his forehead creased with worry. He distractedly patted the side of his horse’s head. “Well, it wasn’t really that I was on the scene, Helsa. I was, eh, charmed there.”

“You keep surprising me. A lesser man would step right up to take the credit.”

“Would he?”

Hanuvar hesitated against what his instincts told him to say, then decided to speak from the heart. “Here’s a final piece of advice, Rufus. Trust yourself a little more. Your instincts about who to take counsel from are sound. Be leery of Sonia. She’s secretly a scion of the Greens and I don’t think she originally meant you well.”

“She is?” Rufus’ mouth opened in surprise. “How do you know?”

“I have it from a convincing source. I don’t think she charmed you into the granary to help you.”

“That was a little peculiar,” he admitted. “She did kiss me a bit when I sent her on her way, and said she was sorry. I wasn’t sure what she meant.”

Hanuvar chuckled. “People are capable of change, though I’d be careful with that one. If you mean to pursue her, you should see if she admits what her plans were.”

Rufus inclined his head formally. “You’ve been very good to me, Helsa. From the start. And I thank you for riding after to aid me. I dare say I would have been overmatched without your help and that of the woman. Where did she go?”

“Back home, I think.”

“My friends couldn’t be bothered, even though I shouted at them to follow. But you were right there like a champion.”

Behind him, the big man snored. The smaller one coughed up more water. Rufus glanced their way, then returned his attention to Hanuvar. “What I mean to say, Helsa, is thank you. And I wonder . . . if you are not set upon the circus, I should like to employ you in a permanent capacity.”

Hanuvar smiled, saying nothing.

“Not as a horse trainer so much as a sort of permanent advisor.”

Hanuvar shook his head. “That I cannot do.”

“I see. Rootless, carefree existence and all that? In love with the road?”

“Something like that.”

“I suppose I can be a bit of a trial.”

Helsa offered his hand. Surprised, Rufus took it, and they clasped formally.

“I’ve the sense you don’t do that often, Helsa,” Rufus said as he released his hold. “I shan’t forget you. I daresay you’ve probably never had so much impact upon so many lives before.”

“I do what I can, sir.”

While we travelled with the circus, we kept our ears alert for rumors about a host of subjects—news of Hanuvar, of course, particularly any pursuit of him, but also any information about the Volani. Most, we assumed, would remain in the Tyvolian peninsula, for the slaves had been auctioned off in Derva.

One day, though, we heard that a dangerous Volani wizard had been purchased by a crazy rich man named Decius Bavonus, just up the road. Gossip even provided the name of the Volani, Senidar, whom, it had turned out, was a scholar known slightly by Hanuvar himself.

“He’s no wizard,” Hanuvar told me. He was sitting down at the trestle table in his tent, pen poised over some parchment. “He’s more of a librarian.”

“That doesn’t sound nearly as interesting to a gossip,” I said. “So they improved the story a bit. Why would some Dervan aristocrat want a librarian?”

“He was well versed in rare manuscripts and magical lore,” Hanuvar explained. “So it could be that our Dervan has dark interests. Or he might just want an intelligent tutor.” He tipped his stylus into the ink.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I’m going to send Decius Bavonus a generous offer to buy his slave. We’ll be here for a few days; maybe we can arrange for the purchase before the circus draws anywhere close.”

I thought that optimistic of him, but then he was a kind of wizard himself, so often achieving the impossible, so I didn’t express my doubts. As it happened, the villa of Decius Bavonus lay outside a village small enough that Mellika’s circus wouldn’t be stopping there.

Hanuvar was surprised a return message reached him with great speed: Yes, Bavonus would be interested in selling his slave. How soon would his new purchaser be able to arrive to finalize arrangements?

Hanuvar was suspicious, of course, but was always ready to hazard his own safety for that of his people. Which is why he donned the garb of an eques late one evening, including a gold citizen’s ring. I dressed as his retainer, and then the two of us rode off into the night. We expected to rejoin the circus in another day or two, and with luck, Senidar would be with us.

Events were to transpire somewhat differently than what we hoped.

—Sosilos, Book Four




8 In the province of Ellica in the final years of the Emperor Gaius Cornelius, three racing factions were most prominent: the Greens, Blues, and Reds, with the Whites a distant fourth. The Black and Gold teams attracted few enough followers in much of the east that they usually allied with the Whites.

Just as within Derva itself, each racing color’s most ardent followers were fanatical to a point very much like that of most devout religious adherents, but rather than memorizing sacred texts and knowing the steps of even the most minor of holy days by rote, fans of the horse or chariot teams could name all the greatest riders or charioteers, the races they’d won and where, and against what opponents, not to mention the most splendid of the animals that they had commanded.

As is still the case, who backed what team had very little to do with rigid distinctions. Where once the Reds had been plebians and the Blues patricians, and the Greens wealthy freedmen, after generations and intermarriage, loyalties were an unpredictable mess. Occasionally rival politicians would back one team or another and then new divisions might assert themselves for several years, though not in the latter days of Emperor Gaius Cornelius, who openly discouraged this kind of division because he wished no mobs beholden to anyone but himself.

Silenus


9 Heavier, more traditional togas had long been out of fashion in Derva itself except for the most formal of occasions, but style changes more slowly in the provinces.

Silenus


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