Mapping Winter by Marta Randall

Author:Marta Randall [Randall, Marta]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Endeavour Venture
Published: 2019-07-17T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

When they came through Penitence Pyrs twisted in the saddle, his shoulders stiff, searching for the bondslave’s cage. He brought Myla up to ride close behind Traveler. Penitence was deserted save for light traffic to and from the quay, but at its edge kiosks and booths sprang up as though pressed against an invisible wall. Market day in Abermorat, she realized. Covered carts split the broad avenue into a maze of alleys, their wheels chocked in place and hidden behind piles of potatoes and beets and green-black barbutas. Braids of onions and garlic hung from awnings, over the bright, unlikely shapes of winter squashes. A rope of dried peppers looped around the top of a booth; the grocer wore handfuls of them tucked behind his ears.

“Puh-puh-puh-peppers! Blistering sweet! Puh-puh-puh-peppers!”

The slap of money on wooden planks. In the distance she saw the puppeteers’ tent, flying the Maccus flag. They wouldn’t be presenting the same play, not to this audience.

“Finger pies! Finger pies! Fresh and fragrant finger pies!”

Folk shied from her cloak, opening a path a few yards before her that closed just beyond Myla’s tail.

“Sausages! Succulent, savory sausages, hot as hell and twice as tasty!”

The air brightened with the smell of roasting nuts.

“Father wove what Mother spun, bonny shawls for everyone!”

The shophouse windows were opened for business: the baker sold dough shaped like ice ferries, the leather-worker had punched holes in leather squares that, when held to the light, showed the outline of Sterk. The candy-maker sold sugar replicas of Cadoc’s head which, when Kieve saw them, caused her to start, then snort. Pyrs, staring at the marketplace, stared at her, but she shook her head and urged their horses on.

“Fine hats, warm and woolen! Fine hats!”

The smell of toasted cheese.

“Come buy my gourds! No finer here! Come buy my gourds!”

A traveling showman presided over an electrical display. Glowing glass bulbs outlined the cart’s shell. His apprentice cranked at the electrical box, all elbows and reddened ears, while the bulbs dimmed and brightened. The showman held up a metal rod and invited onlookers to come up and be shocked, for a fee. Country folk crowded around, awed and excited.

A cake maker passed by, hawking tiny sweets “They’re good! You should!”

A brewer’s wagon forced a path through the crowd, all its bells jangling. Giggling urchins clung to the back bench.

“Icy treats for girl and lad! If you don’t you’ll wish you had!”

Three dancers twined about each other to the staccato music of a clay drum. Nearby, under a bleached awning, a brazier glowed. Kieve smelled spiced meat-sticks and, stooping from the saddle, bought a handful for herself and the boy.

As they sat on their horses, eating, a dilapidated street magician set up shop in front of them. His apprentice squatted at his feet, playing a mouth organ and keeping an eye on the coins in the magician’s bowl.

“Rider,” the magician said. He bowed, made apples disappear, and pulled eggs from people’s pockets. Kieve glanced over the crowd, rubbing at her cheek below her eyepatch.

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