“Haven’t seen eyes like that for many years. And let me guess: it’s your first time at the fair here in Dornan.”
“Yes, and it’s amazing. Excuse my Pitorian, I’m still learning. I was just looking at that tent over there. It’s the most beautiful I’ve ever seen.”
“Impressive, isn’t it? Belongs to a woman too.”
“A woman! Who is she?”
“A trader. Too old for you, though, my friend.”
“Ah, you never know!”
“Well, Erin does have a reputation for taking men in and spitting them out.” The man looked March up and down. “You wouldn’t last a day.”
March laughed, though he wasn’t totally sure he understood what the man had said. “What does she trade?”
“Furniture—fine furniture from the south, from abroad. Traveling there to buy; coming here to sell.”
“She does this on her own? With no husband?”
“She has a son, but he’s no use. Spoiled. Soft as butter. Wants to be a lawyer but no one’ll have him.”
“He’s not clever then?”
“Oh, he’s bright enough. But born on the wrong side of the sheets.”
“He’s a bastard, you mean? His mother never married his father?”
“That is indeed what I mean, sir. A shame for young Edyon; it means he has no future.”
“His father won’t help? Do you know who he is?”
The man shrugged. “Ain’t me, mate. That’s all I know.”
March wandered back to join Holywell just as a well-dressed youth came out of the red and gold tent. He was wearing fine boots and tight trousers and a figure-hugging soft leather jacket. His light brown hair blew into his face, and he tucked it behind his ears.
March almost laughed. “It’s him,” he said to Holywell. “Like a younger version of the prince. The same hair, the same build. He’s like Thelonius must have looked twenty years ago. He’s the right age, and the man at the food stall told me he’s illegitimate.”
Holywell looked over to Regan, whose eyes were fixed on the young man. “Seems like Regan knows it too.”
And indeed Regan was following Edyon through the fair.
“Come on,” said Holywell urgently. “We can’t let them speak.”
They hurried through the next field of tents, closing in on Regan, but the Calidorian lord didn’t seem in a hurry to talk to the young man, instead keeping his distance. Finally the young man disappeared inside a tent with the sign of a fortune-teller hanging above it. Regan paused for a moment and then set off back the way he had come.
Ducking aside, Holywell said, “I’ll follow Regan; you stay with the young prince.”
“What? Why?”
“I need to see what Regan is up to. Perhaps he has friends here. Friends we don’t want surprising us later.” Holywell’s eyes gleamed. “We have found our prize, brother. Now we make sure we don’t lose it.”
EDYON
DORNAN, PITORIA
EDYON STAMPED across the worn grass toward his mother’s caravan. He had gone back to Madame Eruth’s tent to demand more explanation of yesterday’s ominous bone foretelling, only to be denied entry by her assistant.
“She won’t see you. She says you have death around you. She won’t see you ever again.”
“Nonsense,” Edyon muttered as he walked away. “She’s the thief, not me. Taking people’s money and trying to scare them. Telling them stories then refusing to explain their meanings.” Edyon stopped. “She’s a fraud. A liar.”
A passing merchant shrugged. “Typical woman then, mate.”
Edyon ignored him and carried on walking. “I should insist on my money back, and damn her I sense your father’s presence, death is all around you bollocks.”
He stopped, ready to turn and retrace his steps, but something caught his eye. To his right were the caravans that the merchants used to transport their wares between towns.
Edyon felt a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. The nearest caravan belonged to Stone, another trader, a rival of Edyon’s mother. Like all traveling merchants, Stone journeyed between towns in a highly decorated personal caravan: luxurious, comfortable, with plenty of cushions and silk. But the valuable merchandise—artwork, precious rugs, and ornaments—was kept in these larger, heavier transport caravans. And these caravans were always guarded. In fact, all the caravans, from the simple kitchen transports to the luxury personal ones, were guarded, because at the fairs there were always people willing to take an opportunity to steal food, a cooking pot, or a precious casket.
Edyon knew this because, in his time, he’d stolen all those things.
Stone’s was a typical transport caravan, wooden and plain, with sides that could fold down for large items to be put on or taken off. At the rear was a small wooden door, which was locked at all times to ensure the contents were secure. Except the door to Stone’s caravan wasn’t locked. It wasn’t even shut properly. Edyon could almost see inside. He could see inside, but only a sliver of the dark red carpet rich with silk and wool and luxuriously soft—the fabric of far lands.
You must make a choice. And thievery is not always the wrong one . . .
To leave an open caravan unguarded was a dismissible offense. But perhaps there was a guard inside. Edyon’s brow furrowed. He ought to check. He strolled forward to the caravan, peered in to see if there was someone inside—there was no one—and before he could think about it he’d stepped up through the door, pulling it closed behind him.
As easy as that.
It was warm and gloomy inside the caravan. The roof was slatted, with canvas drawn tightly across the wooden beams, so that the glow of sunlight threw barred shadows across everything. The noises of the fair were muffled, like sounds from another world, and Edyon took a few moments to enjoy being there, surrounded by possibilities. Then he began looking. He was never sure what he was looking for, but he would know it when he saw it.
Edyon was methodical, swift, and careful in his search. He’d been brought up around these objects, able to unwrap and rewrap a statue in no time. He could tell the value with little more than a glance, but he wasn’t interested in that. The right thing would speak to him when he held it, and then it would be impossible for him to put it back. It would be something he needed, something he had to take, though the need never lasted and after a few days it would lose its charm; once it was his, he no longer wanted it, was even disgusted by it, and by himself. He always got rid of the things he stole: gave some away, dropped others in alleys or woods. He’d only ever sold two things that he’d stolen, which had made him feel sick and guilty, and though he’d given the money to a beggar it hadn’t made him feel better. Once he even put a picture back in the home he’d stolen it from, though it had made him shake with fear at the thought of being caught. Strange, as he was never afraid when he was stealing, but always buzzing, as now. But, even so, he wasn’t sure he stole for the thrill of it; it was just something he had to do. Some men were drinkers, others womanizers; he was a thief.
Edyon worked his way through the caravan, opening and closing boxes, unwrapping and rewrapping objects, and had got over halfway round before he found it.
A tiny silver ship.
It sat on his hand as if about to set to sea. The sail was a fine silver sheet, and the cargo hatch opened to reveal . . . well, nothing, but perhaps it was intended to hold coins or—yes!—a small candle: the sides of the ship and the stern were dotted with tiny portholes through which the light would make a pattern. It was fine work but worth little, a silly ornament, yet Edyon was instantly in love with it. He kissed the prow of the boat and whispered, “You’re mine.”
“And you, matey, are mine.”
Edyon turned to find a burly guard behind him and another, burlier guard looking through the doorway.
Edyon froze. The ship floated on the palm of his hand, its prow pointing to the door and the guards blocking it. Trying to run seemed like a bad option, but there weren’t many good ones.
“Neither of you gentlemen are foreign, are you?”