Chapter 7, An Uninvited Audience

Yar looked at his companion, saw the frustration in her face. He had hoped that she would be able to learn at least a rudimentary amount of chuudib by now. Not necessarily fluent chuudib; after all few people had his gifts. He himself had always found languages absurdly easy. He spoke every major hyuumin language in the Empire, and several minor ones, in multiple dialects. He also knew a few non hyuumin languages. Well, they were coming to a more densely populated region. Perhaps he could find her a tutor. They should reach the outermost market town early tomorrow morning.

Crowded. Seltheen thought she had experienced it before. but not like this. This was like being in a herd. Like cattle. Like settled people, whom the rinkers often compared to cattle. Yar had warned her to beware of sneak thieves. And also con artists, but to trick her someone would first have to be comprehensible. And in this place, there was no fear of that. So all she had to do was keep her valuables out of reach. Her pouch was inside her outer robe, the strings were tight on her pack, she had her sword out, and she was acutely aware of any movement towards her other weapons. With her warning slashes and Inshaa’s apparent willingness to bite, she was able to clear a little space, but if the crowd decided to attack it would close tightly around her in an instant.

Behind her, Yar and his loaded wagon must be a very tempting target. He didn’t seem at all concerned, though. He was, as always, making new friends. A few coins and a lot of fancy flattery soon bought him an escort of youngsters who watched the crowd for him. She saw them fend off two grabbing hands. One of them brought a bundle wrapped in thick round leaves. It turned out to be thick paste of unidentified vegetable chunks with a sharp sweetish smell. Yar assured her it was edible. It was a strange breakfast, but not entirely unpleasant. Afterward, Yar brushed himself off, and then stood up in the wagon. He raised his voice to a booming level and announced himself. Many voices answered him and they were not all favorable. In fact one seemed, as near as Seltheen could tell, to be both hostile and sarcastic. Yar engaged that voice directly. Barbs flew back and forth, but finally the voice was reduced to sputtering insults and then nothing. Try as she might, though, Seltheen could never make out whose voice it was. No doubt the man wanted to preserve his anonymity now that he had been bested.

Dozens cheered Yar’s wit and laughed at the discomfiture of his heckler. Even as he found a space for the wagon they stayed eager for more. And with his new self appointed workforce helping with the mules and awning, he pulled out his fuunok and began his first performance.

Later she said “it was a lucky break that you were able to overmatch that rude person. Your success in a verbal duel really helped you to collect a paying audience. But what would have happened if you had lost?” “No worries, dearest!” Yar chuckled. There’s always someone like that, and most of the things they say are not new. So I just prepare my responses in advance!”

In between performances, Yar guided his crew to unload the wagon and stow most of the items underneath. He attached a curtain of heavy chains to the bottom of the wagon, a barrier against thievery, he said. He had straw bundles dragged to form a curve around the front of the wagon. A makeshift theater, he said, and a snack for the mules. He draped brightly colored strips of cloth over the straw. “Stay back”, he told the workforce. “These are still damp from the bleaching solution, it will hurt your eyes and skin.”

They were taking an afternoon break when she observed Yar's youngling assistants suddenly fall silent and slink away. The silence spread outward in ripples, followed by a strained pretense of return to normalcy. But under the pretense there was fear. “Oh, ho!” exclaimed Yar. “Here it comes. Someone is going to try to upstage me!” “What?” asked Seltheen. “It feels like an attack coming to me!” “Attack, performance, sometimes it’s the same thing!”

“Back in the Rinks you have the Truce Grounds” he said. “It’s neutral for all the tribes and for outsiders. Outsiders have to pay a fee, you rinkers call it tribute. The judges determine the fees and collect them. After that the outsiders are free to do business. However, sometimes some rinkers, usually younglings, try to get more money out of them. They take advantage of your people’s fearsome reputation and the outsiders’ ignorance of the rules. They come up swaggering, brandishing weapons and pretending to be outraged. They claim that there’s an additional fee that must be paid immediately.” “B-but that’s—“ “Dishonorable? Of course it is. But we both know that you know better. It’s only in the epic tales that things are clear cut and only the corrupt and degraded cross the line.”

“There are similarities here. Officially, this market is governed by a group appointed by the regional chuudib authorities. There is a fee to do business here, and a fee to have an armed retainer. I have already paid both. But there are unofficial groups as well, they are called gangs. Like your rogue rinkers, they seek to steal by intimidation. And in a place with so much crowding, so many people, and so many kinds of people, it is very hard for the official group to stop this activity. They have people watching, you’ve seen them, they wear bright green jackets and tall green helmets with pink feathers. Those are called constables. Thing is, a lot of the people who come here are more afraid of the gang than they are of the constables. So they pay the money demanded and try not to get the gang mad at them. What we have right now is a demonstration of power. The gang is coming, they need to demonstrate to me and to everyone else, that they are still in control and that it would be unwise to cross them.”

“I’m ready” said Seltheen. “I’ll skewer the first one, knock down the next, and take on the rest before they expect to be in battle.”

“Spoken like a true warrior” said Yar. “However, there’s a small matter of my own need.” His voice grew intense but he kept it low. “I am a member of many different organizations and I have supreme rank in all of them. I am what the gorvijes call a Grand Magister. I have a reputation to maintain, I must demonstrate that I can put on a better show than a bunch of thugs, no matter how many there are. So I need you to hold back, let me take the lead. I will use mood say and the rinker system of hand signals. Some basic instructions: First, you must not use your bow, not even to save my life. I’d rather take my chances with the healers than get banned from a venue. Second, don’t use your spear unless you absolutely have to. Third, don’t kill anyone, and keep the wounding to a minimum unless I say differently. Finally, as soon as the constables show up, stop and defer to them. As for actual fighting, I won’t presume to advise you. Now pretend you don’t notice anything. It’s showtime!”

Four people came through the crowd, which shrank back as they approached the rear of the wagon, where Yar sat. He was wrapped in his fur coat. With one hand he was pouring powder into the fur. The other hand was smoothing it in with a large soft brush. He was humming to himself apparently oblivious. The man in the front of the group strode up to him and without hesitation, stuck him in the leg with a long dagger. Yar started and dropped the pot of powder. It hit the man in the head and enveloped him in a whitish cloud. A loud mocking laugh rang out from the crowd, followed by giggles.

“Tich” Yar observed, at stage volume. “That could have been a good entrance. First silence, then the sudden shock when you poke me with a stick— that’s the sort of thing that captures the audience’s attention. But your timing was off, that’s an amateur mistake.” The man coughed and rubbed his eyes. There was more giggling. He spun around and shouted “shut up!”. “Make me!” came the response. “Tich” Yar said, still loud enough for everyone to hear. “Don’t engage a heckler unless you have something to get the audience on your side. Otherwise it’s best to ignore it. But forgive me, I seem to be stepping on your lines.” From the audience a voice shouted “Don’t apologize, his lines aren’t worth hearing!” “Neither are yours!” Yar shouted back. “But he’s the one on stage.” He beamed at the man. “Apologies again. Now please, you were saying?”

The man and woman, who had come up meanwhile, looked at their leader in some confusion. Yar observed that they were both waujaks, members of his own race. As for the man hanging back in the rear, he wasn’t a member of any hyuumin race, he was a member of the braksont species, chest high to a hyuumin but of imposing solidity.

The leader signaled. The two waujaks came up beside him. “That stunt just cost you extra!” he growled. “Cost me extra? Extra what?” asked Yar in surprise. “Extra insurance payments!” “No thank you, I don’t need any insurance.”

The man raised his hand with the dagger. “I think you do!” he spat. “And this is not a stick!”

Yar scrambled backward and stood up in the wagon. He waved to the crowd, then pointed to the gang members in a way that exaggerated how high above them he was. “Behold!” he called out. “We see now the theme of this impromptu drama. It is about extortion. The performers you see before me are playing the part of lowly scum, of small minded, cowardly villains whose self hatred can only be assuaged by hurting people weaker than themselves! I think they’re doing rather well, myself. Notice how the leader, the weakest and most cowardly one of all, sums it up when he says `this is not a stick’. Let’s all give them a big hand!” “Let’s not!” retorted the heckling voice. “They aren’t acting, they really are lowlife scum, they should be drowned in dirty water, not applauded!”

The gang leader spun around.“I will deal with you later!” he roared. He peered at the crowd, trying to see who had said that. People shrank away from his gaze.

Yar clapped three times. “That’s better” he called. “You see folks, by threatening some poor anonymous person, well in a way he’s threatening all of you: honest working folk just trying to get on and do a little buying and selling. He knows that the constables cannot be everywhere, and so he sets a scene of uncertainty and fear. He makes you worry that some time, perhaps in the middle of the night, he will come and hurt you or rob you. He has the time to do that, since he has no honest toil, no homely obligations, to take up his time. Of course, like the constables, he can’t be everywhere, but the fear extends his reach. It’s cheap theater, but it is effective.” Again he gave a short clap.

The gang leader rounded on Yar. “Think y’ c’n play gimes do yer?” he growled, his speech reverting to a lower status dialect of chuudib. “Teach th’ git some manners!” The minions leapt to obey. But they now discovered that at some point while they were distracted, Yar had raised the chain curtain so that it was now surrounding him. And when they tried to climb the chain, they discovered that it contained sharp spikes. “Get off, you mangy rats!” yelled Yar. He whacked at their fingers with his coat brush. From their yelps it was much heavier than it looked.

“Go, go! Everybody, carve this pig now!” yelled the boss. “Now, you’ve done it” said Yar. “You’ve upset my mules.” The mules made complaining noises and strained at the lines. Suddenly they lurched backward, just as Yar hurled the brush, striking the gang leader in the throat. As he choked and swayed, the wagon knocked him down, then one of the wheels rolled over him. The wagon stopped with the wheel resting right on top of his knee. He tried to wriggle free but he was caught in a loop of chain.

Meanwhile four more gang members attempted to climb over the makeshift wall of straw. Yar jerked the narrow cord in his hand. It was attached to the brush. He caught it. He swung it around his head and faced the gang members. With his other hand he signaled to Seltheen to attack. She rode in a tight curve with her sword held backwards and clipped the waujak man who had been with the leader across the back of his head. She bypassed the woman, who was trying to help the leader. He was screaming, presumably threats from the tone of voice. A shallow gash across the ribs caused one gang member trying to get into the wagon to lose her grip and fall. She was about to go after another, when he crashed to the ground and began rolling around, shrieking and tearing at his clothes. The rest soon followed, except instead of rolling, they ran.

She looked up at Yar. He was struggling with another attacker in the wagon. The man was chopping with a small axe, to no apparent effect. Oh. That fur coat was armored! Yar struck his opponent a glancing blow with the swinging brush, then dodged the return blow. As the man crashed into the chains, Seltheen took her sword in both hands and smashed him in the shin with the back of the blade. He went down, thrashing. Yar signaled her to circle about and watch for other attackers.

Yar looked down at the gang leader. “Hold still, you’re only making it worse. Tich, your associates really made a mess. Knocked over a bottle of my favorite hair conditioner, too.” He kicked a bottle off the edge. It hit the leader’s shoulder, and a thick purple liquid spilled out.

“I'll cut you into little pieces!” the leader shouted. I'll cut you one piece at a time-- see if you feel like applauding that!” The female waujak trying to free him shoved the wagon again. He screamed and tried to slap her with his free hand, but couldn't reach. “You clumsy ox! Get this off me now, or I swear i'll tear your nails out!”

The minion felt a sudden sharp poke in her side. Yar was standing behind her with a dagger. Somehow he'd managed to slip out of the wagon without her noticing. She also saw that there were no other gang members standing anywhere near. There were reinforcements back in the crowd. But those were the less reliable hangers on; none of them would come on their own initiative. The leader saw Yar too. “Grab him! Take him back to the main place, i'll deal with him later.” He smiled at Yar. “You'll be performing tonight, alright! It'll be the performance of a lifetime!” Yar pushed the dagger a little more. “Sorry, no room on my calendar for private bookings.” he said.

“Get him! Get him! Get him! Everybody now!” shrieked the leader. “Seltheen!” called Yar. Imperative: stop all opponent approaching!” Seltheen rode over and cracked the female waujak in the shoulder with the hilt of her sword. The target collapsed onto her male companion. He groaned. Seltheen then whirled to face the crowd. Don’t use the spear unless it’s absolutely necessary. They didn’t need to know that. She reached back for the spear and spun it threateningly. Then she put it back in its socket, and took out her sword again. Behind her the gang leader yelled again. Two figures started pushing through the crowd. Seltheen pointed her sword at each one in turn. They stopped coming.

Yar looked down at the gang leader. A true performer should use as few props as possible, and here he was, the greatest in the world, resorting to potions. The one in the banners, which had soaked into the straw, caused hallucinations and terror. Victims would typically feel that their skin was on fire, or that horrible insects were crawling on them, or that they were being assailed by small flying monsters. That had neutralized most of the gang members who had tried to climb the straw. Now, he just needed the purple liquid to act before this drama ended.

The gang leader was alternately screaming threats and calling for his followers. Between their comrades’ mysterious ordeal, and the very palpable threat of the rinker, no one was coming. The potion should already be affecting the man; reducing his ability to handle pain and fear. With that, and a wagon wheel crushing his leg, even the strongest willpower would succumb quickly.

The man’s screams changed, became more frantic. The threats became demands to get the weight off him. The calls for the gang to kill Yar became calls for them to help him. His voice became more and more shrill. He began to offer rewards to free him. He began plead, to cry. Good, this would cost him the crowd’s fear and the gang’s respect.

And indeed, elsewhere in the crowd, a pair of big, rawboned farmers came up behind a rough looking man and grabbed him. They took his blade and smashed him to the ground. Then they proceeded to stomp on him while making references to “our papa's wagon”.

There was one last threat to worry about. Yes, there was movement. He signaled Seltheen with a few rinker hand signs. She immediately charged towards the braksont, spear leveled. The braksont saw her just as he whipped out his hidden dart thrower. He had started to aim at Yar, thought of shooting her instead, then on third thought decided he needed to get out of the way. The bolt went wide and hit a booth-- right next to a constable that had just arrived. There was a burst of whistle blasts and a squad of constables, shields locked and clubs held high, charged across the space. Seltheen aborted her own charge and circled back to the wagon. The braksont had no time to recover his footing, he was knocked over and beaten down. “Bad move on his part”, commented Yar. “The prohibition against missile weapons is one of the strongest rules here. Violation is punishable by immediate breaking of both arms, no recourse to a trial is required. And the constables, bless their less than ethically consistent hearts, get really righteous when one is pointed at them; I doubt that they’re going to stop with just the arms. And as for our friend under the wagon, you are hearing the chuudib for `mommy, mommy, please help me.’”.

The constables quickly hauled away the casualties. “Another gang will form eventually” remarked Yar. “But not soon.” He put on gloves and carefully rebuilt the straw wall. Then he sprinkled dirt to soak up the remains of the purple potion. “Now, there may be one more attack. That would be from one of the people we chased off earlier, trying to restore their self respect and start building their reputation. If that happens, I want you to smack them around a little, disarm them, maybe make them bleed. No chasing. And as you see some of my workforce from earlier, let them know I’ll still pay them for a full day if they’re back within the hour. I expect a huge crowd this evening.” He was right. That evening’s audience was bigger than Seltheen’s whole clan. And the next morning, she caught someone trying to slip through the crowd to reach Yar. She staggered him with a kidney punch, then wrenched his arm down and over so that he slashed his own belly with his dagger.

They stayed there fifteen days. Yar bought supplies, including clothing. Seltheen's new robe featured a crowded design of orange and yellow flowers on a deep pink background. It was a little thin for her comfort but the new underrobe made up for that.

There was also a language tutor, a very short woman named Welington Ipswich whose features reminded her alarmingly of the goblins of her people’s folktales. Yar explained that she was of the dargoalhuun species and more specifically of the vordin race. And no, she wasn’t planning to steal Seltheen’s hair, or teeth, or future children.

Welington’s methodology was to make up little stories about things around them. It wasn’t that different from what Yar had been doing since they had entered the chuudib lands. Yet somehow she made it easier to understand. She also drilled Seltheen on recognizing a few common nouns and verbs and then trying to figure out the rest afterward. Seltheen began to hope that she might actually be able to follow chuudib speech loosely, though she still couldn’t pronounce most of the words.

Meanwhile, Yar sang, juggled, told stories, and sought out information. He listened to rumors, read newspapers, and spoke to old friends he trusted. Every scrap he could learn about the road ahead would help.