The Totem-Maker (part one hundred nine)

The Totem-Maker

Chapter Ten

Crafter Becomes Maker

(part one hundred nine)

I had to scramble, fitting arrow to bow. The target came scuttling, twisting this way and that (the weight in such games was a skin of wine, deep red, to fountain pleasingly when punctured); I saw, too, distracting markers laid, and my mind wished to explain them…

I missed the ring, missed the sharper portion of hillside where the painted sack jerked into speedy descent.

By his swagger, I knew the Peddler would top this performance. He shooed me away to draw a target to its starting place.

I decided I would…sport with him…later insist he give me a name, if we were to travel together; later say, “I am no grand person, Mero, but I prefer to be spoken to.”

He struck through the ring, and someone shouted: “None of that!”

Wine had splashed my shoes, but thinking in time I’d hurried from the worst. The Master of Games arrived with two underlings, one of whom nobly put his mouth to the wound. “These are for the competition. Over there, if you want to practice.”

I looked for anyone who wanted me, for events in our minutes of idling had come in a rush. Now servants unrolled carpets, lowered tables and set them with winecups and baskets of fruit. The guests arrived at their seats prepared, with flags in the colors they backed. Servants holding curtains made a tunnel for the bride to enter her pavilion unseen.

The Peddler tapped my arm. “I, as your instructor, hope to see my pride untarnished. Show me you can at least take the gourd.”

The gourd was the loser’s consolation. The prize was whatever some prankster cared to put inside. But also, the loser was toasted by all the winners, a second consolation my tolerance for spirits could hardly have borne.

I fitted a fresh arrow and loosed it where I stood. Bravado rewarded me; my shaft trembled from the bull’s-eye.

The Peddler whooped. “I’ll have a wager!”

Custom required that bride and groom be serenaded, the groom to the taking of his seat among us, the bride calling her answers from the pavilion. I was happy to sing, in a sea of voices indifferent as my own, happy to hear Jute chime in with near good humor.

I was happy to drink and eat, of delicacies…

I was sorry I must play, and carry small sums to their owner’s losses.

They seated me with the bride’s family. “Vlanna,” I said to Darsale. “A good day.”

The words were tradition. But she returned what preyed at her, what the cover of conviviality permitted. “My husband admired you. I have not seen reason for it.”

“Admired?”

“Sente spoke of you for a time. Before this journey, nothing.”

113

Crafter Becomes Maker

The Totem-Maker (part one)

(2018, Stephanie Foster)