‘Very good,’ proclaimed Valannie, interrupting Clariel’s thoughts of independence with a last tiny tug on the corner of her scarf. ‘By tomorrow, milady, with the right clothes, I believe you will be a credit to your family and the High Guild of Goldsmiths.’
‘Good,’ mumbled Clariel, just for something to say, since sh
e didn’t care about clothes or being a credit to anyone. ‘I suppose we had better go and buy these clothes, then. But first, a bright fish for the King.’
chapter two
colourful fish and colourful clothes
The fish-buying mission was not a success. Clariel almost couldn’t bear the crush of people in the fish market, the noise, the swift traffic of carts laden with fresh-caught fish, and the overpowering smell. Even with Roban leading the way, his presence somehow making people move aside despite his small stature, it was hard to proceed along the narrow alleyways that were lined with booths selling all manner of fish, crustaceans, seaweed and who knew what else. Everywhere there was constant shouting from the sellers, and shouting back from the buyers, and yelling from the cart-pushers – a cacophony of sound such that Clariel had never experienced before.
To cap it all off, there were no bright fish. Such things were sold from time to time by the fish merchants at the northern end of the market who specialised in live eels, fish and exotic fare like rays. But none of them currently had the bright yellow or orange fish that Roban said were the ones the King favoured. Indeed, it was unclear where such fish came from, save that every now and then a sailor or a fisherman would come in with one or two, and more often dead than alive.
‘You could try over at the Islet,’ said one of the sellers, who wore a bronze badge above his ring mail apron that identified him as an Undermaster of the Guild of Fishmongers. ‘They pick up oddities from time to time. In any case, I’ll spread the word.’
‘I need one soon,’ said Clariel. ‘It’s to be a gift for the –’
‘Oh, look at that eel!’ screeched Valannie, pointing at a huge, toothy eel that was flicking and coiling itself out of a nearby barrel.
At the same time, Roban said, ‘We’d best be getting on, milady. It’s almost noon.’
‘Uh, yes,’ said Clariel. ‘Thank you. I will try the … uh …’
‘The Islet,’ said the fishmonger. ‘It’s a little rocky island, not far past the South Tower. Outside the walls. Bit rough and ready, but safe enough in daylight.’
‘Thank you,’ Clariel repeated. ‘If a fish does turn up here, please let me know.’
The fishmonger inclined his head. Before Clariel had even turned around he was shouting at one of his workers, ‘Get those eels sorted, you lazy gudgeon!’
It was a little quieter outside the fish market, but still much noisier than Estwael ever was, even on its biggest market day, during the Harvest Festival. And the people walked fast, as if whatever they had to do could not wait a moment. Clariel felt that if it was not for Roban, she would be swept up by the tide of hustling, shoving, cat-calling people and swept away into some crammed alley, to be trapped there for all time.
‘Shall we go to the Islet now?’ asked Clariel. She was very tempted, because it was outside the walls, and anywhere outside the walls had to feel better than being within them.
‘Oh, no time for that now,’ said Valannie. ‘We simply must get you some proper clothes!’
Clariel sighed and nodded, and held to the thought that this was all only temporary. Soon enough she would be free of all the people, the noise, the smells, and be back in the cool green world of the Forest. She just had to figure out how she could earn her own living. She was honest enough about her skills as a hunter, and the difficulties of that life, to know she might survive a summer well enough, but winter would be another matter. Besides, bare survival had little charm. She would need at least a moderate sum of coin to get herself set up, with title to a lodge or a cottage on the Forest edge. Her parents could well afford to purchase this for her, of course –
Roban interrupted her daydreaming with a hand on her elbow, as she almost put a foot through an iron grille covering the access way to a sewer below. Despite being well-flushed with water from the aqueduct that bordered the fish market, the tunnel below carried with it a noisome mass of fish guts, offcuts and scales, and she could easily have broken her ankle in the broad mesh of the grille.
‘This way, milady.’
Roban led them up the broad avenue of Summer Street, which Clariel was slightly heartened to see was lined with trees, though they were thin, bare and grey compared to those in the forests she knew. The trees were some kind of ash, she thought, but neither Roban nor Valannie could identify them to Clariel.
They left Summer Street before it began to climb through the somewhat elevated valley between Beshill and Coiner’s Hill, turning east instead into a narrower way. A hanging sign at the intersection there showed a faded picture of something unidentifiable, which Valannie assured Clariel had once depicted three needles and some thread.
‘Three Needles Street,’ she explained. ‘Merchant Tailors’ Guild territory. We’ll go down to where it crosses Shearer’s Lane, which is Clothworker’s, that’s where Parillin’s shop is. The best shops for cloth and the best tailors are all around the cross.’
The street was busy, though not nearly so busy as the fish market. Most of the traffic was on foot, for horses were forbidden in the city for all but a few special purposes. But there were palanquins being carried by sweating porters, and many of the ubiquitous handcarts, though here they were loaded with bundles of clothes, rolls of uncut cloth and barrels of buttons and giant spools of thread, and did not reek of fish and the sea.
The street broadened again as it continued west, and the houses grew larger, and began to have signs indicating the businesses within, most of them tailors. Unlike at the fish market, Clariel also started to see other people accompanied by guards, wearing the livery of various Guilds.
‘Am I supposed to say hello?’ Clariel asked Valannie doubtfully, as she caught the eye of one imposing-looking woman coming down the street towards them, who was wearing the only other blue headscarf Clariel had seen, though many women wore scarves of other colours. This woman was also preceded by a bodyguard, resplendent in a surcoat bearing the mortar and pestle sign of the Apothecaries’ Guild.
‘No, no, you’re not dressed yet!’ replied Valannie quickly. ‘Look the other way! Don’t give her a reason to notice you.’
‘But I am dressed,’ protested Clariel.
‘Not properly!’ hissed Valannie. She moved to interpose herself between Clariel and the apothecary. ‘Just keep walking!’
Clariel kept walking, but peered at the apothecary as she passed, just to see what on earth Valannie was talking about when she said she was not properly dressed. She’d seen women wearing all sorts of clothes, some like her own. But the apothecary was wearing what looked like several tunics of differing length. The main outer one was a dark yellow silk, but with at least three others of different colours beneath, the layers showing at the knee and wrist.
Belatedly, Clariel realised that this was pretty much what her own mother had been wearing that morning, but in different colours again.
‘Do the colours mean something?’ she asked. ‘And the blue scarf?’
‘Of course,’ replied Valannie. ‘Guild colours for the two outer and two inner dresses, in the right order, and the blue scarf without embroidery means a close relative of the guild, a spouse, son or daughter, not a guildmember yourself.’
‘Different colours for every guild?’ asked Clariel. ‘How many are there?’
‘Seventy-four guilds,’ replied Valannie. ‘And the five Great Companies. Don’t worry, milady, you’ll learn to recognise all the combinations at the Academy.’
Clariel was about to say she probably wasn’t going to be in Belisaere long enough to bother, when she was suddenly grabbed by Roban and thrown violently to one side. An instant later, she saw the bright blur of a blade swish through the air near where she’d been, wielded by a man whose face was hidden by his shabby hooded robe.
Before he could strike again, Roban was on him, grabbing his knife-hand at the wrist with his left hand as he punched him in the stomach very quickly twice, accompanied by a gasping wheeze from the young man as he arched back, avoiding the main stren
gth of the blows.
Then Roban twisted and threw the attacker across his hip, sending him sliding across the road, between several astonished bystanders. The knife went clattering, more people started shouting and screaming and Clariel added to the tumult with a scream of rage as she leaped after her attacker, the slim knife from her boot in her hand, though she had no recollection of drawing it.
The man was still on the ground as she stabbed at his thigh, her knife deflected at the last moment by the surprising intervention of Roban’s sword, blades screeching as he forced her strike aside.
‘No, milady!’ he said urgently, distracting her just long enough for the attacker to roll away under a handcart, his hood falling away from his face. Clariel saw him clear for a moment, a handsome young man with fair hair. Their eyes met, hers so brown they were almost black, his as blue as a painted sky. He winked at her, crawled under the cart, sprang up and fled down a side alley.
Roban kept Clariel’s knife engaged with his sword and his hand gripped her elbow. She twisted against his hold, and tried to disengage her knife, a red rage filling her with a violent strength, so strong Roban had to fully exert himself to hold her back.
‘Milady!’ he shouted. ‘No!’
Clariel heard his shout as if from far away. She ignored it, and turned into him, her knife slipping under his blade, coming up again to gut him, fast enough he had to release her and step back, ready to parry or even riposte, and then her blow faltered as the viciousness suddenly left her.
She slowly lowered her knife, but Roban did not step closer.
‘I had him!’ she protested. ‘Why did you stop me?’