All's Fair -- Part Vc
You give a bow and duck back into the carriage, to find your oft-dodged schoolmaster and now chaperone, Brother Herman, looking anxiously outside the window, a palsied finger quivering at his lips. The carriage rolls into an open court surrounded by decidedly less well-tended townhouses and turns down another narrow lane. "That was Offal Court, my children, Offal Court! Now we've turned toward Sluicegate Row. Sluicegate itself! What has possessed them to travel this route? Man and boy, I lived within these walls sixty-nine years, yet I never got myself near the Sluice. Until now."
High above the carriage, the heights loom where Saint Theobald's Cathedral casts its shadow down upon its faithful. From that lofty edifice to the lower wards of the city, a channel has been carved into the steep rocky slope, and you spy monks atop the cliff dumping baskets of rubbish into this sluice channel. A slight noisome smell cloys the nostrils even at a distance, indicating that there must be a trash heap of significant size rotting somewhere behind the haphazard grey stacks of weather-beaten shacks that cluster around the base of the channel. To call them buildings would be far too much charity, implying meditation and design; these creaky contrivances totter out over the lanes, alleys and ratways between them, resting drunkenly against each other to avoid toppling. Your route cuts through the outskirts of this mass. The path is dark, as you travel into a dense urban wilderness under a canopy of neglect. The cheering crowds from other lanes have been replaced by a new fauna peeping out from the alleyways. Begrimed gangs of taut-faced waifs glare like owls. Like fallen trees, drunken lumps of flesh sprawl out in puddles of various origin. Meanwhile the more alert shadows seem to measure out each passing mark by weight of purse and heaviness of body. Brother Herman snaps the window curtains shut. "Enough of that eyesore, children."
A cursing scream from the coachman, and a childish squeal of triumph, followed by screeching laughter. "Oi! Bing avast, cullies! I clied izzat!" The coachman reins in the horses and jumps off his seat, swearing profusely. Flinging open the curtains again, Brother Herman opens his wrinkly mouth to scold the driver for stopping, but alarm halts his tongue.
The driver, scanning the rooftops and alleyways, is a grim sight, clutching his cheek, blood streaming between his fingers. "The rooftop! A bloody hook! A group of little shites threw down a bloody blasted hook and snatched my beaver fur hat!"
Behind your carriage, there's a noisy disturbance. Other carters and coachdrivers begin yelling in a great confusion, cursing and threatening the stalled queue of carts and horses. The coachman hops up on his seat, still grabbing his jowls, and the carriage clatters and jounces away at a brisk pace, perhaps to put behind rather than to catch up.
***
You sit around a camp fire with your Knights of the Keep. When cortege made camp that evening on a small hill overlooking a burned-out thown called Brinthown, the castle boys from the other carts and carriages directly sought out your group to begin chattering in wonder at alll the new things that they had witnessed along the way. Impenetrable forests dripping fire-orange foliage, wide open golden fields dotted bountifully with ricks of wheat and hay, lowing great herds of cattle and sheep, praying flocks of petinents calling for salvation, strangers from afar with colorful wagons belching strange scents, and of course the real knights themselves cantering past with pennants streaming and armour flashing.
Your story of Sluicegate, backed and attested by the other passengers in your cab, leaves them with their mouths agape. Jakes Anyman nods his head. "Those boys were angler's pigeons, and hooking the hats and especially the brooches and cloak-pins of passersby from above is what they're about. When I ran with Harry Noughting and his lot, he made out that he knew that part of town, but seeing that place today... he's not that hard. That was a grim sight." You look down at the silver brooch that pins your rich blue cloak jauntily to your shoulder, and think to yourself that the outcome could have been much worse. After a bit of hushed whispering about "that place" and the squalid sights within, all the other boys go quiet.
To put life back into the group, you stand up and announce that Gervaise has yet to prove himself a true associate of the Knights Keeper. You convince everyone to agree to his induction, if he passes a worthy test. You ask the boys around the campfire, "What do you think he ought to do?"
Hammy thinks a bit, and suggests that Gervaise should create a fancy motto for the group, and all of the kitchen boys agree; Armaut and most of the court boys think he should extemporaneouly create a sonnet dedicated to your valour if he's to be the group scribe; Jakes reckons that, what with Gervaise sticking his nose in books all the time, maybe he can find a map of the castle; and finally, Cadmon sneers at Gervaise, saying he talks like a complete horse's arse, so he should very well put his face up against the hindquarters of such a beast till it farts. This produces the expected volley of chortles from his group. However, Cadmon notes an absent voice from his usual echo gallery. Henry Higgs, the malicious boy that usually eggs him on, and his little brother both aren't present. Shrugging in annoyance, he continues to offer other, anatomically incorrect, proposals.
The group that expresses the least acceptance to Gervaise is the barrack boys, but what next to do is your choice.
I promise to reach the fair this weekend! Despite the title of the section, it's been like Zeno's Paradox, right? Heh. Also, if you're wondering about the cant words, I'm using Francis Grose's 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue. There's nothing firmly documented until the 1600s, so true medieval cant is beyond our reach.
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Topic: Heirship: A Suggestion Game (Read 29380 times)