The sun was breaking over the trees. Ponce woke with a start, taking stock of his sorry state.
Tobin stood, looking down in silent judgement. Ponce cleared his parched throat. “Don’t ask. You’d never believe me if I told you.”
“What happened to your clothes?”
“I… honestly don’t remember.”
“I saved your lute, at least. We can pick up something for you at the gypsy camp, at the base of the pass. We’d better not linger more in this place.”
Late afternoon found them coming upon the gypsy camp, Ponce seemingly without a care in the world about his condition. He played merrily, almost as if advertising his arrival.
“I swear to you, Tobin, they were giant black things, about twice the size of the biggest wildcat I’ve ever set eyes on, and these gray bitches rode them. They dismounted, and these great cats just lay down near the tree as if this was something they do every day.”
“I’m more than half-convinced you ate some wild mushrooms and forgot where you left your clothes. Enough. Save your story for the tourney. Or set it to song.”
They stepped up to the haberdasher’s wagon and began the process of haggling.
“I need the least expensive doublet, breeches, and braes you have in stock. Quality isn’t a concern. Can you help us?” Tobin asked.
The haberdasher didn’t seem thrilled “I think I’ve got something in your friend’s size, but it’s slim pickings what with people traveling to the tourney and all. I’ve got something fairly plain for twelve kopins.”
Tobin balked. “For twelve kopins, it had better be thread-of-gold. Otherwise, we’ll take our chances in Kayradan. I can part with five.”
“Five’s a bit short. I’m an honest man trying to make an honest living. Ten.”
“I can’t afford ten. Six.”
“Eight, and that’s pushing it.”
“Seven’s the best I can do.”
“Seven it is, then. Let’s get your unlucky friend outfitted.”
In a short time, they had procured Ponce a new outfit, although not nearly as splendid as the one he'd lost in Kayshire Wood. Ponce seemed disheartened a bit, but in his typical fashion he remained lighthearted.
As they crossed the main camp, they couldn’t help but notice the half-circle of brightly-colored wagons that occupied most of the space on this side of the stream. Near the provisioner’s cart, they encountered a trio of oddly-dressed individuals leaning against one of the wagons. The male was musclebound and dressed in a loincloth and boots made from some wild beast. He himself looked half-wild. The woman to the left had brightly-colored hair, an equally brightly-colored outfit that left little to the imagination, and the body of a gymnast.
The woman standing between them seemed to be their de facto leader. She wore a long dress of some exotic material, and her long black hair neatly concealed the slight point of her ears, but by the rare hue of her eye it was obvious that she was at least partially Oldling.
“Good afternoon, travelers.” She said in an impossibly melodious voice. “I can see by your garb that you’re wandering minstrels. Would you happen to be headed to Kayradan, as we are?”
For some reason, Tobin’s hackles rose when the woman spoke. He responded guardedly. “Perhaps we are. Are you headed to the tourney?”
“Indeed.” She answered. “Maengwen of Shattersharp, of Auntie Maengwen’s Parade of Pratfalls. My troupe will be setting up on the old circus grounds. Would you care to join us?”
“It’s an opportunity for more kopins, Tobin.” Ponce said in a hushed tone.
Tobin doubted it. “So that you can skim a fee off the top of our take? I appreciate it, madam, but I believe we’ll go it alone. There’s more coin to be had working the taverns of the inner city.”
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