Whatever it was that caused the Elite to be here - well, the carnival was running a risk in setting up tonight. The Elite always had money and few enough places to spend it. But one of the reasons that they always had money was that they were in the habit of taking whatever they wanted. They seldom needed to actually buy anything, and when they did - well, there were always plenty of people to steal more money from under the guise of 'donations for the troops.'
Still, it was difficult to force a good performance out of an artist. A frightened musician forgot words and music; a terrified dancer would move like a wooden doll. A juggler under duress dropped things. And no one could give any kind of a performance with a sword at his throat, or a knife pointed at a loved one. The effect of terror on a performer would only be funny for a limited number of times before the amusement began to pall. If luck was with them, some of these men had figured that out by now.
The routine was the same as always, but the tension had spread to everyone else in the troupe by the time all the tents and wagons were set up. Darkwind's stomach was in an uproar and his shoulders a mass of knots before they even set up the tent. And before the customers began to trickle in, word was passing among the wagon-folk; sensible word, by Darkwind's way of thinking.
Ancar's men were to be given anything they expressed an interest in. Free food, free entertainment, free drink. Smile at the nice soldiers, and tell them fervently how much you supported them. Encourage them to toss coin in a hat if you must have it, but do not charge them, ran the advice. If we get out of here whole, that will be enough. He passed on the advice to the others, who agreed fervently. There was no point in antagonizing these men, and if they were in a good mood and remained so, they might even avoid more trouble later.
'Hoo, I'll give them bottles of Cure-All if they'll take it!' Firesong said fervently. 'In fact...hmm...that's not a bad idea. They'll be stuffing themselves from the Mystery Meat sellers. All that grease would give a goat a belly- ache. I'll prescribe Cure-Ail to the ones that look bilious. It's a lot stronger than anything they're used to gulping down, and given all the soothing herbs in it, it might make them pleasant drunks. If nothing else, it will knock them out much more quickly than the ale.'
That was a notion that had a lot of merit. 'Mention it has a base of brandy-wine in your selling speech, Firesong,' Darkwind advised. 'That will surely catch their interest. Something like - ah - 'made of the finest brandy- wine, triply distilled, of vintage grapes trodden out by virgin girls in the full of the moon, and laden with the sacred herbs of the forest gods guaranteed to put heat in an old man and fire in a young one, to make weeping women smile and young maidens dance - ' How does that sound?'
'You know, you are good at that.' Firesong gave him a strained, ironic half-smile.
'Perhaps I should consider making an honest living,' Darkwind replied with heavy irony.
'Sounds good enough to make me drink it, and I made the last batch,' Skif observed, coming around the corner of the tent. 'And I've got an idea. Nyara doesn't dance. It's too dangerous; maybe we can hold four or five armed men off her, but we can't take on thirty. And if ten of them are in the tent, that's twenty somewhere outside where you can't see them. Tonight, the performance in the tent is you, the birds, and Darkwind. Nyara stays hidden. They don't know she's here, so let's not stretch our luck by letting them see her.'
'I wish this,' Nyara said from the dark of the wagon, her voice trembling in a way that made Darkwind ache with pity for her. How many times had her father made her perform in just such a way for his men? 'I greatly wish this. What need have we of showing my face here and now? And there will be no one expecting shared monies tonight, yes?'
'Quite true,' Elspeth said firmly. 'After all, the last thing that anyone in this carnival wants is to give these men any cause at all to make trouble, and one look at Nyara will make trouble. In fact, I'm going over to the contortionists' tent and advise all their women stay out of sight, too.'
It seemed to be a consensus.
While they readied the tent for the shows, Darkwind related everything Need had told him. The news was enough to make everyone a little more cheerful, so when the Elite did show up, Firesong was able to give them a good performance.
At first, only one of the Elite would accept a bottle of the Cure-All. From the grimace on his face, he had eaten far too much of what Firesong called 'Mystery Meat,' and far too many greasy fried pies. He took the Cure-Ail dubiously, with much jibing from his friends -
Until he downed the first swallow, and came up sputtering. His face was a study in astonishment.
'That bad, eh, Kaven?' one of them laughed.
'Hellfires no,' the man exclaimed, wiping his face on the back of his arm and going back for another pull. 'That good! This here's prime drink!' With one bottle at his lips, he was already reaching toward Firesong, who divined his intention and quickly gave him a second flask. He polished off the first bottle, and got halfway through the second, with his mates watching with great interest, when the alcohol caught up with him. He took the bottle from his mouth, corked it carefully, and stowed it in the front of his tunic. Then, with a beatific smile on his face, he passed out cold, falling over backward like a stunned ox.
Firesong ran out of Cure-All immediately, but he made certain that every man of the Elite got at least one bottle. After that, they could fight it out among themselves.
Some of them did, in fact; brawling in the 'streets' between the wagons in a display of undiscipline that should have shamed them, but which seemed, from the lack of intervention by the officers, to be standard
