Chapter 2
*
Cassa sighed in exasperation as the wind flicked the black canvas from her hand. She retrieved it, and finished stuffing the tent into the pack. That done, she more carefully packaged her other props, adding them to the tent's bag.
The resulting pack was loaded carefully onto the back of a wagon, and Cassa moved her attention to some of the other equipment lying around. It wasn't as difficult a task as it might have been; if you looked carefully, each piece of faire property was labeled with which wagon it was meant to go in, and what tent it originated from. It made loading up or down easier.
Mitt rubbed against her ankles, and Cassa lifted the cat into her arms before heading for the main tents, where there would be other work to do. Mitt customarily traveled with the food supplies; the rest of the faire tolerated Cassa's pet solely because she kept the vermin away from the foodstuffs that many of the travelers depended on for their livelihood.
The wagons were nearly ready to depart; already one or two people were sneaking away from the work by sitting in their normal wagon. Generally, there was a space on one wagon or another for a weary traveler, but most of the faire walked at least some of the journey to their next spot.
Mitt was placed in the food wagon; she, too, often wandered off the wagon, but normally found her way back with ease. Part of that may have been due to Cassa; when she saw the cat departing, she would leave crushed catmint leaves by the roadside to act as a trail. She was always careful not to let others see her, however; the life of a traveler was hard, and the others were scornful of her placing so much value on a cat.
Mitt fell asleep behind a sack of flour, and Cassa hurried to help with the last of the packing.
It was only the dancing tent, now, and that, with a few modifications, was left over the 'stage'. The stage itself was linked to the front part of a wagon, and the troupe was on the road again.
*
The faire had camped that night by a river, and Cassa had gladly washed the horrible black dye from her hair. Normally she would have lamented the waste of dye, but they would be on the road for at least three days, and the cheap dye would have worn off in any case.
Now Cassa was lying in her bedroll under the food wagon. The faire council (It would surprise people if they knew we actually had a council, she thought) had decided that since the cat that protected the wagon answered to her only, she should sleep there. They had declared that she was unlikely to filch the food, a statement that made Cassa smile; she had thought they would never forget the occasion when, as a little, she had dared to make off with one of the hand size sweet pies intended for the customers. The long and well remembered lecture had ensured that she would never dare to steal again.
Some faires actually invited thieves to join them, on the condition that they split their takings. The bunch of travelers who formed the romantically named 'Sunset Faire' did not. They were one of the less well off fairs - "Poor but honest", as the Faire council instructed - but Cassa agreed with this policy.
Taking money for unperformed curses was all very well - in Cassa's opinion, anyone cruel-minded enough to want a curse performed probably deserved to lose a few pennies. And besides, what her clients actually paid for was an actor to convince them that their enemy would meet some misfortune.
I don't think I'd like to be a witch for true, Cassa shivered in her bedroll, in spite of the warm, summer night. Having real power would be - scary.
It was best to stick to acting and guesswork - although being a fortune teller was not as easy as it seemed. It required a great deal of intellect, to decide what would please your client. I've been lucky that, so far, my imagination hasn't run dry.
With the comforting thought of success, Cassa fell asleep.
*
The next day was more of the same, alternately walking or riding on the wagons, but today Cassa walked with Gav. He was one of the musicians, but he had not been with the faire for long. Cassa suspected that he'd run away; he was only a few years older than her, far too young to be the wandering minstrel he posed as.
Whatever his background, he was good company, in spite of his incessant teasing.
"Your hair is much prettier blonde," Gav commented once, impudently pulling on the tail of bound hair that lay across her back.
He was correct; the sticky black dye suited her as ill as the billowing black dress she wore as her costume. At the moment she looked quite different from 'Witch Cassa'; she was lean and tall for her sixteen years, and wore the trews and tunic that showed this to her best advantage. Silver- gray eyes - not the green that her 'profession' demanded, nor the blue that Cassa would have wished them - contrasted nicely with the gold hair, and pale skin that looked unhealthy on Witch Cassa looked well with her lighter coloring. Cassa's one regret about being the witch was the ugly costuming needed, but the amusement value made up for that.
"So kind," she returned dryly, raising a sardonic eyebrow at this lukewarm compliment.
Gav sometimes pretended to be in love with her, paying her fulsome compliments - something that never failed to amuse her - but lately he had been trying to catch the eye of Lea, one of the dancers. The only reason he walked with her was because Lea had sprained an ankle, and was confined to her wagon.
He grinned at her. "But being a witch certainly suits you." He said, glancing at her from the corner of one eye.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Cassa demanded suspiciously.
Gav's grin spread. "Your personality, Cassa." He replied innocently. "All witches are really - hey!" He danced away from Cassa's well aimed swat. "All that does is prove my point!"
Cassa couldn't help but laugh; it was Gav's look more than anything. He always seemed completely sincere, and his youthful, honest countenance enhanced this effect. Sandy hair that curled around a boyish face made him look even more innocent than he sounded.
"Humph!" Cassa scowled at him in mock anger. "Well! Maybe I should take my personality elsewhere!"
With an agility born of long practice, Cassa grabbed hold of one of the faster-moving wagons and swung herself on, grinning as tried to catch up.
*
Mitt was under the table, purring as Cassa stirred her fur with one foot. Before her was a young girl who looked perhaps thirteen. She wanted her fortune told.
Cassa surveyed the girl, trying to figure out what she wanted. A sudden sapphire flash impeded her vision, and Cassa saw an image. This girl, older, in white clothes on a Companion? What had her freakish imagination conjured up this time?
Cassa opened her mouth to say some drivel about a long and happy life, but to her shock, found herself describing her imagining.
"You will be a Herald," Cassa said, cursing her tongue. "You will be Chosen by a Companion stallion - soon, quite soon."
The girl laughed. Damn, Cassa thought.
"That's not very likely." She said bluntly. "Me, Chosen? What an idea." She stood, paying the twopenny fare before leaving the tent.
What has got into me? Cassa asked herself distractedly before the next customer came in.
This was a fifteen year old, a shy looking girl who looked superstitious enough to believe that Cassa might really be a witch. Cassa struggled with this girl, too - until another flash of blue light blossomed in her head.
This girl, a woman, older, more confident, dressed in the bright Healer green.
Again, Cassa's tongue betrayed her, speaking this before she could reconsider. This girl, however, did not laugh. She gasped, speaking in a shocked whisper. "How did you know? Father didn't tell anyone but me that the Healers at the temple wanted to train me!"
What? Thought Cassa. It's true? She really is going to be a Healer?
The girl left the tent, and Cassa let her black-stained head fall onto her hands. Oh, this is just too bizarre.
*
Cassa sighed in exasperation as the wind flicked the black canvas from her hand. She retrieved it, and finished stuffing the tent into the pack. That done, she more carefully packaged her other props, adding them to the tent's bag.
The resulting pack was loaded carefully onto the back of a wagon, and Cassa moved her attention to some of the other equipment lying around. It wasn't as difficult a task as it might have been; if you looked carefully, each piece of faire property was labeled with which wagon it was meant to go in, and what tent it originated from. It made loading up or down easier.
Mitt rubbed against her ankles, and Cassa lifted the cat into her arms before heading for the main tents, where there would be other work to do. Mitt customarily traveled with the food supplies; the rest of the faire tolerated Cassa's pet solely because she kept the vermin away from the foodstuffs that many of the travelers depended on for their livelihood.
The wagons were nearly ready to depart; already one or two people were sneaking away from the work by sitting in their normal wagon. Generally, there was a space on one wagon or another for a weary traveler, but most of the faire walked at least some of the journey to their next spot.
Mitt was placed in the food wagon; she, too, often wandered off the wagon, but normally found her way back with ease. Part of that may have been due to Cassa; when she saw the cat departing, she would leave crushed catmint leaves by the roadside to act as a trail. She was always careful not to let others see her, however; the life of a traveler was hard, and the others were scornful of her placing so much value on a cat.
Mitt fell asleep behind a sack of flour, and Cassa hurried to help with the last of the packing.
It was only the dancing tent, now, and that, with a few modifications, was left over the 'stage'. The stage itself was linked to the front part of a wagon, and the troupe was on the road again.
*
The faire had camped that night by a river, and Cassa had gladly washed the horrible black dye from her hair. Normally she would have lamented the waste of dye, but they would be on the road for at least three days, and the cheap dye would have worn off in any case.
Now Cassa was lying in her bedroll under the food wagon. The faire council (It would surprise people if they knew we actually had a council, she thought) had decided that since the cat that protected the wagon answered to her only, she should sleep there. They had declared that she was unlikely to filch the food, a statement that made Cassa smile; she had thought they would never forget the occasion when, as a little, she had dared to make off with one of the hand size sweet pies intended for the customers. The long and well remembered lecture had ensured that she would never dare to steal again.
Some faires actually invited thieves to join them, on the condition that they split their takings. The bunch of travelers who formed the romantically named 'Sunset Faire' did not. They were one of the less well off fairs - "Poor but honest", as the Faire council instructed - but Cassa agreed with this policy.
Taking money for unperformed curses was all very well - in Cassa's opinion, anyone cruel-minded enough to want a curse performed probably deserved to lose a few pennies. And besides, what her clients actually paid for was an actor to convince them that their enemy would meet some misfortune.
I don't think I'd like to be a witch for true, Cassa shivered in her bedroll, in spite of the warm, summer night. Having real power would be - scary.
It was best to stick to acting and guesswork - although being a fortune teller was not as easy as it seemed. It required a great deal of intellect, to decide what would please your client. I've been lucky that, so far, my imagination hasn't run dry.
With the comforting thought of success, Cassa fell asleep.
*
The next day was more of the same, alternately walking or riding on the wagons, but today Cassa walked with Gav. He was one of the musicians, but he had not been with the faire for long. Cassa suspected that he'd run away; he was only a few years older than her, far too young to be the wandering minstrel he posed as.
Whatever his background, he was good company, in spite of his incessant teasing.
"Your hair is much prettier blonde," Gav commented once, impudently pulling on the tail of bound hair that lay across her back.
He was correct; the sticky black dye suited her as ill as the billowing black dress she wore as her costume. At the moment she looked quite different from 'Witch Cassa'; she was lean and tall for her sixteen years, and wore the trews and tunic that showed this to her best advantage. Silver- gray eyes - not the green that her 'profession' demanded, nor the blue that Cassa would have wished them - contrasted nicely with the gold hair, and pale skin that looked unhealthy on Witch Cassa looked well with her lighter coloring. Cassa's one regret about being the witch was the ugly costuming needed, but the amusement value made up for that.
"So kind," she returned dryly, raising a sardonic eyebrow at this lukewarm compliment.
Gav sometimes pretended to be in love with her, paying her fulsome compliments - something that never failed to amuse her - but lately he had been trying to catch the eye of Lea, one of the dancers. The only reason he walked with her was because Lea had sprained an ankle, and was confined to her wagon.
He grinned at her. "But being a witch certainly suits you." He said, glancing at her from the corner of one eye.
"And what's that supposed to mean?" Cassa demanded suspiciously.
Gav's grin spread. "Your personality, Cassa." He replied innocently. "All witches are really - hey!" He danced away from Cassa's well aimed swat. "All that does is prove my point!"
Cassa couldn't help but laugh; it was Gav's look more than anything. He always seemed completely sincere, and his youthful, honest countenance enhanced this effect. Sandy hair that curled around a boyish face made him look even more innocent than he sounded.
"Humph!" Cassa scowled at him in mock anger. "Well! Maybe I should take my personality elsewhere!"
With an agility born of long practice, Cassa grabbed hold of one of the faster-moving wagons and swung herself on, grinning as tried to catch up.
*
Mitt was under the table, purring as Cassa stirred her fur with one foot. Before her was a young girl who looked perhaps thirteen. She wanted her fortune told.
Cassa surveyed the girl, trying to figure out what she wanted. A sudden sapphire flash impeded her vision, and Cassa saw an image. This girl, older, in white clothes on a Companion? What had her freakish imagination conjured up this time?
Cassa opened her mouth to say some drivel about a long and happy life, but to her shock, found herself describing her imagining.
"You will be a Herald," Cassa said, cursing her tongue. "You will be Chosen by a Companion stallion - soon, quite soon."
The girl laughed. Damn, Cassa thought.
"That's not very likely." She said bluntly. "Me, Chosen? What an idea." She stood, paying the twopenny fare before leaving the tent.
What has got into me? Cassa asked herself distractedly before the next customer came in.
This was a fifteen year old, a shy looking girl who looked superstitious enough to believe that Cassa might really be a witch. Cassa struggled with this girl, too - until another flash of blue light blossomed in her head.
This girl, a woman, older, more confident, dressed in the bright Healer green.
Again, Cassa's tongue betrayed her, speaking this before she could reconsider. This girl, however, did not laugh. She gasped, speaking in a shocked whisper. "How did you know? Father didn't tell anyone but me that the Healers at the temple wanted to train me!"
What? Thought Cassa. It's true? She really is going to be a Healer?
The girl left the tent, and Cassa let her black-stained head fall onto her hands. Oh, this is just too bizarre.