ability.
“Finally,” she said in exasperation as they walked away from the tent. “I absolutely abhor those discussions. Don’t you?”
“They’re part of the job,” Errol said with a shrug.
“Agreed, but there’s no need for them to be dull. Personally, I think sitting around talking about stuff like where we can perform is the height of boredom. There’s got to be a way to make it a bit more fun.”
“So how would you have it settled – with a knife fight?”
She laughed, a sound that was crystal-pure and lovely. “Nothing so drab. Maybe a knife- throwing competition.”
“Only if I get to throw for our side,” Errol said.
She gave Errol a sly appraisal. “You’re that good?” When he just shrugged in response, she said, “We’ll just have to see.” With that, she began showing him around their camp.
The troupe really was a family affair. The total number of people in their band amounted to about forty. Aside from Anru and Miabi, there were their eight children (ranging in age from eight to twenty-three), as well as four older children that Anru’d had with a first wife who had died of a pox. The rest were an assortment of aunts, uncles, and cousins, as well as a few drifters they had picked up here and there.
“So, the mayor helps determine the field of play,” she said as they walked, “but the Warden sets the rules of the game. What are they?”
Errol took a deep breath. “You leave everything as you found it. You don’t churn up the ground, you don’t needlessly chop down trees, you don’t fling all your trash in the river.”
“Agreed.”
“You respect our laws. I know you have your own code for righting wrongs, but you will abide by our ordinances while here – no one takes matters into their own hands.”
“Agreed.”
One by one, Errol laid out the ground rules, and Miabi agreed, on behalf of the troupe, to each of them. When they had finished, she showed him the various games of skill and chance that the troupe wanted to showcase. Errol went through them all and in the end only decided that two were off-limits: one was a tumbling contest that he felt offered too much opportunity for injury, and the other was a knife-throwing competition.
The entertainers running the tumbling event accepted Errol’s decision with good grace, but the young man running the knife-throwing booth – one of Miabi’s sons named Baro – was furious.
They were standing in front of the booth at the time, which was set up with three bulls-eye targets about twenty feet away. Winning a prize required putting a knife in the center of each target, with each contestant being given three knives.
Errol had picked up each of the throwing knives to be used in the booth – felt them, hefted their weight, balanced them on his fingertips. In the end, he had decided that most of the knives were unbalanced. Baro, who had been standing nearby, exploded in anger.
“There’s nothing wrong with my knives!” he screamed. “This is a fair game of skill!”
“No, it’s not,” Errol replied. “And I won’t let you run this game.”
Baro let out a stream of invective that shocked Errol, particularly since his mother Miabi was right there.
“Look,” Errol said, when Baro had finished, struggling not to take the man’s words personally, “I’m trying to do you a favor. There are people around here who know their way around a knife, and they’re going to accuse you of being a cheat. The next thing you know, there’s going to be a dead body lying around somewhere, and I’d prefer not to have to deal with that.”
Instead of responding, Baro grabbed three of the knives from the booth counter. Errol’s dagger was immediately in his hand, but the young man barely even looked at him. Instead, Baro threw his knives at the targets, hitting all of them dead center.
“There!” he said smugly, waving an arm in the direction of the targets. “Could I do that with bad knives?”
Errol put away his
“Finally,” she said in exasperation as they walked away from the tent. “I absolutely abhor those discussions. Don’t you?”
“They’re part of the job,” Errol said with a shrug.
“Agreed, but there’s no need for them to be dull. Personally, I think sitting around talking about stuff like where we can perform is the height of boredom. There’s got to be a way to make it a bit more fun.”
“So how would you have it settled – with a knife fight?”
She laughed, a sound that was crystal-pure and lovely. “Nothing so drab. Maybe a knife- throwing competition.”
“Only if I get to throw for our side,” Errol said.
She gave Errol a sly appraisal. “You’re that good?” When he just shrugged in response, she said, “We’ll just have to see.” With that, she began showing him around their camp.
The troupe really was a family affair. The total number of people in their band amounted to about forty. Aside from Anru and Miabi, there were their eight children (ranging in age from eight to twenty-three), as well as four older children that Anru’d had with a first wife who had died of a pox. The rest were an assortment of aunts, uncles, and cousins, as well as a few drifters they had picked up here and there.
“So, the mayor helps determine the field of play,” she said as they walked, “but the Warden sets the rules of the game. What are they?”
Errol took a deep breath. “You leave everything as you found it. You don’t churn up the ground, you don’t needlessly chop down trees, you don’t fling all your trash in the river.”
“Agreed.”
“You respect our laws. I know you have your own code for righting wrongs, but you will abide by our ordinances while here – no one takes matters into their own hands.”
“Agreed.”
One by one, Errol laid out the ground rules, and Miabi agreed, on behalf of the troupe, to each of them. When they had finished, she showed him the various games of skill and chance that the troupe wanted to showcase. Errol went through them all and in the end only decided that two were off-limits: one was a tumbling contest that he felt offered too much opportunity for injury, and the other was a knife-throwing competition.
The entertainers running the tumbling event accepted Errol’s decision with good grace, but the young man running the knife-throwing booth – one of Miabi’s sons named Baro – was furious.
They were standing in front of the booth at the time, which was set up with three bulls-eye targets about twenty feet away. Winning a prize required putting a knife in the center of each target, with each contestant being given three knives.
Errol had picked up each of the throwing knives to be used in the booth – felt them, hefted their weight, balanced them on his fingertips. In the end, he had decided that most of the knives were unbalanced. Baro, who had been standing nearby, exploded in anger.
“There’s nothing wrong with my knives!” he screamed. “This is a fair game of skill!”
“No, it’s not,” Errol replied. “And I won’t let you run this game.”
Baro let out a stream of invective that shocked Errol, particularly since his mother Miabi was right there.
“Look,” Errol said, when Baro had finished, struggling not to take the man’s words personally, “I’m trying to do you a favor. There are people around here who know their way around a knife, and they’re going to accuse you of being a cheat. The next thing you know, there’s going to be a dead body lying around somewhere, and I’d prefer not to have to deal with that.”
Instead of responding, Baro grabbed three of the knives from the booth counter. Errol’s dagger was immediately in his hand, but the young man barely even looked at him. Instead, Baro threw his knives at the targets, hitting all of them dead center.
“There!” he said smugly, waving an arm in the direction of the targets. “Could I do that with bad knives?”
Errol put away his
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