The Gypsy’s Dance

GUARDS ROUSED STEVEN with a boot in his ribs. He lay in dirty straw and the guards were shouting at him to get up and be gone. The innkeeper of the Inn of the Lost Soul was standing behind the guards querulously complaining of the vagrant tramp in his stable.

“His master rode off early this morning complaining that the worthless page could fend for himself,” said the innkeeper. “He still owes a gold coin for lodging last night.”

“Where is your purse, fellow,” barked one of the guards. He snatched the little bag from around Steven’s neck and poured the contents out into his palm. “Nah!” exclaimed the guard. “Nothing but scraps of herbs.” He disdainfully tossed the last bits of the wisewoman’s herbs into the stall and pulled Steven to his feet. Another guard grabbed Steven’s pack and staff and pushed him out of the stall.

“What about the donkey?” the innkeeper asked. “I won’t keep feeding a worthless beast.” A guard dropped a lead rope into Steven’s hand and in moments Steven found himself in the street holding a lead rope, his pack and staff. “And don’t come back!” exclaimed the innkeeper as he slammed the door of the stable.

Steven stumbled after the guards who continued to push him toward the city gates. At the gate, they pushed him out and yelled, “Don’t come back to Byzatica, either,” said the guard.

“Wait a minute,” called another guard. Steven, bewildered over what was happening, halted and looked around. The guard held Steven’s chin in a gauntleted hand and examined Steven’s hat. “This vagabond has served the king,” he said to his companion.” The other guard stepped forward.

“How did you earn this emblem on your hat?” he demanded.

“I served a company of knights on the road to Zannopolis,” Steven said. “They told me this would guarantee me safe passage through Byzatica.”

“And so it should have,” said the guard. “How did you come to be in the stable of that unscrupulous innkeeper?”

“I was preparing to leave in the morning. Yesterday I purchased a horse from Ibin Arriaga. I am a dragonslayer and journey to find the dragon along the river to the south.”

“You purchased a horse and got a donkey,” said the guard. “You have no money and no weapons. You were so drunk that you’ve been robbed and now you must set out on your own with nothing. Who is this Ibin Arriaga?”

“He is a thief,” said Steven. “Not only of my goods, but of many wealthy homes in the city. If he follows my directions, he will ride to Zannopolis and from there continue with the knights into the war.”

“And what has he taken besides your horse?” one of the guards asked. Steven set his pack down and examined its contents. “Three gold coins and seven silver,” Steven said. “My knife, my sword, and my bow.” He described the knife, sword, bow, and horse to the guards who nodded.

“We’ll send out word that he is to be apprehended. Now as to your journey,” said the guard who had spotted the service medal on Steven’s hat. The guards consulted with each other and after a bit one reached in a purse and gave Steven five silver coins. The other handed him a small knife, plain and not half so glorious as the knife the tinker had engraved. “Here are five silver coins from the king for your service. And here is a knife. Nothing like what you have described, but you can make a bow as you travel. We’ve heard of a dragon in the southlands, but it has never ventured this far north. This is all we have to see you onto the road. Follow the southward caravan route and you should be all right. Safe travels, Dragonslayer.” With that they turned their backs on Steven and returned to the city.

Steven stood in the middle of the road thinking. 490,??? ... No. 500,??? ... He went across a river and across a lake and by wagon. How long had he been in Byzatica?

Steven George the Dragonslayer was lost.

With his head hanging, Steven shuffled off aimlessly on the southern road toward Tasmyrica.

He had no bow to hunt with, no powerful knife, no precious herbs, no sword, and no horse. Only the talisman given him by the knight that he wore on his ridiculous hat had saved him further harm at the hands of the guards. And he had mysteriously acquired a donkey—all this because he had ignored the advice of the tinker and had told a story about the knife instead of his hat. How would he ever fulfill his quest in this miserable state? He walked without counting his steps, no longer caring how far he was from home, for he knew now that he would never return.

Steven walked long into the night with the mournful donkey shuffling along behind him. At last he stopped beside a stream and camped, turning the donkey loose and not bothering to build a fire. His dreams were troubled by how easily he had been deceived and he sympathized with poor Jasper. Steven allowed himself his first smile when he thought of the thief, riding his fine horse, with the fine sword and knife at his side, joining the long line of knights headed north from Zannopolis as the merchant turned and headed back to the south along the western edge of the mountains. Perhaps the knights would find some use for Ibin Arriaga in their service.

With this encouraging thought, Steven woke to find that the donkey had not wandered away from him, but dozed peacefully standing nearby. Steven set about finding a sturdy piece of wood to carve down and make a bow. He set a small fish trap in the stream and built a fire. As he worked on his bow and new arrows, the smell of fish cooking in clay began to rise from his fire. He ate that night of the hot fishy flesh. He scrubbed the donkey with reeds from the stream until its coat shone like the knights’ chargers. The donkey dozed lazily under Steven’s ministrations and turned to nuzzle him often as he was cleaned and cared for.

The thief had left little to Steven. The pack still contained his bedroll and a scrap of oilcloth that had once held a sandwich from his sweetheart. There was a pair of dry socks that he gladly changed to while he washed his dirty ones. It was peaceful to engage in such domestic activities, and for some time, Steven thought he would simply stay in this spot. In the morning, however, the urge to move on overcame him and he returned to the southward road.

Over the next few days, Steven met other travelers, a merchant caravan, and a band of soldiers. He gathered herbs by the side of the road, no longer having the special mixture the wise woman had given him. He traded services for coins or food and hunted, but he carefully avoided the eyes of those he met. His skills with a cookpot soon proved most saleable. He acquired one of his own from another traveling tinker, but when he attempted to engage the tinker with questions about Armand Hamar, he was dismissed with a wave of a hand. “Faery stories and poppycock,” was all the tinker would say.