The caravan had come a long way north to reach the city of Froskheim.
Esmi was disappointed that she could only look upon its great walls without being granted access to actually visit the city properly.
A whole forest must have been cut down to build those those towering reinforcements; the massive height of the timbers was at least five times her own (she was only ten years old) and, from what little she could see of the gate, the depth of the wall was almost as great. It was fourth largest city in these cold wastes, or so was said, populated by the tall and lanky northerners who she had been told would have long flowing golden locks, but who instead mostly had shiny, balding heads.
“Mama…” Esmi said wistfully, “can we really not go inside?”
They were together by the camp their clan had set up, a small distance from the main gate of the city. Sandra, her mother, a chubby woman of thirty-two, kept one leg crossed over the other and ate an apple with an absentminded look about her. “No can do, sweetheart. I’ve told you, they don’t want us in there.”
“But Deniz went inside!”
“Deniz is the boss. He does business. And the only reason they would let him go in is because they think their boss, their king, their jarl—whatever he is—ranks too highly to come out and grace us with his beautiful bald head.”
Esmi sighed, entirely crestfallen. The explanation made sense, and it was one she had already heard from her father and others. Still, she wanted to enter Froskheim and see what all the fuss was about. All the gossip she heard so far from the men in the clan was what great warriors these northerners were and how wealthy they had become from seafaring. The women, on the other hand, whispered around the campfire at night that they were a bestial people that took girls by force whenever they wanted, and just about whatever else they wanted with sword-in-hand…
So far, Esmi saw no evidence of that. The only difference between these people and those back home is that they were taller, paler, balder, and skinnier, like their lives and even their days were being drawn out. The other morning a guy had emerged from the city on a trundling wagon who was so pale, so hairless, and so skinny, that she thought he was a skeleton raised from the grave by a necromancer like in those scary stories Manu frightened her with.
But no matter how uninteresting all the action around the gate was, Esmi still spent her time near the entrance so she could peer inside however little she could and see more of the city. If only they would allow her in for just a one quick walk, she wouldn’t do a thing to anybody…
Back home in Rovina they were not allowed to enter the cities either, but she hoped that things here would be different. They were so far north, after all—at least five weeks away! Were people really all the same everywhere?
Though she was only ten, Esmi understood well enough that she was a gypsy. Maybe not exactly what gypsies were, not concretely at least; but she knew she was one and that with her brown skin and drawling accent she would be treated as one even if she weren’t. Not everyone looked like her, or even all that similar. Some in the clan were way darker still, and others were fair-skinned enough that they could almost pass as geese (their name for the non-gypsies): Manu, the son of their clan leader, their boss, Deniz, had blue eyes; as did her father, Razlan, though Esmi had inherited the light brown eyes of her mother.
The makeup of the clan had changed over the decades, but its soul remained the same that her mother, Sandra, had been born into. There was no name they used for themselves, and none was really needed; what made them a clan was traveling together and following Deniz’ leadership. But he was no crowned and infallible king like the rulers of the geese—they respected Deniz because he was fair, looked after everyone, knew how to keep them alive and came up with solid schemes for how to bring in coin. Were that to change, then his word would mean nothing at all.
A gypsy could only be a boss over others so long as his leadership held concrete utility.
The worst part about being a gypsy, as far as ten-year-old Esmi could tell, was that very few of the geese children wanted to play with her. She and other gypsy kids were not allowed to enter any town or city that belonged to the geese, no matter how much she hoped for exceptions. The gypsy life was a transient one, and the best stability one could hope for was a camp erected near a prosperous town that would be allowed to stand for days, weeks, months, or even years if the geese were feeling generous.
Never forever.
Seeing the disappointment in her daughter’s eyes, Sandra sighed. She could recall feeling this sadness that her Esmeralda was going through, the overwhelming loneliness of being unwanted and rejected by the world... For now, it would only appear as a stupid, arbitrary rule, but in the future she would begin to see the miserable nature of it all. The cruelty and indifference.
They will keep strays and rats and even allow goblins in their city, but never one of us, thought Sandra with indignant fury. She was not sad for herself, because she had snuck into these places and saw that there was really nothing to miss out on anyway. It only left her feeling embittered for the suffering child she used to be, and she hated that her daughter needed to suffer in the same pointless way.
There was nothing to envy the ways of geese.
Worse still, all that sadness and disappointment would disappear eventually, only to be replaced with a gnawing hatred for the geese that would eat at her from the inside out.
Just like her mother, thought Sandra bitterly, and her small teeth took another chunk out of the apple. She crunched it down and watched the comings-and-goings of Froskheim along with her daughter.
“You know it’s mostly drunks in there. Rapists. Murderers. And sewage everywhere.”
Esmi blinked. “Sewage?”
“Shit,” said Sandra. “They can’t go in bushes like we do and bury it, they just do it in a bucket and toss it in the streets.
“Ewww,” drawled her daughter with a grimace, losing some of her enthusiasm.
“Exactly. Ewww. It’s awful in there.”
Given the cheap goodies they brought, the clan had been allowed to park their great family wagons along the city wall and pitch up some tents. Well, with any luck the geese would keep to their word and Esmi would never have to see the horrors that could happen under such trying conditions. Sandra could still smell the fire that woke her and her family up twenty years ago, in the middle of the night, and she still heard the shrieks of the clanmembers that got clobbered to death, their skulls smashed in by the local militia. One of her cousins had been killed then along with five older men, and four girls got raped, one of them even younger than she had been at the time, just a kid.
And why? Because the nearby burghers did not care to have them in the proximity of their town. You stink up the place, the grinning enforces explained as they burned it all down.
If gypsies were anything like orcs or goblins, then those beasts would have been skinned alive for what they did. Sadly, they weren’t. Despite all the hatred of gypsies, at worst they were only petty criminals: thieves, pickpockets, forgers. Like all people that never knew greatness and lived endless misfortune, they found comfort in the gods, and they were a religious bunch, to the point of capriciousness and superstition. While stealing from the rich could be permitted, murder never was, regardless of circumstance—they needed the gods on their side.
It was thought that once innocent hands were stained by blood, then no amount of trying to wash it away could result in true penance. This went against the teachings of the church and every single cult, but they didn’t care. An abhorrence of killing under any circumstances was their way. Beatings, sure, they could be given to anyone—even a baby that was seen as being a little too fussy. But spilling blood? Never.
The gypsy code forbid all bloodshed, be it murder for pay, revenge killings, or even self-defense.
The geese saw no problem with spilling blood, however. And when it came to gypsy blood, they relished spilling as much of it as possible. The only thing that kept their grizzled hands at bay were those greedy, grasping fingers that were always willing to buy whatever cheap stolen goods a gypsy brought in from nearby towns.
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Coin, in the end, was the true god and language of the world.
“Daddy’s coming!” said Esmi, jumping excitedly to her feet. “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”
Sandra could see her husband returning from his hunting trip, and rather unsuccessful by the looks of it. Not that she expected any differently. He was likely to be as good as hunter as he was at playing the kithara, it just so happened that he traded for a bow and not an instrument, thank the gods.
Razlan was both tall and handsome, a blue-eyed beast with quickly evaporating black hair and a robust, strong body endowed with giant hands; but they would have been dead by now if it would have been his duty to provide for the family, no matter how intimidating he looked.
It was not that Razlan was a bad man. But he was only half a gypsy, a bastard that grew up clanless until he married Sandra, and retained an aversion to crime that did not quite work given their way of life. Unfortunately, his other half did not seem particularly able beyond simple handiwork: chopping wood, fixing up wagons, even treating wounds—lovemaking, too. But any real talents were non-existent, and his ideas were all terrible. Keeping him in Deniz’ good graces wasn’t easy.
“Daddy! Daddy!” Esmi repeated, jumping around him.
“Stop that, Esmeralda!” he barked at her, though a grin was spreading up his cheeks. “I swear, girl, you’re going to break your legs jumping around like that.”
Sandra rose to greet him. “The great hunter returns. With trophies, I hope?”
Razlan rushed her and put both hands on her face, then brought her into a deep and tender kiss, as if they hadn’t seen each other in centuries. Even fifteen years after their marriage, he could still be romantic, and Sandra giggled as she kissed him back, wrapping her arms around his bulky neck. “Guess not,” she concluded.
Razlan grabbed her by the ass and squeezed. “Not today,” he said, his positivity always shining through.
“But maybe tomorrow,” she finished up for him.
“Esmeralda, look!” he said, jerking his chin towards the camp. “Adda’s coming out, go play with her.”
No further enticement required. Esmi saw the amber-eyed beauty coming out of her family wagon and ran straight for her.
Adda did not look too happy. She was fifteen, the age at which most kids hated everyone, but was forced to tolerate Esmi since all the other kids of the camp were boys and did not accept the girls playing with them. Sandra knew better than to hold it against Adda: she had been that age once too, and it was natural to look down at another kid, even if it was an age difference of just a few months. It was just the way of children.
At the same time as Esmi reached Adda, Deniz emerged from the gates of the city and strutted back to camp with his usual swagger as if there were an army of men holding chests of gold trailing after him. He was a dark-skinned man of short stature with an immensely fat gut that bounced with his every step. The tapered ends of his oiled mustache drooped far past his mouth, framing the ever-present roguish smile spread across his thin lips.
“He looks like he’s been successful.”
“Let’s hope so,” said Sandra.
When the clan leader finally reached them, he was out of breath. “The hell are you standing there for, Razlan? Didn’t I tell you to fix my wagon?”
“Already did.”
Sandra clicked her tongue. “Stop talking to my husband like he’s your slave. You might be his boss, but I still own him.” That got a chuckle out of the old gypsy. “What happened in there?”
“Not much. They’ll take the goods.”
“All of them?”
Deniz scoffed as if she had just said something outlandish. “Of course! They even complained we didn’t bring more. These bald sons-of-whores have come into real coin apparently. They’re itching to buy whatever they can get their hands on from down south. Hard to raid landlocked realms by sea, heh.”
This summer was good for the clan. First there was a shipment of candles that Deniz heard about, which they had gracefully stolen and made their own. Then there were the bundles of silks robbed in the night by Manu and his friends, right off a ship that was about to take off at first light. And it was Manu, too, that brought in a bagful of priceless jewelry and high-end ikons. If the boy hadn’t been Deniz’ own son, then he would have likely been chosen to lead the clan already with such good work. How he managed so well was anyone’s guess.
“We’re going to eat good this winter,” said Deniz. “Let’s just hope—”
“What?” Sandra noticed he lost his smile and grimaced at some thought. “Something wrong, Boss?”
“Ah, it’s nothing. Inside, they were talking about how there’s been some vampires plaguing the city. At least, so they said.”
Razlan frowned. “Vampires? Here? What would they want here?” Glancing up at the bleak sky offered no answer for this dilemma.
“Anyway, Sandra,” continued Deniz. “I want you to get out some garlic and hang it around camp. Maybe put up some ikons and say a few blessings. Just in case. Tell Manu to give you some holy water, I think we’ve still got a bottle stuffed away from that church we stopped at last month. Then, tomorrow, or the day after, we’ll leave.”
“Leave?” The words nearly knocked the wind out of her. “But, Boss, I thought we were staying here for the winter.”
Deniz pulled a small bottle from his coat and took a hefty swig. “Not gonna happen. They don’t want us here.”
“They want our stolen goods, but they don’t want us,” said Sandra, and she could feel her rage boiling up once more.
Deniz recognized it and put his heavy hand on her head, ignoring her glare. “Calm yourself, little Sandra,” he said, though he was now shorter than she was at this point. “I don’t want to be in this frozen hell anyway. We’ll go back home. Go use that holy water and put out that garlic, will you? I wanna rest easy tonight. Come on, Razlan. Let’s find the others and have a drink.”
“I’ll pass, Boss,” he said.
Deniz rolled his eyes. “One of these days, boy…”
Even in the gypsy world there were those of different standing. There were the gypsy families that had their own wagon, which was really a misnomer since gypsy wagons were nothing like geese ones and were far closer to homes on wheels with beds, dressers, cupboards and other utilities according to taste. It was a mark of pride, passed down from generation to generation, and every gypsy worked hard to maintain his and improve it. The others spent their nights out in the open air no matter how cold it got—a tent was the best they could hope for.
Esmi knew that some of the wagonless gypsies could get disgruntled during the colder seasons, but that hardly explained the behavior of her friend. Adda’s family wagon was even bigger than her own, second only to that of Deniz himself. They had been friends for the better part of her childhood despite the five year age difference between them…
“Wait!” Esmi cried. “I’ll come with you.”
“Where?” snapped Adda. “I’m not going anywhere. Can you please leave me alone?” The fifteen-year-old’s tone sounded forced and much too mature for her age. Unlike Esmi, who wore trousers and oversized boots, Adda only wore a fashionable red dress with a decadent amount of needlework displaying an assortment of brightly colored flowers—Esmi tried to figure out what most of them were, but some didn’t even look real.
An icy wind whined from the direction of the sea and the cold air went up Adda’s loose dress and nipped at her bare skin. “Aren’t you cold?!” Esmi said with real worry. Apart from that thin layer, her friend looked naked underneath.
“Leave me alone already!”
Esmi kept her head low and followed, too stubborn to give up. Maybe she had done something wrong? Maybe she needed to apologize? Whatever it was, she was willing to do it, so long as she could get her friend back. As fun as talking to Deniz could be, she was growing bored of the old man’s antics and the embellished stories he repeated over and over.
There were only bare hills as far as the eye could see, and Adda ran up to the highest one. The crest offered not only an impressive look at the city walls, but a generous view of the pebbled beach further down and the brutally cold northern waters that spread out into nothingness past the horizon.
“Do you think any ships ever sail further north than this?” asked Esmi. She could see ships making their way along the shore all day, to and from the Froskheim, but none of them ever headed out over the ocean.
“I don’t give the slightest shit, Esmeralda. Please crawl into a dark, dank hole, and fucking die. Maybe then you can stop following me like some braindead dog.”
Esmi giggled at all those bad words strewn together and took no offense. “Or I’ll be a ghost, and follow you all the time.”
Getting no reply, she glanced up to see Adda’s face, but the fifteen-year-old paid her no mind. Her arms were crossed as she watched the distant horizon with a deeply displeased expression, almost as if she were impatiently waiting to get an omen from the gods. She was beautiful—beautiful enough with her full lips and bright golden eyes that she could act up without being disciplined by most of the men in camp, whereas even Esmi got a slap on the tush if she misbehaved. Adda never did, though, except from her father.
But those pretty golden eyes used to be bright and happy, and now they were only turbulent, as dead as those pieces of amber with insects in them that her mother collected.
“Adda, are you okay?”
Pulled out of her thoughts by force, Adda glanced down at Esmi as if she were dirt. This time, she appeared too exhausted to even insult her. World-weary, as if she were one breath away from collapsing. “Shut up, will you? Go kick rocks or something.”
And with that, she walked off back to camp, leaving Esmi all by herself.
It would have been nice to have someone her own age to play with. Most boys at her age didn’t even really play anymore—they were already spending most of their time looking for ways to make coin to elevate their station in the clan. Anywhere between ten and twelve, a gypsy boy was ready to start looking out for himself, or so it was believed. The best time to learn to steal was when it would only get you a beating rather than a cut-off hand or an execution. The priests and priestesses were especially lenient on children, regardless of what cult they belonged to.
Before heading back to camp, Esmi spared a glance to the dirt road that wound up the hills from Froskheim and led the way back south to the Black Forest, and past that, Rovina itself.
Home. The word had a strange meaning for her. A gypsy had no home, not really, but coming so far north convinced her that she did. Even if there was no village, no town or city she could call her own back there, Esmi felt she knew with supreme confidence that she could never call these frozen wastes her own. Rovina, bad as it could be, was where her soul belonged.
Once she got back to camp, she found her father sitting down on the stairs of the wagon, carving another small wooden figure. It was of the hearth goddess, Emilia: always a religious man, her father. Sometimes he let her paint the little wooden carvings after they were done.
“Done with playing already?”
“She doesn’t want to play…”
Razlan cocked a brow and sighed. “Not much I can do about that, Esmi. Here, you want to help me with this?”
Looking up, Esmi could see that there were now ropes of garlic hanging from the eaves of their wagon. Of every wagon, actually. The brown eyes squinted curiously. “What are those for?”