brought the boy among the crowds of fairegoers.
Walking the fairegrounds was not as bad for Ven as walking the road. The aisles
between the booths were packed with people and everyone was busy—buying and
selling, gaming and drinking. Even with his peculiar gait, he remained
relatively unnoticed. Occasionally someone would stop to stare or make a crude
jest, but, for the most part, people were having too much fun to pay attention
to a crippled child.
As long as Ven did not stray from the fairegrounds and he returned to their
tent by the noon meal to report his success to Bellona, he was free to do as he
pleased. By midday of the first morning, he had made the circuit of the faire
twice, spoken to all their old customers, and taken stock of the new. His work
was done and only half the morning gone. The remainder of the time was his own.
Ven wandered aimlessly, taking in the sights. He paused, enthralled, to
watch a fellow clad in motley (that had seen better days) dance nimbly upon a
rope strung between two trees. He laughed uproariously to see poor Punch being
hounded by his tyrannical wife. He admired the jugglers, but passed by the
minstrels without interest, wondering what people saw in them. To his ears, the
screeching and scrawling and howling was bone-jarring, tooth-grating.
The booths that sold sweetmeats held no interest for him, though the other
children thronged to them. He had no taste for sugared almonds or pastries
sticky with honey. The smell of fresh meat drew his attention, led him to a
fire pit where men were roasting a whole pig on a spit. He sniffed the air
hungrily and looked at the sun to confirm what his growling gut told him— time
to return to the tent for the midday meal.
He loped toward the edge of the faireground, taking his time, for Bellona
would be busy with customers and he’d likely have to wait for his supper
anyway. Passing by the bull-baiting arena, he saw no harm in joining the boys
and men gathered to watch the savage sport.
Inside the arena stood a bull, shaking his horns and snuffling and pawing at
the ground, his beady eyes keeping wary watch on a small, squat dog with an
ugly face, whose metal-studded collar was held fast in the grip of a man on the
far side of the arena. Another man gave a shout and the dog’s owner let loose
the animal. The dog charged across the arena, leaped at the bull, and sank its
sharp teeth into the fleshy part of the bull’s nose.
Roaring in pain, the bull flipped his head back and forth, trying to free
himself of the dog. Though the bulldog was being battered and shaken, it held
on grimly. Blood spurted from the bull’s nose, spattering the spectators, who
yelled in glee and made bets on how long the dog could maintain its grip before
the bull sent it flying.
Ven reached the fence that surrounded the ring just as the bull managed to
fling off the dog, which landed heavily on its side and lay still a moment,
before shaking its head and staggering to its feet. The dog was slathered in
blood. Its owner retrieved it, collected his wagers. The wounded bull was
deemed fit enough to carry on. Another man with another dog took his place at
the end of the arena. Ven climbed onto the bottom rung of the fence, peered
over the railing.
At the signal, the man loosed the second dog. The animal charged at the
bull, then skidded to a halt. Something else had attracted its notice. The dog’s
owner cursed, urging the dog toward the bull. The dog ignored him. Sniffing the
air, the bulldog turned its head and saw Ven. The dog ran straight for him, its
teeth bared.
Ven had no time to react. The dog was on him in seconds, growling and
snarling. The dog seized hold of Yen’s boot and ripped it off his clawed foot.
Grappling with the dog, Ven lost his balance, and tumbled backward off the
fence. The dog dropped the boot and returned to the attack, tearing at Yen’s
woolen leggings and ripping the fabric, trying to sink its sharp teeth into Yen’s
scale-covered