a woman’s face outlined in white with full lips and pronounced cheeks, an echo of the ceremonial headdresses the eunuch-priests of Etesia wore for ceremonies - but when the wind caught the cloak, he recognised the diamond-pattern patchwork: it was remarkably similar to that of a Harlequin.
That’s a bad omen, Corl thought as he approached the wagon.
‘Beasts!’ the Wanton Woman bellowed, to roars of approval from the screaming rabble. ‘More beasts for my wagon!’
Laughing, Orolay and Isen grabbed at the traces of the wagon, shoving aside a couple of the more hopelessly drunk, who left without complaint, having spied the barrel of beer nearby.
‘Drink, you harlot!’ Corl shouted back at the Wanton Woman, ‘you need a man riding up here!’ Without waiting for a reply Corl hauled himself up to stand beside her and offered her the jar of wine. As the crowd behind booed at his impertinence, the Wanton Woman regarded him a moment, then reached forward and grabbed him by the crotch. Corl yelped as she squeezed a shade harder than necessary, but the gesture won the crowd’s approval and their booing turned to a swell of cheering and vulgar suggestions.
‘You’ll do!’ the Wanton Woman announced, releasing Corl and taking a swig of the wine he’d offered. She leaned closer and Corl realised the mask had a dark hood attached to it, hiding the fact her hair was cut so short underneath it - he had more on his chin. Her breath swept sweet and hot across his face. ‘You’ll get your lift, but no ride less it’s from one o’ those in the back, hear me?’
Corl nodded and she gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. Her strength took him by surprise and the gesture nearly knocked him off the driver’s seat, but she only laughed and yelled for her beasts to march on.
‘And keep an eye on the fat one,’ she muttered as she continued to wave and blow kisses at onlookers, ‘he likes ta get rough - he does it again, I’ll cut his bloody nuts off.’
Corl looked behind him at the half-dozen men and woman in the back of the wagon. They all appeared to be enjoying themselves; one entirely naked woman was riding a gasping bean-pole of a youth, her elbows on his shoulders and his head pressed against her breasts. At the back was one far fatter than the rest. He was shirtless, with his belly hanging out; he and another man were fondling a beautiful woman dressed like a dancing girl.
He faced the front again, took the wine back from the driver and drank, long and slow, enjoying the sensation of the liquid slipping down his throat - until the driver grabbed it back. He looked around. Behind him, the fat man had unbuttoned the dancing girl’s blouse to expose her beautifully rounded breasts. In front of him Isen and Orolay looked perfectly happy straining away at the traces.
He hopped into the back, shoved the fat man off the back of the wagon with his boot and bent over the dancing girl. He let the shawl drop from his face, trusting to darkness and drink that she’d not recognise the marks on his face, and kissed her, long and hard. She wrapped her arms around his head and the other man got the message and shifted to the side, joining the naked woman and her youth. The journey to Stock’s Circle was short, but deliciously sweet.
When they arrived Corl took his time saying his goodbyes. Stock’s Circle was still full of people, doubtless waiting for the Wanton Woman to arrive and signal the culmination of the night’s fun. He felt the press of voices and movement all around, mingling with the salty taste of the dancing girl’s sweat and the heat of her body.
Their destination had once been a place of punishment, but the pit at the centre of the crossroads had been converted for entertainment decades ago. Now steps led down into the pit, and when fruit was thrown it was only a commentary on the performance. On the eastern edge was a half-moon gallery a hundred yards long, occupied by taverns and eateries, and a renowned glassblower’s workshop. With food, drink and entertainment all close at hand, the Circle had become the natural heart of entertainment in this part of the city.
Midsummer’s Day was a festival for the common folk, one of the few sanctioned by every cult that mattered, and a Harlequin was guaranteed to be here,