When I hesitated, he moved over to a pallet of blankets made up near the fire and patted it invitingly. “See. There’s a place here for you, all ready. And there’s bread and meat on the table for both of you.”
His words made me aware of the covered platter on the table. Flesh, Nosy’s senses confirmed, and I was suddenly full of the smell of the meat. Burrich laughed at our rush to the table and silently approved how I shared a portion out to Nosy before filling my own jaws. We ate to repletion, for Burrich had not underestimated how hungry a pup and a boy would be after the day’s misadventures. And then, despite our long nap earlier; the blankets so close to the fire were suddenly immensely inviting. Bellies full, we curled up with the flames baking our backs and slept.
When we awoke the next day, the sun was well risen and Burrich already gone. Nosy and I ate the heel of last night’s loaf and gnawed the leftover bones clean before we descended from Burrich’s quarters. No one challenged us or appeared to take any notice of us.
Outside, another day of chaos and revelry had begun. The keep was, if anything, more swollen with people. Their passage stirred the dust and their mixing voices were an overlay to the shushing of the wind and the more distant muttering of the waves. Nosy drank it all in, every scent, every sight, every sound. The doubled sensory impact dizzied me. As I walked I gathered from snatches of conversation that our arrival had coincided with some spring rite of merriment and gathering. Chivalry’s abdication was still the main topic, but it did not prevent the puppet shows and jugglers from making every corner a stage for their antics. At least one puppet show had already incorporated Chivalry’s fall from grace into its bawdy comedy, and I stood anonymous in the crowd and puzzled over dialogue about sowing the neighbor’s fields that had the adults roaring with laughter.
But very soon the crowds and the noise became oppressive to both of us; and I let Nosy know I wished to escape it all. We left the keep, passing out of the thick-walled gate past guards intent upon flirting with the merrymakers as they came and went. One more boy and dog leaving on the heels of a fishmongering family were nothing to notice. And with no better distraction in sight, we followed the family as they wound their way down the streets away from the keep and toward the town of Buckkeep. We dropped farther and farther behind them as new scents demanded that Nosy investigate and then urinate at every corner, until it was just he and I wandering in the city.
Buckkeep then was a windy, raw place. The streets were steep and crooked, with paving stones that rocked and shifted out of place under the weight of passing carts. The wind blasted my inland nostrils with the scent of beached kelp and fish guts, while the keening of the gulls and seabirds was an eerie melody above the rhythmic shushing of the waves. The town clings to the rocky black cliffs much like limpets and barnacles cling to the pilings and quays that venture out into the bay. The houses were of stone and wood, with the more elaborate wooden ones built higher up the rocky face and cut more deeply into it.
Buckkeep Town was relatively quiet compared with the festivity and crowds up in the keep. Neither of us had the sense or experience to know the waterfront town was not the best place for a six-year-old and a puppy to wander. Nosy and I explored eagerly, sniffing our way down Bakers’ Street and through a near-deserted market and then along the warehouses and boat sheds that were the lowest level of the town. Here the water was close, and we walked on wooden piers as often as we did sand and stone. Business here was going on as usual with little allowance for the carnival atmosphere up in the keep. Ships must dock and unload as the rising and falling of the tides allow, and those who fish for a living must follow the schedules of the finned creatures, not those of men.