“What are the barrels for, if you have the aqueducts?”
“Fire,” Brangien said. “There are bells on every street. If they ring, everyone runs out and commands their assigned barrels.”
A fire would eat up this hill with terrifying speed. Many of the buildings were stone, but they were mingled with enough wooden structures that it would be devastating and deadly.
“Mind the little shit,” Brangien said.
Guinevere looked at her, shocked. Brangien laughed, covering her mouth in embarrassment. “Oh, I am sorry, my lady. That is his title.” She pointed to a scrappy boy pulling a cart straight up the hill. “He collects the night’s chamber pot offerings and disposes of them out beyond the lake. In Uther’s day, these streets ran with piss and offal. Actually, they called this Pissway. Arthur imposed fines for dumping into the streets. He uses the money to pay the little shits. Now the streets are clean, but the old names are harder to wash away. Some have started calling Pissway the Castle Way, which is nicer. And the merchants on Shitstreet have been campaigning vigorously for people to call it Market Street. But it is so much less satisfying to say.”
Guinevere laughed. She could not help it. Perhaps a princess would not have found this funny, but she certainly did. She had never thought through the sheer logistics of this many people in a small space. Nor had she ever considered that a king would have to figure out how to deal with the chamber pots of a thousand citizens. In her head, it had been all swords and battles and glory and magic.
A city was its own kind of magic, though. Complicated and filled with ever-moving parts. Arthur was responsible for all of them. Guinevere was already overwhelmed with the city, and they had barely come across any people. It was wonderful and terrible and new.
Perhaps Merlin should have spent more time taking her into cities than giving her knot magic.
Brangien pointed out various shops. Most of the buildings had residences on the upper floors and a shop on the bottom. Smithies were all on the plain beyond the lake, along with slaughterhouses and anything else that either could not fit in the limited space of Camelot’s slopes or was too offensively scented to intermingle with homes.
“Every third day, one of which is tomorrow,” Brangien said, “we have a market beyond the lake. People come from all the hamlets and villages to trade and buy. Special markets happen every new moon. That is when you can find more unusual things. Spices. Silk, sometimes! My father and uncle were silk traders. They walked across the world to get here, hiding their wares the whole way by taking turns in the cart pretending to have the plague.” She looked both sad and fond. “My father bought a better life for himself. My family was well-to-do and respected thanks to him. That is how I got a position as Isolde’s lady’s maid.” Forcibly breaking free from the past—though Guinevere wanted to hear more—Brangien continued. “Special markets also have horses and weapons and food and shoes and anything you can imagine. Traders come from all over. King Arthur’s fees are fair, and everyone knows they will be safe in his borders. Last time, there was a juggler, and acrobats. I cannot wait to show you.”
“It sounds wonderful.” It sounded chaotic. And like the perfect place for a magical attack against Arthur. The more she walked through Camelot, the more she saw how inhospitable it would be to the Dark Queen’s fairies and minions. All these people, this ancient, sleeping stone, the metal on doors and windows. What threat had Merlin seen coming? Why could he not have been more specific? The Dark Queen was dead and defeated, but her type of magic—wild and devouring—lived on. Guinevere had seen it herself on the way here.
“Is there anything you need today?” Brangien asked. “Most things we will have to get at the markets, but some of the shops might have a ready supply.”
“No, thank you. I cannot think of anything I lack.” Nothing that any of the shops would sell, anyhow. Though she would have to go through her box of jewels. Certain stones held magic in special ways. And no one would look askance at a king wearing jewels.
It would be her next task. For now, they were midway through the city. The shape of the slope evened out here before dropping again dramatically closer to the lake. It was the flattest ground they had been on. Guinevere heard shouting and whirled, alarmed.
“Oh!” Brangien said. “I can show you something truly exciting.” Brangien turned down a side street and they came to a round building. It was the largest Guinevere had seen besides the castle.
“This is newer than the castle, but still old. Before Uther Pendragon. He built nothing.” Brangien led her through a dark stone arch and into the brilliant sunlight.
It was not a building, exactly. There was no roof. The walls encompassed a flat, dirt-packed circle. Several levels of seats were built into the walls. Those seats were nearly all filled, and they held the source of the roaring shouts. Around the circle, various rings had been set up, marked by chalk in the dirt. Weapons lined the walls. And within the rings, men battled.
“Come on, there is a special box. I have never been able to sit in it before!” Brangien pulled her swiftly past the steps and benches. They climbed to the top of the wall, nodded at a guard there, and entered a wooden structure. It was built out so that when they reached the open front, they were suspended above the fighters. Between the cushion-covered benches and the roof above to provide shade, they were the most comfortable people in the arena.
Certainly more comfortable than the men beneath them. The warriors pounded and hacked at each other. Their thick leather armor, sewn with metal plates over the most vulnerable areas, absorbed the blows. But Guinevere screamed and covered her mouth as a man near them took a brutal hit.
“The swords are blunted,” Brangien said, patting her hand. “There are still injuries—sometimes terrible—but no one has died.”
“What are they doing it for?” There were more than a dozen men down there, performing war like a minstrel performed songs. Guinevere’s heart raced. It was terrible, and exciting, and she did not understand the purpose of it.
“Training, some of them. See, there are Sir Tristan and Sir Caradoc. Sir Bors is directing the fights.” Brangien deftly identified each man, though to Guinevere they all looked the same: like helmeted, armored death.
“Is Mordred down there as well?”
“Oh, no. He never fights. He thinks much too highly of himself to train with his brother knights, even though King Arthur often joins them.”
“And who is—”
Brangien gasped, clutching Guinevere’s hand. “He is here!”
“Who?”
Brangien pointed to a new knight who had entered the ring. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and he wore a leather mask that obscured his entire face. His armor was unusual, too, a jumble of metals of different colors. The variety made it look less like armor he wore and more like it was a natural part of him.