Silk Dreams - Songs of the North 3 by Mia Marlowe Read Free Book Online Page B

where the dust-choked air nearly blocked the patrons' view of what was happening in the grand oval. Even the upper ring of well-heeled watchers took up the echoing cry. The crowd was weary of the preliminaries. They demanded the main event.
    From the far end of the arena, four chariots burst into the harsh glare of the afternoon sun. The horses, four to a team, were caparisoned in garish-hued silk with plumes bobbing from headpieces. The drivers wore matching silk cloaks that billowed out like banners as they circuited the oval, drinking in the crowd's admiration. After one complete circle, the racers skidded to a stop before the emperor's box to make their obeisance to the Ruler of the World. Hostlers stripped the showy finery from the horses, leaving the animals dancing in their traces. The drivers divested themselves of their cloaks and shining breastplates. The men leaped up onto the chariots, oiled skin gleaming, clad in naught but a strip of silk about their loins in the colors of emerald, sapphire, ivory and jet.
    “Every guild and faction in the city backs one team or another,” Erik explained. “Rivalry is as intense on the field as in the marketplace. Unlike the North, where a man puts his hand to whatever pleases him, the trades are closely regulated here. A linen merchant may not sell wool. A silversmith can lose a hand for working in gold. It's difficult for a man of trade to better himself unless he rises in his guild to a position of leadership. And even so, a cotton-monger will never rise above a silk trader.”
    “What does that have to do with a chariot race?” Valdis asked as the teams lined up, tensed to start.
    “This oval is the most level playing field in the Empire. A man may never best his more fortunate rival in the market, but his chariot team may upset even the emperor's chosen Greens,” Erik explained. “A street sweeper will walk with a swagger in his step for a week if his team runs well.”
    “That's ridiculous,” Valdis said.
    “Since when are people not ridiculous?” Erik asked. “I'm not trying to explain why to you. I'm just telling you what is, whether it makes any sense or not. Bear in mind, the Greeks think we are just as odd as we find them. I suspect we probably are.”
    The horns suddenly brayed and the crowd roared. The horses leaped to a gallop, pounding around the oval, the great muscles in their haunches bunching and flattening. With reins lashed to their powerful forearms, the drivers strained to direct their teams in the correct path. The ivory team took the second turn too sharply and the chariot slid around the end of the
spina
on one whirring wheel.
    Valdis watched with a thundering heart, totally caught up in the excitement. The golden spokes of the chariots blurred and sent flashes of light with each rotation. A tingle crept up her spine and the little dog in her arms grew restive, squirming to be released. She set the animal on the ground and turned her attention back to the arena, where the race was still hotly contested.
    Horses plunged, sixteen abreast, around the broad oval, fighting for supremacy on the ever tightening turns. One team edged ahead of the others.
    She tracked the Green leader, her gaze drawn to the rhythmic pulses of sunlight flashing from the gilded chariot wheels. Her whole being throbbed in concert with the repetitive glimmer. Darkness gathered at the edge of her vision, a tunnel yawned before her and she found it difficult to draw breath.
    The little dog was yipping, tugging at her hem, demanding her attention. His frantic barks held a warning tone.
    “Gods, no,” she mouthed, but no sound came.
    The glittering undulations intensified and she stood rigid as the Raven of Darkness blotted out her sky. Its talons sank deep into her brainpan with a raucous shriek, rending her from soul to spirit, and she fell into the blackness of her curse.

 
    “An unguarded word will disclose more of what a man thinks than the planned speech of a