Carnival Row blazed with the light of hundreds of lucifierite lamps. Frosted glass gave each lamp a different color, covering the entire spectrum. The result was a shifting auroral glow that seemed to creep up the ancient stone walls, dilapidated tenement buildings, and decaying factories. The riot of color was further enhanced by by thousands of pieces of silk bunting, cheaply dyed, and secured to windows, lamp posts and the improvised cross walks which linked buildings above street level. The silk caught the fey light and reflected it in bright flickering patterns which changed with a breeze that had more to do with the breath and body heat of thousands of humans than with any natural weather pattern.

Nor did the row stint in it’s assault on the other senses. Hawkers cried their wears, offering every trinket and goo-gaw imaginable. Jade beads from Coramandle, brass kaleidoscopes from Pradesh,  brightly colored parrots from the jungles of Nankai, great feathered head dresses that were rumored to come from Nova Tirche, beaver fur hats which traders brought back by the hundred for a few metal pots and iron tools from the arctic wastes, the skulls of the beasts of the deep, ranging from the size of a thumb nail to that of a plow horse. Food sizzled in iron or clay pots above barrels that blazed green white with cheap lucifierite, rice, noodles, pasta, fried fish, cuts of venison, pork and less identifiable meats. Flat bread was shoveled from great kilns on Gun Street, where the factories had made cannons back before the New Armory was set up on the Commons. A ha’p’ney a pound, it was the universal wrapping paper and plate for every imaginable dish. Spices and curries from the East twisted the nose, as did the rich savor sources from Tarlia and the cardamon and garlic heavy scents of the east. Newer stores using sugar from the fledgling colonies in Nova Tirche and the Antribian Sea, produced candies and confections that could make the mouth water and rot the teeth right out of your head. Carmel apples hung on huge strings like Holiday Garland, each died a different color depending on its maker or its flavor.


And that was before you even reached the Carnival proper. The dour men who sycophantically served the Tyrant were all but apoplectic at the existence of the Carnival and it formed a regular topic of both fire and brimstone preaching and thunderous polemics in the House of Assembly. It was said that every kind of wickedness imaginable could be found at the Carnival: Bear baiting, bare knuckle boxing, prostitution, gambling, knife fighting, cock fighting, slight of hand, Eastern Fakiry, dancing, profiteering, smuggling, murder, alchemy, and that most abhorrent of institutions, the theatre. There were also quite a few types of wickedness that were unimaginable, if the truth were told, things that might carry off a minister or a parliamentarian in a stroke of apoplexy to even contemplate. All packed into a warren of a dozen streets, squares, and ancient rookeries at the core of the greatest city on earth. A Sodom in the eye of Heaven as one preacher had put it. There had, of course, been attempts to suppress the carnival but the populace of the city, hard pressed by the taxes and upheavals of the civil war, would only tolerate so much. One attempt to close the carnival down had lead to a running battle in which the Rammers had found themselves pummeled with chamberpots, ceiling tiles, and paving stones, in such a storm that they had been forced to retreat, an event immortalized in the public imagination as the Battle of Bean Street. Even attempts to use the army had proven unrewarding, as moving against the outer shell of hawkers, food vendors, and punters gave the more criminal elements plenty of warning to scatter down the back alleys, garrets, and sewers which served the city as unofficial thoroughfares and hide aways. Suppressing the Carnival permanently was impossible and so the great and the good held their noses and more or less left it alone. 


Emmarelda was at home as she moved through the crowd. To the extent they could the crowd let her pass. Her brightly colored vest and long skirt, as well as the red, white and gold bandana that held the curled mass of her dark hair in place, identified her as a gypsy, one of the semi-nomadic people who had, days passed wandered the forests of Alamani and Western Tirche before migrating to this island. They were a clannish lot, who held themselves to be a different people from the Tirche, Alamanni, and Tarlians, though it was true they had some traits of all three. In their own traditions they hailed from Northern Basalia where their forefathers had lost a great battle to the ancestors of the Basalian Empire. A senator of that proud people had offered them a choice, keep their land and adopt the culture of the Empire or live in permanent exile. The Gypsy had packed what few belongings they could onto wagons, set their great cities to the torch, and vanished into the wilderness. At least that was how the story went. Emmerelda had her doubts, her people were nothing if not liars and embellishers of tales, but as origin stories went it was pretty good. The fact that people made way for her did not mean she did not attract attention. She was a beautiful woman with a soft heart shaped face and large green eyes that were slightly emphasised with kohl. Her figure much fuller than was the custom of women in this land, who seemed to go for a trim waifishness. Her bosom and hips were generous and separated by a narrow but not waspish waist that gave her an hourglass figure, with a slight bias towards the lower glass. Her limbs were thin and graceful despite her fondness for food and drink and her skin was beautifully smooth and clear, free of the pock marks which afflicted so many in this land. She curved her full lips into a smile as she slapped the hand of an urchin who tried to lift her purse. Older thieves knew better than to trouble a gypsy, not because of their rumored ability to lay curses, but because of the fact that they tended to be well supplied with brothers and cousins who would quickly make the life of any would-be thief unpleasant.


The Three Sisters was one of the semi-permenant structures of Carnival. It was an old cannery whose facade had long ago collapsed. A dozen Gypsy wagons had been drawn up in front of it and attached first via cloth, and later by timber and brightly painted canvas. Emmarelda doubted any of those old wagons, elaborately carved and liberally splashed with bright paint, had moved in her lifetime. They formed channels where patrons seeking various services and entertainments could visit. The central one was bright red and heart shaped, its inviting doors leading back through a canvas corridor to a bordello, to its side was a circular one painted like the night sky, which would take a punter to the room of the astrologers. Emmarelda entered an hour glass shaped wagon and moved back, passing a pair of bouncers who sat smoking and playing dice just inside. One of them grunted a greeting, the other reached up to try to grope her, and she slapped his hand away with the same motion, but considerably more force, than she had used on the pick pockets. He drew back with a yelp and sulked. The canvas hallway that lead back to the cannery was painted with arcane symbols. At various points luciferite lanterns had been set behind the fabric to make certain symbols glow as though empowered with mystical energy. The burning fluid smelled dry and astringent, like incense but with a slight sharp report of the deep sea.

“There you are Emma,” Zargela snapped as Emmerelda stepped out of the hallway and into a large room with a central table dominated by a large crystal ball and draped with dark blue silk. Arcane paraphernalia lay scattered around on shelves and on tables, carefully illuminated to deepen the mystery. Books and chests were stacked against the walls, almost all props and mummery. There were genuine items of arcane significance among the Gypsy but the were not fool enough to put them on public display. The dominating item of the room was an immense leviathan skull. It hung above, its jaws yawning a full twenty feet to display hundreds of dagger like teeth. Dozens of candles had been affixed to the top of the jaw and occasionally dripped gobs of hot wax down in a very slow rain, leaving a slightly shiny circle on the old wooden floor.

“Here I am,” Emmerelda agreed as she stepped quickly through the danger zone of falling wax and took her place at the center of the table. Zargela glowered at her. She was older than Emmerelda and less fair, her nose hooked and her eyes slightly sunken. Zargela resented Emmarelda because of her superior mystical talents, and the fact that her family stood higher in the complex social structures that governed Gypsy life. Also Emmarelda had slept with her lover once after a long night of heavy drinking.

“You were almost late,” Zargela scolded, looking peevish.

“What a strange way of saying ‘on time’ Zargela,” Emmaline observed, enjoying the way the other woman seethed. Vadoma, another girl slightly younger than Emmerelda, snickered at that but quited quickly at Zargela’s glare. Emmerelda took her seat at the center of the table and her fellow fortune tellers took their flanking positions.

“Shall we meet our first mark? Emmerelda asked with a chuckle.