Fiona stands on the
balcony, overlooking the Market of Fictions. Beside her, the author
holds a large quill, made from the feather of some bright exotic
bird.
“See here, below us,”
he says as he twirls the plume around his chin, “These two stalls
to the sides of that white dome.”
Looking down, Fiona
sees the white dome in question. It's not too large, maybe a couple
of feet in diamater, with ornate silver handles on either side.
Flanking it on both sides are two stalls: the one to the left draped
in red and silver, to the right green and gold.
“The vendor to the
left is named Eurymedes,” the Author tells her, “A Greek veteran
of the Trojan war. He would have you believe he's a veteran of a
great campaign, a just war. Yet the truth is so much harsher. He
was little more than an opportunist mercenary, signed up for
Agamemnon's crusade with little more than the spoils in mind.”
