In the depths of the night, John expected the stalls to have been locked up and the vendors to have bedded down. Instead, torches had been ignited, and oil lamps lit and hung. Fairgoers still packed the narrow avenues between the stalls, tents, and wagons. There were fewer children but far more men. The smell of burning oils and strong wine wafted through every other scent on the air. The music that John picked out through the roar of fast bargaining and loud drunken voices was oddly slow. Smoky, sensual melodies curled out from the closed flaps of the tents they passed. Dayyid glanced back over his shoulder at Hann’yu. “I would have thought that you’d have remained sober enough to keep Ushvun Jahn from embarrassing himself in a common brawl.” Hann’yu grinned. A red, alcoholic flush spilled across his nose and cheeks. The strong smell of wine and mead clung to his breath. There was no denying that he had been drinking.
