When the sun rose, this old, bloated medieval city seemed to be infused with a brief burst of vitality. Amid the repeated bleating of livestock and the clatter of wheels rolling over cobblestones, it began to stir. Sunlight swept over the city's towering walls and towers, illuminated the glinting glass panes of the bell tower, gilded the spires of churches and castles, and finally fell upon the ramshackle, low, chaotic slums, warmly baking the stinking gutters of Trout Lane and Black Street as though it meant to dry out the foulest parts of the city.
Throughout the city, the many gates that had been closed for the night began to creak open. Soldiers in blue-and-white tunics stood arrogantly before the inner-city gate known as the Gate of the Horse Herders, watching the hunched, obsequious residents of the outer districts pass through with their heads bowed, seeking a living in the inner-city markets and the Jesters' Square. Among the flow of people, one could occasionally see absurdly large caravans wobbling down the streets. Gypsy women in brightly colored clothes sat atop their roofs. The soldiers inevitably made things difficult for these caravans, usually by demanding a few coins or taking some harmless liberties with the Gypsy girls. No one said a word about it, because even the beggars in Trout Lane knew that these Gypsies were savage creatures outside civilized society. The fact that their wagons were allowed into the city was already an immense favor bestowed by the regional bishop and the lord. If they had not paid enough protection money, these Gypsies would probably have been hanged outside the city as pawns of black magic before they ever made it through the gates.
Any harassment they suffered in the city was, in fact, part of that "protection money."
Lily