Magic in Ithkar 3 Page 12

  Now the basket-weaver could not decide what to do. Should she shout “Silver-eye” at the first fair-ward who passed and ask that he strip the woman of her mask? And what if she were mistaken? The prospect of seeing the harlequin suffer at Flarrin’s orders was far from appealing. She remained watching as the costumed woman circulated through the crowd.

  When Flarrin turned away, the itching ceased. When she faced the woman, and pictured the brooch, the sensation was maddening. How could she doubt the connection? Yet she hesitated to act.

  The performers continued their show, but Flarrin took little interest. The acrobats used an unfamiliar trained beast in some acts. The small, crouching form would spring up onto one trouper’s shoulders, stand, and leap over to another’s. The manlike creature would then clap its floppy hands, eliciting cheers and shouts from the audience. But Flarrin’s attention kept returning to the harlequin, whose only task seemed to be collecting offerings.

  Again she held out her bit of copper. This time the masked woman paused. “Why have you been watching me?” she demanded in a loud whisper.

  Flarrin stepped back in surprise.

  “What is it you want?” the woman asked again, her voice and manner more refined than her dress and station would indicate.

  “Do you . . .” the basket-weaver managed. “Do you have a husband with a silver eye?”

  Suddenly the harlequin grasped Flarrin’s wrist and pulled her aside from the crowd. The basket-weaver was ready to shout for the fair-wards. But it would hurt nothing to hear what her quarry, had to say.

  “He’s no more my husband than you are,” the masked one protested when they could speak in private. “He was married to another when he made his false vows to me. And now he wishes to hold me to his lies.”

  “Then you . . . don’t want to go back to him,” Flarrin said in a voice of misery.

  “I’m not the whipped dog that crawls back to her master’s bed. . . . No. And I shouldn’t have dared to come anywhere near him. But my profession is healing, and I need ingredients that only can be purchased at Mikan”

  “Healing?” Flarrin’s mouth fell open as she looked again at the costume.

  “My supplier was delayed,” the woman explained. “I had to disguise myself while I waited for him; I was lucky to meet some friends who could help. But tonight, if the Lordly Ones bless me, I’ll find my tardy herb-dealer and be finished here.”

  Flarrin shook her head. “Your hush—” She corrected herself. “The mage told me I have a dowser’s talent. I promised to call the fair-wards if I found you.”

  “How so?”

  “By shouting ‘Silver-eye,’ they would know I was on his business.”

  The harlequin pressed for more details. Flarrin hastily related the story of her plans and subsequent ill fortune.

  “Then betray me if you must,” said the masked woman throatily. “Or earn a friend who can never repay you.”

  “But I’m a prisoner here. Even if I give up the amulet—the one gift I have from my father—I won’t get through the gate. He’s got his wards watching for me.”

  The harlequin smiled. “I think you have other gifts from your father, though you may not be able to hold them in your hand. For one thing, I daresay he was a man of honor.”

  Flarrin nodded and hung her head.

  “I can put you in a costume that will get you past the gate,” said the woman. “I can do more than that. You told me you planned to go downriver. I’ll send a bravo to escort you to Bear River Canal. Wait for me there and I’ll join you at dawn.”

  The basket-weaver stared at the mask and wondered why she trusted this woman. She had trusted Pino, and where had that gotten her? But if she was planning to raise a shout, why were her lips pressed together?

  “Come meet my companions,” said the harlequin with a smile. “My name is Moravid.”

  Jejnon was just closing up his cookstand when she returned. He stared at her curiously but showed no sign of recognition until she spoke. If the acrobat’s costume could fool her friend, then indeed it might get her by the wards.

  “Flarrin, why are you dressed like that?”

  “Better not to ask,” she said. “If the fair-wards question you, just say I ran off and left all my things.”

  “Your baskets . . .”

  “Sell them if you can. As for my belongings . . .” She shook her head sadly. He had a small trunk in his wagon that held her mother’s cooking pots and a few pieces of clothing. “Give them to some poor woman of the village. I can carry nothing.” She embraced the old man quickly, then hurried away before she could say more.

  Moravid’s bravo caught up with her, and they made directly for the main gate. “I’ll collect my sword, miss,” said the rangy warrior. “And a lit torch as well. Then we’ll be off to the canal.”

  Re-armed, and with his brand held high, the bravo strutted toward the fair-wards who flanked the gates. Flarrin attempted to stroll casually behind him.

  “Business must be slow this year,” commented one ward as she approached. “You folks usually stay longer.”

  Flarrin had gone over her story with Moravid but wondered how badly her lips would tremble as she spoke it. “A lord hired me,” she answered softly. “For a private performance.”

  “Private indeed!” the ward said with a leer. “Show us a handspring before you go.” He stepped forward with a grin and blocked her path.

  “Shall I tell Lord Gabensty why I was late?” she countered.

  The ward shrugged and spat in the dirt. “Who needs a skinny doe like you, anyway? Your lord has peculiar tastes to my thinking.” He glowered at her, then stepped aside. She felt all of Ithkar’s eyes burning at her back.

  But there was no challenge as they walked the moonlit path. Flarrin and the bravo reached the canalside dock and resigned themselves to a long night’s wait. “It will help to pass the time,” the warrior said, “if I sing a ballad or two.”

  Just as the sun cast its earliest light on the water, a pair of riders appeared on the path from Ithkar. Still arrayed as a harlequin, Moravid was flanked by a mounted bravo. And while the two approached, as if the moment had been prearranged, a raft slipped silently up to the quay.

  The horses were taken aboard, and the two women followed. While the bravos walked’ back to the fair, the bargemen began to pole the craft along the narrow channel. A mist was rising from the water.

  “I did well last night,” said the healer as soon as they were under way. “I collected all the supplies I needed.” She patted her bulging saddlebags. “My patients will be grateful that I took the risk.”

  Flarrin nodded, yet she did not share her companion’s joy. Though she was heading at last for a new life, a tie with her past had been left behind; she could never retrieve it.

  “Now tell me this,” asked Moravid. “Do you still seek a cure?”

  “My chin has caused me more trouble than you can know.”

  “Do you relish your work with reeds? There’s always need for a basket-weaver, I suppose.”

  Flarrin looked sadly down at her hands. “These are not the nimblest of fingers. But I’ve no other way to live.”

  “Ah, but you do. Join with me. What better partnership than a healer and a dowser?”

  “Do you know what you’re saying?”

  “You’ll have more business than you can handle. Think of all the strayed animals, dropped rings, wandering children . . .”

  “But dowsing almost ruined me, and nearly sent you back to Silver-eye.”

  Moravid peeled off her mask and stared at Flarrin from beneath the peaked eyebrows of her portrait. “Will you remain a basket-weaver after all?”

  Flarrin frowned. All her life, her chin had tormented her. Now that she understood its purpose, could she learn to accept it? “I’ve a rare talent,” she admitted in a low voice, “but one that can harm as well as help. You should be the first to agree that I mustn’t misuse my gift.”

  “Then what will you do?”
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br />   The basketmaker thought again of her village, and of the day she had watched her father carving the birchwood swan. That morning, rough mountain men had approached him with handfuls of coppers. They had asked him to carve a demon’s image to be used in an outlawed rite, and he had refused. And though the swan would bring no food to his family, he had labored over the amulet for an entire afternoon.

  Now the amulet was gone, but her father’s deeds could not be taken from her memory. “I have an answer,” said the former basket-weaver suddenly. “I won’t set myself up as a finder of anything. I’ll use my talent, but only when I’m satisfied the quest is an honest one.”

  “A good principle.” Moravid began to smile.

  Words came unexpectedly to Flarrin’s lips. “Let this be my motto:

  “My name’s Flarrin Red-chin.

  I’ll find anything

  That’s not better off staying hidden.”

  “Well spoken,” said Moravid with a laugh as she clapped her friend on the shoulder. “Then partners we are—healer and dowser. I’m sure we’ll do well together.” Turning, she shouted, “Pole faster, bargemen! An extra five coppers if we reach the road by noon.”

  Covenant

  P. M. Griffin

  The day was gloriously bright with just enough of a breeze that the temperature could not oppress busy people, and Roma rejoiced in its perfection, taking it as a fine omen of good fortune.

  The wagons were halted before the gateway to the great Ithkar Fair while Jespar Mac Jespar, her father, gave over Clan Lorekin’s weapons into the guardians’ care and made the required but in their case unnecessary declarations as to their purpose, the nature of their goods, and the fact that they neither possessed nor had employed any magic to enhance their wares.

  She smiled to herself. That was perfectly true. The birth-right was but another sense, an adjunct to eyes and ears, albeit a most uncommon one and one best left unmentioned for the peace of mind of some of their more insecure patrons.

  As usual, they were not held long with these formalities and proceeded to their usual place, a prime site in the outskirts of the temple precinct amongst those others dealing in small ornamentals and works of art.

  Roma swung to the ground from the high wagon as lightly as if she were a cat.

  “Everything seems in order,” she said to her father, who had not bothered to climb back up beside her after leaving the gate.

  “Aye, lass, though it would be hard for an empty space to be otherwise. See to the animals and start setting up while I take our thank offering up to the temple. It promises to be a good fair,” he added. “Three days before the opening, and look at this crowd already.”

  The woman nodded and turned to obey, but her eyes were like twin spears of ice when she again faced the temple a few minutes later.

  Thank offering! her thought crackled. “Not my portion, Sky Lords. I give no thanks and no offerings to any lying god, not ever again. That is another tax exacted by human greed, nothing more, and most unwillingly do I pay it.”

  The spleen soon left her. The Three Lordly Ones sparked little real feeling within her, although she had turned to them the previous year in her despair. They had always seemed more gods of the intellect to her, if divinities could be so described, than gods of the heart and had never penetrated very deeply into her inner core of believing. She had not even been too keenly disappointed when their promise had proven as false as the Mother’s.

  There was too much work to be done and too much need of haste for the clanhead’s daughter to squander her energies on esoteric ponderings. Ithkar Fair might not officially open for another three days, but many of the merchants were here, and so, too, were many of their patrons. That was particularly the case in this section with its one-of-a-kind items and the play upon human vanity inherent in exclusive ownership.

  The clan worked as a unit to set up their roomy stalls, a task thus soon accomplished, then each member went to his or his family’s assigned place to unpack his own stock.

  Roma’s wares were figures, mostly human, but some animals and mythical beings, too, none larger than a man’s hand. Each was utterly perfect in every detail. Each could truly be called magic, although not in the sense those at the gate used the term. She herself was charmed by them, and her fingers caressed every one lovingly as she set it in its place.

  All of Clan Lorekin’s displays were unique, but hers was exceptional even amongst them. None of the other stalls had anything like so many human representations, just as no one else received nearly as many requests for portrait dolls. All her kin possessed the birthright in full measure, but whereas they, as she, could read the memory for knowledge and detail that their varied arts might reproduce, Roma Ní Jespar alone could delve the heart for its dreams.

  She hummed a snatch of a tune as she carefully lifted out her latest and currently her favorite piece from its packing.

  It was a bard, a young man whose lute rested against his knee while he gazed into a half-filled wineglass, the strangest of smiles playing upon his lips, as if he contemplated some biting satire on the follies of mankind or a softer verse about some one of her sex who sparked his own. Perhaps his song was a mixture of both.

  She touched the lute her uncle had wrought, a tiny marvel whose strings gave off the shadow of a sound if gently brushed, as if music itself could be miniaturized. . . .

  “That is beautiful.”

  She looked up with a start to find one of the fair-wards standing before her. He was not one of those she knew from previous years, but then, some new Men were hired for each fair.

  This one certainly wore the uniform well. He had the body and stance of a warrior and the sternness of feature that was usually the mark of a man long accustomed to tightly ruling himself and, perhaps, others.

  She frowned briefly. There was that in his carriage, too, which suggested that he might not only be able to wield a sword but also to command others who did. Why would such a one choose to put on the brass helm at Ithkar Fair?

  She smiled, however.

  “Which draws you?”

  “All, lady artist, but I was speaking of the tune you were humming. I have not heard its like before.”

  “It’s one of my own making.”

  Pleasure and anger both rose within her, but she was quick to quell the latter. He was not responsible. . . .

  Their eyes met then, and she felt suddenly sick in her heart. She had hoped never to find another who knew this depth of desperation. Experience had taught her well that only pain could fire it, and she knew even as she recognized the surge of empathy rising within her that she could no more relieve it than she could her own.

  It was an effort, but she made herself address him naturally once more.

  “Can I help you, or perhaps one of my kin may?”

  “You. Roma Ní Jespar of Clan Lorekin is famed throughout the fair for her portrait dolls. I would have one of these from you.”

  She looked at him in surprise and with some discomfort. Folk at Ithkar generally knew what lay within their reach. He had a strange accent, however, soft and easy on the ear but one she could not identify. Perhaps he truly did not know. Directness would be her most considerate approach, she decided.

  “You do realize what’s involved?”

  He gave her a smile that was echoed in the stormy eyes. “I have never witnessed the making of the like, but, aye, master crafter, I do read your meaning. I can pay your fee, or believe I can. I did make inquiries before coming to you.”

  “What precisely is it that you want?”

  “A young man, one month less twenty years, gold of hair, eyes blue like to your own, dressed in hunter’s garb and armed with longbow and knife.”

  Roma named a sum.

  He nodded. “Agreed, though from what I see before me, no amount of coin is truly a worthy exchange for your work.”

  His eyes fell, then rose but looked into some demon hole rather than at her.

  “This is a grief gift
for my mother, and if I fail in my errand, it will be the last thing she will receive from me and must thus serve as a remembrance of us both. See that you wrought well, lady artist.”

  By force of will, he caused the dark mood to clear from him. “When can we begin? You will need a description. . . .”

  “Not now. My waxes aren’t prepared. You’re right that I shall require your presence, though. Can your duties be so arranged as to give you the morning free?”

  “Aye.”

  She smiled. “Come at the first true light, then. I shall be ready for you.”

  Roma watched the fair-ward go. “Mother, lift his grief,” she whispered.

  Nay! Never that again! Never would she make less of herself, beg, plead, implore fulfillment of a promise of aid from that one or from any other of her ilk.

  This anger went deep, and she stood still while it flooded her, spirit and heart, mind and body.

  No talent was made for a vacuum, but rather to enrich life, its possessor’s and those of all around her, as the birthright enriched Clan Lorekin and everyone whose lives they touched. She would have been content with that, more than content, but, nay, another gift had been given her as well, a minor one, perhaps, but as much a part of her, as much a need, as this greater power of her hands and mind.

  Songs sprang from her, not from her lips, for her voice was less even than mediocre, or from any instrument, but from herself. They were good, very good, but strange, and no bard to whom she had tried to convey them, the few who would give her any hearing at all, would accept them. She asked no payment, nothing but that they should be granted life and that her name should be put to them.

  A mother seeks weal for the babes of her body, and so did she ache for the acceptance of these offspring of her soul. The longing for that fulfillment, that justification, was terrible in its strength and had been on her since before she had begun to change from child to woman. She had begged, crawled, for that boon, to meet with a singer who would accept even part, the smallest part, of what she hungered to give, until her heart was empty of hope and of all trust and respect for those upon whom she had been raised to rely in spirit.