Magic in Ithkar Read online

  Feeta loosed her grip, caught at my wrist, jerking me back from that touch which had brought us such knowledge.

  “What is it?” I rounded upon her.

  “They are questing—they might learn,” she half spat at me. Never had I seen her so aroused. “Is that not so? Blink your eyes if I speak the truth!” She spoke directly to the creature.

  Lids fell over those green eyes, rested so for a breath as if to make very sure that we would understand, then arose again.

  I heard a swift, deep-drawn breath from Garner where he stood, feet a little apart, as one about to face an enemy charge. Feeta spoke without turning her eyes from the swamp thing.

  “You mind-heard?”

  Garner bared his teeth as Ort might do. “I heard. So these crawlers in the muck would think to so use us!”

  “To plan is not to do.” I did not know from whence those words came to me but I spoke them, before I addressed the swamp dweller.

  “These you serve, do they have a way of setting a watch upon you? Blink in answer!”

  Again, deliberately those eyes closed and reopened.

  “Do they know of our linkage? Blink twice if this is not so.” I waited, cold gathering within me, fearing one answer, but hoping for another. That came—two measured blinks.

  “So . . .” Garner expelled breath in a mighty puff. He dropped a hand on Feeta’s shoulder and drew her to him. The tie between them was so old and deep that I did not wonder he had been able to link with her during that exchange. “Now what do we do?”

  I had one answer, though whether he would accept it or not I could not tell. “To return this would arouse their suspicions, lead them to other plans.”

  He snorted. “Think you that I do not understand that?” He regarded the creature measuringly. Then he made his decision.

  “This one is yours, Kara. Upon you rests the burden.”

  Which, of course, was only fair.

  Garner and the others left me with the self-confessed spy of evil. Only Second-Kin—Ort, the rest of the beasts— remained. They continued to watch the stranger with unrelenting stares.

  We had no cage large enough to accommodate the being, and somehow it did not seem fitting to set a rope loop about its neck, tether it with the four-footed ones. Where was I to keep it? Soon would come time for the night shows, and it should be under cover before our patrons came to look at the animals as was the regular custom.

  Ort answered the problem with action that surprised me greatly. He padded to the baskets of act trappings set along one side of the tent, came back to me, a wadding of cloth in his forepaws. I shook out a cape with a hood, old and worn, which had been used to top and protect the stored “costumes” our teams wore. It was a human garment and the folds appeared adequate to cover the creature.

  Wowern had already taken back his cloak; now I flung this musty-smelling length about the thing’s shoulders, fastened the rusty throat buckle. To my astonishment the creature, as if it were indeed a man and not grotesque beast, used its forepaws to pull the hood up over its misshapen head, well forward so that its ugliness was completely hidden. I could almost believe that I fronted a man—not a monster.

  Ort chirped, one of those sounds my human throat could not equal. Our disguised one swung about, stumping after my seconding, out of the tent and into the shadows beyond. With an exclamation I hurried after.

  Ort apparently had no such thing as escape in mind, nor did the other, who was certainly powerful enough to leave if it wished, deviate from the path shown it. Rather, it squatted down at the end of the row where our mounts were tied, concealed behind the bales of hay now stacked as a back wall. In those shadows the dull gray of the cloak was hidden, one would not have known that anything sheltered there.

  The horses and ponies had stirred uneasily at first, but Ort paced down their line, giving voice to that soothing throat hum which he had used many times over to reassure nervous beasts. They accepted this newcomer because of his championship.

  I hurried to change clothing, catching up some cold food to eat between the doffing of one robe, the donning of another, the fastening of buckles, the setting of sham jewels about my throat, wrists, and in hair strings. Nadi and Erlia were already prepared and on their way to lead forth their teams, but Mai stood before our mirror applying a thicker red to her lips.

  “What do you plan to do?” she asked bluntly. “To carry with us a spy—even though it seems to have no liking for its true master—that is to endanger all of us. Why do you bring this upon us, Kara?” There was no softness in her voice, rather hostility in the eyes that met mine within the mirror.

  “I—I had no choice.” To me that was truth. I had clearly been drawn to the merchant’s booth; once there I had been enspelled. . . . Enspelled? I shivered, the cold was well within me now and I could not rid myself of it.

  “No choice?” She was both scornful and angry. “This is foolishness. Would you say you are englamored by this bestial ugliness out of the dark? Ha, Kara, you cannot expect the rest of us to risk its presence.”

  She swept away and I knew that she gave a truthful warning. Those of the clan would not long accept—even at Garner’s and Feeta’s bidding, if I could depend upon that— this addition to our party. I did not want it, either. I—

  Yet I had paid that silver without a question. Unless . . . Again I shivered and stood very still, my hands clasped tightly on the handle of my team leader’s wand. Unless there was something in me which that robed one had been able to touch, to tame to his or her will, even as I lead my team! If that were so, then what flaw lay inside me that evil could reach out so easily and twist to its own usage? At that moment I knew fear so sharp it made me waver where I stood, throw out a hand to the edge of the mirror table and hold fast, for it seemed that the very earth moved under my feet.

  I heard the thump of drums in the show tent. Habit set me into motion without thought. Nadi was dancing with her long-legged birds now—next I must be ready with my marchers. I staggered a little, still under the touch of that fear. Ort awaited me, his hand drum slung about his thick neck. Behind him, in an ordered row, were Oger, Ossan, Obo, Orn—just as they had been for months and years. Tall all of them, their talons displayed in order to astound the audiences, their bush combs aloft, and their long necks twining back and forth to the beat of the drums.

  Nadi’s music faded. She would be issuing from the other side of our stage. I breathed deeply twice, steadying my nerves—putting out of my mind with determination all except that which was immediately before me—the need to give my part of the show.

  We had finished the first appearance of the evening and Garner was talking to several who wore the shoulder ribbons and house marks of lords, making arrangements for private performances. Those would be steady for us all during the two ten-days we were in Ithkar. However, another stood in the lesser light just at the edge of the torch beams as if waiting his or her turn at bargaining. Enveloped in a cloak, it might well be a woman—and of that I was sure when a hand bearing a ring-bracelet came out of hiding to draw closer the cloak. She made no effort to push forward until Garner had finished and the others were gone. I saw her speak and Garner raise his head, stare across the crowded yard between our tents where fairgoers came to see closer our teammates. He looked at me, nodded, and I could not escape that silent order.

  So I went to join him and the other. Her gem-backed hand touched her hood, pushing it back a little. I saw a face, deeper brown in color—some southern-born lady, I thought. Her features were thin and sharp, with an impatient line between her straight brows. No beauty—but one who was obeyed when it pleased her to give orders.

  “Speak with this one.” Garner was also impatient. “What we know is her doing.” He left abruptly. The lady regarded me as I would a beast unknown—curious, perhaps. However, there was a sting in that survey. I lifted my chin and eyed her as boldly back.

  “You made a purchase.” She spoke abruptly. There was a slurring in her speech
new to me. “It was one not meant for you.”

  “I was asked a price and I paid. The merchant seemed satisfied,” I returned. This might be the answer to our problem. If she wanted the swamp dweller, then let her have him. But I would not strike any bargain until I knew more. At this moment ij seemed to me that I saw between the two of us those wide green eyes.

  “Paugh!” Her lips moved then as if she would spit, as might any common fair drab, highborn though she seemed. “That merchant exceeded his instructions. I have come”—a second hand appeared from beneath her robe, in it a purse weighing heavy by the look—“to buy what is rightfully mine. Where is he?”

  “Safe enough.” I made no move to take that purse. The hand holding it had come fully under the light and on the forefinger I saw the ring—the same smiling face of the merchant’s pendant formed its bezel.

  “Summon him.” She moved a little, almost as if she wanted to be well away from us. “Summon him at once!”

  Had they then learned, these followers of Thotharn, that the swamp creature had betrayed their purpose, and so were eager to reclaim him? What would be his fate at their hands? I knew that Garner would report to the temple all we had learned. These could reclaim the creature, slay it, and deny all. What proof would we have then that they had tried to move so against the peace of Ithkar?

  “I—” Fear I had known, even disgust, when I had made that purchase; still, I would betray no living thing. For the Quintka might not deny refuge to the Second-Kin. Second-Kin—a swamp creature out of the dark land? Yet Ort and the others had made it welcome after their own fashion, and their instincts I trusted.

  “Summon him!” Her order was sharp; she waved the bag back and forth so it gave out a clink of metal. It must be well filled with coin. “I give you four—five times what you paid. He is mine—bring him hither!”

  I heard the guttural throat sound from Ort and looked over my shoulder. My Brother-Kin led a cloaked shape into the open, the swamp creature. Still, Ort lifted his lips a little, showing fangs, and I knew that what he did was not in obedience to such as she who stood with me, nor even to me. He moved for himself—and perhaps another.

  Those who had come to see the animals had passed along—I heard the boom of a gong signaling the second part of our performance and the thud of hooves as the horses moved out into the circular space beyond. We were alone now—the four of us.

  “Ran ...” Her voice was far different from that with which she had addressed me. “Ran, I came as I had promised—freedom!” She swung up the purse to give forth again that clinking.

  I saw a warty paw in the open, tugging at the hood so it fell free upon his broad shoulders. His nightmare face was clear. She bit her lip and could not suppress the shadow of distaste, near of loathing. She is not, the thought flashed into my head, as good an actress as she believes.

  “Take it!” Again she shoved the bag in my direction.

  I put my hands behind my back as the green eyes turned toward me. I could not pick up any clear mind-speech, and I dared not touch him to establish linkage. But somehow I felt again that blaze of red rage—not for me, but for this woman.

  “I will not,” I said firmly. Though I could not find any true reason why—except those eyes.

  “You shall!” She thrust her head forward and her hood fell away, her eyes bored into me. Then I saw her gaze change a fraction; she caught her breath. “No ...” Her voice was a half whisper. “Not that—the blood—”

  I am no voice of the All Mother, I wear no robe of the Three Lordly Ones—I am no shaman of any tribe. Still, there awoke in me then something that I had sensed twice before this day—an ancient knowledge. Nor was that of the Quintka. Partly of their blood I might be—yet who knew what other strain my dead mother had granted me?

  What I did came in that moment as natural as breathing—I brought forth both hands as I took two quick steps toward my monster. He pawed at the buckle of his cloak and that fell away from him, leaving his nightmare body bare. My hands fell to his shoulders, the roughness of his skin was harsh under mine. He had to bend a little from his height. All that filled the world now were his green eyes—and in them was a flashing light of eagerness, of hope reborn, of pain now fading—

  “By the thorn and by the tree,

  By the moon and by the sea,

  By the truth and by the right,

  By the touch and by the sight,

  Let that which is twisted,

  Straightened be.

  That the imprisoned go free!”

  I pressed my lips to the slimy cold of his toad mouth. Fighting revulsion—pushing it utterly from me.

  When I drew back I cried aloud—words that had no meaning, yet were of power—and I felt that power fill me until I could hold no more. My fingers crooked, bit into his odious flesh. I tore with my nails— The skin parted, as might rotted cloth. As cloak so old that nothing was left but tatters, that skin gave to my frantic hands, rent, and fell away.

  No monster, but a man—a true man—as I shredded from him that foul overcovering. I heard a shriek behind me—a keening that arose and arose. Then the man I had freed flung out one arm, to set me behind him, confronting the woman. She had her beringed hand up, held close to her lips, ugly and open, as she mouthed words across the surface of that head-set ring. Frantically she spilled forth spells. His hand shot out, caught hers. He twisted her finger, pulled free the ring, flung it to the ground.

  There was a barking cry from Ort. One of his ponderous hind feet swept between the two at ground level, stamped that circlet into the beaten earth.

  The woman wailed, then spat in truth, before she fled. Where the ring had been pounded there arose a small thread of smoke. Ort leaned forward and spat in turn, full upon the thread, setting it into nothingness.

  “So be it!” A deep voice.

  A well-muscled arm swooped, fingers caught up the cloak, once more twisting it about a bare body, but this time a human body. “So be it.”

  “You are a man—” The power that had filled me vanished as quickly as it had come. I was left with only amazement and a need to understand.

  He nodded. Gone from him was all but the eyes—those were rightly his, marking him even through the foulness of the spell. “I am Ran Den Fur—a fool who went where no man ventured, and by my folly I learned. Now . . .” He gazed about him. I saw the cloak move as he drew a deep breath, as if inhaling new life to rid him of the old. “I shall live again—and perhaps I have put folly behind me.”

  He looked at me with the same intentness as when he had tried to link earlier.

  “I have much to thank you for, lady. We shall have time—now—even in the shadow of Thotharn, we still have time.”

  Qazia and a Ferret-Fetch

  Judith Sampson

  Qazia seldom had a slack moment in her duties as tavern-mistress of the Joyous Goblet, but on this night she took time to gaze about her dark-beamed, torchlit, smoky-cornered tavern, thinking with quiet satisfaction, My family has run this place well for a hundred years. We have better served the pilgrims than the priests in the temple not too far away.

  Caravanners wrestled with the tavern goblet-wenches or brawled among themselves with goad-knives. A sprinkling of omen-rovers hawked love-drafts, juggled gyro-balls, or cast plot-lines from the hands of any who wished to know their fate. The tavern’s beam-dancer collected lovesick stares and ration-silvers in equal amounts, while the man with the trained lixus made it beg for tidbit-coppers.

  Her glance suddenly riveted upon a man seated in an alcove. He reposed with the powerful ease of a skilled warrior, but wore the garb of a song-weaver, resting his battered but well-crafted song-loom in the curve of his left arm.

  As she made her way to the alcove, she saw that his golden eyes had the fixed stare of blindness, and where his skin was unscarred, it was deeply browned. His garments and boots, grayed nondescript by constant travel, almost concealed his refined, durable form that moved like a jessed jerfalcon.

 
Qazia tried to sit noiseless on the bench beside him, but his head tilted in her direction and he swung the song-loom into his lap. In a soft, unruffled voice he asked, “Who sits with Hoel?”

  “Your tavern-mistress. Have a goblet?”

  “My thanks, but excellent as your vintages are, they are not what I wish tonight. I await your pleasure to weave a song.”

  Although certain he had never been in the Joyous Goblet before, Qazia only said, “Now’s fine. I’ll quiet this mob.” Rising to her full height, she set lean, muscular hands on her hips, whistled like a lixus screech, and the uproar ceased. Her blue-black hair and green eyes caught gold torch highlights as she announced:

  “Give ear to song-weaver Hoel!”

  Even the beam-dancer stopped her gyrations as Hoel felt his way to an open space where he could best be heard. Tucking the song-loom under his left arm, he ran his fingers over weft and warp in an opening tonal thread. In the fading hiss of that musical sword-blow, Hoel’s voice burgeoned forth the first set of verses.

  Qazia watched as her tavern crowd savored the adventures of “Ryddeg’s Son,” who escaped the lesser enemies of his house, earned knighthood, and tried to attack the wizard-thane, Chond of Grimkeep.

  But Ryddeg’s son proved easy prey for Chond. Song-loom thread-chords punctuated the air like spellstabs as Hoel chanted of the young knight’s capture, imprisonment, and torture by Chond’s sorcery.

  Caravanners wept into their goblets, and the goblet-wenches joined in. Hoel’s blind face lost some of its mask-calm, darkening as he conveyed the despair of his trapped hero.

  An uneasy rustle of movement among the omen-rovers, coupled with the odd glances they threw at Hoel, brought Qazia out of her enjoyment, but she had no idea why Hoel’s ballad had upset them.

  He let the song-loom sound alone, plucking out isolated harmonies that told plainly of damp darkness, sliding of chains, dwindling of body and soul in endless isolation.