Magic in Ithkar 3 Read online

  There wasn’t much he could do for Renilda, pity her though he might. He knew she wouldn’t live long, but at least he could try to make her dying as comfortable as possible.

  Later when he inquired after her, the healer told him that when she had been washed and fed and cared for, she had smiled and died.

  “It happens that way sometimes,” the healer said. “They need only a kind word or deed to release them.”

  Tamm offered to pay the man, but he waved the coppers aside.

  “No need. I performed no service, so I merit no pay.” “Then you have my thanks,” Tamm said.

  “That will suffice.”

  Tamm closed his tent to customers. Using all his skill, he made two tin cups, one slightly smaller than the other. He worked hard, smoothing them until they were perfectly shaped.

  When he finished, he put the cups into his doublet and went in search of Mordecai. He found him at his usual place in front of the Blue Lily, drinking his evening bowl of soup.

  “I see you still have your mouse companion,” Tamm said as he sat down on the bench. “How do you get it to stay with you?”

  “It is very simple. I merely ask, politely, if I may borrow their sight for a while. Usually, they agree. If not, then I wait for another. This small mouse and I have had a delightful few days together.”

  Tamm placed his hand on Mordecai’s arm. He cleared his throat. “Master, I have Renilda’s tears. And—and I think I know a way to repair your sight,” he said.

  The old man nodded his head. “I never doubted. Come, let’s go to my home.” Unhurriedly he set the mouse on the ground, gave it a morsel of bread, and stood up. “Tell me of Renilda as we walk. How does she fare these days?”

  * * *

  As before, Mordecai lit his lamp and got the carved box. He opened it and offered it to Tamm.

  “I need something to work on, master. A slab of stone, perhaps, or a piece of oiled paper.”

  “Ah, yes. Of course.” The old man got up and returned in a few minutes with a piece of slate. “Will this do? I got it from a stonemason who said it was spoiled for his use. I find it useful on a chunk of wood, beside my pallet.”

  “It is perfect,” Tamm said.

  “Could you use a mortar and pestle?”

  Tamm caught his breath. Mordecai had told him he felt, as well as saw, through the cups. “Can you bear the pain, master?” he asked, knowing as he reworked the clay a corresponding echo would resonate to the seer.

  “I’ve felt dead; the zest for life has dimmed without my spirit eyes. I’ll welcome the pain for what will come after.” Mordecai got up again and fetched the utensils, carefully wiping away any traces of what had been pulverized there previously. Tamm sniffed; it smelled faintly of herbs, a pleasant scent.

  Carefully, Tamm emptied the bits of clay from the box, making sure to shake out even the smallest particles. It seemed the clay was even drier and deader than it had been when he first saw it. He began pressing them in the mortar as gently as he could. Mordecai winced occasionally, and his face grew pale, but he made no outcry or protest even when Tamm had to crush the larger shards.

  “I’ve finished with this part,” he said. “Now for the tears.”

  Tamm unstoppered the small vial and poured the contents into the mortar, mixing clay and tears. He was surprised how quickly the mixture became soft and workable. He turned the clay out onto the slate piece. He looked at his master; Mordecai was smiling.

  “It’s cool,” he said. He slid his fingertips under the rag veil he always wore covering his eyes.

  Tamm smiled. He continued working, with more confidence now that he was not causing his master such great pain.

  He kneaded the clay briefly, then divided it into two equal lumps. Taking the two tin cups from his doublet, he set them on the table. He began to press one lump of clay into the larger tin, smoothing it carefully over the entire interior of the mold. When it was spread to his satisfaction, he put the smaller tin into the clay-lined mold and pressed them firmly together.

  He could feel the small irregularities in the earthy substance smoothing out under the pressure he was applying. Cautiously, he jiggled the smaller tin, fearful of tearing the clay if he tried to remove it. But it came away cleanly. He turned over the larger half of the mold, and the newly formed cup dropped out into his hand.

  Trembling a little, he molded the other half the same way and dropped the second cup out of the mold.

  “I—I feared it wouldn’t work this well,” Tamm said.

  “This is no ordinary clay,” replied Mordecai. “Now, let us try my new eyes, and see how well you have done.”

  Tamm carefully scored the cups and fastened them together with a piece of deerhide rope. They accepted the linkage eagerly, it seemed to him. He handed the precious cups to Mordecai, and the old man placed his eyes on the slate in front of him. The seer caressed them, running his fingers over their smooth perfection. He adjusted the deerskin cord until the cups were placed precisely to his liking. Then he bent his head and began concentrating.

  Tamm watched, and the hairs on the back of his neck stirred. The raw clay dried as the water of sight seeped from the cups to fill the hollows. A drop or two of liquid spilled over the brims of each.

  “Forgive me,” the old man said in a broken voice. “I can’t help weeping just a little. Oh, young Tamm, I can see better than I ever did before! The old cups were not made as carefully as these, and they distorted my sight. But now, if I choose, I feel that I could see clear until the world’s ending! How can I ever thank you?”

  “By accepting me as your apprentice.”

  “Oh, that.” The old man shrugged. He looked up from the cups, and, very slowly, the tears that had filled them began to reabsorb into the clay. “That is up to you.”

  “What do you mean? I thought—”

  “Yes, yes, I know what you thought. But my power, as I told you, isn’t the same as that of ordinary wizards. Perhaps you should go and seek one of them instead. I can arrange it for you, you know.”

  “No. I want to serve you!”

  “Are you sure?”

  Tamm’s heart was beating rapidly, and he drew a deep breath. His heart’s desire lay before him. Without hesitating, he replied, “Yes.”

  “There is a price. There always is.” The old man sighed. Putting the cups into the box, he closed the lid and latched it carefully.

  “I am prepared,” Tamm ventured.

  “Are you? I wonder.” The old man bowed his head, then looked up. “Very well. I will set you the hardest task, give you the biggest secret. Then we shall see.” He reached inside his tunic and brought out a small cloth sack that hung on a leather thong around his neck. Carefully, he opened the sack and slipped the contents out into his hand. “Do you see this?”

  “Yes.”

  “What is it?”

  Tamm stared, wondering what the trick was. “It’s just a pebble, master. A common pebble, such as you can pick up nearly anywhere.”

  “Very good. That’s it exactly.” Mordecai returned the stone to the sack and slipped it back inside his clothing. “It is also the most powerful talisman you could ever imagine. It is so powerful, and yet so simple, that not a one of the fools who imagine themselves versed in magic here in Ithkar would ever recognize it for what it is.”

  “What, master?” Tamm questioned.

  “The truth is often simple. And now, I am going to tell you how to get a talisman of your own. Go down to the river’s edge, or anywhere else that you fancy, and pick your own pebble, one that pleases you for one reason or another. Leave me for a year. Wherever you go, when you prepare for the night, put the pebble in a relatively inaccessible place. Each night for a year you must rouse yourself before you waken normally, and do this one ridiculous thing: You must find the pebble where you have put it, and turn it over.”

  “But master, that is not magic—”

  “Oh, is it not? You think it is so simple that it cannot possibly be eff
ective? Let me assure you, unless you are truly gifted, it will take well over a year to accomplish this one task. I know of would-be apprentices who are still trying to do it. Once you have mastered it, however long it takes you, return to me. Only then will we consider what you should ask for, when it comes to your own particular area of power.”

  Things were moving too swiftly for Tamm. “What I should ask for? Master, I still don’t understand!”

  “Of course you don’t. But you’ll have a year—or more—in which to try. You see, when you have created your talisman, imbuing it with your own personal life force, you may have anything you want from that moment forward. You may ask for any power, any amount of material wealth, any woman you desire—in short, the world is open to you. You have only to be willing to sacrifice the full price.”

  Bewildered, Tamm could only reply once again, “Yes, master.” He still didn’t understand. But he was willing to do what Mordecai asked. He saw the seer smile.

  “Perhaps it would help if you could see an example. As you know by now, I asked for the gift of seeing. And to get it I paid what the power demanded.” The old man reached up and began unwinding the rags from his face.

  “By the Three,” Tamm swore in shock. There was nothing where Mordecai’s eyes should have been. No lids, no sockets, no line of lashes. The only indication they had once been there were two gray, wormlike eyebrows.

  The seer replaced the bandages, saying, “Do not be concerned, young Tamm, it happened a long, long time ago. So, too, will you pay when the time comes. Now go, if you please. I think I would like to look into my new eyes again.”

  Once again the only words Tamm could speak were, “Yes, master.”

  Stunned by all he’d seen and learned, he left, wondering if he would ever have the courage to go and seek a smooth river pebble. And if, having done so, he would be willing to pay the price his lifelong dream demanded.

  He didn’t see much of Mordecai for the rest of the fair. At fair’s end, he got Haddis from the stable. The mule had grown fat and glossy during his stay. Everything went on Haddis’s back easily, as he’d sold nearly all the goods he had brought. Tamm passed through the gates without looking back. He was wealthier than he had been on arrival three ten-days ago, but more troubled as well.

  He paused at the bank of the river Ith, staring at a bed of yellow-streaked stones for a long, long time.

  Taking a deep breath of the autumn air, he said, “Not today, Haddis. Not today.”

  Fiddler Fair

  Mercedes Lackey

  All the world comes to Ithkar Fair.

  That’s what they said, anyway—and it certainly seemed that way to Rune as she traveled the Main Trade Road down from her home near Galzar Pass. She wasn’t walking on the dusty, hard-packed road itself; she’d likely have been trampled by the press of beasts, then run over by the carts into the bargain. Instead, she walked with the rest of the foot travelers on the road’s verge. It was no less dusty—what grass there had been had long since been trampled into powder by all the pilgrims and fairgoers—but at least a traveler was able to move along without risk of acquiring hoofprints on his anatomy.

  Rune was close enough now to see the gates of the fair itself, and the fair-ward beside them. This seemed like a good moment to separate herself from the rest of the throng, rest her tired feet, and plan her next moves before entering the fairgrounds.

  She elbowed her way out of the line of people, some of whom complained and elbowed back, and moved away from the road to a place where she had a good view of the fair and a rock to sit on. The sun beat down with enough heat to be felt through her soft leather hat as she plopped herself down on the rock and began massaging her tired feet while she looked the fair over.

  It was a bit overwhelming. Certainly it was much bigger than she’d imagined it would be. It was equally certain that there would be nothing dispensed for free behind those log palings, and the few coppers Rune had left would have to serve to feed her through the three days of trials for admission to the Bardic Guild. After that . . .

  Well, after that, she should be an apprentice, and food and shelter would be for her master to worry about. If not—

  She refused to admit the possibility of failing the trials. She couldn’t—the Three surely wouldn’t let her fail. Not after getting this far.

  But for now, she needed to get herself cleaned of the road dust and a place to sleep, both with no price tags attached. Right now, she was the same gray brown from head to toe, the darker brown of her hair completely camouflaged by the dust, or at least it felt that way. Even her eyes felt dusty.

  She strolled down to the river, her lute thumping her shoulder softly on one side, her pack doing the same on the other. Close to the docks the water was muddy and roiled; there was too much traffic on the river to make an undisturbed bath a viable possibility, and too many wharf rats about to make leaving one’s belongings a wise move. She backtracked upstream a bit, while the noise of the fair faded behind her, crossed over the canal, and went hunting the rapids that the canal bypassed. The bank of the river was wilder here and overgrown, not like the carefully tended area of the canal side. Finally she found a place where the river had cut a tiny cove into the bank. It was secluded; trees overhung the water, their branches making a good thick screen that touched the water, the ground beneath them bare of growth, and hollows between some of the roots just big enough to cradle her sleeping roll. Camp, bath, and water, all together, and within climbing distance on one of the trees was a hollow large enough to hide her bedroll and those belongings she didn’t want to carry into the fair.

  She waited until dusk fell before venturing into the river and kept her eyes and ears open while she scrubbed herself down. Once clean, she debated whether or not to change into the special clothing she’d brought; it might be better to save it. . . . Then the thought of donning the sweat-soaked, dusty traveling gear became too distasteful, and she rejected it out of hand.

  She felt strange and altogether different once she’d put on the new costume. Part of that was due to the materials—except for when she’d tried the clothing on for fit, this was the first time she’d ever worn silk and velvet. Granted, the materials were all old; bought from a secondhand vendor and cut down from much larger garments. The velvet of the breeches wasn’t too rubbed; the ribbons on the sleeves of the shirt and the embroidery should cover the faded places, and the vest should cover the stain on the back panel completely. Her hat, once the dust was beaten out of it and the plumes she’d snatched from the tails of several disgruntled roosters were tucked into the band, looked brave enough. Her boots, at least, were new and, when the dust was brushed from them, looked quite well. She tucked her remaining changes of clothing and her bedroll into her pack, hid the lot in the tree hollow, and felt ready to face the fair.

  The fair-ward at the gate eyed her carefully. “Minstrel?” he asked suspiciously, looking at the lute and fiddle she carried in their cases, slung from her shoulders.

  She shook her head. “Here for the trials, m’lord.”

  “Ah.” He appeared satisfied. “You come in good time, boy. The trials begin tomorrow. The guild has its tent pitched hard by the main gate of the temple; you should have no trouble finding it.”

  The wizard-of-the-gate ignored her, looking bored. Rune did not correct the fair-ward’s assumption that she was a boy; it was her intent to pass as male until she’d safely passed the trials. She’d never heard of the Bardic Guild admitting a girl, but as far as she’d been able to determine, there was nothing in the rules and charter of the guild against it. So once she’d been accepted, once the trials were safely passed, she’d reveal her sex, but until then she’d play the safe course.

  She thanked him, but he had already turned his attention to the next traveler in line. She passed inside the log walls and entered the fair itself.

  The first impressions she had were of noise and light; torches burned all along the aisle she traversed; the booths to either side wer
e lit by lanterns, candles, or other, more arcane methods. The crowd was noisy; so were the merchants. Even by torchlight it was plain that these booths featured shoddier goods: secondhand finery, brass jewelry, flash and tinsel. The entertainers here were . . . surprising. She averted her eyes from a set of dancers. It wasn’t so much that they wore little but imagination, but the way they were dancing embarrassed even her; and a tavern-bred child has seen a great deal in its life.

  She kept a tight grip on her pouch and instruments, tried to ignore the crush, and let the flow of fairgoers carry her along.

  Eventually the crowd thinned out a bit (though not before she’d felt a ghostly hand or two try for her pouch and give it up as a bad cause). She followed her nose then, looking for the row that held the cookshop tents and the ale-sellers. She hadn’t eaten since morning, and her stomach was lying in uncomfortably close proximity to her spine.

  She learned that the merchants of tavern row were shrewd judges of clothing; hers wasn’t fine enough to be offered a free taste but wasn’t poor enough to be shooed away. Sternly admonishing her stomach to be less impatient, she strolled the length of the row twice, carefully comparing prices and quantities before settling on a humble tent that offered meat pasties (best not ask what beast the meat came from, not at these prices) and fruit juice or milk as well as ale and wine. Best of all, it offered seating at rough trestle tables. Rune took her flaky pastry and her mug of juice (no wine or ale for her, not even had she the coppers to spare for it—she dared not be the least muddle-headed, not with a secret to keep and a competition on the morn) and found herself a spot at an empty table where she could eat and watch the crowd passing by. The pie was more crust than meat, but it was filling and well made and fresh; that counted for a great deal. She noted with amusement that there were two sorts of the clumsy, crude clay mugs. One sort, the kind in which they served the milk and juice, was ugly and shapeless (too ugly to be worth stealing) but was just as capacious as the exterior promised. The other, for wine and ale, was just the same ugly shape and size on the outside (though a different shade of toad-back green) but had a far thicker bottom, effectively reducing the interior capacity by at least a third.