“Aye,” said Ilfting, “but toymaking’s a richer study than magic-mongering these years. You chose well enough there, sapling, if comfort was your want.”
“Talmar chose for glory.”
“He chose for your family, that one.”
“I suffered my hungry seasons.”
Ilfting snorted. “Hungry! You with magic to keep your belly full.”
“You’re wood yourself. Maybe you can eat sawdust. We have to start with real food. We can’t transform apples out of sand—it changes back to sand inside.”
“Maybe that’s your brother’s sickness.”
“They’re all magic students. They know better.”
The dwarf began to clean his fingernails with the splinter in his fist. “You’re the one chose for glory. Carving your precious name on every toy.”
“Only the first letter. Only the flying bird.”
“Your brother might’ve gone to skyreading if you hadn’t turned toycrafter first.”
“No,” Torin protested. “I was the only one in fifteen generations. If he’d wanted to transform, too, who could guess…?”
“Or to judging. But not to crafting. Not Talmarak. Adventuring, maybe.”
“I was cold and hungry for years. Even now my tent has more patches than Talmar’s has, beneath his spells.”
“Because you’re a miserly young sapling. You could live soft as any townmerchant if you chose.”
“It’s not miserly to marry.”
“You with your old globe, calling it for free light. Better pinch out this candle, lad. You’re burning moneygems. Besides, much lower and it’ll singe my cap.”
“You’re alive now. You can walk away.”
Ilfting hammered his thighs with his fists and shrugged. “No feeling already. You aren’t that powerful by accident, conjurer.”
The candle was burning down with a speed that suggested defective molding. Torin reached up to pinch the wick.
When next he became aware of his surroundings, the tent walls were gray with dawnlight. The candle, not so short as he seemed to remember it, had been pinched out and the wax was hard.
He took the statuette of Ilfting into his hands and turned it around and around, examining it for spatters of candlewax (he found none) and trying to determine if the posture was exactly as he had carved it. Speech was unusual in animated statues; sometimes, however, transformed toy animals emitted the approximations of barks, mews, and so on. He thought of attempting to bring this statuette to life on purpose and asking it whether last night’s conversation had been waking or dreaming, but timidity quenched temptation. He rearranged the toys his arms had displaced in cradling his head, stood and stretched to unknot his muscles, lifted the showledge down at last, set it on the tent floor, rearranged the blanket-cloak around his shoulders, sat again and opened the chest.
Although his brother might be dead, reason told him to eat now. He had eaten no regular meal last night, only a boiled egg, some almond paste that was turning back into cheese, and a glass of wine from the scraps of the scholars’ banquet. He was hungry, and his food supply was neat in the top case-ledge; but nothing looked appetizing. He picked up a boiled egg and debated transforming it into an apple or citron.
Ten years ago he had entered life as independent crafter with the firm resolution to go on avoiding any magic work—except globelight—as strictly as he had done throughout his apprenticeship. A winter of meals as monotonous as they were scanty and cheap had chipped away that resolution, until on the first Spring Quarter-season day that he and Dilys spent together in woods and meadow, he had used a few transformations to vary the food in his basket. He had quickly fallen into the habit of such indulgence. The more secure he felt in his chosen craft, the less a minor magic spell for his own and close friends’ comfort had troubled him; and it had not seemed to make accidental toy transformations more frequent. Nevertheless, as he prospered and persuaded himself to buy real delicacies, he had been climbing farther and farther above transformed food.
Unfortunately, the real delicacies he had brought with him consisted of a little pear cordial, some special herbs, and a box of mushroom cheese with caper sauce—all either too heavy for his stomach just now, or requiring freshly heated water. He rubbed his hands over the egg again, felt stickiness, and discovered that without consciously deciding, he had transformed it into a honeyed citron.
Three accidental transformations within two days was abnormal. He hoped Ilfting had been a dream.
He doubted the citron’s complete edibility, as he had not peeled the egg. With how much comfort would a whole eggshell digest as the citron took back its original substance inside him? He might have eaten it regardless, but both logic and stiff weariness said this was no time to dabble in self-correction. He dropped the fruit back into the tray, noticing its squish where an unpeeled egg would have cracked, and looked around for a rag to wipe his hands.
He frowned for a moment at the dark bulge on his bed. Hadn’t he smoothed the lower blanket down last night after pulling off the topmost for an overcloak? Then he saw that the bulge was a carrying-bag…one he did not recognize.
Pulling the blanket tighter around him, he approached the bed. The carrying-bag appeared full of a single rather large ball or small melon. The dark cloth, threadbare and frayed between its patches, rose smooth on top and fell into a nest of casual creases round its base, the whole looking even stranger for its inanimate innocence.
He picked it up, found the cloth double-layered (a second bag slipped inside the first), and the ball within hard and slippery. He knelt and rolled it out upon the bed.
It was his brother’s magic globe, reflecting Talmar’s curve-distorted face. Torin’s blanket slid from his back and he shivered a little, but did not retrieve it.
He could tell by the azure background, the color of high wizardry, that the globe reflected a scene in Talmar’s own tent. The azure was bright. Torin located his brother’s imaged tent door; it was open to show sunshine. Talmar looked healthy, though the review seemed to skip moments as the high wizard’s hands loomed in with their practiced gestures.
The toymaker had just picked it up for a closer examination when someone shouted “Tor!” outside his tent.
He started, his fingers instinctively tightening around the globe.
“Tor!” again. That was Valdart truncating his name so rudely.
Or urgently. He might bring news, and adventurers learned shorter manners. “I’m awake,” Torin called in reply. “I’m coming.” He replaced the globe on his bed and rose, stumbled on the cloak-blanket, gathered it up and, after some heartbeats of half-consideration, dropped it over the globe.
When he straightened and turned, Valdart was entering the tent.
Some discourtesies could not go overlooked even from adventurers and old friends. “The cord was tied,” said Torin.
“So was mine last night.” The adventurer thrust his right hand forward and opened it, displaying a citron. “That didn’t hold you outside, did it?”
Perhaps this was the dream. Last night’s conversation with Ilfting had certainly been more coherent.
Valdart closed his fist around the citron again and shook it. “Well? Are you going to change it back?”
“Into what? When did I come to your tent last night?”
“Into my bluemetal pendant with the orange glittergem!” said Valdart, mixing in several extra and ugly adventurers’ words.
“No one would transform jewelry into food.”
“My marriage token for the little conjurer! Addle you, chosen brother, what kind of rotten trick…” Valdart’s glance caught on the food ledge in Torin’s open chest, where the honeyed citron was untransforming into an egg. “Practice?”
“I suppose one of us is dreaming.” Torin stretched out his hand. “But I’ll try to undo this transformation.”
Valdart stepped close enough to lay the fruit on his friend’s palm, but kept his own hold on one end, pinching the rind. Torin co
ncentrated for a moment. The piece of fruit remained a piece of fruit. “It’s a real citron, Valdartak.”
“Will you change it back, or do I go to the judges?”
“It isn’t a transformation,” Torin repeated. “It’s a real citron.”
Valdart snatched it from his hand. “Tightening up your work, hey? Addle you, Tor! The judges, then—or your fellow magickers. I understand they’re pretty severe about breaking doorcharms against thieves.”
He left. The curtain went on swinging for several moments. Torin looked at the egg that had briefly been a piece of fruit; its shell was cracked. He turned and looked at his bed; Talmar’s globe was still there. He looked at the statuette of Ilfting; it grinned as widely as when it was first carved, and he envied it. He looked back at the doorway. His curtain had not yet stopped swinging.
He sighed. He ought to wait for the judges—one judge, Alrathe, the only one here—or Vathilda and Hilshar if Valdart really meant to summon them, but magic-mongers could have no authority over a toymaker. Surely neither judge nor senior magic students would think him irresponsible, however, if under the circumstances he went at once to learn his brother’s condition, even after Valdart’s warning of judgment.
The decision made, he went quickly, stopping just long enough to retie his charm and doorcords in a simple knot. Had his old friend intended thievery this morning, the charm would have kept him out. He could neither have untied it, slipped beneath the cord, nor slit the tent wall. But the protective magic had not been fitted to simple rudeness. And Torin had signaled that he would let the visitor in.
Two steps from his tent, he wondered if he should have brought Talmar’s globe. He hesitated, then strode on without taking time to focus logic on the question.
More than two thirds of the fairgoers were already astir. This morning was cloudy and threatened rain, which inspired boothkeepers to seize every hour they could before having to display their goods inside their tents or not at all. Young Scap and Eldan the adventurer stopped Torin to ask what news he had of his brother, the high wizard. Everyone else, seeing him hurrying alone to the scholars’ part of the fairground, politely made way with sympathetic nods.
Valdart must have left his wake through them only moments ago, but no one commented on his passage. Apparently he had kept his complaint for a private thing between himself, Torin, and the judge. Old friendship still held that much power.
The skyreader Laderan was standing before Merprinel’s showledge, looking over her mirrors. Torin paused, with some idea that the skyreader, as a student who had been at the scholars’ banquet yesterday, might have reliable news. “Father,” he asked, “how is Talmar?”
Laderan shrugged. “His curtain was still stiff when I went past half an hour ago. The young conjurer was waiting outside.”
“Torin,” said Merprinel, “Cel surround you.”
“Thank you, Aunt.” Torin hurried on. He had only a few hundred more paces and a turn around the corner of the scholars’ pavilion to his brother’s small azure tent.
No one stood outside, and the folds of the doorcurtain flowed with the drafts of air.
Judge Alrathe’s crimson tent neighbored Talmar’s at a comfortable distance for privacy. The judge’s doorcurtain apeared to be swinging like Torin’s after Valdart pushed through. Adventurer must be with judge even now.
Heart catching between his lungs, Torin held Talmar’s curtain aside and went in.
Sharys was kneeling beside the wizard’s bed, her hand on his brow. His eyes were closed and he continued to work for each breath.
Torin approached.
Sharys glanced up at him. “He’s asleep,” she murmured. “Exhausted.”
He knelt beside her and looked at the sick man. This sleep had soothed away very few traces of labor and pain. Sleep of desperation rather than relief. Nevertheless, Talmar was alive, and taking some kind of rest.
“His door softened only a few moments ago,” Sharys went on. “He must have been awake and waiting for Thyrna until then. Maybe all night through.”
Now that Torin was here, he could scarcely believe the truth of his brother’s magic globe on his own bed. He looked around Talmar’s tent, hoping to see it somewhere.
“What is it?” said Sharys.
“His globe.”
“What? Oh.” Softly, she examined the bedding and floor, then searched the small tent with her own gaze. “But he was so insistent last night. How ugly! For someone to come in and take it away from him now!” She stared into Torin’s face. “They must have taken it from his very hands. But how could they?”
Not that being washed and groomed would have made the revelation easier, but suddenly Torin was aware of his beard stubble, the wrinkles in his tunic, the fact that he had not even pulled comb through hair. He turned his face a little away.
“Could he have softened his door for a while in the night?” Sharys said. “Maybe if he thought…or if his mind slipped—or, oh Cel! if he wanted help—and then for someone to take advantage of it to steal his globe!”
Torin breathed deeply and said, “It’s in my tent.”
“What?”
“I don’t know how it came to be there. I woke up this morning and found it.” He groped for her hand. “Sharilys, if he asks for it, I have it safe.”
After half a breath, she said, “Then bring it back, why not?”
“I… Maybe you can come for it, or send someone. Your mother or grandmother. But I should keep to my tent. I should be waiting there now. Maybe later today…”
“Torin?” she said.
He realized he had to tell her the rest. Otherwise she would hear Valdart’s version first. He was fortunate his old friend had not complained to her already. “Sharilys, whatever you hear, whatever Valdart thinks…”
“Yes?”
“The marriage toy he was planning to give you. It’s gone. He thinks I transformed it into a citron. I didn’t.”
“Oh,” she said. “Marriage toys.” Talmar coughed in his sleep and she turned back to him.
“I didn’t, Sharilys,” the toymaker repeated. “I didn’t leave my own tent—”
Talmar choked, hard, yet without waking up. “Brother Torin,” said Sharys, “can’t we talk about all that afterward? Where’s the water? Here.”
He helped her moisten a compress, arranged things within her reach, and left her stroking Talmar’s head, enwrapped in the healer’s concern that could crowd out all lesser problems, even choice of a lifelong mate.
Chapter Four
It behooved the only judge at a fair to remain available. Alrathe’s doorcords had dangled loose all night. The judge was heating breakfast water when the adventurer burst in.
“Cousin?” said Alrathe, not remembering his name.
Having entered impetuously, the newcomer proceeded to stand near the door as if perplexed, opening his mouth and closing it again, fisting and unfisting one large brown hand while the other stayed clenched.
Alrathe smiled. “I am one of those who prefers ‘Cousin’ to any other term of address.”
The adventurer nodded. “Well…uh, Cousin Judge, it’s a robbery…”
“They are too common nowadays. Have you any idea who the thief might be?”
“Aye.” The adventurer flushed. “Well, not a robbery, exactly, but it might as well have been. There! Look at this.” He unclenched his hand to display an orange citron of the thumb-sized variety.
“A trade to which you had not agreed?”
“A transformation! Uh… Cousin, last night this was a bluemetal and orangestone pendant from beyond the western ocean.”
“Transformation?” Alrathe took the fruit, pinched it gently, sniffed it. It seemed genuine: fragrant, slightly yielding within its somewhat hardened rind, filled with promise of succulence. But transformations were the study of magic-mongers, not judges. “Only four among the fairgoers could have effected a transformation,” said Alrathe. “One of them has lain near death since yesterday afternoon, an
d the other three are close members of one family. It may prove difficult to confirm the fact of transformation.”
“Your counting’s wrong,” said the adventurer. “That is…asking your pardon, Cousin Judge, but there’s a fifth person here who does transformations, and he’s the one did this.”
Alrathe gazed at the complainant. “Do you mean Talmar’s brother Torin, the toymaker?”
The complainant bent his golden head and studied the threadbare floor rugs. “Aye, Torin. And I’ve known him since we were one-syllable saplings, Cousin Judge.”
The small kettle on Alrathe’s brazier entered the conversation with the rattle that preceded full boil.
“I have three blends,” said the judge. “Sweet, savory, and plain.” While the adventurer hesitated as if unsure that judges offered refreshment to clients, Alrathe added, “All are of common, local herbs, nothing rare or exotic.”
“Savory,” said the adventurer. “With thanks, Cousin Judge.”
“Alrathe.” The judge got two cups, put them and the citron on top of the closed traveling chest, added savory herbs to one cup and sweet to the other. “And your name—I was about to ask when my kettle interrupted—Valdin?”
“Valdart.”
“Cousin Valdart.” Alrathe poured the boiling water, took the cup of sweetblend, and sat on the bed.
With a glance at the citron, Valdart took the cup of savory and sat cross-legged on the rugs.
In general, Alrathe thought reluctant complainants preferable to those who gushed out their stories. If a judge did sometimes wonder why the reluctant ones had come at all, often their wrongs could be dissolved in an hour, without bringing in the person complained against. And reluctance was more lovable than eagerness, particularly in cases of old friends. But even getting the information demanded craftwork from the judge. “You were one of last night’s adventurer storytellers?” Alrathe inquired.
At Amberleaf Fair Page 4
