“I think I may have two sets of lungs. Or my lungs are breathing out of rhythm with each other.”
“Well,” said Dilys, “I’ve sometimes thought of pestering you to teach me toycrafting. Turn magic-monger, Torinel, but take me for a toymaking prentice, and we’ll both have two callings.”
“There isn’t enough time in a season.” But he looked back at her with a more cheerful grin.
“There’s enough time in a lifetime.”
“Everything you dabble at connects with your storycrafting, Dilysin. Like walking through rain without a drycharm. But magic and toycrafting… There’s no proper relationship.”
She drank more herbwater.
“Dilysin,” he said, “what rumors have you heard today?”
“None. I just bundled out of my tent into yours.”
He sighed. “You might be able to carve this into one of your stories. The marriage toy Valdart meant to give Sharilys, that bluemetal and orangestone pendant, disappeared from his tent last night and an unwanted citron appeared instead.”
“Valdart’s famous pendant from beyond the western ocean? That one he’s been using to tease selected merchants and dazzle selected children?”
“Yes. He thinks I slipped in and transformed it. Maybe I did, sleepwalking. He’s called in the judge.”
Her fingers tightened around her cup, but loosened again because it was still hot. “Is that why you were standing arms-out just now?”
“Not exactly. Well, in a way. They say it helps focus your thoughts. That’s why judges used the technique sometimes, isn’t it? To hear reliable answers?”
“Cousin Alrathe told you to hold out your arms and then didn’t stay to direct the process?”
“No. Alrathe seemed to treat me more like a helper.” He set down his cup and twisted around on his bed, reaching backwards. When he moved, Dilys could see two magic globes propped against his pillow. He touched the smaller globe, then shook his head and picked up the larger. Squinting, Dilys could just see that they seemed to reflect different scenes.
Torin handed her the globe. She turned it, staring at the barely visible interior of a tent that did not appear to be the one they sat in.
“Talmar’s globe,” Torin explained. “He took it last night for his deathbed toy. That must be what it’s showing now. He finally found his technique for making globes show past reflections.”
She nodded. Torin had sometimes told her about his brother’s efforts, and she had heard rumors yesterday. “So that’s the new trick that stirred up his Choking Glory.”
“If it is Choking Glory.”
Dilys looked up at her friend. “Ah! I thought that was the whole problem.”
“Judge Alrathe thinks it might be food sensitivity. In a few hours, Talmar’s globe should work its way back to yesterday’s banquet. It doesn’t seem to watch or record present reflections while showing old ones.” Torin waved his arm at Talmar’s globe—a conversational gesture, not a magical one. “Meanwhile, I’ve been experimenting with my own globe.” He reached round again and rolled it to him, lifting it to his knees. “If I could find some way to pick out reflections at will, stir up very old scenes, twenty years old…” He shook his head. “If I could do that so easily, it’d make a clear sign I should go back to magic.”
Dilys looked at Torin’s small globe, which showed a pretty swirl of colors. “Your experiments came to nothing.”
“Nothing useful.”
She did not point out how short a time he must have been at it. Crafting instinct, not frustration, might have stopped his morning’s work in magic. “So you were holding out your arms to concentrate your own memory of whatever happened twenty years ago. Sometimes telling things aloud is the best thought-focusing toy.”
He turned his globe without seeming to watch it. “You said you haven’t heard any rumors today. Yesterday?”
“That High Wizard Talmar was deathly sick. That it started suddenly when he was showing off some wonderful new trick. Some rumors called it livecopper madness, others boasting sickness. I think some said he was already dead, others that it might be some scheme to bring a bigger audience to a special display this fair.” Dilys shrugged. “How many people really take rumors seriously? All I knew for sure was that you’d been called to the Scholars’ Pavilion.”
He frowned. “Surely all that grew from more than Iris coming to fetch me. Too much of it’s too accurate. Did they even mention his globe specifically?”
“Some of them. Others said his new technique involved eggs or seeds or tiny thunderstorms. I culled what I heard, and there must have been a lot I didn’t hear. No, it wouldn’t all be so nearly accurate.”
“Still…I don’t think the judge would have said very much. Would Mother Vathilda have started spreading a report of boasting sickness already? But she never left the Scholars’ Tent until evening. Could the merchant have seen that much so quickly?”
“Merchant?”
“Ulrad. He came to the Scholars’ Tent. I think he was going to pay me for the toys he took yesterday, but it was no time to think about trade.”
“And Kara? Has she paid you yet? Well,” Dilys added when he shook his head, “I’ll try to send them around today. Unless you’d rather be left alone?”
He smiled. “Standing there with my arms stretched out and my doorcords untied? They were untied when you came?” She nodded, and he went on, “I must have forgotten to tie them because I wanted to be interrupted.”
By me, she thought, or by anyone? “Well,” she said, “you could tell me what they owe you and I’d try to find them and collect it for you.”
“I don’t much feel like reckoning it out. One list at a time.”
At this hint that he wanted prodding, that he had not meant to close the subject completely a few moments ago, she said, “What list? Something to do with that old memory you were trying to concentrate?”
He wiped his globe with the hem of his tunic. “The skyreaders must have started yesterday’s reports. Laderan and Iris. They left the Scholars’ Tent early.”
“Torinel,” said Dilys, “it must be an unpleasant memory, but don’t keep teasing yourself with it. Either concentrate and get to its other side, or ignore it and we’ll get along without its help.”
He began to turn his globe again, smearing fresh fingerprints over its surface. “Talmar’s First Name-Lengthening. He fell sick that day, too. It was his first great day. I chipped it for him. I had decided—it must have been a year or more before, it felt as if I’d been making the decision all my life—that I wanted to leave magic for crafting. But I’d kept it my secret. I think Mother may have suspected. Well, I took the notion that my younger brother’s First Name-Lengthening was the perfect occasion to tell them. I don’t know why. Fifteen years old, you can tangle your mind up with a lot of silly ideas at that age. I could have kept my secret a few more days. Or I could have told our mother and father privately that morning, if it had to be that particular day. I think I did try, but we were busy transforming food for Talmar’s feast. So I spoke out when we were all together, feasting him. I said something like…I think I phrased it, ‘Well, Talmariak, now you can be our family’s only magic-monger this generation, and I can finally go make toys.’ Some sentence like that. And he started choking and went on choking.”
After a moment, Dilys said, “Anger?”
“How could I have known it’d anger him? If anything, I think I supposed it’d please him. He always loved the study…for seeming more…clever, more powerful.” Torin sighed miserably and slumped lower, his forehead resting on the globe in his hands. “Or maybe it wasn’t anger. Maybe it was a sudden rush of extra pride at having our family tradition to himself.”
Dilys put down the high wizard’s globe, moved her cup out of the way, and slid closer to Torin. “Are you sure that was the exact moment he started choking?” She paused, looked at the globe he held against his face, reached out to push his fingers apart for a better view. “Torinel, look!”
He lifted his head and looked. The reflection could only be the festive dinner he had just described. “It’s happened again!” His voice was strange. “How?”
Fearing he might smash the globe, Dilys held it and his trembling hands. “Worry about ‘how’ later. You were trying to get this scene, weren’t you? Why?”
“To…to study the foods, see what we ate.”
“And list them? Then get your tablet. Quick!” She took his globe and held it as close to her eyes as she could without blurring her sight of those tiny dishes. “Goldcobs,” she began while Torin fumbled for tablet and writing-point. “Dewmelons. Apricots—or maybe they’re citrons. Cherries, I’m sure by the color—they couldn’t be small beetroots?”
Chapter Eight
Small, thin, and old, though she still refused to wear harvest colors except for a belt braided of brown and orange ribbon, Vathilda looked frail. But Alrathe saw she had already moved all the furniture in the Scholars’ Tent.
In its natural state, this furniture consisted of one long, heavy table for banqueting, two much smaller tables and a cupboard for holding food and tableware, and seven chairs. All these pieces and most of the tableware had been lent by crafters; it was an honor, and it increased the ease with which the items could be sold. At larger fairs, folk often paid for such goods without seeing them until they came to cart them home.
Yesterday Vathilda had transformed one of the small tables into the couch for Talmar when he fell sick. This morning she had moved the large table from lengthwise down the center of the tent to crosswise at one end to serve as a stage. She had lifted one small table and the cupboard up to this stage, one piece on either side, to hold the magic-mongers’ display equipment ready; and she had transformed one chair into steps for mounting the stage. The other small table and two chairs she had arranged in one corner for private showings. Some folk would pay extra to see certain magical feats too dainty to show well in detail on a stage. It could be one of a magic-mongers’ most profitable (and more tiring) exercises; it was one of Alrathe’s own favorite ways to spend moneygems.
Vathilda was hedging the private-display corner with three more chairs when the judge entered the tent. She gave the newcomer a glance, saw who it was, nodded and turned back to her work, transforming one chair into a cupboard with a curtain pole rising from its top.
Vathilda might well give the day’s most pebbly interview. Alrathe had decided the best course would be to stand firm but approach her as if her lack of involvement were unquestionable. “Mother Vathilda.”
“Child Alrathe.” She walked to another chair.
“I come as judge, on judge’s work.”
She transformed the second chair into another small cupboard and curtain pole. “Cousin Judge.”
“What do you know,” said Alrathe, “about an orangestone pendant transformed last night into a citron?”
“Nothing.” She moved to the third chair and changed it into a curtain pole and length of curtain. “We were all too busy last night to spend time in silly pranks like that.”
“This is the of fruit.” Alrathe handed it to her.
She squeezed her dry, age-soft fingers around it, opened them almost at once, and dropped it back to the judge’s palm. “A citron. Grown a citron from its flower. Shall I harden it into orangestone for you?”
“No.” Alrathe pocketed it once more and began to help Vathilda fix natural rods across the curtain poles. “What do you know of the two men each of whom has asked your granddaughter to share his life?”
“I favor the toymaker.” Leaving Alrathe to fix the second cross-rod alone, Vathilda started hooking up the curtain to the first. “What little I know of the adventurer suggests he’s proud and unsteady. He might flatter the child into supposing herself the most skillful student of her generation.”
Whereas, thought the judge, Torin with his self-doubts and excess of unwanted power would keep Sharys humble and safe from boasting sickness? Aloud: “Would you call Valdart unsteady enough to hide his own marriage token for Sharys and accuse his friend of transforming it, in order to discredit the toymaker in her opinion?”
Vathilda snorted. “Unsteady enough, maybe. I shouldn’t say, I don’t know him that well. But too proud. He’d not suppose he needed trickery to bring him a woman’s choice, not that one. Haven’t you got that rod tight yet?” She tested it, then started hooking up the last length of curtain. “Now tell me, Cousin Judge, why you’re asking. If you’re done with being inscrutable for your own judgely reasons.”
Alrathe held back a sigh. “Valdart claims that the pendant disappeared from his tent last night and this citron appeared in its place. He accuses Torin of the mischief.”
“Charges his old friend, does he?” Vathilda chuckled. “Marriage instinct can tie strange knots in a brain. He might as well accuse Sharys. Well, no one else will believe it of the toymaker, and it ought to show our girl what kind of man she was ready to wed. As for the pendant, someone else slipped in and took it. There’s enough folk who coveted the pretty thing.”
“The adventurer had one of Talmar’s charms on his door. Do charms lose potency when their makers fall sick?”
“Never. Maybe for other reasons, not for that one.” Vathilda rubbed her chin. “Likely the charm didn’t recognize trade as mischief. Look for someone who had a citron or two and wanted that pendant more.”
Thus did the sorceress clip neatly through the problem.
“Would that trade be fair?” asked the judge. “A citron for an orangestone pendant?”
“In some neighborhoods, I fancy. Ask the merchants. They’d know more about prices than a magicker’s charm would. But be careful how you question ’em, Child Alrathe.”
“Don’t doubt the discretion of a grown judge, Cousin Vathilda,” Alrathe replied, for once ignoring her strong preference for the honorary ‘Mother.’ “I appreciate that if this chink in your charms against thievery became a common thought-knot, you’d lose part of your market.”
“I doubt it. There’s some difference between trade and outright thievery, Child Alrathe. The one’s inconvenient at worst, the other can bring hunger, thirst, and shivering. Still, don’t noise it about.”
“Some people grow strong emotional attachments for various possessions. Losing such toys, no matter how fair the unwanted trade, would cause them more pain than mere inconvenience.”
“Let ’em be careful how they show those toys off, then. As for ’Dart’s precious pendant, my granddaughter would take that citron just as cheerfully for a marriage toy if she decides to accept one from him. No need to tell him that. If he can’t see it himself, all the more evidence he isn’t the mate for her.”
Alrathe decided not to discuss Talmar’s malady. With luck, Hilshar and Sharys would provide as much information as necessary about the foods for yesterday’s dinner. The judge left the old sorceress transforming tableware into small props for this afternoon’s display of magic.
* * * *
Either all Vathilda’s family and probably Torin as well were united in pretense, or the citron was natural and the pendant hidden somewhere else. Vathilda’s explanation of the chink in protective charms against thievery lengthened the list of possible culprits, for anyone at this fair might have stumbled into that trade secret. By judge’s right, Alrathe could call for a general search. But that would disrupt this Amberleaf Fair to the discomfort of the innocent majority, it would spread knowledge of how to circumvent the charms, and chances were that the culprit would have time to bury the pendant at first rumor of the search.
Assuming this was indeed a case of unagreed trade, not related to Valdart’s proposed use of his pendant for a marriage token, certain minds in certain circumstances would be likelier than others to spy the chink.
Alrathe believed the reason thievery was so common was that for some generations the idea of private property had been crumbling away. Ancient records indicated that long ago folk had considered land something which could be owne
d, and perhaps this theory was needed and useful if records didn’t exaggerate the incredible numbers of the race in that era. Within these last five or six generations custom had still forbidden new individuals to appropriate vacant houses at will, and even now such buildings as archives, skyreading towers, and in many towns certain specialized crafthouses like metalsmitheries and well-provisioned wineshops were sealed when vacant, to be assigned by a panel of judges and craft comrades to qualified claimants. Very slowly, old customs faded with the needs that had inspired them. Some far future generation might no longer need private possessions of any kind. Nevertheless, until the concept of thievery perished of itself through common lack of concern with material goods, judgework must include correction of individuals who anticipated this development by appropriating other people’s possessions.
Still, Alrathe guessed that those who snatched on impulse due to early stirrings of a new racial thought pattern were likelier to steal only when the chance came spontaneously, like children seeing pretty toys on the showledge at a moment the toymaker’s back was turned. To seek out or plan opportunities, to walk footpaths at night looking for loose doorcords, suggested individuals who might have stolen in any era of the race’s development. The judge’s present problem suggested a nimble-minded culprit with a special desire for Valdart’s pendant. Such a mind would realize that the distinctive piece of jewelry could hardly be worn in this immediate neighborhood. True, the practice was not uncommon of keeping lovely thought-focusing toys for private meditation; but would someone who wanted a jewel for that purpose wish to acquire it by thievery or even unagreed trade? Whereas a traveling merchant or ambitious adventurer could plan to resell crafted orangestone and bluemetal elsewhere.
A dozen or more adventurers had come to this Amberleaf Fair. Many of them intended to winter hereabout, and the Storytellers’ Pavilion offered them a chance to earn a few more moneygems. But because this last fair was small and late, only two fully-styled traveling merchants had delayed their autumn departure in order to attend. Remembering Laderan’s comment about how yesterday Valdart had teased one of these two merchants with his pendant, Alrathe decided that Kara was the next logical person to interview.
At Amberleaf Fair Page 8
