by E. E. Knight
Wistala and Forstrel stepped out of his dressing room and eyed each other.
“Fried fish for breakfast, I suppose?” Wistala asked.
“I hope,” Forstrel said. “With tart applesauce. But we’ll miss it, I’ll fear.”
Wistala heard a sigh from the dressing room, followed by a chuckle. “The joke’s on me, Wistala. Rah-Ya. Forstrel, my cloak and hat!”
“What does she say?”
Rainfall held the letter at arm’s length and squinted. “After the usual summation of my crimes against youth, including entailing away Mossbell, which she quite regards as hers, she informs me that she’s joining Ragwrist’s circus so that the local shepherds no longer snicker at her. So by the circus I gained a bride and lost a grandchild. I must go after her, but I suspect it will be futile.”
“Why futile?”
“She’s old enough to be apprenticed on her own word. If she’s earning her keep, the law gives me no recourse, and I’m not up to dragging her back by her hair.”
“I will be happy to pull my share of the locks.”
“Then you can come along. It’ll give Ragwrist one more chance to talk you into joining. I hope Stog is in the mood for a quick trot. The sun is up, and they’ll be across the bridge by now. I don’t want to pursue too far into the next thanedom.”
Rainfall rode Wistala down to the yard, and Forstrel helped him up on Stog. Stog stamped his foot when he saw Wistala.
“Drakka! Didn’t you hear me call out last night?”
Wistala watched Forstrel secure Rainfall on his special saddle. “I heard you bellowing, but I thought it was just another fight with Jalu-Coke about using her claws to get up on your back.”
“I saw an old not-friend in the party of the thane’s horses. A mountain horse named Hob. Let me tell you what it signifies: Hob is a courier horse for the Dragonblade. One of the Dragonblade’s men was in the thane’s party yesterday. He poked around the grounds all day. You’re in danger.”
“I didn’t catch all that, Wistala. What’s he worried about?”
“Nothing of importance,” Wistala said.
“He most definitely said danger, didn’t you, Stog?” Rainfall said as he set the mule toward Mossbell’s gate.
“Danger to Wistala!” Stog brayed.
“Let’s have it!” Rainfall said. “I don’t want to play score-question with you.”
“One of the Dragonblade’s men was here yesterday, riding with the thane.”
“Hammar wastes no time. Wistala, all I know of this fellow makes me fear for you. Certainly he won’t kick down Mossbell’s door to get you—at least I hope he won’t—but we must have some thought on the matter together.”
They found the circus still packing up, with dwarves frantically fastening harnesses on their gargants, whose appetites added to the cleared meadow behind the inn. Many of Ragwrist’s circus folk were red about the eyes—perhaps the empty mead barrels stacked on the south side of the Green Dragon Inn, being cleansed by winter cold and sun, had something to do with it.
Ragwrist, again in his colorful coat and walking his horse about, left off shouting orders and greeted them. He waved Dsossa over, who looked perkier than most in her riding gear with lead lines hanging over her shoulders like a frilled cloak.
“I won’t ask why you’re here,” Ragwrist said with his elegant, balancing bow. “Do you wish to speak to her?”
“Indeed,” Rainfall said. “Thank you, old friend.”
“Just as well we were delayed in our departure,” Ragwrist said.
“Only because you’ve not issued orders with your usual vigor,” Dsossa put in.
“Dsossa, bring your new horsehand forward.” She trotted her horse toward the last of the gargant houses-on-wheels.
Wistala watched the gargants being brought into line, along with laden wagons drawn by more brutes. The smell of all the horseflesh reminded her of her missed breakfast.
I’ve been too long indoors if I’m regretting my third meal in the sun’s track, Wistala thought.
Dsossa brought forth Lada. There was some reluctance on the younger’s part, but Dsossa kept a firm grip and so brought her to her grandfather.
“I thought your story of the farewell kiss a bit overripe,” Ragwrist said to Lada. “Here is your grandfather. Say farewell properly.”
“Lada, what are you doing, pray tell?” Rainfall asked.
“I want to leave this place!” she said. “I’ll make my own way in the world.”
“Sixteen years of experience and already so worldly?” Rainfall asked.
Lada raised her chin. “It is too late, Grandfather. I’ve signed a contract and been apprenticed.”
“Ragwrist!” Rainfall said, and seemed to run out of words after that.
“Ho!” Ragwrist said. “There’s always use for a pretty face and figure in a circus. She knows something of horses.”
“She used never to leave Avalanche’s stall,” Rainfall said, leaning forward on Stog’s neck for support. “As horses are one of the nobler passions I indulged her. Oh, me!”
“Come, come,” Ragwrist said, winking broadly at Rainfall in a manner Lada could not see. “I will not break the contract. It’s only a four-year apprenticeship. I intend to teach her much of value. You’ll see her when we next go north, perhaps in as little as a year and a season, and she may be better disposed to your roof after an absence.”
“Did she tell you she is with child?”
“Don’t worry, my friend,” Ragwrist said. “She’s young and strong, and old Intanta has seen a hundred babes into the world. We’ve even got a priest in the caravan, so the child will be properly named under her stars and the Hypatian gods.”
“I shall still—Wistala!” Rainfall said.
“Yes, Father?” Wistala said, though she suspected what was coming.
“I asked you once before to travel with Ragwrist. Now I beg you, beg you as I’ve never begged in my life. I’ll feel better knowing you are with her.”
Wistala looked at the familiar stretch of road, the new inn, the twin hills to the north . . . Just land. It was the old elf she’d miss, his little readings from books and his lessons—
“I will. But I still say I can tell no fortunes.”
“Must she come!” Lada didn’t so much ask as shout.
“Watch that tongue, girl. It’s for Ragwrist to say,” Dsossa said.
“We have no enemies in the circus, Lada,” Ragwrist said.
“Sir!” Wistala blurted. “I should tell you—I’m being hunted—maybe—by a man called the Dragonblade.”
“She’s done him no wrong,” Rainfall put in. “She’s marked by her breed and by the events I told you of the other night.”
“Ho! You’ve found the soft spot in my heart, Wistala. Lost causes and refugees. No circus is complete without them. Have no fear, we are capable of guarding our own. But I see the gargants are in line and all is ready. Everyone must say their promises and farewells quickly. Rainfall! I look forward to my next visit and Mossbell’s table—and the Green Dragon’s mead, sir.” He extracted a silver tube from his coat; it rattled as though a pea were inside, and he blew into it. A piercing, whistling call like a kingbird song, only amplified, seemed to travel right through Wistala’s skull.
The gargants creaked into motion.
Ragwrist led his horse to the head of the column, where some ragged-looking horsemen awaited.
“The place will smell more wholesome with you gone,” Stog said quietly.
Wistala couldn’t jest with him. “Take care of our master,” she said in the beast tongue, and gave the same caution to Forstrel at the lead line in Parl. He bowed.
Rainfall said to her: “You must write often, and let no opportunity for learning pass. Keep an eye out in the bookstalls for the paired volumes of Alantine’s moral-plays, would you? I’ve had no luck buying my copies back. Lada, will you take my hand and go with my blessing?”
She took it, but held it at a distance. “As lon
g as I may go and forget this place and everyone in it.”
“Back to the wagon with you, girl,” Dsossa said.
Dsossa lingered. “Can I trust you to think of yourself for a change?” she asked Rainfall.
“You’re too kind,” Rainfall said.
“I grow tired of the road. Are you still thinking of raising horses at Mossbell?”
“That was before my son . . . ,” Rainfall said.
“May I write you with my plans?”
“Ahh, I’m too old to be of any use to you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
Rainfall took her hand. “I delight in letters. Send me as many details as you care to. But any substantial improvements in the place will need the owner’s approval.”
“Mossbell is yours as it always was,” Wistala said.
Dsossa backed away. “I will write. Good-bye, sir.”
“It’s hard to leave, at the last,” Wistala said.
“I fear Mossbell is too small to be much longer a real home to you,” Rainfall said. “But hold it in your heart as such.”
The gargants were already on the road, and the wagon wheels struck up a chorus of ground gravel.
“Don’t eat all the coins you earn,” Rainfall said.
Ragwrist trotted up on his horse. “Well, sir, as usual, I wish I could stay with you through the full course of a moon and then some, but duty to my poor fellowship—”
“You may spare me the act, you old rascal,” Rainfall said.
“Wistala, you will ride in the second car, second gargant, inside or up top as is your choice. That’s Intanta’s spot. She shares with a pair of jewel smiths and the laundry pots, but there will be ample room.”
Wistala looked at the column, already a dragon-dash away. She must run to catch up.
“Until we meet again, elf-father,” she said.
“That will be a happy day, dragon-daughter.”
“Go on!” Ragwrist shouted. “Or do you have another list of books your library lacks?”
Wistala hurried away, leaving Ragwrist and Rainfall talking in the road.
She ran as best as she could to catch up, and heard horse hooves behind.
“Don’t look so sad, Wistala,” Ragwrist called from the saddle. “What dragon heart doesn’t yearn for adventures in other lands?”
“One that knew happiness where she was,” Wistala said.
“Mossbell keeps a little piece of an older and better world. But our good elf wants you to see what else civilization holds. Believe me, you’ll value him all the more after a few months in the heart of Hypat. See the ladder to the roof of the car? Jump to it and knock on the door in back and they will accept you. They know you are coming.”
Second Moon of the Winter Solstice, Res 471
Beloved Father,
You will recognize the hand as Lada’s, though the words are mine. I write you from the Salt Road west of Hypat, with the sound of the ocean near in the great estuary of the Falnges. All in the circus are in good health. (Grandfather, that’s not true, I’m sick day and night, but Intanta says it’s the babe’s doing!—L)
It turns out we are not the only ones who joined at Jessup’s Inn. One of Jalu-Coke’s young toms made himself likable to Brok, perhaps an affinity for one almost as dark, big-eyed, and hairy, and now they are inseparable.
Lada, after a few days with the horses and draft animals (They worked me like a pigfarmer’s own hand, Grandfather!) was put to work caring for me (scooping dragon—-t, she means) and under the tutelage of Intanta and the other older women of the circus. Though Intanta has no teeth, I think her tongue has grown overlarge and sharp to replace them, and she keeps your granddaughter busy. (Slaving! At laundry and sewing if there’s not filthier duties at hand.)
We have enough to eat, just, and are only beginning to know our work well during the “open” and “close” that comes with every relocation. They have me climbing up and down poles with lines—I’ve learned something of knots—I see looking over Lada’s shoulder that she is adding commentary. (And why not? I’ve a right to address my own grandfather!)
As to fortune-telling, I have observed Intanta and her mysterious crystal through a veiled tent-hole several times. Intanta tries to point out how she makes guesses at the contents of her “seekers’ ” lives and hearts by dress, or jewelry, or grooming, or even the rough spots on their hands, but I can’t keep such details. I can tell elf from dwarf, and that is about all.
Lada helps with the costumes of the riders during the performances. (She means the girls throw their sweaty rags at me and yell for the next piece of flimsy all at once, eight hands would not be enough!)
In happier news, I have seen some of the towns and cities of the Falnges and I never imagined such crowds of people. I am brought out to set a straw-stuffed man on fire at shows, and sometimes I am pelted with fruit (which she makes me pick out of her scales!) though Ragwrist overdramatizes the danger of such acts. Fruit is better than arrows or the deadly looking crossbow bolts our dwarven gargant-drivers carry.
I imagine Ragwrist is regretting the expense of our food rations! I cannot see that I am earning him much money. (So he makes me do twice as much work! He is quite cruel, Grandfather.) I fear your granddaughter has not seen any real cruelty in her life to put that in—and I hope she never will. (I have been treated cruelly by those who I thought loved me!) I fear this letter is dissolving into nonsense.
We are now at two-moon’s camp on the estate of Director Emeritus Pondus, and many of the circus have left to see family or spend their earnings in the spirit houses. The dwarves are busy patching, mending, and building, and Brok is at work on some kind of harness for me. If you write soon, a letter is sure to reach us here. Rainfall has made up the itinerary for our summer in the southlands, and I enclose it so that you may know our schedule.
I (we) remain your grateful family, Wistala (and Lada, who would like to know if Thane Hammar has spoken of regretting me?)
When the two-moon rest ended, the circus took to the roads south and visited Shryesta, with air fragrant of honey and dates, home of the Amber Palace, where the Hypatian Directors held their spring and fall meetings. They saw Vinde, with its waterfalls and famous jeweled bridges, and the sea-elf city of Krakenoor, thick with water gardens and the lively trade of its boardwalks. They played at Fount Brass, home of a thick-limbed race of men who counted dwarves in their ancestry, who rode on even thicker horned-and-hided mounts, and finally the riverside city of Adipose, whose skilled papermakers and glassblowers brought coin for even the lowliest apprentice and slave.
Wistala grew slowly that summer on her meals of stewed offal mixed with a few choice tidbits saved “for the dragon” by Brok and Dsossa. She found she enjoyed the chaos behind the line of wagons during performances more than the shows themselves—performers painting their faces with dyes and powders, adorning hair and body, readying their props. She bounced on the stretched canvas the clown-dwarf used for his drop from the tightrope, and some of the performers took to rapping her scales or touching the Agent Librarian medallion. She now wore the emblem between her eyes on a double-strand of chain the jeweler-women created for it.
She grew to love them all.
The one personality she still wondered about was Intanta. Fortune-telling seemed like a cheat to Wistala, though the “seekers” left her tent happier than when they entered, and sometimes gave her extra money beyond the fee she asked. She’d met the “family” Intanta wished to return to at the two-moon camp; they seemed a curious bunch, heavy with metal amulets, necklaces, and hair wrapped in seashells, pipes both musical and for smoking tucked into overlarge pockets on the two or three layers of coats many wore. One tried to steal a loose scale from Wistala’s tail.
They dined only among themselves, with Lada cooking and cleaning.
If there was any magic to it, it came from the oddly shaped crystal Intanta used. It looked a little like the estuary crabs they sometimes ate boiled.
“A shar
d from the great crystal of the lost city of Kraglad, enchanted by Dread Anklamere himself!” Intanta said, whenever she removed the rune-woven silk that hid it until her seekers had paid for the telling.
They worked her into the fortune-telling gradually, fixed in a collar and chain harness at the end of pegs hammered into the ground. Wistala could release all by pressing her claw into the keyhole at the collar-join; Brok had built it that way. Intanta became a “medium” between the dragon-seer and her seekers. At first, Wistala kept so still that some of the seekers thought her a statue, so she learned to rock back and forth a little.
Intanta, after consulting with a drunken, disheveled, one-eyed elf who visited the circus to see the dragon—“So it is a drakka. Usually it’s just a painted sandrunner,” the elf said—suggested mosses and herbs that would make her fire bladder more gassy and smoke appear, but Wistala feared a poisoning of her foua or other harmful effects. The one-eyed elf looked rather disreputable.
Close association with Lada brought little improvement in their opinion of each other. Wistala suspected the girl of spitting in her water as she fetched it, and Lada said dragon reek was making her nauseated day and night and harming the baby.
Once a week, Intanta downed a bottle or two of wine and played dice games with her cronies. Afterwards Intanta was well disposed to all and sundry, and sometimes let Lada hold her magic crystal, which relaxed the girl and soothed her nausea. Intanta often looked into the crystal as it sat on Lada’s swelling belly and cackled, or sang or whispered to the growing baby to quiet its movements.
Wistala learned the rhythms of the circus. The shaggy-looking riders who went ahead of the column were scout-outs. If they learned a town had been struck by disease, or recently visited by tax agents, or had suffered some other disaster to commerce like a fish die-off or a mine closing, Ragwrist bypassed it. Otherwise they found a hospitable landlord who would sell them fodder, well-use, and shelter for a few days while the circus encamped. They only ever performed for a day or two and then moved on, usually with all the land’s children watching the gargants from fence rails.
