I liked her. I’d liked her from the moment I saw her standing beside her lion. I liked the way she talked and what she said and everything about her.
You must not refuse the blessing.
I said, “Myname is Decalo Galva’s daughter Memer of Galvamand.”
She said, “Myname is Gry Barre of Roddmant,” Having introduced ourselves we got shy, and went on to Galva Street in silence. “That’s the house,” I said.
She said in a tone of awe, “It is a beautiful house.”
Galvamand is very large and noble, with its wide courts and stone arches and high windows, but it’s half ruined too, so it touched me that somebody come from far away, who had seen many houses, saw its beauty.
“It’s the House of the Oracle,” I said. “The Waylord’s house.”
At that, the horses stopped short.
Gry looked at me blankly for a moment. “Galva—the Waylord.—Hey, wake up there!” The horses walked patiently on. “This is a day of the greatly unexpected,” she said.
“This is a day of Lero,” I said. We were at the street gate. I slid down off the seat to touch the Sill Stone. I led Gry in, past the dry basin of the Oracle Fountain in the great front court, and around the side of the house to the arched gates of the stable courtyard.
Gudit came out of the stable scowling. “What by all the ghosts of your stupid ancestors do you think I’m going to do for oats?” he shouted. He came up and began to unhitch the red horse.
“Wait, wait,” I said. “I have to talk to the Waylord.”
“Talk away, the beasts can have a drink while you talk, can’t they? Here, let be, lady. I’ll see to it.”
Gry let him unhitch the horses and lead them over to the trough. She watched the old man open the spigot and saw the clear water pour into the trough. She looked interested and admiring. “Where do you get the water from?” she asked Gudit, and he started to tell her about the springs of Galvamand.
As I passed the wagon it shook a little. There was a lion in it. I wondered what Gudit would say about that.
I ran on into the house.
♦ 4 ♦
The Waylord was in the back gallery talking with Desac. Desac was not a native of Ansul but of Sundraman; he had been a soldier in their army. He never brought books or talked of books. He stood very straight, spoke harshly, and seldom smiled. I thought he must have known much grief. He and the Waylord treated each other with respect and friendship. Their long conversations were always private. They both looked at me rather sternly, in silence, as I walked down the room to where they were sitting under the end window in a patch of sunlight. The back part of the house, the oldest part, all of stone and built right up against the hillside, is chilly, and we didn’t have much firewood to warm the rooms.
I greeted them. The Waylord raised his eyebrows, waiting for my message.
“There are travellers here from the far north who need stabling for their horses. He is a storyteller and she,” I paused, “she has a lion. A halflion. I told her I would ask if they may keep their horses here.” As I spoke I felt like a person in a tale of the Lords of Manva, bearing a request from a noble visitor to a noble host.
“Circus people,” Desac said. “Nomads.”
Outraged at his contemptuous tone, I said, “No!” The Waylord’s eyebrows went down at my rudeness. “She is Gry of the Barres of Roddmant of the Uplands,” I said.
“And where are these Uplands?” said Desac, speaking to me as to a child.
“In the far north,” I said.
The Waylord said, “Memer, a little further, please?”
That was how he always asked me to go on translating a line of Aritan or explaining anything. He liked me to do it in order, making sense. I tried.
“Her husband came to tell stories in the Harbor Market. So they were there. Her lion frightened an Ald’s horse. I caught the horse. Then she quieted it. Then when I was coming home I met her with her wagon and she brought me home. She was looking for stabling. The lion is in the wagon. Gudit is watering the horses.”
Only as I mentioned coming home did I realise that the market basket with a ten-pound fish and cheese and greens in it was still weighing down my arm.
There was a pause.
“You offered her use of the stables?”
“I said I’d ask you.”
“Will you ask her to come to me?”
“Yes,” I said, and got away quickly.
I left the basket in the pantry cooler—Ista and the others were all still sewing in the workroom—and ran back to the stable yard. Gry and Gudit were talking about dogs; that is, Gudit was telling her about the great followhounds of Galvamand in the old days, that ran with the horses and guarded the gates. “Nowadays all it is is cats. Cats everywhere,” he said, spitting aside. “No meat for dogs any more, see. It stands to reason. It was meat they were themselves, those dogs, in the siege years.”
“Maybe it’s just as well you have no followhounds just now,” she said. “They’d be anxious about the contents of our wagon.”
I said, “The Waylord asks if you will be pleased to come into the house. He would come himself but it’s hard for him to walk far.” I wanted so badly to welcome her rightly, nobly, generously, as the Lords of Manva welcomed strangers to their houses.
“With pleasure,” she said, “but first—”
“Leave the horses to me,” said Gudit. “I’ll put ’em both in the loose box and then be off for a bit of hay from Bossti down the way there.”
“There’s a truss of hay and a barrel of oats in the wagon,” Gry said, going to show him, but he brushed her off—“Na na na, nobody brings their own feed to the Waylord’s house. Come along here, then, old lady.”
“She’s Star,” said Gry, “and he’s Branty.” At their names both horses looked round at her, and the mare whuffed.
“And it would be well if you knew what else is in the wagon,” Gry said, and there was something in her voice, though she spoke low and mild, that made even Gudit turn and listen to her.
“A cat,” she said. “Another cat. But a big one. She’s trustworthy, but not to be taken by surprise. Don’t open the wagon door, please. Memer, shall I leave her here in the wagon or shall she come with me into the house?”
When you’re lucky, press your luck. I wanted Desac to see the “circus” lion and be scared stiff “If you wish to bring her… ”
She studied me a moment.
“Best leave her here,” she said with a smile. And thinking of Ista and Sosta screaming and screeching at the sight of a lion passing byin the corridor, I knew she was right.
She followed me through the courtyards around to the front entrance. On the threshold she stopped and murmured the invocation of the guest to the housegods.
“Are your gods the same as ours?” I asked.
“The Uplands haven’t much in the way of gods. But as a traveller I’ve learned to honor and ask blessing of any gods or spirits that will grant it.”
I liked that.
“The Alds spit on our gods,” I said.
“Sailors say it’s unwise to spit into the wind,” she said.
I had brought her the long way round, wanting her to see the reception hall and the great court and the wide hallways leading to the old university rooms and galleries and the inner courts. It was all bare, unfurnished, the statues broken, the tapestries stolen, the floors unswept. I was half proud for her to see it and half bitterly ashamed.
She walked through it with wide, keen eyes. There was a wariness in her. She was easy and open, but self, contained and on the alert, like a brave animal in a strange place.
I knocked at the carved door of the back gallery and the Waylord bade us enter. Desac had gone. The Waylord stood to greet the visitor. They bowed their heads formally as they spoke their names. “Be welcome to the house of my people,” he said, and she, “My greeting to the House of Galva and its people, and my honor to the gods and ancestors of the house.”
When t
hey looked up and at each other, I saw his eyes full of curiosity and interest, and hers shining with excitement.
“You’ve come a long way to bring your greeting,” he said.
“To meet Sulter Galva the Waylord.” His face closed, like a book shutting.
“Ansul has no lords but the Alds,” he said. “I am a person without importance.”
Gry glanced at me as if for support, but I had none to give. She said to him, “Your pardon if I spoke amiss. But may I tell you what brought us to Ansul, my husband Orrec Caspro and me?”
Now at that name, he looked as utterly amazed as she had when I said his title to her.
“Caspro is here?” he said—“Orrec Caspro?” He took a deep breath. He gathered himself and spoke in his stiffest, most formal tone: “The fame of the poet runs before him. He honors our city with his presence. Memer told me that a maker is to speak in the market, place, but I did not know who it was.”
“He will recite for the Gand of the Alds too,” said Gry. “The Gand sent for my husband. But that’s not why we came to Ansul.”
The pause was a heavy one.
“We sought this house,” Gry said. “And to this house your daughter brought me—though I didn’t know she was its daughter, and she didn’t know I sought it.”
He looked at me.
“Truth,” I said. And because he still looked at me, distrustful, I said, “The gods have been with me all day. It is a day of Lero.”
That carried weight with him. He rubbed his upper lip with the first knuckle of his left hand the way he does when he’s thinking hard. Then suddenly he came to a decision, and the distrust was gone. “As you are brought in Lero’s hands, the blessing of the house is yours,” he said. “And all in it is yours. Will you sit down, Gry Barre?”
I saw that she watched the way he moved as he showed her to the claw-root chair, that she saw his crippled hands as he lowered himself into the armchair. I perched on the high stool by the table.
“As Caspros fame has come to you,” she said, “so the fame of the libraries of Ansul has come to us.”
“And your husband came here to see those libraries?”
“He seeks the nourishment of his art and his soul in books,” she said.
At that I wanted to give all my heart to her, to him.
“He must know,” the Waylord said without emotion, “that the books of Ansul were destroyed, with many of those who read them. No libraries are permitted in the city. The written word is forbidden. The word is the breath of Atth, the only god, and only by the breath may it be spoken. To entrap it in writing is blasphemy, abominable.”
I flinched, hating to hear him speak those words. He sounded as if he believed them, as if they were his own words.
Gry was silent.
He said, “I hope Orrec Caspro brought no books with him.”
“No,” she said, “he came to seek them.”
“As well seek bonfires in the sea,” he said.
She came right back, “Or milk a desert stone.”
I saw the flicker in his eyes, that almost hidden glint, when she answered with the rest of Denies’ line.
“May he come here?” she asked, quite humbly.
I wanted to shout Yes! Yes! I was shocked, ashamed, when the Waylord did not at once answer inviting him warmly to come, to be welcome. He hesitated, and then all he said was, “He is the guest of the Gand Ioratth?”
“A message came to us when we were in Urdile, saying that Ioratth, the Gand of the Alds of Ansul, would make welcome Orrec Caspro, the Gand of All Makers, if he would come and display his art. We are told that the Gand Ioratth is very fond of hearing tales and poems. As are his people. So we came. But not as his guests. He offered stabling for our horses, but not for us. His god would be offended if unbelievers came under his roof. When Orrec goes to perform for the Gand it will be outdoors, under the open sky.”
The Waylord said something in Aritan; I wasn’t sure, but I thought it was about the sky having room enough for all the stars and gods. He looked at her to see if she understood the line.
She cocked her head. “I am an ignorant woman,” she said in her mild way.
He laughed. “Hardly!”
“No, truly. My husband has taught me a little, but my own knowledge is not in words at all. My gift is to listen to those who don’t talk.”
“You walk with a lion, Memer said.”
“I do. We travel a lot, and travellers are vulnerable. After our good dog died, I looked for another guardian companion. We met with a company of nomads, tellers and musicians, who’d trapped a halflion and her cub in the desert hills south of Vadalva. They kept the mother for their shows, but sold us the cub. She’s a good companion, and trustworthy.”
“What is her name?” I asked very softly.
“Shetar.”
“Where is she now?” the Waylord asked. “In our wagon, in your stableyard.”
“I hope to see her. As I too am unburdened with belief I am free to offer you the shelter of my roof Gry Barre—you and your husband, your horses and your lion.”
She thanked him for his generosity; and he said, “The poor are rich in generosity.” Ever since she had spoken her husband’s name, his face had been alight. “Memer,” he said, “which room—?”
I’d already decided that and was calculating whether the fish could feed eight if Ista made a stew with it. “The east room,” I said.
“How about the Master’s room?”
That startled me a little, for I knew his mother had lived in that beautiful, spacious apartment, upstairs from his rooms in this oldest part of the house. Long ago when Galvamand housed the university and library of Ansul, that apartment had belonged to its head, the Master. Its unbroken, small-paned windows looked over the lower roofs of the house westward to Sul. There was a bedstead in it and nothing much else, now. But I could bring a mattress from the east room, and the chair from mine.
“I’ll lay a fire there,” I said, for I knew the unused room would be dank and cold.
The Waylord looked at me with great kindness. He said to Gry Barre, “Memer is my hands and half my head. She is not the daughter of my body, but of my house and heart. Her gods and ancestors are mine.”
I knew well that I was of the blood of Galva, but it gave me a painful joy to hear him say what he said.
“In the market,” Gry said, “a horse bolted when it saw my cat. It threw its rider and ran straight at Memer. She caught the reins and stopped and held it.”
“I’ll go get the room ready,” I said, finding praise hard to bear.
Gry excused herself and came with me, wanting to help me with the room. Once we had made up the bed and got a fire going in the hearth, it was done, and she said she’d go bring her husband here from the Harbor Market. I longed to hear him, and she saw that. “He’ll be nearly done speaking, I think,” she said, “but I’d be glad of your company. I’ll leave Shetar in the wagon. She’s fine there.” As we went out she added, “One lion is enough.”
How could I not love her?
So Gry Barre and I went afoot back down to the Harbor Market. There I first heard the maker Orrec Caspro speak.
The tent was full, and the front and sides had been raised for people to stand outside it, crowded together like trees on a mountainside, all still, listening. He was telling the tale of the Fire-Tailed Bird from Denies’ Transformations. I knew it, and older people of Ansul there knew it, but to the Ald soldiers—and there were many, all in the best places, up close to the platform in the tent—and to most of the young people, it was new, a wonder. All stood with moving lips and gazing eyes, rapt in the story-poem. Caught in it too, hearing the teller’s even, resonant voice and clear northern accent, I hardly saw him himself. I listened, and saw the story happen.
When he was done, the great crowd stood in silence for a long breath’s space, and then said, “Ah!” And then they began to applaud him, the Alds by hitting their palms together loudly, and we by crying the old pra
ise word, “Eho, eho!” I saw him then, a handsome, thin, straight, dark man, with a certain defiance in his stance up there on the dais, though he was most gracious with the crowd.
We could not get near him for a long time. “I should have brought the other lion too,” Gry said, as we tried in vain to pry through the massed backs of the soldiers and officers with their blue cloaks and their sheep hair and their swords and crossbows and bludgeons, all pressing round the speaker, who had come down among them.
When he leapt back up on the platform and scanned the crowd, Gry made her birds whistle, loud and piercing this time. At once he saw her; she nodded to our left; and a few minutes later he met us by the steps of the Customs.
Now that the soldiers had dispersed, many citizens trailed him, but they were timid, unwilling to press forward. Only one elderly man came up to him, and bowed as we bow in thanks to our gods, deeply, with open hands that hold the gift given and received. “Praise to the maker,” he whispered. He straightened up and walked swiftly away. He was in tears. He was a man who had brought books to the Waylord more than once. I didn’t know his name.
Orrec Caspro saw us and strode forward. He took both Gry’s hands for a moment. “Get me out!” he said. “Where’s Shetar?”
“At Galvamant,” she said, pronouncing the name northern-wise. “I am with Decalo’s daughter Memer of Galvamant. We’re to be guests of that house.”
His eyes widened. He greeted me courteously and asked no questions, but he looked as if he had some.
“Please excuse me,” I said on the spur of the moment, “I forgot something at the market this morning. You know the way. I’ll catch up.” And I left them. It was true that Ista would need more greens for a stew for eight.
I always wondered why the makers leave housekeeping and cooking out of their tales. Isn’t it what all the great wars and battles are fought for—so that at day’s end a family may eat together in a peaceful house? The tale tells how the Lords of Manva hunted and gathered roots and cooked their suppers while they were camped in exile in the foothills of Sul, but it doesn’t say what their wives and children were living on in their city left ruined and desolate by the enemy. They were finding food too, somehow, cleaning house and honoring the gods, the way we did in the siege and under the tyranny of the Alds. When the heroes came back from the mountain, they were welcomed with a feast. I’d like to know what the food was and how the women managed it.
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