She went off into a peal of laughter that sounded very young. “A wonderful thing, my friend Belkor. So. You wish to retire from trapping and take up farming, with your charming Hulla. And rear a dozen children? A laudable ambition." She paused, as if thinking.
“If your furs equal those on your back, then they are wonderful. I shall buy them."
“All?" Belkor was stunned.
“I offer a thousand silver pieces for the entire bale. I saw the fur you traded to Emphis for that trap . . . yes, we knew what he was about, and we have faced him with it. It was a minor misdeed, compared with some he has done. But we can use those furs. And you can use the money to buy your land and house, to wed the fair Hulla. And why not begin with a ready-made child? One large enough to help? I suspect that Hulla would as lief bear eleven rather than twelve."
Belkor began to smile. More and more of his teeth came into view as he thought upon her suggestion. The thought of turning his captive over to someone else had begun to bother him a great deal, and here she had removed that necessity.
“It sounds . . . possible. If Haral agrees."
Haral stared at them both, alternately, as the proposition was put into simple words for him. But he did agree, enthusiastically. His tall, furry friend had been his choice from the first.
Belkor turned to go . . . then he looked back. “You truly think that Hulla will like this?" he asked, his tone doubtful.
“Hulla came to the fairing two years ago. She is one I let while attending to a task in hand. She will agree. Take dy word for that."
Belkor straightened his shoulders and reached down for he small hand. Haral caught hold and held on.
Together, the trapper and his son, the demon, walked way into the fair. There was much to do before they could go forth to find their new life and their new trade.
Belkor had a strange feeling that, behind him, Andrell vas smiling.
TRAVE
Shirley Meier
Trave's booth was the third to be vandalized in as many days. She stood in the wreckage and wondered where to j begin.
"Dorven, I thought that this is what I paid all those temple taxes to prevent." She looked up at the fair-ward leaning on his bronze-bound staff, the wind blowing his blond hair into his face. The man reminded her of his sister, lady of EastHold, south and east on the edge of the swamp that lay many days' travel away from the Fair at Ithkar. Nervously he swept a hand through his hair, holding it clear of his eyes.
"Trave, you know we're doing our best. Marjalene and Coutou both had trouble."
"Yes, but . . ." She bent over and picked up the shredded remains of what had been one of her better pieces. Instead of floating gently above her hand, it hung limp, dragged down by the weight of dirt ground into it. The destruction was both thorough and vindictive. Even the racks of windforms had been wrenched open, each bit of cloth torn carefully in half.
The slight figure drooped within the folds of the voluminous cloak she wore, and for a moment even the bright wash of color that showed her status as a weaver seemed dull. The acid taste of the destruction trapped her. For a second the fear and suspicion caged her, tied her to the ground, and she struggled to slow the hammering of her heart. Their fear of her did this. Fear of her. And her kind.
"Dorven, you know as well as I that a few knife marks on the outside of a locked booth, and this"—she swept a hand around at the splintered wood and torn cloth; no two bits joined together—"have no comparison.''
The hand was only exposed for a second before it disappeared back into the robe. I should be used to them, Dorven thought, but I'm not. EastHold should never have allied with them. Against us . . . He cut the thought off and looked down at Trave, who barely came to his shoulder, blond hair cut in a short fuzz over her skull and enormous green eyes set into the triangular face. Not womanly at all, he thought, but still a friend, or at least not an enemy. He shifted uncomfortably.
Trave looked up at him dithering and realized that he could, after all, do nothing except listen to her complaint and try to find the vandal. Not thief, for nothing was gone. The sun was warm on her back, and she fought off the drowsiness that the heat brought on.
"Go on," she said. "You've heard me out, and that's all you're required to do. You'd better find the criminal, or I'll take you instead."
He laughed at the idea that this tiny creature could touch him and left, angling toward his patrol area along cooks' row. She sniffed and choked slightly at the odor of cooked meat drifting from that direction as she began to try salvaging something. A shame to spoil good meat like that, she thought irrelevantly.
In the bright, noisy air of the Fair at Ithkar the destruction was wrong, a sour note in a piper's song. To the right and toward the river Ith dust hung heavy, shuffled into the air by the penned horses, cattle, draft beasts, performing animals, and the people around the enclosures, haggling.
She stood a second, the torn weaving still hanging from her hand, looking up into the rustle of the maple tree her booth had stood under and wishing she wasn't here. She had been lucky to get this spot, in the second ring outside the Temple of the Three Lordly Ones, shaded by that tree. Trave laughed at herself, bitterly. The space was not the problem, not with temple taxes paid. With nothing to sell from that space, she was ruined.
It was darkening rapidly, the twilight taking on a dusty rose tone that muffled edges. This close to the end of the summer the heat was still thick enough to cut, especially at the end of the day, but cooler breezes were making themselves felt. The night would be cold. Trave leaned her head back against the tree, listening to the sounds of the animals settling for sleep. The wreckage had been cleared away, and the remnants of her wares bundled together into a surprisingly small case. A vagrant wind off the Ith ruffled her plush hair, bringing with it the smell of mud, reeds, tar, and new wood from the docks. What a lovely form to weave, she thought.
She looked around quickly at the food and beverage stands that were already brightly torch lit, catering to early celebrants. No one seemed to be near enough to see her in the shadows under the tree. Perhaps she could indulge herself in a small freedom that traveling among humans denied her.
She reached out and caught the breeze in one three-fingered hand, snapping it up and around the other fingers, as a human child plays with string. She breathed between her hands and watched, feeling joy in simply seeing it happen, even now when her attempt to begin trade was in shambles.
A faint strand glistened between her hands, then a second, third; faster and faster like frost-on-water or glass. Deep green for river depth, milder greens for reeds and plants, brown and warm blacks and blues for water, mud, and sunlight. A tiny image hung in the air over her hand, floating there with streamers gently writhing in the next wind to rise from the river. The small Maesim would continue to grow and gain texture, feeling, and, very slowly, size every time a wind from the river struck it into motion. At the upper range of her hearing she heard the quiet bubble of a river and smiled.
A human weaver could never replace or repair weavings so thoroughly torn; not cloth. But could the shape of the wind ever truly be changed? Perhaps I can salvage more than anyone believes, Trave thought, and stretched slowly as she got up, opposite arm and leg, feeling herself start to wake up and put some snap into her movements. I have all night, she thought. But I'd best sleep some if I want to stay awake all day.
Next morning Trave sat under the tree again, dozing slightly as the day began. She squinted her eyes against the brightness and pretended to ignore the whispered speculation from booths around her.
"Child!" she called. "Don't touch! In fact, go away and take your brother with you." The children had been hanging about all morning, trying her patience sorely.
In the clear morning air, her wares floated, tethered to branches, small stakes in the ground, and the open latticework of wood that had replaced the small, closed-in booth: lengths of bright cloth that never stopped moving even in still air. She had restored her goods.
Trave lowered her head to shade her eyes with the edge of her hood when she heard the footsteps stop in front of her. The muffled sputtering was something she had expected. Without looking up, she said, "Did you just repeat your offer, Twill? I couldn't hear that."
The man standing before her booth area was small and dark, weasly thin and nervous, a slight tremor in his hands. "There, there was talk of trouble. They said you needed help."
"They?" Sarcastically polite, she continued, "Not your help, thank you."
"But . . . this is still indecent! Spinning is acceptable for women, but weaving? No, this is an abomination of . . ."
"Of the craft and dignity and pompous, overblown self-importance of the master weaver of Riuff. The only weaver that the master of guild here in Ithkar refused to see." She matched his tone exactly, mockingly. "Is that why Marjalene's stock was also destroyed?"
"Coutou of my own clan was also attacked," Twill said huffily. "His wares suffered most grievous damage. Do you accuse me of crime, Trave?" The whiny voice suddenly smooth. False accusations were a serious thing.
"Naturally not. It just seems that Coutou's best was sold all on the first day. Strange, wouldn't you say?" She allowed one corner of her mouth to twitch upward slightly, but the face she lifted toward the master weaver was solemn. She gave respect only to the master's black that edged his robes. The man himself she despised.
A dark flush was creeping up Twill's neck. "You say you do not accuse me. Well, I accuse you. Magic to enhance shoddy wares is forbidden. And any woman must resort to magic, therefore." With that he turned and stalked away. She called after him, angry rather than contemptuous.
"I will not spin to your weaving, Twill. No matter what you do!" She spun around. "And I told you children to go away
She was shaking, but not from anger alone, and struggling to control her threat reaction, holding her arms in close, tensely. The man always affected her like that. He had the gall to offer to buy thread from her and weave it into something decent! To be allowed the great honor of having her thread purchased, she would have had to become part of his guild/clan and subject to his control. She smoothed her fur down surreptitiously under her cloak. At least on her face and hands it was thin enough not to invite comment, unless it was bristled out.
She looked around at her Maesim-na, windforms that billowed out to create illusionary walls, and realized that her other venture had to be begun now, before Twill could cause trouble. But there was no one to watch and sell during the day. She cursed herself and wished she had been able to talk the Ancients into risking another Younger of the Iystria-khym. Lack of funds and time fenced her close, and her arms kept wanting to spread.
The ragged girl peered timidly around the edge of one of the hangings, her dirty brown hair brushing the head of her brother, who peeked out below. Trave opened her mouth to chase them away again when a thought struck her, and she chuckled. The Ancients wanted some human contact? Well . . . "Come here, girl. I want to talk to you."
“Trave Iystrian. You have been formally accused of using magic to enhance poor work by one Master Weaver Twill Sluagh-Cland of Riuff."
The wizard's voice was brisk and businesslike, but there was an undertone of curiosity in it. Trave looked at the young man flanked by a fair-ward escort, accompanied by the accuser Twill, who was doing his best to be unnoticed. He was having trouble keeping the smirk off his face as he thought of the fine that would be imposed on her, making his offer her only way out. Gloat, you offspring of a diseased squirrel, she thought.
"Wisdom, my goods and keeping are yours to inspect. Freely and without let. If good Master Twill would also care to inspect? I have nothing to hide."
She stepped back to allow the wizard access to her wares, bumping into Sayonda, whose hair was now clean and neatly tied back. The dirty, ragged caravan follower had cleaned up nicely, as had her brother, Nairn.
"Trave, are you crazy? If you just let him look, he'll confiscate it all!" she hissed in Trave's ear.
"Hush," she whispered back, "let Atad judge as he is supposed to. Any wrongdoing of mine is just in Twill's head. Besides, I could afford to be the injured party ..."
The wizard had stepped forward and begun to inspect her wares. They were mostly hangings meant to be displayed in the gardens and conservatories of those who could afford them, with smaller ones for indoors: luxury items. There were tiny ones as well that almost anyone could afford.
They weren't strictly lengths of cloth because each one had its own shape, some long and coiling, others compact with feathery edges that fluttered slowly in the sunshine. Colors blended seamlessly in swirling patterns that suggested people, things, images that whispered and spoke with voices and sounds just under the edge of hearing.
The wizard inspected several with care, then moved to the center of the display, closed his eyes, and concentrated on the hands he spread to either side. There was an itchy feel in the air, a reaching, seeking feeling like a man searching in the dark with outstretched hands. Trave blinked as it went away, smoothly like the outsurge of a wave, as the wizard dropped his hands. His face was grim.
“There is crime here." He turned to Twill, who hastily wiped the smile of triumph off his face. ''Master Weaver, I find against you for false accusation and insult. The good journeyman's wares are untainted. The fine is the value of"—he looked around—"that work, to Journeyman Trave, and two ounces of silver, to the temple."
Twill, who had had his eyes on Trave in anticipation of her plight, sagged in shock, and his mouth dropped open. "But, but, this, but I, but—"
"Fair-ward, escort the master to the temple to record payment of his fine." As the three left, the wizard turned to Trave and smiled, suddenly looking much less formidable. "I wish I could make him apologize as well, but envy speaks falsely, whatever it says."
She smiled back. "No need, Wisdom. I know several such folk. You approve, then, of my work?" she continued.
He laughed. "I wish I knew how you did it, almost as much as the master of Riuff. But the fact that they are magical as opposed to being enhanced by magic doesn't make the method clear to me!" He reached out a finger to a green-blue hanging that needed the tether spot or it would have blown away in the wind of people passing by. "This one makes me think of late spring, just after rain." For a second his eyes looked far into his own past. "I can almost hear the drip of water from the trees in the garden, and birdsong." One of the tendrils blew across his face, catching a moment on his short, dark beard. He started and came to himself, becoming formal once again.
"Journeyman, I bid you good day," he said, and strode off into the crowd.
Trave turned to the girl child. "See, Sayonda? My gamble paid off."
The girl sniffed more like an old woman than a child of some twelve years. "But you weren't sure." She rubbed her hands against the new smock she wore. "That's why you sent Nairn around to the blacksmith's booth by the fountain so early."
"Yes," was all Trave replied. "Now I can talk to the smith since you've learned so quickly." She pulled her elbows in close. "Bundle the blue hanging and send it to His Wisdom, Atad. I can afford to gift him with spring."
"But, isn't that ..."
"Unwise? Yes. But no one can falsely accuse me of bribery if there is no name on the gift. Don't argue, child!" Ironically, the girl was probably only a few years younger than she was; Trave wondered what it would be like to live as long as humans did.
She watched as Sayonda took down the blue Maesim and began to wrap it. She had indeed learned quickly. Perhaps she could even learn Trave's weaving, if any human could. "I'll be back in a while, Say, and I'll bring Nairn with me. If the business goes well, we can close up early and attend a performance of some kind." She turned away, missing the smile Sayonda threw at her back.
Trave had been outraged at first when she'd discovered that no one cared about the children. The clerk who had made up the papers had even said, quite casually, that any city or gathering had lost children, an
d why should Ithkar be different? Then she had had to think of all the Youngers who didn't come back to the Iystria, and many more that never lived to become Ancients.
Trave dodged around a family deciding where to go next, the one boy tugging in one direction while his brother clung to his mother's skirts, thumb firmly in his mouth, eyes wide. Well, she thought, every kind has its own method of culling.
The air was full of the smells of cooking, sweets, hot people, dust, and here, deeper in the craft quarter, oil, smoke, glues, resins, and other odorous things. Some craftsmen continued their work at the fair, taking orders rather than bringing stock complete. Several rows over she could hear the clangor of hammer blows on metal, and she knew that Nairn, deafened but still fascinated, would be standing as close as the smith would let him.
The first time she had felt secure in leaving his sister to manage her booth and had gone to give the smith a commission, the boy had been at her elbow, at least at first. When she'd looked around for him he had been standing by an apprentice watching intently as a window grill had formed out of raw metal, oblivious to the sparks burning pinholes in his tunic.
The odor of hot metal welled out around her, making her sneeze as she stepped into the shop. Erythan was settling an account with one of his customers, listening to the scribe's recounting of the bill, when she entered.
"Good day to you, Mistress Carine, the harness fittings will be delivered to the tanner today. Jodai, see the lady out. Still not used to it, Trave? You should be, considering how often you've been here over the last few days. Worse than a rooster with too many hens!"
The smith rose and followed his comment to Trave across the shop to where she stood. As the man's bulk loomed over I her, Trave was again glad that this man was her friend, at I least as much a friend as a fairing could make him.
Norton, Andre - Anthology Page 13
