A picture crossed his mind of every Beangh trick done twice or thrice again, and a small chuckle escaped him. "That would ruffle the fair-ward's feathers for certain; but by the Three, they would never let me hear the end of it." Faint strains of music drifted on the air, and he hummed the tune idly. Every now and again he glanced at the hyn and smiled.
Nimrod slapped the table. "You're mad, Senshal. There are those who say I am, but in the name of the Three, it's quiet, gentle Senshal who holds the title undisputed."
"Softly, softly. Lower your voice, or we may find ourselves with unwanted meddlers.” The roar of the lrna booth had lowered, and several looked toward their table with curiosity.
“I may wish to regain my two kars from those priests, perhaps with a little interest. But I don't think it wise to lose my neck doing so. This scheme of yours could get us drummed out of the fair!"
"I've bribed the outer and inner wall guards. The cousin of the inner guard wishes to sell the items once we obtain them. He's provided us with neophyte robes."
"Why not priestly robes? If someone stops us, they'll realize right away that—"
"Then you will do it!" Senshal's laugh boomed.
Nimrod leaned over the table. "Well, it would be a tale," he conceded. "And I wouldn't mind having a magical item or two. I wonder what trinkets are so powerful that they led the priests to confiscate them at the gates. How will we know what to use them for once we have them?"
Senshal winked. "We can sell them all and let the buyer beware."
"Done, then." Nimrod laid his hand deliberately in the middle of the table.
"Done, then," echoed Senshal, and laid his hand over Nimrod's.
"Softly now, here comes the goblet wench I told you of with the sight. Think of her curves or a game of snakes and bones or anything else if you will; but drop this for now. I'll meet you outside the gates at dark."
Senshal nodded and left. Yiertha approached and smiled at him. "Lrna?"
He tossed a few ithlings on the table. "Not now. But why don't you meet me at the circle?" He pulled her close to murmur, "We'll dance the Veha Mur together."
"And a few other things?"
"And a few other things indeed. Those most of all."
She grinned, and then a puzzled look replaced the grin. “What do you plan, Nimrod?"
"What we talked of."
She frowned. "No, something ... it comes and it goes."
"Someday I'll tell you . . . over a mug of lrna." He smiled and pulled a lock of her hair. "I'm looking forward to this evening— all of it."
She slipped past him and said over her shoulder, "Have a care."
"I assure you I intend to."
He met Senshal in the gathering shadows of the temple gate. The glow that lit the pathway was muted there, as though some of the lights had been purposefully dimmed. A cloaked figure waited for them at the door.
"Quick, man, put on your robe." Senshal shoved it in his hands. The two of them dressed hurriedly before stepping through the door. Nimrod had a sudden wild feeling that they had attracted all the attention of the priests. He even had the sensation that the Three were standing at his back, their unwavering gaze upon him. Shadows flickered across the courtyard and followed them in through the second gate, where they saw no guard at all.
They entered a small, narrow passageway to the left of the inner gate. A vibrant hum shattered the silence, and Nimrod froze.
"That's the choir, you fool," hissed Senshal. "All their energies will be centered on singing the feast night lays into shape. That's one of the reasons I chose tonight." He pulled out a map, flicked a finger glow, and muttered irately to himself. "Here it is. Next corridor, veer, and then take a second way to the lower level."
"Lower level? You said nothing about that! I've heard rare tales about the bowels of this temple, and I've no desire to test them."
"But now that you're here?"
Nimrod glanced back along the dimly lit corridor. He turned back to Senshal. "Now that I'm here." His tone was glum.
They reached the lower level without encountering anyone.
Senshal touched Nimrod's arm. "Be quiet, someone behind us."
They pressed up against the wall and looked in vain for a safer hiding place. Whoever was coming walked with a heavy tread. They could hear the echo of footsteps. A figure rounded the corner, and Nimrod cursed softly but fervently. "It's that thrice-blasted, double besliced hyn!"
"What do you mean?"
"I brought the imp with me from the forests in the hopes of selling it, and it's been nothing but trouble. We don't need it here; I can warrant you that!" Nimrod called, "Get out of here—or by the very—"
The hyn stared at them.
Nimrod groaned. "You damnable beast—"
A second pair of footsteps sounded farther down the ramp. The pair froze. The hyn remained unconcernedly in the center of the hall, its eyes blinking in the light of an approaching torch. The bearer's robe marked him as high priest, one who looked vaguely familiar to Nimrod. Then he recognized the choirmaster, doubtless on his way to take over the singing from his assistant. With one hand shading his eyes, the priest paused as though puzzled. Then he called out, "Who is it, who— Beangh and Senshal the cook . . . what do you here?"
The hyn shot up into the higher reaches of the corridor, hovering over the priest's head, while Nimrod and Senshal took to their heels in the direction of the upper reaches. The priest called after them.
Noise came from the direction of the choir. Nimrod beat Senshal to the upper reaches, and they both clattered into the courtyard. No place in the fair will be safe now, Nimrod thought, even though he continued to run. We'll need a rare trick even to win beyond the fair's outer gates. As though he had caught Nimrod's thought, Senshal nodded to him grimly, and the two of them doubled their speed.
They reached the temple's inner gate and were through it without a hitch. It swung closed behind them, the gate master either not quite quick enough to answer orders or giving them a chance to escape so that he wouldn't be involved in an all-too-obvious failure. Nimrod slipped on the cobbles and cursed.
"Senshal, go on."
Senshal picked up the weaver and lifted him to one shoulder. Even with the extra weight he still moved quickly. They reached the outside gate, the noise of the temple fainter now. The inner court was ominously silent. Senshal lowered Nimrod to his feet. Nimrod tested his ankle, which seemed sound. The tender of the outer gate had left it ajar, and as they looked out, they saw him taking to his heels. With a quick, puzzled glance at Senshal, Nimrod moved toward the nearest shadows.
Somehow the voice at their back was no surprise at all, almost comforting, when compared to the unknown horror they feared at the hands of the priests. "Halt there, Beangh. And Senshal. My, what company you keep. The pair of you inside the temple means no good."
'The fair-ward captain," whispered Senshal.
"We've done it now," Nimrod said.
"It's that hyn of yours that did for us, you mean," Senshal snarled. "I'll not forgive you for getting me drummed out of the fair."
"Once again," Nimrod muttered.
"Once again, and perhaps for the last time."
"I've waited for an excuse to rid the fair of you." The captain chuckled. "Wyr and Fendek, escort these gentlemen to their lodgings and encourage them to pack quickly. Then return them for the haling."
"Wyr!" Nimrod exclaimed.
"Even so." Wyr took Nimrod's arm and began to walk with him past the outer gate. "Not all of us dress to fit our positions."
"Or act the part ... at all times?" Nimrod queried softly.
Wyr's voice held only a trace of regret. "A jest and a foray into the temple are widely separate acts." He slapped the weaver on the shoulder. "No, you're well baited and hooked, my little fish, doubt it not."
They moved through the fair, crowd parting slightly for the fair-wards and casting curious glances at the two they escorted. Senshal and Nimrod looked at each other from time to
time, but it was plain that neither of them had any particular hope of escape. In order to reach their camp they had to pass by the entertainment circle, and Nimrod played idly with that thought. He had forgotten that Yiertha would be there. And, at any rate, she was as much a friend to Wyr as—
When they neared the row, the first two circles were quiet, but they could hear sounds, of some sort of fray coming from the fourth circle. Wyr curtly directed the other fair-ward ahead. He warned Nimrod and Senshal, "If this is one of your tricks, Beangh, I'll have your— We'll wait for Fendek to return."
"Mine? I've been at the temple."
Senshal flicked an expressive glance at Nimrod. Nimrod gave a bare nod. These fair-wards were not like the officers, he reflected; if the commotion gave them an opportunity, they might have a little time.
They were there for quite a while, and Fendek had not returned. Wyr gave a suspicious nod. "We'll go past the circle, but you'll not make a move without me."
The Veha Mur circle was filled with small groups rolling on the ground, women fighting women, women punching men, men punching women, and across the circle Yiertha, perched on a stump safely apart from the fray, was laughing at it all. Nimrod looked across to her in amazement. She mouthed, "The hyn," and shrugged her shoulders. Just then a woman jumped up from the ground, kicking a man to one side. Her eyes widened when she saw Nimrod.
"There he is, that limb of the devil." She ran toward Nimrod, shooting her fist out in a right jab. Nimrod ducked, and the blow fell squarely upon Wyr's chin. Nimrod and Senshal took to their heels. The weaver dashed around the circle toward Yiertha, whom he could no longer see. Senshal darted away in another direction.
Nimrod yanked Yiertha from her rock. "Come on," he said, and kept running. A priest of Thotharn brushed up against Nimrod, muttered, "You'll not wait long, Nimrod Beangh, for your reckoning," and was gone almost before what he said registered.
"What bites his ear?" Nimrod panted.
"Who knows? Perhaps your hyn has been there before you as well."
Nimrod looked back over his shoulder and saw Wyr weaving through the crowd. The fair-ward was gaining rapidly. "Why don't you leave the fair with me?"
"Leave the fair?! What have you stirred?" Then she stopped. He yanked her on. "You've brought my father's choir about your ears as well."
"Your father?" As they rounded the corner of the lrna booth, they heard the sounds of an upset cart behind and loud cursing. If she goes with me, he thought, I'll have the pleasure of good company and I'll prick those priests, or at least one of them, after all. "Later you can tell me about it. Will you go?"
"Yes," she gasped. "It will not please my father. There should be no half blood from the priesthood. He does not acknowledge me, but he would not like me from under his thumb. Are you sure you want me to go?"
"What do you mean?"
"I'm not too sure that your hyn will like it."
Nimrod shook his head impatiently and said, "Leave that to me." He pushed aside two clowns and a tinker, shouting as he passed, "Delay the ward who follows!"
Anger forgotten, they nodded and winked. Duck the nap was a game they'd played before, he thought.
“Run to the livestock section. Pack my gear. If you can, go by the stall and pick up my weaving. If not"—he shrugged—''they're lost. I hope in the confusion that they've neglected to check there. Whatever you get away with, even if nothing at all but the ceks, take that and go by the side pathway. Skirt the bravos' area. I'll look for you there. Stay with the ceks, they'll keep off unwelcome attention for a while."
"And you?" She looked at him quizzically.
"I'll divert them. I've got an idea," he shouted as he ran. He darted around the corner and ran square into his double. Nimrod's hands grabbed the hyn by instinct, and he exclaimed in triumph, "At last I've got my hands on you, you imp!"
A shout raised behind him, and he turned, holding on to the struggling hyn as it changed from man into its own form. Nimrod tucked it under his arm.
"Stay there, you beast!"
Wyr moved toward him, though Nimrod saw no look of recognition in the man's eyes. "Duck the nap!" Nimrod shouted as he jumped over a low railing and darted behind a booth. He could hear others roar with laughter and move in to intercept the fair-ward. This can't go on much longer, he thought, or the priests would locate him by noise alone. He looked up. Two priests stood in front of him, eyes searching the crowd. Yet it was as if they could not see him. The hyn— Nimrod smiled. He paused, then ducked around another nearby booth and away. Locating a path, he ran steadily now, shouting every so often as he ran, "Duck the nap!" while confusion boiled behind.
He reached the bravos' area with seconds to spare and made his way through their training center, shouting as he went. The bravos poured into the area, obviously spoiling for a fight. "A hive swarms behind me," Nimrod gasped to the first bravo who reached him. He paused to gasp for breath.
The bravo dismissed Nimrod's comment with a quick wave of the hand, as though it were too obvious to note. "What do you have under your arm?"
Nimrod looked at the hyn, whose color had dimmed to a dull gray. "A rare magical, would you purchase it?"
"What manner of magic?"
"A hyn." He reached down to rub his sore ankle.
"A hyn ..." The man's eyes widened. "Will you sell it?"
Nimrod glanced back over his shoulder, but he heard nothing yet of pursuit. "Gladly." Nimrod's tone was wry. "Fourkars?"
"Done."
"Done. I'll hand you the hyn as you hand over the money. Hold on to it tightly, or you'll regret its loss." The creature looked up at him with unblinking eyes, and Nimrod felt a twinge of guilt. "Be good to it," he whispered softly as he handed the hyn over, pocketing the coins. The creature's color flickered feebly, and it blinked its eyes.
The sounds of the chase grew louder. "Good journey, little cousin," Nimrod shouted as he entered the overgrown path, the alternate route he had spoken to Yiertha about. It was a long and twisty way. He rounded a curve in the path and stopped short as the bushes rustled. Then out stepped Yiertha, muttering to the ceks.
"I had the worst of it."
"Perhaps." He grinned, then mounted the nearest cek, tossed the tether over its neck, and drummed his heels at its sides. "Do you have the ability to ward?"
"Imperfectly."
"Better than none. Let's try the gate."
They rode rapidly through the pathway, and Nimrod clenched his teeth as the bushes whipped back against his legs. Yiertha rode on ahead, and he heard her exclaim. He kicked the cek, setting it to a bone-racking pace. When he arrived, he saw only wildly whipping bushes.
"Yiertha," he called, and heard a faint, muffled:
"Fly!"
He looked at the bushes in indecision. "Haste, fly, I’ll follow!" he heard her yelling at the cek. It had bolted, he thought. He whistled to it and heard it stop and then move back toward the path.
She caught up with him several lengths later. He glanced at her. Her hood was over her head. She looked at him impatiently and with a hint of embarrassment, then nodded for him to continue. They heard shouts from the bravo :amp. Fair-wards at the camp and fair-wards at the gate, Nimrod thought grimly.
"By the Three, I hope you can ward their sight."
She did not reply but kicked the cek. It moved ahead of him. They broke through the underbrush and were upon the gate before Nimrod realized. There were fair-wards standing by the pathway, gates open, some travelers arriving with rows of wharf carts and tumbled finery leaking from the top bundle. The fair-ward in charge was telling them to move aside, no entry at the moment; but they seemed unwilling to stop. One of the escorts pushed heatedly at the gate, and it swung wide. The entrance looked enough to scrape through. The two rode for it, lashing the ceks as they ran. The fair-wards did not seem to see them, and Nimrod called on all the saints of every religion he could remember in gratitude. He noted with relief that there was no witch or wizard in sight.
The gate fair
-ward, making a point to the escorts, stuck out his hand and struck Nimrod's arm. He shouted in surprise. Nimrod pushed by, and they were outside the gate, guards still yelling behind.
The ceks thundered off the pathway and into a side stretch of woods. They located another path and were several lengths down it before they ventured to stop.
Nimrod looked at Yiertha. "By the skin of our skin, I would say, we are free; but we're still not home."
She did not reply.
"What is the matter with your tongue?"
She looked at him and grinned. In the center of her eyes there flickered for an instant a bit of orange. Then he knew. "You—"
Words failed him. You've met your match, Nim, he thought, and kicked the sides of his cek in discontent. The hyn changed, its colors a riot of merriment. They rode along the trail in silence. The weaver gave a disgruntled laugh, then another, more honest one. He looked back at the hyn and roared.
Patting the shoulder of his cek, he began to sing, "I saw a Nim chase a hyn, fie, man, fie. I saw a Nim chase a hyn. Who's the fool now? I saw a Nim chase a hyn, far into a wicked fen. Thou hast well drunken, man, who's the fool now?"
DAY OF STRANGE FORTUNE
Carol Severance
The used-clothing dealer waved a hand in front of his ace and frowned at Eliana. "Phew, boy! You smell like rotten fish! Keep your hands off my merchandise."
"I smell of fresh fish, merchant," replied Eliana. "And f you care to hawk your wares, I advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head." She met the man's stare boldly for a moment, then returned to her inspection of the clothing pile. She ran her work-roughened hand over a woolen coat sleeve, noting that the fabric was worn thin in places.
"Dead fish," the clothes dealer muttered.
Eliana ignored him. Her hand strayed toward a soft brown cloak, lying in loose folds beneath the coat. It, too, was made of wool, but it felt like the softest of furs under her fingers. She wondered for a moment if the shopkeeper was enhancing his wares magically and ran her fingers across the soft fabric again. She could sometimes detect an illegal spell by the touch of it on her skin. But the cloak seemed to carry no taint of dishonesty. She turned back to the coat.
Norton, Andre - Anthology Page 20
