All at once Roswitha had an idea. Rounding the wagon wheel that had hidden her, she scrambled up the ladder to the tiring room and braced herself, panting, in the door frame, just as the nooning bell began to toll from the bell tower of the temple. A comforting pulse of warmth from the broadside in her bosom lent her courage as she dropped a curtsy to the thunder-browed thespian. "Dame Alyson, it's I, the bookworm, and I've come to help you set the Lady apurring."
The temple bell had tolled twice more, and such of the inhabitants of KTthholme-World as were gathered in the orraree of the fairgrounds had witnessed the arrival, visitation, and departure of the Three Lordly Ones once again. Now a small figure in a blue priestess's robe, its face hidden in the shadows of a deep-cowled hood, stepped forth from the curtain. Approaching the statue of Lady Alimar (as presented by the good Dame Alyson, seated stock still in trumpery crown and gown and holding stylus, book, and— between these—a remarkably authentic-looking figurine of a cat), the stage religious made a deep obeisance; then, turning to the audience, she opened a parchment pressboard and prepared to speak. The onlookers shifted restively—with the Three Lordly Ones gone, the magic, for many, was already beginning to fade—so the general thought was, Let her speak the moral and we'll to dinner! Merchant Shallocq and the false friar, watching from the fore of the crowd, felt the weird compulsion that had held them there begin to ease, and they, too, were of their fellow audience members' inclination. So, even, were the fair-wards and the wizards who had been summoned to the orraree by the triggering of the ward-rope alarm.
Until the "priestess" began to sing.
Beneath its borrowed habit, Roswitha's body was cold with terror, in stark contrast to the illuminated sheet of verse she held, which throbbed with such a potent secret fire that the scholar feared the very gold would run molten from its letters. What must I do, she shouted silently, and what will happen when I've done it? What if nothing happens? What if—?
But as she framed her fears, the heartlike pulse of the parchment slowed, steadying and deepening into a drumbeat rhythm. The girl lifted one foot, then the other, and stepped forward, to stand between the crowd and the "Lady," a moon eclipsing—but only momentarily—a star. Then her steps found the beat and her voice a tune, and the spell took her.
West by light
Would we fare— East by night
Should we dare— Otherwhen, Otherwhere,
Morn- or even-tiding,
We shall find thy biding.
All that lives
Dwells thy slave: That which strives
Manly brave; Cleaves the air, carves the wave;
Fur, fin, flesh, we own thee,
In our hearts enthrone thee.
High and low
Have thee prayed: Hearing, know—
Knowing, aid! For this ruth, mystic maid,
Shall thy praise be spoken,
Raised in song unbroken.
chorus: Hail to thee, bright Star, Lady Alimar: Hail to thee, fair and free, We thy servants are.
Three verses Roswitha sang, dancing one circle round the Lady for each, and pausing on the chorus to stand facing outward to north, to south, to east, and, as the final notes swelled in her throat to a triumphant cry and she raised the parchment into the air and flung back her head, to west, her starting place—before the thief and his fence. As she lowered her arms and raised her head, her hood fell back, and she met Shallocq's stare eye to eye. For a moment he stood dumbfounded; then, recovering his wits, he bellowed, 'There she is—that's the thief—and there's the temple cat!" In the friar's hand a dirk of dead-black metal, pommeled by a mask of dead black that smiled and smiled, materialized, and in one fluid motion he threw it, straight at Roswitha's heart.
Instinctively the girl raised the broadside board to shield her breast, but the dagger never reached its mark. As soon as it passed over the circle she had described in her dance, a wall of blue radiance shot up from the ground around the circle's entire perimeter. The blade was swallowed like the swamp-taken city of Eld, and Roswitha and the heroic Alyson were enclosed in a breastwork of azurine light—the hue of S'a-Muse eyes.
Desperate but undaunted, the merchant and the demon worshiper launched themselves at the barrier, Thotharn's devotee shrieking wildly to the Dark Lord for aid. Answered he was, but by the Lady, not the Lord. A starfire nimbus enveloped the figurine of the cat, and forth from the jewel-bright eyes leaped twin beams of blinding blue force. The lances struck Shallocq and his cohort, transfixing them. Their bodies blazed up in a soundless holocaust, and an instant later they were gone as though they had never been.
For the first—and last—time in her life, Roswitha fainted.
The little clerk returned to consciousness under the brusque ministrations of Lady Alyson. She found herself lying on a pile of costumes in the show wagon, a quintain beneath her head and a wet and exceedingly unfragrant sock draped over her brow. Bending above her were three men: a priest of the temple, a fair-ward, and a wizard. She struggled to sit up, and Alyson moved in, twitching away the compress and rearranging the priestess's costume about the girl's shoulders. The troupemistress's face was triumphant, and as she placed the precious cat statuette in the hands of her stage protegee, she gave that individual a resounding smack. Curtsying boldly to the trio of officials, the quondam goddess hefted her never-heavier cashbox and, to its golden-tongued gabble, jigged from the room, loudly humming 4 'How Pleasant It Is to Have Money, Heigh-Ho!"
Roswitha could not suppress a smile at this impromptu performance, but her laughter died on her lips as she met the solemn gazes of the rest of the audience. Her friend's fortune was assured, yes—but what of her own?
Feeling small and vulnerable, but determined not to reveal her fear, the girl straightened her shoulders and met the eyes of the officials squarely. She tightened her fingers around the figurine and felt its plump coolness solid and comforting as a well-filled waterskin to a traveler daring the Sere.
“I'm for the dungeon now, sirs, and well I know it— you'd hale me in for murder if not for magic—but the Lady be my witness I did none of these things o'purpose. I was led by some power—though I doubt one can be led fax where he does not inwardly wish to go, and I'm sure you'll say the same. Ah, well." Here the girl sighed, looking less like a victorious wise-woman wielding a mighty artifact than an erring child sent to bed with a comforting plaything. "As long as I can take my book."
The three officials exchanged glances; then the fair wizard (who looked so much like a fairy wizard with his curling gray beard that Roswitha felt a little heartened in spite of herself) smiled and chuckled.
“Spoken like a true scholar!" he said, nodding approvingly. "Be easy, girl, you'd not be sent to any torture chamber even if we had one. But it's just as certain"—his expression grew grave once more—"that we cannot have you roaming about the fair, much less the country, using so much power unchanneled and unchecked. So I believe a period of confinement is called for—in the temple, where you may learn the proper use of your psychic talent and employ your scholastic one to codify the works in the archives which deal with the Lady. What do you say?"
Truly this was a fairy godfather! "When?" Roswitha gasped out almost before the magestreet had finished.
Now all the men laughed aloud. "At once," replied the wizard, "or as soon as we can summon a carry chair for you, Lady's lady. Rest here until we return." The trio arose and passed down the ramp of the show wagon, to disappear into the still considerable crowd at its base.
Left alone, the little cleric laughed, too. On a whimsical impulse, she swung the figurine above her head and, holding it face toward her, gave it an enormous wink. A moment later she was frowning. Why did the statuette's one eye suddenly seem obscured? A smudge of Dame Alyson's greasepaint, perhaps—Lords knew she'd been wearing enough—that was it, surely. Roswitha set the cat on the floor in a sunbeam and groped for her sock compress to use as a cleaning rag. When she turned back, however, both the creature's eyes shone as vividl
y as before. An uncanny suspicion crossed her mind, but she dismissed it roughly. No, now really—
But even as the girl watched, the entire process was repeated, unmistakably and undeniably, in the middle of the spotlight.
Roswitha began to laugh. She was still laughing when the fair officials returned a short time later to escort her to the temple. After all, unknown scholars simply were not given coveted appointments to the finest archive of learning in the land— —any more than stone cats winked.
THE TALISMAN
Timothy Zahn
Ithkar Fair had been in full voice for three days by the time Arnis arrived, and as he made his way gingerly through the jostling crowds it occurred to him that right here was the most hazardous part of his whole journey. One careless elbow—one midafternoon drunkard stumbling into him—and he could lose an entire year's work. A year's work, and Torren's life, all gone like dew. Clutching his pack gently to his chest, his elbows spread to give it what protection he could, Arnis wended his way through the gauntlet.
It was a long way to the fair's inner court, but the Three Lordly Ones were kind, and he made it without incident. Senta, as expected, was already set up in their booth; and from the looks of the men studying her display of bone carvings, she was indeed attracting the right kind of customer. Two nobles and a priest, by their garb: the kind of customers who paid in gold. And with enough gold, nearly anything was possible . . . even the healing of a small boy.
“Arnis!" Senta smiled in greeting as he rounded one final clump of passersby and set his pack down on a comer of the display table with a quiet sigh of relief. "I was beginning to wonder if you wouldn't be coming this year."
"I was delayed," he told her. "Torren was . . . ill."
"Oh." Her mouth twisted slightly. "The Death Swamp again?"
One of the nobles studying the display spoke up before Arnis could answer. "Ah—you're that Arnis? The one with strange bone carvings?"
"I am, my lord," Arnis said, and bowed. Undoing his pack, he began pulling out his own wares and setting them out beside Senta's.
They were not the finest carvings in the world—Arnis would be the first to admit that. His hands lacked the delicacy, the gift for exquisite detail, that marked the difference between the adequate and the truly masterful. Senta's carvings were the latter: animals and flowers that looked as if they'd once been- alive; miniature castles and statuettes that might easily have been the actual items shrunk by magic. Next to those, Arnis's work appeared almost like the lessons of an apprentice.
But appearance was not everything . . . and it was for things unseen that people valued Amis's simpler work.
The noble leaned over for a closer look, gestured to a carving of a drala fruit. "What does this one do?"
Arnis picked it up, feeling the familiar tingle as he did so, and handed it to the noble. "Place it in your cupped palm, my lord," he instructed, "and think of a melody."
The other pursed his lips . . . and suddenly music could be heard, delicate tones sounding as if played on tuned bells. The carving played for nearly a minute, as all three customers and Senta looked on in fascination. Then it stopped, its final note lingering like perfume for the ears before fading into silence.
Senta was the first to speak. "Beautiful," she whispered.
"Indeed," agreed the second noble. "Highly practical as well. With this, one could dispense almost entirely with bards and musicians."
"Only if one would be content with tunes already known," the first said doubtfully. "How much, craftsman Arnis?"
'Ten gold pieces, my lord," Arnis said, daring to quote an almost unreasonable price.
The noble didn't flinch. "You ask a great deal for what is minor magic."
“True, my lord; but the power is fixed within the carving and will not fade with time. The bone came from the Death Swamp, where many strange magics exist."
"Yes, I had heard." Carefully, the noble returned the drala to its place on the table. "I shall consider it," he said, and with a final look at the entire display moved on.
The second noble and the priest also left a minute later. "Don't worry—that one will sell for the full ten golds," Senta said. "I'd buy it myself if I had the money. You were telling me about Torren. What's happened to him?"
Arnis shrugged as casually as possible. No sense in Senta worrying, too. "Oh, you know him—he thinks journeying into the Death Swamp twice a year is weighing too heavily on me."
"He's right," she put in. "Each year when you come to Ithkar your face is lined evermore deeply. So Torren took it upon himself to bring you new bones?"
Arnis closed his eyes briefly, covering the sudden moisture there. "Yes. Against my wishes and command."
Senta smiled sadly. "He's a good son."
"But he's only ten. The Death Swamp is no place for him, even on the safe routes I know."
She was silent a long moment, and Arnis resumed his unpacking. He had just twelve items in all: eleven carvings, plus—
"A carving of an egg!” Senta asked in astonishment.
"It's not a carving," he said, handing it to her. "No, don't worry—it won't break. In fact, I ruined two knives trying to mark its surface."
She turned it over in her hands. "Just like a large goose's egg, except heavier. Is it stone?"
"I don't know. It feels more like metal, but I don't know." He hesitated. "Torren found it on his last trip into the swamp."
“Then it must have magic in it."
"Perhaps. I brought it in hopes of finding a wizard who could unlock any secrets it might have."
A richly dressed couple paused at the booth, and Senta turned her attention to them. To unlock its secrets, Arnis added silently to himself, and perhaps purchase it at a high enough price to buy healing for my son.
And if there is indeed nothing of value to it? Sternly, he pushed that thought from his mind. If not, then Torren would probably not survive another month.
Heart aching with his private pain, Arnis began arranging his precious carvings on the table as attractively as possible.
It was four days later, and three of the carvings had been sold, when someone finally took an interest in the egg.
"Craftsman; craftslady ..." He nodded to Arnis and Senta in turn. "I understand you have enchanted articles for sale here."
"That is true, my lord," Arnis said, giving the other's garb the benefit of the doubt. A minor noble at best; more likely a well-off merchant. Still, someone with money to spare. "These carvings before me have been made from bone from the Death Swamp—"
"Yes, I've heard," the other interrupted. "What do they do?"
"This one plays any tune you can think of; this one appears to frighten off wild animals ..." Arnis went through the short list, throwing surreptitious glances at the customer's face as he did so. Something about the man seemed oddly familiar . . . disturbingly familiar, in fact. Should he know his name? He hoped not—the last thing he could afford was to offend a potential buyer.
He finished his recitation, and the other nodded. "I see. Not exactly the sort of thing I was looking for, though. Can you carve pieces to order?"
"I can carve any shape you wish, my lord, but the magical qualities are affected only slightly by my work." Arnis shrugged. "As it is, each bone's magical power is different, and I must discover it through trial and error."
"Hmm." The man pointed at the egg. "You didn't include this in your listing."
"That one is no work of mine, my lord. It is just as it was found in the swamp. I had hoped later for the time to find a wizard and ask his opinion of it."
The other picked up the egg, hefted it once, then peered closely at its surface. "Perhaps I can help you," he said slowly. "I have some small knowledge of magic myself." He looked at Arnis, then Senta, as if measuring them. "There are spells to read such enchanted items."
"I've heard of such spells," Arnis said carefully. "But I have little money to spare."
"What, with the prices you are surely charging fo
r these baubles?" The other snorted.
"My son is gravely ill." Arnis sighed. "None of the healers near us can help him. I need gold—a great deal of gold—if I am to hire a master wizard who can save him. I don't suppose you might be such a one? ..."
"My skills lie in other areas." The wizard regarded Arnis thoughtfully, fingering the egg all the while. "But I'll strike a deal with you, craftsman. I'll attempt to draw out its secrets for you. If its powers are small or worthless, there will be no fee for my services. Otherwise, I will take a tenth of the price you are able to sell it for. Agreed?"
"Agreed," Arnis said promptly. A tenth was a reasonable price; and as matters stood now, the egg was worth nothing at all.
"Good. Tonight, then, outside the fairgrounds by the river." He replaced the egg on the table and turned to go.
"Wait! Outside the fairgrounds?"
The wizard half turned back. "Spells of such power are forbidden inside the enclosure. Tonight, an hour past sundown."
And he was gone. Senta took a long hissing breath, her eyes following to where he had disappeared into the crowd. "I don't like it, Arnis," she said. ''Outside the protection of the fair, what's to keep him from just stealing it from you?"
"Come on—he doesn't even know whether it's worth stealing yet," Arnis scoffed ... but the same thought had occurred to him.
"I don't trust him," she continued as if he hadn't spoken. "You notice he never gave his name—and yet, he looked like someone I should know."
"Maybe he passed the booth once five years ago or something," Arnis said impatiently. "What does it matter?"
Senta turned to face him. "You didn't tell me Torren was that ill," she said in a gentler tone, her face softening. "Perhaps one of the temple heal-alls—"
Norton, Andre - Anthology Page 24
