"What do you mean?" Arnis called back. "I haven't done anything—"
"Don' gi' m' that! Jus' look at this." The toolmaker held up a thick piece of wood and a heavy knife, the edge of which glowed visibly even in broad daylight. Gripping the haft loosely between thumb and forefinger, he let the blade swing down into the end of the wood—
Slicing a piece cleanly off without the blade even slowing.
Arnis jerked back as the end clunked onto the table near him. "How'm I s'posed t' sell someti'n like this?" the toolmaker shouted, waving the knife at Arnis. "Ay? How's th' buyer s'posed t' use it—how's he even t' get it home? Ay?"
"Believe me, I had nothing to do with this," Arnis protested. "Maybe the wizard who sharpened your blades made a mista—"
"You're tryin' t' get me thrown out, aren't you? For usin' unallowed magic. Who hired you—that swine Grezel? Well, he's not gon' get away with it." He waved suddenly with the knife. "Ay! Fair-ward!"
Arnis turned to see a smoke-smudged fair-ward pushing his way through the dispersing knot of people around what was left of the fire. "Ay! Fair-ward!" the toolmaker called again.
"What is it?" the fair-ward growled as he reached the table.
"This wizard's bewitched m' stock." He demonstrated with the knife.
The fair-ward turned baleful eyes on Arnis. "Well?" he challenged.
"I've done nothing," Arnis told him. "I just sat down here—"
"And I suppose you had naught to do with that!" the other interrupted, jerking a thumb toward the charred table.
"Of course not." Though it was his talisman Dukker had used, Arnis realized uncomfortably. Without permission, certainly ... but might that still make him an accomplice under fair-law? He had no idea. Best not to mention it at all.
Perhaps the fair-ward caught a reflection of that thought in Arnis's face, or perhaps the trouble at the armorer's booth had left him in a foul mood. Whichever, the words were hardly out of Amis's mouth before he was hauled bodily to his feet, the bronze tip of the fair-ward's staff coming to rest against his throat in emphasis. "Pure as the Three Lordly Ones' sheep, are you?" the fair-ward snarled. "Well, you can tell your story at the temple. You—give me that knife for evidence."
And a moment later Arnis found himself being pulled toward the temple. The temple, and prison.
The red skies of early dawn were just beginning to give way to clearer light, but already several of the cookshops were open for business, their customers the early risers of neighboring booths and a handful of those hardier souls who had not yet sought their bedrolls from the night before. Gazing at the nearly empty aisles, Klon the fair-ward leaned on his staff and inhaled the good aromas. His stomach rumbled, reminding him it had been a long night and that he hadn't eaten since sundown. He was just deciding which of the cookshops smelled the best when a man in a green cloak stepped around the corner ahead and walked purposefully toward him.
Klon straightened up and watched the other come. His face—unknown, but an echo of times long past. Picking up his staff, Klon held it in ready position and waited.
The other stopped five yards before him. "Greetings, Klon," he said coolly. "You should know that you are even now seeing your last sunrise."
Klon pursed his lips. "I've been told that many times before."
"But not by me. Else it would have come true."
"Perhaps. Is this where your promise to return for vengeance comes true?"
Dukker smiled, a snakelike expression. "You remember me. Excellent. I wouldn't have you die in such agony without knowing why."
Klon swallowed the lump that had suddenly appeared in his throat. "I would have expected you to choose a time when more would witness your triumph," he said.
Dukker snorted. "And allow you a panic-stricken mob of cattle to escape into? I showed the rabble my power yesterday; I need not repeat that. They will have opportunity enough to see me when I am ruler of Ithkar and all the lands around it."
"You?" Klon scoffed. "There are more powerful wizards than you right here in the temple, let alone in the courts of the nobles."
"So they believe as well. They will soon learn differently."
There was a moment of silence. "What do you intend?" Klon asked at last.
"Oh, I had planned a scheme of remarkable subtlety." Dukker shrugged. "One which would have left you dead with fair-law unable to touch me. But all that is unnecessary now." Reaching into his tunic, the wizard produced an egg-shaped object. He squeezed on both ends, and it opened to emit a strange light—
And abruptly music filled the air. Music like the ringing of tuned bells, filling the aisles and booths, causing the cooks and buyers to turn in wonderment.
And at that signal eight more fair-wards stepped quietly from their concealment within and between the booths to form a circle about the wizard.
Dukker's startled expression changed quickly to one of contempt. "So—the woman bone carver recalled my name and went to you, did she?" he called over the tinkling music. "It means merely that in your death you shall have company."
"You are a fool, Dukker," Klon said flatly. "You claim to be wise, yet you cannot see beyond your own nose." Reaching to a pocket, he carefully removed the source of the music still filling the air: a small carving of a drala fruit Arnis had lent him. A carving whose magic depended on it being held in a hand . . . usually.
Dukker stared at the carving . . . and suddenly his eyes blazed with understanding. Without warning he snapped his hands outward to send a roiling stream of flame at Klon's chest—
The ward spell placed upon him by the priests in the temple absorbed the fire without effort. Another death spell flashed through the air, and another, and another . . . and each time the ward spell, strengthened by the ampli-fire in Dukker's hand, held fast. "A fool, wizard," Klon repeated, "and a blasphemer of the Three as well. Not even a god makes war with a talisman that adds to his enemy's spells at the same time it strengthens his own." Raising his staff, he gave the signal.
Dukker shrieked, whether in fury or fear Klon didn't know. Staves held ready before them, their own ward spells glittering against the wizard's attacks, the fair-wards moved in.
Senta watched the party wend its way through the crowds until they were lost to sight. Then, with a tired sigh, she walked back down the short aisle to her booth.
The old priest who'd volunteered to watch it for her looked up as she approached. His eyes searched her face, perhaps mistaking her tiredness for worry. "He'll be all right," he told her, patting her hand. "With a wizard, a heal-all, and three fair-wards along, no bandits would dare accost him."
"I know." She nodded. "You'll have more to fear in that regard once the ampli-fire is returned to the temple."
The priest shrugged, "Ii will be safer here than Arnis could possibly keep it. And its powers more fruitfully used, as well."
Again she nodded. It was fitting, after all, for the talisman of the Three to reside in their temple. And while the j price for its use would be high, the poor who needed its j power for healing would be cured without charge. It had been the only part of the arrangement Arnis would not barter with, despite opposition from the greedier of the temple's bargainers.
The priest cleared his throat. "I take it you'll be joining him once the fair is ended?"
"No," she said, thoughts elsewhere.
"No?" He frowned. "But I thought—surely the yearly fee for the ampli-fire is adequate for him to take—" He broke off abruptly.
Senta's mind came back. "To take a wife? Why, certainly, my lord. But at my home, not his. We've already decided the region of the Death Swamp is no place to raise a family. When the fair is over, he and his son will be joining me."
"Ah." The priest looked relieved, embarrassed, and pleased, all at the same time. "For a moment I was worried . . . well. Good day, craftslady Senta."
"Good day, my lord."
She watched as he strode off and then pulled from her socket the betrothal gift Arnis had given her before le
aving with the ampli-fire to go and heal his son. As the story of all his spread throughout the fair, curiosity alone would be sound to bring new customers by. Cradling the drala carving in her palm, she listened contentedly to its tunes and waited for the crowds to arrive.
BIOGRAPHICAL NOTES
Andre Norton
Ann R. Brown and her British husband, David, run Incahoots Decorative Rubber Stamp in Tucson. But their real chosen home is in the fantasy world Ann devises in her stories, and a very rich that home is. From that realm comes their Gaelic Prayer—"Beannachd do T'anamis Duaidh"—A blessing to my soul and victory.
Georgia-born Mildred Downey Broxon has lived over most of the North and South American continents. She has worked is an industrial painter, special teacher, and psychiatric mrse, having degrees in both psychology and nursing. After her first story was published in 1972, she served two terms is vice president of the Science Fiction Writers of America. She is also a member of the Society for Creative Anachro-lism and the Mystery Story Writers of America. Her many interests reach from Irish mythology and history to gourmet cooking and world travel. The widow of Dr. William Broxon, she lives in the Ballard area of Seattle surrounded by books, cats, and seven typewriters.
Esther M. Friesner has a Ph.D. in Spanish from Yale and taught there for several years. Now she is the author of seven fantasy novels, three of which constitute the beginning of a series—the Chronicles of the Twelve Kingdom!' A member of the Society for Creative Anachronism, still finds that her "medieval plays" gain warm reception. In 1985, a Victorian melodrama of hers played in a Colorado dinner theater.
Craig Shaw Gardner's short stories have appeared in number of anthologies such as Dragons of Dark, Year’s Best Fantasy No. Five, and others. His first novel, A Melody of Magic, was recently published by Ace Books.
Sharon Green states that she has been reading fantasy and science fiction from the age of twelve and writing even before then. Having heard a speech of Robert Heinlein's, which incorporated the advice "Don't write about it, do it!” she has been doing it ever since.
Caralyn Inks is a longtime fantasy reader who is a graduate of the 1984 Clarion Workshop. At present she is designing fantasy books and games for children. She lives in California with three children and three cats.
Out of the wide plains of Texas to misty forelands of her own devising, Ardath Mayhar makes a remarkable transition. Her words sing, which is not remarkable in an author who was first a poet. She is able to re-create skillfully other writers' dreams, also, as in her justly acclaimed addition to H. Beam Piper's legends of the Fuzzies— Golden Dream. Then there are the worlds of her own in which one can lose oneself from the first sentence onward— Soul Singer of Tyros, How the Gods Wove in Kyrannon, and all the rest.
Shirley Meier lives in an old but renovated house in lower Cabbagetown with a household of six—three being feline. A member of The Band of Seven, a special writers' group, she has produced a first novel. Along with her interest in Zen Chuan karate and philosophy, she says that she has done a stint as a classical DJ and also worked in travel agencies, dry-cleaning stores, and both a law firm and an electronics firm. Her studies are in the field of psychology id anthropology.
Sandra Miesel holds master's degrees in biochemistry and medieval history and has identified medieval manuscripts »r fun and profit. As a widely published author with three Hugo nominations, she specializes in the use of myth, religion, history, and art. A leading authority on the works of Gordon Dickson and Poul Anderson, she has edited a selection of both writers' stories. Her first novel, Dreamrider, as nominated for the John W. Campbell Award. When not tending her husband, three children, and a cat, she collects t and stitches original needlework.
Writing about and working with animals has heretofore been a life work of Kathleen O'Malley. She has managed two-dog kennels, Arabian horse farms, dairy and beef cattle and assorted pigs, sheep, and ponies. A manager for the C. Animal Control for two years, she has a strong backgound in animal medicine. At present she is working for the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service to help with the breeding id reintroduction of endangered species such as the Sandhill rane and the Masked Bobwhite Quail.
Claudia Peck is a graduate student and teaching assistant in a Creative Writing Program at the University of Colorado Boulder. She has had several short stories in print, including material in Eldritch Tales, Forms, and Owlflight, and has recently sold a novel to Doubleday.
Former member of the Peace Corps, Carol Severance is so a Clarion West graduate. She has three degrees in art id journalism and has worked as a writer and editor of any kinds of nonfiction. At present she lives in Hawaii with one patient anthropologist husband, two lively teenagers, and a houseful of geckos.
Since a child, Rose Wolf has been interested in fantasy learning in the elementary school library that she could actually write the stories she told herself. And she has beer doing that ever since. Presently she is completing a Ph.D. with a dissertation in the form of a fantasy novel.
Timothy Zahn took the plunge into full-time writing in 1980, after the death of his thesis adviser effectively canceled his plans for a career in physics. Though his work normally falls under the heading of science fiction, he enjoys these occasional dips into the realm of fantasy, the most recent of which was the novel Triplet (Baen Books, I July 1987), which contains a mixture of sf and fantasy elements. Living in a newly purchased house with his wife and five-year-old son in central Illinois, his hobbies include home maintenance and sneezing during corn pollination season.
ANDRE NORTON
Norton, Andre - Anthology Page 26
