I stood in the line with the Attendant at my side, and the people filed past and were introduced by couples, or one at a time, and I had begun to suspect that they were recirculating that line; it trailed out the Hall door and dissolved into a milling crowd of faces and names I’d long since lost all track of. If a single face had come around twice, or three times for that matter; I doubt I’d have been able to spot it—by now they all looked just alike to me.
I was very nearly out on my feet, and the wine the Castle staff kept pouring into my glass was no great help. White wine I might have replaced with water and gotten away with, but not red; nothing else liquid on Ozark is that color, except blood, and a glass of blood in my hand would of made a mighty poor impression.
Michael Stepforth Guthrie had had some innovations to offer on magical harassment in the guestchamber that had outdistanced even my broadest expectations, and before long I’d settled down to taking notes on his effects, since it was clear I wasn’t going to get any sleep. I’d been grateful for my virginity before it was all over, since that had limited his legal span of effects some, but nonetheless—when I’d given up all hope at dawn and staggered out of my bed I’d been in sorry shape. And then there’d been the requisite eighteen hours of night to Castle Farson, which I’d had to do every one of its minutes in plainstyle—no SNAPPING. So far as I’d been able to tell, the whole continent of Arkansaw was innocent of empty areas, even in the Wilderness Lands; Sterling and I had looked down on a constant scurry of activity beneath us the whole time, and had been promptly greeted by Arkansawyers of one kind or another each time we landed for a brief rest stop.
And the Parsons themselves were terrifyingly efficient. Met me at the door, fed me and wined me, saw me to a room to change my bib and my tucker, saw me back down to the Hall for this party, which was clearly intended to fill all the remainder of this evening, and no discussion. Not a word. “Welcome, Responsible of Brightwater, pleasant to see you.”
“Beg your pardon, Responsible, but you’ve caught us at a right busy time, we’ll just have to make do.”
“Step this way, please, miss.”
“Notice the view from that window, child, it’s much admired.”
“Fine evening, isn’t it?” And on and on.
I could tell from the clustered packs of guests around the Hall and the scraps of their talk that floated my way that it was much the same stuff the Guthries had been talking. Perfidy, wickedness, and ineptitude; the ghastly Guthries and the pitiful Purdys. But no one brought any of it to my ears—we remarked on my costume, and how pretty it was; and on my Mule, and how handsome she was; and on the weather, and how fine it was; and the party, and how pleasant that was. No more.
I’d made a few early stabs at talking of the Jubilee, and had learned immediately that the Parsons were either far more subtle than the Guthries, or else under some sort of orders regarding the topics of their converse. “You’ll be at the Jubilee in May, no doubt?” (That was me, all charm.) “May is a fine month, we always enjoy May!” (That was whoever, moving on down the line toward the punchbowl, smiling.) I got flustered, and then I got mad, and then I got grim; and as the evening went on I reached a cold plateau of determination that floated on my second wind and a very good head for wine. I stopped asking, which got me no information, but at least deprived them of the satisfaction of ignoring my questions.
More hands. Something something of Smith, wife of something something the 46th. Accompanied by himself, the something somethingth. My teeth ached from smiling, my behind ached from riding, and my spirit ached from boredom, and it went on and on.
“There,” said the Attendant. A variation.
“There?”
“That’s the last of them, Miss Responsible.”
“You’re sure?”
“I am,” he said. “That’s all, and I can’t say I’m sorry.”
I looked, and it did appear that there were no more people lined up to my right with their hands all ready to be shaken by the guest of honor, Responsible of Brightwater. And a good thing, too; the Farson Ballroom was huge, but it was straining at the seams. I’d have said there were four hundred people there; surely I had not shaken four hundred hands?
I set down my glass on the table, careful not to snap its stem for spite, and gathered up my elaborate blue-and-silver skirts.
“Give my compliments to your Missus and my host,” I told him, “and tell them I’ll be down to breakfast in the morning. Early.”
He raised his eyebrows, but it was not his place to question my behavior, and I surely didn’t give a thirteen what he thought of it. If he thought I was going to fight my way through this roomful of sweating phony smilers to find the Farsons. If he thought I was going to thank them for their bold as brass campaign to wear me right down to a nub, he could think twice more. Manners be damned, I was going to my bed.
I showed him my back and went out the closest door, into the corridor that led to the stairs toward my room. But I was being watched; another Attendant appeared at my side the instant I reached the door, carrying a bowl of fruit, a tray of bread and butter, and a tall decanter of that accursed Parson wine.
“This way, miss,” he said, and he led on politely, looking back now and then as we wound up stairs and down corridors, down stairs and through tunnels, round turrets with more stairs and across echoing rooms lined with the family portraits of generations of Parsons, until we came at last to a door I had seen before and knew full well could have been reached by a direct route taking maybe six minutes flat.
“Your room, miss,” he said, opening the door to let me pass.
“Thank you for the grand torn; Attendant,” I said through my teeth, and he bobbed his head a fraction.
“No trouble atall, miss. No trouble atall; I had to come this way anyhow.”
And then he set the food and drink down on a table and left me, blessedly, alone.
I was so angry that I was shaking, and so tired that I was long past being sleepy. The second was a point in my favor, as I had work to do, but the first wouldn’t serve. You can’t do magic, at whatever level, when you’re in a state of blind rage. (Well, you can, but you risk some effects you aren’t counting on and that may not exactly fit into your plans.)
I threw myself out flat on the narrow elegant guest bed, kicking off only my shoes, and whistled twenty-four verses of “Again, Amazing Grace.” No way to tell which was which, since I was only whistling; but I kept count by picking one berry from the fruit bowl for every verse I finished, and setting them out on my lap in sixes till I had four sets. By that time I was a tad hyperventilated, but I was no longer furious; I had in fact reached a stage of grudging admiration.
After all, the Parsons had given me nothing tangible to complain of. I’d been properly met, a full complement of Attendants in red and gold and silver livery at my beck and call. I’d been dined and wined to a fare-thee-well. I’d had a servant at my elbow every instant, and often half a dozen. I’d been guest of honor at the biggest party I ever remembered seeing, and formally introduced to who knew how many scores of distinguished citizens of Kingdom Parson, and all their kith and kin. And now here I lay in state in one of their best guestchambers, and it had been my choice that I’d not stayed below in the Ballroom to receive whatever honor had been next on their list for me.
Thinking about it, staring up at the vaulted ceiling high above my head, I chuckled; it had been done slick as satin, and I had not one piece of information to show for all those hours— nor one legitimate complaint. Well done, well done for sure.
I got up then and went into the bathroom, where I was pleased to see that the facilities were not marred by any nostalgic antiquation, and made myself ready for the night.
Three baths, first. One with hot water; and one with cold, and one with the proper crushed herbs from my pack. Then my fine white gown of softest lawn, sewn by my own hands; I pulled it nine times through a golden finger ring, and examined it carefully—not a wrinkle, it was rea
dy to put on. My feet bare, and a black velvet ribbon round my neck; my hair in a single braid, and I thought that would do. I had nothing really fancy planned for this night, just a kind of easy casting about for wickedness, if wickedness was to be found here. I didn’t expect any; for all their sophistication in handling one lone inquisitive female, this Family was just as taken up with the continental feud as the Guthries had been. I was just checking.
I set wards, Ozark garlic, and well-preserved Old Earth lilac, at every door and window, laying the wreaths so anyone passing would be certain I slept no matter what went on. I didn’t bother warding against Magicians, just ordinary folk and a possible inquisitive Granny; if the Parsons cared to send a Magician, or better yet a Magician of Rank, to check on me, I wanted that person to come right on in. I’d be saved hours of Spells and Charms that way, and I had nothing in mind for the night that was forbidden to a woman.
I set two Spells, Granny Magic both of them, and the leaves in the bottom of my little teacup formed unexciting figures both times. I didn’t need the bird to tell me there was travel in my future, not with all of Kintucky and Tinaseeh still ahead of me; and I didn’t need the fine hat that formed high on the right side near the rim to let me know diplomacy was indicated.
And then I moved up a tiny notch, with the idea of making assurance doubly sure, and ran a few Syllables.
I said;
ALE.
BALSAM.
CHERRYSTONE.
DEVIL IN DUNG.
EMBLEM IN AN EGG.
FOGFALL IN THE FOREST.
EGGSHELL IN AN EEL.
DUNG ON DEWDROPS.
COBBLESTONE.
BOWER.
ALE.
Now that’s a simple bit, you’ll agree. Your average Granny might not be quite so free with dung, but I saw no flaw in it all; and I cast my gold chain on the bed where I was kneeling at my work, fully expecting to see it fall in yet one more reassuring shape, after which I would call it a night and get some well-deserved sleep.
Then I took a look at what I’d got, and backed off to give it room, and backed off some more, and remembered Granny Golightly. What was that old woman’s range, anyway? Her and her plenty of adventures required ...
It loved me, that was clear. It licked my face, and it licked the velvet ribbon round my neck, and it slobbered down both the front and the back of my gown with pure affectionate delight, and rolled over on the Parsons’ good counterpane to have its stomach scratched, and even flat on its back it kept on licking every part of me it could reach.
This the wards would never hold for, especially if it began to hum to me, which was likely if it got any happier. I scrambled off the bed, with it after me anxiously, licking and snuffling and falling over things at my heels, and I doubled the garlic and hung a ring of it on the doorknob. For good measure I took my shammybag of white sand and laid out a pentacle at the door, with the door itself serving as one of the five sides. Only then did I pause, doing it in the middle of the pentacle just to be extra safe, whereupon it knocked me over and devoted its tiny mind and heart and its enormous tongue to licking me absolutely clean.
It was called a Yallerhound, though it was nearer brown than yellow, and only by the most strained, courtesy a hound. Like the giant cavecats, it had six legs; tike the Mules, its tail dragged the ground; unlike the Mules, so did its ears and its body hair. It was seven feet long, not counting the tail, and about five feet high, and its aim in life was to love people and keep them clean. It had a purple tongue the size of a hand towel, from the eager attentions of which I was already soaking wet from head to foot. And it now had decided that my hair wasn’t clean enough, and would probably drown me before it was satisfied about that.
I couldn’t help myself, this was too much, and made twice as awful because it would of won me no sympathy from anybody—some part of me, somewhere inside, could still see that it was funny. But most of me was at the end of all its ropes. I lay down in the middle of the pentacle, making sure no part of me lopped over any borders, curled up in a ball to protect as much of me as possible from the damned Yallerhound, and I bawled and cried and carried on till I was limp. The poor stupid creature cried with me, keening high and thin.
When I woke up it was a quarter after two, and I was ashamed of myself. Women, after all, are expected to cope. There I lay, decked out all ladylike and delicate for magic, as was proper; and there it lay, curled round me and humming a tune in that thin little voice that went so badly with its size and made it obvious that the creature was mostly hair. And both of us soggy in a puddle of Yallerhound lick—and the sticky tears of two species. It was enough to rouse the last word I remembered being spanked for using—it was enough to make a person say “puke.” Ugh.
I felt better for the sleep, however and whatever I felt was all the Yallerhound cared about, especially if what I felt was something positive. Now that I’d had my conniption fit, I had to think.
To begin with, there was the source of this animal. No Granny on Ozark (and so far as I know we have all the Grannys there are) could teleport anything as big as either a giant cavecat or a Yallerhound. I knew Granny Golightly had had her signature on that cavecat back on Oklahomah, but it might of been she’d only had to encourage one that was already there. But I’d bet my velvet neckband it was on this Yallerhound as well, and that was a different matter altogether. Yallerhounds don’t just happen to turn up in bedrooms, popping out of empty air; and that had to mean she’d had some help. From a Magician of Rank, who, other than me, would be the only individual with enough skill and strength to bring this off. And I had a pretty good idea I knew which Magician of Rank.
Not Michael Stepforth Guthrie; I thought he’d had fun enough for a while. The one I had in mind was called Lincoln Parradyne Smith the 39th, resident of that same Castle Smith that had so coolly disinvited me to visit. Magician of Rank to the continent of Oklahomah, and surely handy to good Granny Golightly.
He’d have been delighted to help her; I rather expected that almost any one of the Magicians of Rank on this planet would of been. I’d been twelve years old the first time a sign from the Out-Cabal had obliged me to convene a Colloquium of the Magicians of Rank (and what a difference two years makes ... I hadn’t even noticed the attractions of Michael Stepforth Guthrie). And I’d been warned to be prepared for their hostility, but it hadn’t been warning enough. It was like sitting too close to a wall of fire to be shut in a room with them. I flamed inside with the waves of hatred beating against me from that crew of arcane males, and I’d been sick for days afterward.
A strange sickness. I lay in my bed, so weak I could not lift my head from my pillow even to drink, and perpetually thirsty, and the skin of my body cold as mountain river water while I burned and burned within. I had not known that so much pain could be.
“They consumed your energies, child,” our Granny Hazelbide had said, sitting beside me and holding my icy hands in her warm ones, and every now and then letting a spoonful of water trickle one drop at a time down my throat. “Sucked ‘em right up like a pack of babies at the teat; and they’ll do it every time.”
I’d asked her with my eyes, because I couldn’t talk—how long? And she’d shaken her head.
“This first time, sweet Responsible, sweet child? No way of telling, just no way atall. What you’re doing, lying there on a cross of ice and fire mingled ... oh yes, child. I know! I’ve never been through what you’re bearing, praise the Twelve Corners, but I do know! … what you’re doing there is renewing yourself. It may take days and it may take weeks and there’s not a blessed thing anyone can do to help you. But there’s one good thing—each time it will be shorter. As you get older, and stronger, and more experienced at this yourself ... why, you’ll get to where you don’t mind them any more man a pack of babes!”
A spasm had racked me, all my muscles nickering under my skin, and she’d sat there calm as a boulder; it not being one of the times when she felt expected to cluck and fuss and dithe
r. She’d sat there eleven days, and when it was over she told me I’d done well.
“A short time, for your first time,” Granny had said, “That speaks well for the future, child.”
They hated me, one and all, did the Magicians of Rank— though they no more understood why than the Yallerhound would have. Nor why they should have felt compelled to come at my call, me no more than a little pigtailed girl; nor why they couldn’t get up and go home, but had to sit and listen to my pronouncements, as if I had a rank and they had none; nor why their voices left them if they tried to speak upon the subject, ever It was a mystery, and one that they weren’t privy to, and there weren’t supposed to be any mysteries they weren’t privy to. They were, after all, the Magicians of Rank.
So, if one of them could do me a little hurt ... just a small hurt, you understand, just a plaster for their aching egos ... I was in fact surprised that they’d chanced the cavecat, it might have really hurt me; and I could be sure I’d been watched every minute in the crystal that Lincoln Panadyne Smith kept in his magic-chest. He must of been very confident he could reach me in time if I couldn’t manage by myself, or he never would of risked it. The Yallerhound, on the other hand, was just funny. It couldn’t hurt me even if it wanted to. Which it didn’t, short of falling on me by accident off a Castle roof, or something of the kind.
“The Yallerhound,” I said aloud, which delighted it and set it humming up and down a nineteen-tone scale that was awful beyond all imagining, “is a harmless creature. However, it weighs almost one hundred pounds and a bit, and it eats more than a half-grown Mule, and it will never, never stop licking you.”
The Ozark trilogy Page 9
