Avenestra looked at the floor and began leaking tears. "What-what else can I d do-o?"
"What would you like to do? Think, girl! For once, think!"
"B-b-be you-you-ourss!"
Strick slapped the desk cover, a huge piece of deep blue velvet trailing gold tassels on her side. "My dotter, you mean."
"Daughter? Uh-"
"Look at me and consider my age and forget the other, Avneh!"
She did look at him, from unkohled eyes all soft and misted with tears that traced glistening tracks down her gaunt cheeks. She bit her lip. She nodded.
"What-what does your daught-your dotter do?"
"Strangely enough, she is called niece rather than dotter, calls me Uncle Strick, and lives in the room across the corridor. I am helping to relocate the present tenant. My niece learns decent behavior and decent things to do, wears decent clothing, and will I hope become aide and receptionist."
"I-I-I don't even know what that means..."
"In the meanwhile, she markets for me and cooks for me."
"Oh, oh M-Mother Shipri-yes, yes, I will cook for you!"
Strick smiled. "My niece also stops watering this nice carpet with so many tears."
She smiled. "Oh my lor-Uncle Strick! How did you come by your ability?"
"The power of the Ring of Foogalooganooga, far west of Firaqa, Avenestra. Wints!"
The door opened and a thin man appeared. He was freshly barbered and shaven, wearing a nice new tunic of Croyite blue. "Sir?"
"Take my niece around to a few places and introduce her, Wints. You and she will be buying some food. At Kalen's, tell him she is to have a tunic from the same bolt as yours. White broidery at the neck and-umm. Length just above the knees. Avneh: it is not to be tight!"
"Y-ess, Uncle," she said, trying not to weep in her joy.
"All right then, be on your way-what's all that damned noise!" Then, "Easy, Wints. Don't be so fast to draw that dagger!" Strick strode to the door and stared at the stairwell. "Frax! What's all that n-oh. Noble Shafralain. Come in. My aide and my niece were just leaving. Wints: despite his stride and fiercely determined look, this man and I are friends."
He gestured. Wide of eye, Wintsenay and Avenestra departed while the silken tunicked nobleman strode into the room that Strick called his "shop." Shafralain paused to regard the other man, who was most unusually attired. Strick's calf length tunic of medium blue and oddly, unfashionably matching leggings made him seem less big and yet more imposing, in a different way. A matching skullcap, encompassing most of his head, had replaced the odd leathern cap of the same design.
"What are you, Strick? First I saw a big man with a sword and few words. Another caravan guard, I thought, probably looking for mercenary employment. Then I discovered you had character and consideration-and silver. In my home I was struck by your comportment-aye, and deportment: the manners of a man well born. Nonetheless I was nervous about my daughter's uh seeming fondness for you. Yet Cusharlain assured me that you were not encouraging her; strange way for a man to behave, with a highborn girl who shows him attention! Soon I learned from her that you had taken these rooms, in a good location, and purchased furniture. Next I discovered that you have real money; we share a banker, Strick. Ah, don't look that way! He is close-mouthed as he should be; it is just that I am one of his partners. Now my wife-gods of my fathers, Strick! What are you?"
"Sit down. Noble," Strick said, as he did so. "It's no secret, now: I am open for business. I recognize most spells, and I possess a smallish ability to redirect... problems. Call it an ability to cast minor spells. I also have rules. I help people, but by what most would call 'white magic' only. I will have nothing to do with the other kind, but would fight it."
"That is the most I have ever heard you say!" Shafralain had slid down into the comfortable chair across the handsomely draped desk from the quiet man. "Whence... whence came this ability?"
"From Ferrillan, far north of Firaqa. From a woman now dead. I am unbound by gods and locale, or by spells or anti-spells. Partners with my moneyhandler, eh?"
"Never mind that. The unsightly mole on my wife's... chest has been there for over ten years. Now it has vanished without a trace, because she came to see you. She is ecstatic -and she says you did not even touch her."
"Not quite true," Strick told him. "I did see the mole, and later I did put my hands on her shoulders. It was sufficient."
Shafralain shook his head. "Such power-and can you heal? Are you a physician mage, is that it?"
"Not really. Can't raise the dead and wouldn't strike dead an enemy of yours, not for all your fortune. Couldn't heal a dagger wound in your belly either, Shafralain."
Shafralain made a face at the image that brought to mind. "My lady wife is the happiest of women, and yet you took from her a single piece of silver. Now-"
"No. I asked for something of value, in advance, and a silver coin was what she my third client here-chose to give me. Another gave me water and wine; another a worthless belt. But it was of value to her, you see."
"Now my wife tells me I should give you a hundred more!"
"I have what I want of her and of you, Shafralain," Strick said, omitting the other man's title for the second time. "How many of high station has she told?" He smiled. "I hope she exaggerates the amount paid but not my ability! Because of her, others will come. I will have my hundred pieces of silver! But-is she totally happy? There is always another Price; a Trade. I paid mine. A person who was infatuated with one much older and driven to drunkenness now has a craving for sweets that will become trouble. Fulcris's wound healed swiftly without a scar. I had only a little to do with that, but he will have some small complaint by now. The reverse effect; the Price."
Shafralain stared. "Expimilia's tooth! You are telling me that the suddenly painful tooth my wife had to have drawn is an additional price she paid for your help?"
"Probably. It was not in front, I hope. Ah, good. Doesn't show? Good. Has she any other recent complaint?" When the other man shook his head, Strick shrugged. "The painful ab-cess was probably the Price, then. Not a terrible one. That is beyond my control. It might have been gentler, and it could have been worse. Still, some people prefer the original problem to the Price."
Shafralain sat studying him. "I am not sure I believe all you say, Strick. Easy to admit that I'd like to! White magic only, eh?"
Quietly and in an equable tone, staring, Strick said, "Snarl and sneer at street urchins. Noble Shafralain, but do not question me."
Shafralain stiffened and his knuckles paled as he gripped the arms of the comfortable chair Strick provided for his visitors. Strick's eyes never wavered from the nobleman's stare. At last Shafralain's hands and body loosened.
"Strick, my family existed in ancient Ilsig since before Ranke was. My family has been here since Us the All-seeing led my people out of the Queen's Mountains and here to Sanctuary. The city of the children of Us has been beset by blood lusting Rankans and weavers of the darkest spells. For a time it seemed that the All-father had turned our city over to His son, the Nameless One who is patron of shadows and thieves. For a time some of us thought we saw promise in the young prince whom the emperor-the murdered emperor, now- sent out from Ranke. He is no Ilsig, but damn it we thought he was a man. Now we have the sea people. New conquerors. And that same young prince, who has a Rankan wife, consorts openly with one of those... creatures."
He came to painful pause rather than a halt, but Strick said, "All this I know, Aral Shafralain t'llsig."
Shafralain nodded. "1 said that I want to believe you, Strick. White Magic is the Old way. We need it. Sanctuary needs hope." Abruptly he rose. "I was not questioning you, my touchy friend. I love Sanctuary and hope you do."
Strick rose. "My vow is long since made, Shafralain, and bound about. I am what I say. A minor weaver of spells; spells for good and that only."
"You said that you paid a price," Shafralain said, after gazing at him for a time. "I would dare ask what price you p
aid for your... abilities. A tooth?"
Strick shook his head. He reached up and brushed his hand over his skullcap, wiping it backward from his head. Shafralain stared at the other man's head, and at last he nodded. He extended his hand. Strick took it, and again their gazes met. Then Shafralain departed amid a rustle of silk. The big man carefully replaced his skullcap.
Noble Shafralain could guess at the rest of the Price Strick had paid for the ability, but probably would not. Strick didn't care.
His name was Gonfred and he was a goldsmith with a reputation for honesty. No shavings, no scrapings or drippings remained in his possession when he worked with the gold of others. He hiccoughed as he entered Strick's shop and again by the time he was seated and laying a silver coin on the desk's blue cloth.
"Is this of value to you, Gonfred?"
The goldsmith gazed at him, smiled shyly, and added another silver coin. And he hiccoughed.
"How long have you had the hiccups, Gonfred?"
"Six days. I work with my ha-uh!-hands. Can't work."
"I want you to sit back and take about three deep breaths. Hold the third as long as you possibly can. If you hiccup during that process, do it again. Avenestra!"
Sucking up great breaths, Gonfred saw the blue-tunicked young girl who appeared. "Sir!"
"Please fetch an ounce of Saracsaboona for this honest goldsmith, with two ounces of water."
She departed. Gonfred hiccoughed and started the deep breathing again. He succeeded in holding the third. Avenestra returned from the adjoining room. In both hands she bore a goblet of translucent green glass. It contained an ounce of ordinary wine, an ounce of water, and an ounce of saffron water for color. She set it before Strick. Taking it in both hands, he rose and came around to the seated goldsmith. Gonfred accepted it and looked questioning; he was still holding, barely.
"Let the breath out," he was told. "Drink, and try to do it in such a way that it all goes down at a gulp."
When Gonfred took the goblet, gasping, Strick put his hands on the seated man's shoulders. "Your hiccups are going, Gonfred..."
Hurriedly Gonfred knocked back the contents of the goblet. He gasped some more, watching the other man return to his chair behind the cloth-draped desk.
"Your hiccups are gone, Gonfred my friend. There is always a trade, a Price beyond this silver, over which I have no control. If it is unbearable, return."
Gonfred sat staring. His hiccoughs were gone. "Thank you, Spellmasier!" He was at the door when he turned, paced back to the desk, and retrieved both silver coins. In their place he laid down a plain, drilled disk of pure gold. Then he departed.
He entered carrying a sack. His name was Jakob and he was called Blind Jakob. Strick's face was sad as he watched Wints guide the fruit pedlar to the chair. Jakob's hand found the desk and he set the sack upon it.
"I am Strick, Jakob, and I have fear that I cannot help you."
"It-it is-you think it is permanent, sir?" The blind man looked stricken. "Ah gods. But it is so troublesome-so embarrassing."
Strick blinked. "Embarrassing?"
"The roiling inside is bad enough, but when I break wind in public, particularly when a woman is examining my fruits..."
Strick clamped both hands over his mouth to hold back all sound of laughter. The poor fellow was accustomed to his true affliction. But gas disturbed him; it was socially embarrassing! Strick rose and moved around the desk.
"I am coming to put my hands on you, Jakob. Give me something of value."
The blind man leaned a little forward to touch the sack. "Three people have insisted on buying those in the past hour, sir. They are the most valuable I have had in a long while."
Strick's hands were on him, now. He was relieved to feel no death here, and he knew at once that the offering was of value to this man. Then he felt the tension, and was sure that Jakob's gas was not dietary. He must be careful. This man did not live or work in a truly dangerous area. Yet relieve him of all tension and he might be left so complacent that he really would be in the danger that now he mostly imagined. Strick did what he could, to the extent he dared.
"Your gas is gone, Jakob my friend, save when you overindulge in food or drink. Radishes and cucumbers are your enemies, Jakob. Mind now, there is always a trade, a Price beyond this sack, and over that I have no control. If it is unbearable, return."
Jakob arose, made his request and heard it granted, and traced out the lines of the other man's face with his fingers. He departed with his sack, now empty. The two muskmelons were superb, indeed things of value.
"Bad breath, yes. Would you open your mouth and let me see the source, please?" Bent close to look, Strick was half overcome by the foul odor that was his client's complaint. He turned his head aside, took a deep breath, and looked closely into that mouth. He straightened. Shaking his head, he went to give Wints quiet instructions. Strick returned to stand over this friend of Shafralain, looked sternly down at him.
"Noble Volmas, you must have more love for both gods and self. The gods gave you those teeth. You have not cleaned them for years. Do so, man! In the meanwhile ah, thank you, Wintsenay. In the meanwhile. Noble, take this cup. Note the five seeds in its bottom. The cup also contains salt water. Aye, make a face-and drink! See that you swallow the seed. The Seeds of Malasaconooga are the source of my abilities."
Strick remained standing, sternly watching, while the poor fellow drank off the salt water. Finished, he made choking noises and a dreadful face. A stem Strick held out his hand for the cup. He peered within. A seed remained. He heaved a mighty sigh, sent it back to be filled with water, and gave the finely dressed man with the great belly even sterner instructions. The noble drank. The fifth seed went down.
"Now. That foul breath that has cost you friends and alienated your wife is not gone, but will go, steadily. I am only a maker of small white spells. Noble, and sometimes I must have help. Keep that cup. Use it. Clean your teeth twice daily, after you eat. Get in there with cloth and soap. Yes, it will taste terrible; you've been told there is a Price here, beyond those ten silver coins you claim to find dear. After you have cleaned, add a goodly measure of salt to that cup, fill with water-not-wine, and rinse. You heed not drink. Swirl it about in your mouth and spit, until all is gone. Remember all this! It is important. If in two weeks your breath is not improved fivehold, return to me."
After Volmas had left, Strick stood shaking his head. Charlatan, he told himself. Yet he had done good for everyone who had to come in contact with that stupid swine, to whom ten pieces of silver were as naught. That cup was one he had never liked, and he had known he'd find a use for some of the seeds from blind Jakob's melons!
"My dear, you are under a spell. I cannot see whose, and I am sorry. You need the aid of powers beyond mine. Go to Enas Yorl. Here now, take back your gold. I have not earned it. If he does not or will not help, return and we will try."
Smoke of the Flame, he thought in anger and true pain, watching her unhappy departure. Abhorrent black magic again. After two weeks here I have done so little for these poor pitiful people with their misery and their wicked sorcerers!
* * *
The lady of wealth was forty-eight and showing about one gray hair for every six black. The dyes she had tried made an ugly mess, deadening her hair. He considered her, her vanity, and her offer of three golden disks bearing a likeness of the new Emperor.
"It is a natural process. Lady Amaya. The problem is that presently it's streaky. If it grayed faster, or went white, you would be both beautiful and striking."
"Oh-oh my."
She went away and he waited an hour before sending her golden coins to her.
She returned next day. "Show me silver," she said, setting a largeish dinky bag of purple cloth on his desk, and he showed her. He also "cheated." She did look magnificent with silver hair, and he added a small spell so that she and her vanity agreed with the fact.
"Oh! Oh my!" she said, staring at the mirror, turning her head this wa
y and that. "Oh, Spellweaver! You are a genius! My husband will love it and all the girls will-oh my. What shall I tell them?"
"That you have been dyeing it for two years or so, and are so happy to be over your vanity!"
Amaya laughed in delight. "A genius! They will be filled with both shame and envy!"
Within the next two weeks he had five requests for silver hair, although none of these others, of varying stations in life, gave him fifty pieces of silver. Not to mention the chain of gold Amaya's husband sent as "token of his pleasure."
"So. It's been a month, and you are staying busy. Tell me about your day," Esaria said, looking so bright and sunny across the little table from him. They were taking dinner in the Golden 0, while her guard and Frax sat across the room, visiting. He wore his odd blue "uniform," including the plain gold disk on a gold chain about his neck.
He spoke to the pepper pot with which he toyed. "I was asked for a love potion. She said she just knew he was fond of her but when he's up close he loses ardor, unto aloofness. I gave her what she needed. A vial of colored wotter with a bit of wine and camomile for aroma, and soap made green by simple herbal coloring. I bade her bathe daily and well, putting a bit of each into the bath wotter and drying thoroughly."
Esaria looked very skeptical indeed. "That's a love potion?!"
"It is what she needs. She stinks. If he doesn't respond to her better aroma, someone will; she's attractive. For that I earned two coppers. Stop laughing, brat. My business is help for the people. I had to turn away a clubfoot. I can do nothing about that-by the Flame, how I wish I could! A former client returned. Looked good: I had indeed removed his acne, but his Price took the form of diarrhea he could not bear. I removed the spell and returned his two coppers. So-he has acne and a settled stomach." Strick shrugged. "He's seventeen. The acne will go. Mine did."
"So has most of mine," she said. "But at this rate you could
starve!"
He shook his head. "Hardly. A certain friend of your mother's is very sensitive about her scraggly hair. I put a little spell on it and made her promise to wash it at least every other day. For that, she left fourteen silver Imperials-old Imperials. Said it is her magic number."
Blood Ties tw-9 Page 27
