Well of the Unicorn

by Fletcher Pratt

  Pertuit the archer drew rein. "I call this five thousand paces," said he, "and moreover, I'm for supper. Look here, younker, we spend the night at that place of yours, Dingsted or Frogsted or how you call it. But tomorrow I'll be back in the city. Ask for me at the archers' barracks, foot of the citadel, toward evening. We'll toss a pot and think what may be done. You're all right."

  He reached down a hand and this time Airar touched it. "Done—at the archers' barracks," Airar said. The archer turned round and with a "Hey Nonnine," to make his horse trot, was gone back down into the shad ows of the valley they had just left. Airar Alvarson turned down the opposite slope, alone in the world with his single gold noble, his pack, and his knife, going to the city certainly, but now it struck him for the first time that a city is a big place, not friendly like the steads of the hills, and he would be certain to arrive after dark * when the gates were shut with a watch over them. No matter; he had slept abroad before, and in winter, fox-trapping up the Hogsback fells. But it was not comfortable.

  So he walked and meditated down into the vale from which the next finger rose to bar the way to Naaros. The sun had gone down, but up aloft it was still bright. In that dim brightness a big owl flew out of somewhere and lit on a long branch that overreached the road. Airar looked up at it. The owl stretched one wing, shifted its claws on the branch, and said abruptly:

  "Airar Alvarson."

  Perhaps some other might have doubted his own hearing, but this young man had long since reached for himself the thought that the world's not all made of matter. He stopped, gazed, and without showing whether startled or not, said, "What will you have?"

  "Airar Alvarson," repeated the owl.

  "Lira-lira-bekki," said Airar, and giving a yank to his pack, which was growing heavy, put down his head and trudged along. When he had gone about a hundred yards the owl swept dimly past him through the gloom and perching on another branch by the roadside, said once more, "Airar Alvarson."

  Ahead, down at the bottom of the valley, someone was coming out from the city in a cart, the first person Airar had met on that road. The shape was dim but the horse's hoofbeats could be heard change sound on the wooden bridge at the bottom, and one of the wheels needed tallow. A few minutes more and there he was, an old man with no cap on his white head and a sleepy boy leaning against him, who gave Airar soft-voiced greeting and nodded his head to the return. When he was well past and Airar himself was crossing the bridge, the owl came and sat on the hand-rail at its farther end, once more repeating its two-word remark.

  —Fabrizius' work, reflected Airar, and began looking annoyedly for a stone to throw, but looking, reflected that one does not get rid of a sending with a thrown stone, so called up his clerkly knowledge to mind. The Seven Powers?—would take a spray of witch-hazel twisted so, and how find it in the dark? Nor the Three Divinities either, which needed a reading from the book, too long to make by any flicker he might strike from tinder there. So he even had to bear the sending, plodding along the road through night now complete with a slice of moon just beginning behind the trees, on the road toward Naaros. It was after all harmless enough to be silly, a big bird that fluttered a few yards ahead to light and again repeat his name with idiot persistence, only kept him from bedding down when he otherwise might.

  So they moved, man and owl, over the last of the low ridges above the plain. There was a stead on the far slope with a light in the window behind bushes and somebody singing inside; in another mood he might have sought harborage and been happy, but he was feeling all the world lost with the penalties of the afternoon and the owl hooting round his head, so pressed on down the plain, where the lights and towers of the city showed distant beyond the great sweep of the Naar, glittering faintly under its bridges in the starshine.

  2 The Cot: There Is a Song

  THE WAY led now downhill through a tall alley of trees with more behind them that concealed whatever view there had been from the hilltop. There were hedges of thorn-apple grown rank, their unfriendly spicules outflung against the night sky, when he paused on the uncertain footing to glance at the odd bird which followed him still. Small things moved among hedge and trees; and they reached a place where a path led winding from the road leftward, not wide enough for a cart. Here Airar looked sharp, for something long and grey scuttled across the path, and through the screen of leafless branches a flicker of light seemed to leap and disappear; not warm yellow, but blue foxfire or lightning. The talking owl swung low past his head, to station itself at the very path, and "Airar Alvarson!" cried, a tone higher. It came to the young man's mind that the bird wanted him to enter by that path, but at the same time thinking— What if not?— he set face and foot to the road again.

  At once he had the curst bird in his face, wingtip brushing one ear, as it soared away from his clutching hand, shouting "Airar!" again in the new note of urgency. At the same moment from around a corner down the road ahead, there came a faint jingle of accouterment, a laugh and the sound of voices singing discordantly, where some group came from the taverns of Naaros.

  Since there was no great loss of honor, a roof for the night possible and avoidance of the roisterers, Airar let himself be schooled to the owl's path; and presently stood before the door of a house set so close round with trees and bush that one could hardly see how from the window, time and time, came the flash of dead-blue light.

  The door had no pillars nor carved name. Airar raised a hand to knock, but before touch it sprang open upon a boy or manikin (for the features were of adult proportion to the body) who gave a tittering laugh in his face. "Airar Alvarson," said the owl from right overhead.

  "You are expected," said the dwarf, and bowed not too quickly to hide a mocking grin; then turned and led on soft-shod feet through a room larger than it seemed from outside to another with many furnishings. It was hung heavily with old tapestries worked in a design of frightful beasts and human faces twisted with fear, half visible in the light of a single candle. "Wait," said the guide, snickered, ducked under one of the tapestries, and disappeared.

  There was a chair of pretense placed beside a table on which an alembic with a broken neck jostled parchments. Airar avoided it, swung down pack, and sat on a stool. Behind the tapestry to his near right occurred a sound that he, woodsman, identified as like a rabbit moving secretly in brush. The tapestry before him parted and a man came in—medium tall, full-bearded and grey, clad in a robe rather ruffled than neat, stained in front and with a rip in it. Thin white hair made a halo in the rising candlelight and threw shadows up deep eye-arches, but his face bore an expression determinedly friendly.

  He sat down in the chair. "You are Airar Alvarson," he said, making no offer of hand, "and I am Meliboe."

  Airar knew the name and it was not a good one. The other's expression did not alter at the flicker of muscle round the young man's mouth. "I have sent for you because we can do each other service."

  "The owl—"

  Meliboe waved a deprecatory hand. "A familiar, and harmless. If I had wished to compel your attendance—" he stood up with a motion lithe for such age, talking as he walked, "—I show you this to prove I deal gently and it is alliance not servitude I offer." The tapestry by Airar's side was drawn back and the rustling had been made by a loathsome great worm in a cage, large as a cockadrill, shining in green and yellow, with pairs of clawed feet where its back-armor ran down in joints. It gazed at the young man with multiplex cloudy eyes and made a small mewing sound, blowing bubbles of froth from a hexagonal mouth. Airar wanted to vomit.

  "You perceive I have powers," said the enchanter, tranquilly. "You had better endure an adder's bite than even be clasped by his claws. . . . Tsa, bibe!" He dropped the tapestry.

  Airar managed to say, "But why me, of all Dalarna?"

  "Ha!" Meliboe raised a finger. "You had a visit from Leonce Fabrizius today, I think?" Against expectation he paused to be answered.

  "Aye," said the young man.

  "Then you are for what place?
Naaros, no doubt? To join your father, son of Alvar?"

  "My father—"

  "Lives with Tholo Airarson as pensioner of that same Fabrizius. I understand, young man. You are of honor, as noble-born. Most fair; I had not sent for you otherwise."

  "The more why me? You have powers and I am friendless."

  Meliboe swivelled round to look at him full as though here were something caught to surprise. "It is not less than I would have expected, to find you so acute," he said, "and it does my judgment compliment. Well, since I see you will have nothing less than the full tale, here it is: there are not few, and I am among them, who would be less than melancholy to see an alternation in the rule of our good Count Vulk, fourteenth of the name. Yet here am I, court doctor and astrologer; not Dalecarle by birth. Shall I not need an impeccable ambassador before the Iron Ring?"

  There was a moment's silence, no sound at all but an intake of breath from Airar as the last words fell. Oh, aye, he knew of iron ring and iron ring—badge worn by Micton slaves and those sentenced for a time to servitude by the Vulking courts; some words half-caught from behind the door of his lock-bed, the night the stranger in the worn blue coat guested at Trangsted, his father saying— "No and no again. What? Leave my stead and my son's future to [here a gap] iron ring?"—the nine days' wonder of old Tyel, who had hanged himself (men said) in the barn of the upper farm at Grantraen, with an iron ring new forged around his neck. But at the market in Naaros, no one would speak of that. . . .

  "I do not know what you mean about the Iron Ring," he said stoutly, but Meliboe laughed. "It is as I would have desired. You are a model of discretion. So let us put it this way; there is a certain group at Naaros with whom I am wishful to strike hands, but may not do so in person. You seek employment; I wage you as plenipotentiary before them and will pay well, from which it will grow that either they send you back to me with another message for a second payment, or find employment enough for you of their own. That it is not altogether without danger I admit. Can you do better unhelped?"

  The offer seemed fair enough even though (as Airar noted, secretly amused) the remark about danger was made more for encouragement than fairness. But he was of peasant stock. "How great is the wage?"

  "I wonder, did you take the Count's goldpiece? I think you would. No matter; three like it paid down for this one message."

  The sum was princely, yet "Is it enough?" asked Airar.

  Meliboe looked at him narrowly. "Four then. I am striking too high to haggle." The note was finality.

  "And the message?"

  "Merely this: that Meliboe, a poor doctor of the philosophies, wishes them well; and as proof that he does so wish them, he is full aware of what the syndics of the guilds of Mariupol propose, but none at the court knows of it else; that a scorpion without a head can sting but not bite, but that by certain philosophic arts one might find a hand to bear a banner."

  "To whom given?"

  Meliboe twitched lips, but, wise to take substance rather than shadow, answered: "To a certain group who meet at a tavern, called Of The Old Sword, with

  the arms of the Argimenids before, as though it were imperial property, but differenced as to color. It is in the Street of the Unicorn, hard by the Lady-Chapel, and the hour is one after sunset."

  "It smacks of secret. How shall they believe I am to come?"

  The philosophic doctor placed his head a little on one side, a long forefinger up the angle of his jaw, the back of his hand ruffling beard under chin. "You care is admirable," he said; turning, unlocked a drawer Airar had not noticed amid the carving of the table, and drew forth a small ring, intricately wrought in silver. "This be your passport."

  To Airar's fingers it felt wholly smooth. He looked up surprised and a smile stretched across the limits of Meliboe's beard. "A small enchantment," said he. "Look you but now." The parchments and desk litter were tossed aside till he found a gugglet of water from which he sprinkled a few drops as Airar held the ring outstretched. It was plain iron with square edges, but when the young man rubbed it dry on the edge of his jerkin there it was again to appearance silver and much carven.

  "Put it on." The enchanter waved hands. "You will go then to this tavern; if they make difficulties ask for a few drops of wine or water and show it anew. What do you think?"

  "Good. But a ring is not always on the hand of the owner."

  "That is thought on. There is also a certain song from one of the old tongues before the heathen. How much clerk are you?"

  "Somewhat; but not to practice."

  The enchanter laughed shortly. "Not for admission to bailiffs, I know. Well, then, one shall hum to you or sing softly.

  Geme, plange, moesto more—

  and your reply to the same air is,

  Dolorosa Dalarna.

  Or you may reverse it, offering the first line in challenge."

  Airar caught the air and repeated it readily enough, but Meliboe waved hands and stood up. "So for business; now courtesy. You have supped?"

  Said Airar, who was in a state to attack the worm and carve steaks from its ribs, "Not I."

  "All my apologies." His host pulled aside another part of the tapestry than the dwarf had used when he entered. "Young sir and partner, come."

  There was a passage. At the end of it Meliboe ushered him into an apartment where again one candle burned, this above a bed well furnished. He clapped hands. Airar noticed the door had a lock and was glad; the manikin entered, still smiling at his secret jest, and was told to bring a plate with somewhat to drink. Meliboe remained on his feet and so did Airar for politeness, while time paused, from which the enchanter's eyes rolled suddenly. "You are a lucky man and will do much," he said, "but I do not think your luck will hold against that of the three fingered lord, though he be himself less than fortunate. A mystery."

  Airar stared at him. The dwarf, whom it would be more like to call a small man, since he was in all respects perfectly proportioned, came in with a tray that held meat, drink, and a manchet of bread; but at the moment he entered, there was a frightful dying scream that seemed to run through the whole building and rend one to the very marrow.

  The little man set down the tray and tittered. "The leopard is dead," said he.

  "Ten thousand furies!" cried Meliboe and dived through the door. Airar drove home the bolt before he addressed himself to the food.

  3 Naaros: A New Friend at the Old Sword

  AIRAR HAD been in Naaros often enough but never with five pieces of gold and all time to himself, so it was new. He wandered among shops, was beset to avoid slops, took his noon meal in a cook-stall where he left his pack in care, and found the temptation to buy strong till the very moment of entering the shop to chaffer. Then he would reflect that he bore his only home on his back, like a turtle; therefore ended by purchasing not even what he might in another mood have wished, like a beautiful little grimoire to fit the pocket, in the Street of the Booksellers. He went near neither the street where his father's brother kept house and artisanship in the name of Fabrizius, nor the dock where the latter had told him the cog Unicorn would lie—no, death's resort, both—though from the street of the piers he could see tall masts rising and catch the pungent whiff of spices from Uravedu and the South Isles; and it was of regret that the chance to sail thither had come in such a form.

  Without trouble he found the Street of the Unicorn, the Lady-Chapel, and the tavern called Of The Old Sword, marking it well for the evening's use. A black-fronted place, beamed up to a jutting overstory, with a narrow entrance and a somewhat ill-avised big man lounging against it with hair half over his eyes, who made way for nobody. That was behind, it would be toward sunset, and the brouhaha of the city dying toward gate-close when the son of Alvar came upon a street at the base of the peninsula where Naar runs round the tall tongue of rock to outline Naaros citadel. It was an old street that stood on a filled-in moat; therefore zigzagged, the ground windows mostly given to the sale of weapons and such gaudy trinkets as soldiers buy.<
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  Had Airar not been tired with walking paves he would have little paused; had he not looked at things wholly unwanted, the dag whose jewelling caught the last level light had not seemed so priceless good. But so it was; his heart leaped at finding something he could both buy and carry, and he went in. It was a fat man with a squint eye, who with tradesman's deliberation brought the dag from the window for Airar to handle. Permandos work, said he, and the price forty solvars. The weapon was sweetly balanced; at its touch Airar became so eager to buy that he only carried the bargaining down to thirty (though he might have had it for less) and brought out one of his goldpieces. The shopkeeper weighed it reflectively on fingertips and looked the young man up and down.

  "Are you not a Dalecarle?" he asked.

  "Yes, and what of that?" said Airar, somewhat shortly, having encountered this before. "This is Dalecarle's country."

  The man was patient. "May I see your exemption?"

  Said Airar, "I do not know that I take your meaning," fearing that he most accurately did take it.

  "Exemption. Writing over the seal of our Lord Provost with leave to buy weapons of the classes not by the ordinance to those of Dalecarle blood."

  Now Airar did understand with no doubt about it and felt his face flush hot. "If that's your ordinance," he cried, "take your dirty kitchen knife to my Lord Provost and ram it down his weazand with my compliments." He reached for his piece of money.

  The squinted eye blinked rapidly. "Young sir, I no more made the rules you live by than I made you six feet tall. It falls hardest on me. Now I must ask your name and to the archers' barrack to be questioned around and around about why you are buying death-tools; or if I fail, then you turn out to be one of my lord's deputies, and where am I?"