“Tell him I’ll be on my way this afternoon. I’ve a long journey ahead of me.”
“Ah. Going to Aberwyn?”
“A bit farther than that. Bardek.”
“Fancy that! A long, long journey indeed! Not going there alone, are you now?”
“I am. I suppose.” She paused, considering. “Well, you know, there does happen to be someone I could ask to go with me, and it might be a good idea, at that. He knows the islands a fair bit better than I do. Hum. I’ll have to think about this.”
present
Consider the roots of a simple and mundane action, for instance, buying bread for your breakfast. A farmer has grown the grain in a field carved from wilderness by his ancestors; in the ancient city a miller has ground the flour and a baker prepared the loaf; the vendor has transported it to your house in a cart built by a cartwright and his apprentices. Even the donkey that draws the cart, what stories could she not tell if you could decipher her braying? And then you yourself hand over a coin of copper dug from the very heart of the earth, you who have risen from a bed of dreams and darkness to stand in the light of the vast and terrifying sun. Are there not a thousand strands woven together into this tapestry of a morning meal? How then can you expect that the omens of great events should be easy to unravel?
Pseudo-Iamblichus Scroll
1.
The Knave of Flowers
Bardek, 1098
Down in the public square Luvilae’s market spread out, a lake of brightly colored sunshades and little stalls. Acrobats performed on improvised platforms; minstrels sat in the shade of trees and played for coppers. Wearing bronze helmets topped with red plumes, the archon’s men strolled through in pairs to keep order. A warm breeze carried the scents of incense and roast pork, flowered perfumes and spiced vegetables. Off to one side, behind a line of stalls that sold blue and purple pottery, a fortune-teller was doing a reading for a client. In the midst of striped and faded blue sunshades and curtains, the two women haggled over the price from either side of a low table. Draped in black as befitted her trade in omens, the elderly one sank onto her cushions with a moist sigh. Dressed like a boy in a linen tunic and sandals, the young woman knelt on a pounded bark mat and ran both hands through her mop of frizzy black hair before she settled back on her heels. Wheezing a little in the heat, Akantha took an ebony box from under the table and slid out the ninety-six tiles of polished bone. Most fell facedown, a good omen, but as Akantha turned the few wayward tiles over, one slid to the ground. With a frown she snatched it back.
“Help me mix them up, little one. Bring them over to the right side of the table—my right, that is.”
Marka laid both hands flat on the layer of tiles and mixed with a sound like thunder.
“Enough,” Akantha said at last. “Draw five to start with.”
The old woman turned the chosen tiles faceup to form a square. The two of spears and the four of golds appeared, followed by three different tiles from the suit of flowers: the knave, the six, and finally the princess, which Akantha laid in the center of the square.
“Is that me?” Marka asked.
“It might be, it might be—or else, you will someday serve the princess. Not sure which yet. But I don’t much like the look of this knave. Hum. A lover, maybe; he’s the same suit, but he’s no prince, is he? Watch out for him, girl. I do like the look of this six. Good fortune, girl, very good fortune indeed, though not without some trouble.” She laid a long and bony forefinger on the two of spears. “But nothing your wits won’t be able to get you out of, I’d say. Three flowers in the first draw is very lucky, very lucky. Now draw me four groups of three.”
Each group formed a triangle. For a long time Akantha sucked her teeth in silence while she studied the layout; once or twice she started to speak, then merely shook her head. Marka knew just enough about the tiles to understand that the expanded reading simply wasn’t coalescing into a whole. Omens of splendid good luck lay right next to signifiers of the grimmest bad fortune, while the minor, numbered tiles contradicted all the important trumps around them. The first was the three of flowers.
“Well, then, the reading should be a good one. Here’s a flower coming up from the Earth. Now, we’ve got the nine of swords for Air, so you’re in for a bit of rough sailing, sure enough. And now for Water we’ve got the queen of birds, which is not the kind of location I’d like to see for that tile. No, water and birds aren’t a happy marriage, girl, not at all. But well, look at this! For Fire here’s the ten of golds! Very good luck, the best there is. And finally, for the Ether, we have the . . . the prince of Swords? Oh, by the Star Goddesses themselves! This isn’t making sense again. Listen, young Marka, sometimes the gods just don’t want us to know the future. That’s all there is to it. Don’t you pay one bit of attention to anything I’ve said this morning, and as for your, money, come back after dark and I’ll try again for free. Sometimes letting the sun set on a reading changes things.”
“Thank you, but I can’t. We’ll be putting on our show once it’s dark.”
“Ah. You’re one of that bunch from Main Island, then?”
“Yes. I do the slack wire. I mean, I used to.” She stopped herself just in time from venting all her bitterness on this sympathetic if hired ear. “I juggle now.”
As she hurried away, Marka tried to leave the reading behind, but its bad aura hung round her like a wet cloak. Nothing, it seemed, was going right these days, not even a simple thing like getting her fortune told. Although Luvilae was the capital of Zama Mañae, the southernmost island in the Orystinnian archipelago, at a mere twenty thousand inhabitants it was not the sort of place where a wandering troupe of acrobats could make its fortune. Marka wondered why her father had brought them there, but then, these days her father did a lot of things that made no sense. She felt a constant dread, a line of ice down her back, a knowledge that she refused to face. He promised, she would think, it couldn’t be that again.
She forced her mind away from old memories with a wrench of will. She’d been sent into town, after all, for more important reasons than just hearing her fortune. She bought a chunk of roast pork on a stick and wandered round, nibbling her meal and looking over the other street performers at the fair. The only jugglers she saw were clumsy; there were no slackrope walkers at all. Although she found a band of tumblers, they couldn’t compete with the complex routines that the men in her troupe performed. Most of the solitaires were musicians. Overall, the best show she saw in that first look round featured trained monkeys and apes.
As she was buying herself a piece of sugared cake, she noticed a small crowd gathering off to one side in the shade of a big plane tree. The cake seller gestured with snow-white fingers, all sticky from her wares.
“If that’s the barbarian, you should take a look at him. Puts on a good show, though I swear the man’s demented!”
Marka went over, paying as much attention to the cake as anything, since it was impossible to eat without getting sugar all over her chin. She found a spot off to one side, but at first she could only see scarves flying into the air above the heads of the crowd and hear the fellow’s patter, a running mix of topical jokes and sheer nonsense, all delivered in a musical voice without any foreign accent whatsoever. She assumed that his barbarism was nothing more than a good costume until she wormed her way closer to the front.
For a moment she could only gawk openmouthed. Never in her life had she seen anyone so pale, as if he’d been bleached like a strip of linen soaked in lemon juice and left in the summer sun. His skin was a light pinky-beige, and his hair, as fine and straight as silk thread, was the silvery color of moonbeams with just the barest hint of yellow in it by contrast with his steel-gray eyes. He was wearing a strange sort of tunic, with long, full sleeves, and gathered into a yoke at the shoulders and belted over a peculiar garment that encased his legs in baggy tubes of blue cloth. So he was indeed one of those fabled barbarians from the savage kingdoms far to the n
orth! It took Marka a few moments to recover from his appearance before she could appreciate his skill.
And skill he had. In his long, slender hands the silk scarves seemed to come alive, whisking through the air, floating up only to plummet down, circling round and round or weaving in and out while he kept up his stream of jokes and snatches of song. Watching him, she was bitterly aware of what a beginner she was at juggling and how clumsy she was going to look when her turn came to perform. When he paused, looking significantly at the crowd, a rain of coins flew his way. Laughing and bowing, he flicked the scarves into his sleeves, then hunkered down to pick up the coins, making them fly round his head in a little stream before they all disappeared into his clothes.
“The Great Krysello is pleased!” he announced. “Allow him to delight your noble selves with his humble tricks for a little while longer.”
When he bowed again, three eggs seemed to appear out of nowhere and settle into his hands. Before he began this new routine, he happened to glance Marka’s way. His eyes widened; he broke into a smile of pure delight; then he wiped the smile away and turned firm attention to his performance. Marka felt utterly flabbergasted. Although she knew that she was a pretty girl, she’d never had a man look at her that way before, as if the very sight of her had made him happy beyond dreaming. Her second thought was that there was powdered sugar all over her face. Blushing furiously, she elbowed her way through the crowd and fled the Great Krysello and his smiles.
She found the public fountain and washed the sugar off, then headed for the city-owned caravanserai at the edge of town. The troupe had four tents and two wagons of its own, set up in a circle under some palm trees at the edge of the campground. It was better to stay away from other travelers, always quick to accuse wandering showmen of being thieves. The five acrobats were practicing their tumbling turns behind the tents, while their leader, Vinto, watched and commented. Out in the middle of the tent circle a big cooking fire was burning. Marka’s stepmother, Orima, along with the two other women in the troupe, Delya and Keeta, were stewing spiced vegetables in a hanging pot and slapping rounds of thin bread onto an enormous iron griddle. They fell silent when Marka came up.
“What’s wrong, Rimi?”
“Nothing. What makes you say that?”
Marka hesitated on the edge of forcing a confrontation. Orima’s dark eyes turned narrow. In the silence Marka could hear the sea booming on the nearby shore and the men chanting out practice cadences.
“Where’s Father?”
“Sleeping.” She turned away, frowning into the pot. “He’s resting before the show tonight.”
Before Marka could say anything more, Keeta came up behind her, grabbed her elbow, and steered her away from the campfire. Arguing with enormously tall Keeta, who was as strong as two average men, was a waste of time.
“If you’re going to learn how to catch a flaming torch,” she said, and firmly, “you’ve got to start practicing.”
They walked to the edge of the sea cliff and stood for a while, looking down at the waves rising higher and higher on the graveled beach. Far off at the horizon the sea made a line like a stretched wire, perfectly flat and landless. Sail far enough to the south, or so Marka had always been told, and you’d come to an enormous waterfall, pouring down into the fiery underworld where the sea boiled off. The water rose again as clouds of steam to make the rain and start the cycle all over again.
“You don’t really want to give me a lesson now, do you?” Marka said at last.
“Well, yes, actually I do.” Keeta grinned, a flash of white teeth in her dark face. “But I also happen to be sick of hearing you fight with your mother.”
“That woman is not my mother, thank you very much.”
Keeta sighed sharply.
“Well, how much older than me is she, anyway? Four years, five? How do you expect me to—”
“I don’t expect you to do anything.” Keeta held one huge hand up for silence. “Except to try not to make things worse. Listen, I know she lords it over you. She lords it over everyone, doesn’t she? But we’re in a very bad position, stuck here at the edge of nowhere. Your father won’t even talk about money. I’m willing to bet that there’s not a lot left to talk about.”
All at once Marka felt sick to her stomach. She sat down in the scruffy grass and stared fixedly out to sea. After a few minutes Keeta hunkered down next to her with a dramatic sigh.
“You’re old enough to know these things now. If the audience gives you special tips, keep them hidden, will you? Dont turn them over to your father. I’m doing the same. We might all need a few extra coins if we’re ever going to see Main Island again.”
“All right.”
“I wonder what’s he doing with it?” Keeta got up and stretched. “Spending it all on her?”
“Probably.” Marka felt the ice-knowledge again, slicing down her spine. You should tell her, she thought, you should tell her the truth right now. Saying the words aloud would mean admitting the truth to herself, as well.
After a long moment Keeta sighed and shook her head.
“Well, let’s practice. Some sticks of driftwood are what we want, something unbalanced like the torches.”
As Marka followed her down to the beach, she was feeling like the worst coward in the world. But I’ve got to be sure. I can’t tell anyone till I’m sure. That, at least, was her excuse.
A good session’s practice with a friend turned Marka as sunny as the day, but when they got back to the campground, she found her father awake, or just barely awake. He came stumbling out of the tent, yawning hugely, rubbing his sticky eyes, and glancing round him with a stupid sort of smile that made him look like a stunned ox. Hamil was as tall as Keeta, and much stockier, a handsome man with his wide black eyes and full mouth, his close-cropped curly hair just touched at the temples with distinguished gray. But just lately he’d been looking old, his eyes often distant or glazed, his speech slow, and he’d been putting on a flabby kind of fat round the middle.
“Marka?” Hamil said. “Did you work over the market?”
“Yes, just about an hour ago. There were only two acts to worry about. One has apes and monkeys, and there’s nothing we can do about that. And then there’s this juggler, but he’s just a single player. I’ve never seen anybody throw scarves the way he does. He’s really fantastic.”
“Oh, really?” Orima said with a simper. “Maybe we should prentice you out to him.”
Marka opened her mouth for a smart reply, but she noticed Keeta, standing behind her father and stepmother and shaking her head grimly.
“He could teach us all something,” Marka said instead. “The best thing is, he’s a barbarian. A real northern barbarian.”
“A draw in itself.” With one last yawn Hamil ambled over to the fire circle and sat down on a low stool near his wife. “Huh. Wonder if he wants to join up with a bigger outfit. We could use a new draw.”
“If he’s that good, he doesn’t need to split his take with anyone.” Keeta came forward and joined the circle. “Maybe we should try monkeys.”
“Smelly things. And they bite,” Orima broke in. “And they leave messes all over. It’s all that fruit they eat. I wouldn’t want them in my troupe.”
“If you ever get your own troupe,” Marka snapped. “You can decide then.”
“Marka!” Hamil and Keeta snapped in unison. Hamil went on alone. “You apologize to your stepmother.”
“For what?”
Hamil got up, raising one broad hand.
“I’m sorry, Rimi.”
Orima simpered and sneered; everyone else in the circle looked awkwardly away; Hamil sat down again.
“I’m going to practice some more.”
As Marka turned on her heel and strode off, she was wondering if she could murder Orima and get away with it. The thought was so strong that it terrified her.
“It is her, O Puissant Princess of Powers Perilous,” Salamander
said. “Would the Great Krysello be mistaken over a matter of such grave import? Of course not. I saw her, I tell you: my own beloved Alaena, reborn and come back to me.”
“I have my doubts,” Jill said. “There hasn’t really been enough time, you know, since her last life.”
Salamander turned sulky and devoted himself to pouring more wine. They were sitting in the best inn chamber that Luvilae had to offer—a palace by Jill’s standards though close to a hovel by his—a small room with a chipped tile door, scattered with cushions for want of furniture. Jill took one of the flat wine cups from him and considered the problem.
“I don’t mean to stir up painful memories.” She made her voice as gentle as she could. “But how long has Alaena been gone?”
“Thirty years. Well, almost. Well, maybe a score and eight.”
“How old is this lass, anyway?”
“Uh, well, sixteen or so.”
“That’s not much time as the Lords of Wyrd reckon time. It’s possible, of course—just not likely.”
“I know, I know, but I keep thinking, ye gods, our marriage lasted but such a little while! She would have wanted to come back as soon as she could.”
“For your sake I suppose?”
He winced.
“Not for me,” he said at last. “But because she loved life so much.”
Jill wondered if she could ever be objective in this situation. Since she herself seemed to be destined to lose every man that she allowed herself to love, she refused to let her own bitterness spoil his chance to be happy. He sat frowning into his goblet until the, for him, bizarre silence got on her nerves.
“Does her family live here in town?”
“Um?” He looked up, startled. “My apologies. What did you say?”
Deverry #06 - The Westlands 02 - A Time of Omens Page 12
