A Tapestry of Magics

by Brian Daley

  “The one who’s going to do me a favor,” the knight answered.

  “Which favor?” Saynday ventured.

  “The one my friend will do me.”

  Somehow, Bint was managing to stifle Arananth’s questions, outcries, and protests.

  “Which friend?” the Trickster countered slyly.

  “The one who gets this buffalo tongue,” the knight replied, and it was his turn to shrug.

  “Well, that might be me,” Saynday allowed.

  “Then you’d have yourself this fine buffalo tongue,” Crassmor confided.

  Saynday, arms folded across his chest, and without appearing to move a single muscle, slipped off the tree limb to stand before them. No further answer was needed. Crassmor stopped himself before he threw the tongue down; he dismounted and handed it over politely. Saynday registered a certain surprise at the civility.

  Crassmor explained, “There is one who follows me. Elderly, small, bald, and walking with a limp is he, freckled across here.” With that the knight passed a hand over the top of his head. “And the little thatch that’s left is white, strands of white. He’s a Klybesian monk, but—”

  Saynday, who’d been turning the tongue over in his hands but listening, now held up a palm. “I’ll know him; that tribe smells different.”

  Crassmor made note of that for future inquiry, but kept to the subject at hand. “I shall be at House Tarrant, or thereabouts. I should like to know where Mooncollar goes and to whom he talks.”

  “Well, you will,” Saynday declared. They both knew that, in the Singularity, a promise like that, made under such circumstances, was far better lived up to than reneged on.

  Chapter 14

  GRATEFUL

  “And you’re sure,” Crassmor was saying at the junction in the road that led in one direction to House Tarrant, in the other to Dreambourn, “that you remember no more about this di Cagliostro?”

  “Certain, cousin,” Bint replied. “He simply wandered in from the Beyonds, as so many do.”

  Arananth sighed prettily. “Have you two not nattered enough about this fellow and your household goings-on?”

  As Bint fell all over himself to assuage her displeasure, Crassmor reflected that if this truly were Arananth’s first affair of the heart, she’d done some forestudying. At one point on the trip, Bint had asked him privately if he, Crassmor, thought Arananth was showing true affection. Crassmor, indicating Arananth’s coiffure, which had been re-styled during their stay at the Kalleck Inn, had suggested, “Muss her hair.”

  “What?”

  “Close your mouth. I said, muss the girl’s hair—at the appropriately romantic moment, of course. If she loves you, she won’t mind; might even like it. If she becomes testy, you might wish to rethink things.”

  Later, her hair had been in some disarray. Arananth and Bint had held hands as they rode. Crassmor had thought that Arananth would go far in Dreambourn.

  Now she was patting Bint’s cheek. “Arananth forgives you! So let us get on to the capital; I am eager to see it.”

  “No,” Crassmor pronounced. She opened her mouth to object, then realized that she lacked any purchase on the older knight. Arananth smiled diplomatically.

  Not so Bint. “We are ordered to report to the fortress of Onn. We should notify the Grand Master of our return, at the least.”

  “The Charmed Realm is not holding its collective breath against our appearance,” Crassmor assured him. They’d seen no hint of war or other trouble in the Singularity. “Doubtless most of the Order has reported already; two of us won’t matter for today.” Bint yielded the point.

  Arananth quite forgot her reserve, gasping and exclaiming aloud when she saw House Tarrant and the vastness of the land it enclosed. The family stronghold was arguably the best-fortified place in the Singularity, with its many turrets and towers, looming bastions and hornworks, built from green-gray stone. Some sections of the place were roofed with slate, some with weighty maroon tiles, and some with copper long gone verdigris green. There were gables all of stained glass and sally gates with old bloodstains still upon them. A weathervane wrought in gold in the shape of a phoenix felt the wind.

  Crassmor was recognized and admitted without delay. The trio crossed an already lowered drawbridge, under a barbican that was itself no small keep. As their horses’ hooves raised dull echoes from the thick planks, Crassmor saw that all was in good order. Scarp and counterscarp and palisade were all well maintained, as were the other defensive appointments.

  The stables had been enlarged, some of the outbuildings extensively repaired, the paved area of the courtyard expanded, and the roof of the central keep replaced, but by and large the place was as he recalled it. Word of the party’s arrival had been passed. Combard was awaiting them, hands clasped behind his back, when they were shown into his study. He’d changed even less than had House Tarrant; he was a bit more gaunt, a trifle less erect, no less severe.

  Crassmor had noticed that, while the Tarrant lands and the Singularity itself still prospered, they were not as lush as they’d been. The knight saw that his father was tired and thought that that weariness might have passed, through Combard’s special ties, to the soil and substance of the Home Plane.

  As was his practice, the Lord of House Tarrant was arrayed in the robes of the head of an Elder House, wearing beneath them a gleaming cuirass and a belted sword. The room itself held no martial trophies. Instead, there were maps of the Singularity, specifying cultivated areas and details of their crops, forests, and the amounts and kinds of lumber and wildlife there. They also set forth the features of lakes and other bodies of water, mining and milling operations, pasturage, and the current sizes of herds and flocks.

  “Greetings, father,” Crassmor said. He went to Combard, while Arananth and Bint stopped a half-dozen paces back.

  “Welcome home, fellow knight.” Combard gave the standard reply. The old man couldn’t keep his eyes from going to the heir’s ring; Crassmor thought that it was with regret. It was also custom for father and son to embrace after such a long separation. Combard, ever obedient to tradition, didn’t shirk. He opened his arms, the long tippets of his sleeves hanging down, observing the ritual without wavering, whatever reluctance he might feel. Crassmor made no move to cut the embrace short, although Combard was plainly less than comfortable. After that Combard opened his arms to Bint, who’d been watching with a certain reserve. Bint and his uncle embraced heartily, but when they’d parted, Bint gave Crassmor a look that held embarrassment.

  The old man’s eyes lit sternly on Arananth; he obviously thought his son had brought home a wife or mistress.

  “The Lady Arananth of Meere, in the Beyonds,” Crassmor made the presentation with a half-grin and a formal bow, “may I present Lord Combard of Tarrant.” She dropped the most engaging of curtsies with a radiant smile. Combard cleared his throat and made a stiff, shallow bow, murmuring an uneasy greeting. “Lady Arananth is under the protection of Sir Bint here,” Crassmor elaborated, “rescued by him and come hither to pay her respects at the court of Ironwicca.”

  Combard’s features softened; Crassmor hid his smirk. The old man went to her and kissed her hand as she blushed, loving it. A moment later, the lord of the house was calling for servants, instructing them to ready the best guest suite in House Tarrant. Arananth was as happy as a child, dazzled by the wealth and size of the place, eyeing the maidservants’ fashions closely. Bint, proud and grave, excused himself and set off to show her the more interesting features of the Tarrant stronghold.

  Hearing that his mother had once more shut herself away with melancholia, Crassmor elected to wait before seeing her. He asked Combard, “What may be this trouble that calls together the Order of the Circle of Onn?” He hoped to hear that it was a threat that had been settled, posing no further danger, that the dire recall would be turned into a holiday.

  He was disappointed. “The day after tomorrow at Gateshield,” Combard told him, “the Grand Master will speak o
n that. Rumors have the king and Jaan-Marl in frequent consultation, with grim words.”

  Crassmor’s heart sank a bit. The news made him all the more wary of bringing up another subject. He decided to come to it in a roundabout fashion. “And you’re well, father? Good. Ah, and Uncle Furd?”

  “Furd is himself, as ever,” Combard answered, and for a change there was fondness in his voice.

  Which is to say, vindictive as a poison toad, was Crassmor’s opinion. He kept that to himself and pressed on cautiously. “And the Lady Willow?”

  Combard’s mouth lengthened; tension moved the beard that had lost more of its red and acquired much more gray and some white. “She is hale, though to this day she mourns your brother. Has Bint told you of Teerse’s passing? A mercy, in truth; he was long abed, slow in the dying, no kind way to leave this life. Now Willow looks after the Jade Dome and the Tapestry all by herself.”

  Crassmor felt old, cruel pain at the mention of Sandur. He had been overjoyed, though, to hear from Bint that Willow was unmarried. That left the problem of seeing her; Combard’s total opposition to a union between Crassmor and Willow hadn’t changed, that much was plain.

  A door opened, giving access from one of the chambers off the study. A voice exulted, “Ah, the young cavalier, back from his tour of errantry!” It was a voice of great force, well modulated, not overloud, even though it caught and held the attention at once. The speaker stood framed in the doorway.

  He was small and stocky, but his posture and the cant of his head spoke of great animation, as did his eyes. Those eyes held Crassmor’s immediately. They were bright and astute, somewhat protruding, penetrant and yet easy to meet—indeed, difficult to look away from. They spoke of a formidable intellect. The man was perhaps fifty years of age, with a fleshy face but a long, well-sculpted nose. His hair, once all jet black, had become mixed with gray and receded a good deal. The weight of middle age had thickened his neck.

  He wore long vestments with symbols sewn to them, designs of an esoteric type that Crassmor had never seen before, the vestments themselves being blue and white. There was a winged wand bearing serpents, squares and levels of the mason’s trade, what looked to be a compass, and another serpent—this one transfixed in an S-shape by an arrow and bearing in its mouth some globe or fruit. He wore a gorgeous ring with the characters INRI, highly decorated, upon it.

  The man’s smile automatically elicited a like response from Crassmor, without the knight’s will. Then Crassmor noticed the side chamber just as the newcomer pulled the connecting door shut. Combard’s things had been moved out of it and all the draperies drawn. Candles burned there and incense. There was a table, and on it a crystal globe; the play of light across the globe made Crassmor think that it was filled with water. On the floor, a pentagram held some elements identifiable to the knight. They shocked him; they were concerned with necromancy.

  The man approached jauntily for an introduction. Crassmor saw that Combard was upset by the chance glimpse into the side chamber permitted by the opening of the door, and found himself wondering if it had been all that accidental. Combard said, “My son, Sir Crassmor of the Order of the Circle of Onn, I present to you a friend and guest and worker for good, the Count di Cagliostro.”

  Di Cagliostro bowed with a flourish and Crassmor did the same, with rather less panache, knuckling his mustache and looking the man over. “A very treasure house of learning,” Combard continued, “whose word and aid I have come to value highly.” Di Cagliostro’s hand swept through a gesture of deprecation.

  “It is a pleasure and a meaning in life,” the count said, “to be of some worth, particularly to Combard of Tarrant, who is interested in the furtherance of knowledge and the general weal.”

  Crassmor was surprised to find himself believing that the count meant what he was saying. Inclining his head toward the closed door, Crassmor asked, “And is the craft sinister for the general—”

  “You forget yourself, sir!” Combard snapped, furious. Then he regained his composure, aware that he’d overreacted.

  Di Cagliostro took up the conversation suavely, “No fact or procedure, even necromancy, is good or bad in itself. That lies in matters of application.”

  “Just so, Alessandro,” Combard agreed more calmly. He turned back to his son. “This good man came initially to House Tarrant to ease your mother’s distresses with his healing arts. Since then, he has been of great comfort to me.”

  Crassmor chose his words carefully. “I meant no slight to a guest of House Tarrant.” Di Cagliostro bowed again, with a benign motion of his hand. But the knight’s mind had closed on the obvious: there was only one spirit among the dead whom Combard would so wish to contact. For di Cagliostro as for anyone else, the way to Combard’s favor lay with the Outrider.

  The count was studying Crassmor closely. “If my craft does not deceive me, you yourself wear the aura of some spell or enchantment, do you not, Sir Knight?”

  That confirmed it; Fanarion’s parting curse, that Crassmor know no peace, had taken. “A minor malediction,” the knight admitted.

  Di Cagliostro was elaborately sympathetic. “It would be no great task to free you of it,” he offered.

  You’ll never get the Reluctant Knight into your pentagram! was what Crassmor was resolving as he said, “All my gratitude to you. But it is a thing of no consequence whatever.” There were others in the Singularity who could help him, whom he trusted.

  Combard resumed briskly. “The count and I have some… matters of our own to conclude. That is, research. Go, rest, and we’ll speak over the dining board tonight.”

  Crassmor was on guard, certain that this intruder in House Tarrant was interested in much more than simply Combard’s gratitude. “Is it some endeavor in which I can be of assistance?” he asked with weighted innocence. Both Combard’s and di Cagliostro’s faces betrayed the awkwardness of the inquiry, confirming the knight’s suspicions. “After all, father, I’ve learned a thing or two in the Beyonds, and have spent no time with you for—it is close on two years now, is it not?”

  Combard’s brow furrowed, because his son was right. If Crassmor, a Knight of the Order newly returned from the Beyonds, wished to spend time with him, then it would be small of Combard to refuse.

  Di Cagliostro, features untroubled once more, put in, “But there is another who anticipates your return. The Lady Willow, that poor, dear girl! She asked to be notified as soon as you answered the recall. Why not pay her a quick visit this afternoon and relieve her tedium?”

  Combard’s face grew dark; an explosion of temper wasn’t far off. Crassmor was taken off balance at the suggestion, the intimate knowledge of affairs at House Tarrant that it implied. The clever count had correctly judged that it was just the diversion to keep Crassmor from further meddling.

  Di Cagliostro laid a coaxing hand on Combard’s arm and employed that persuasive voice to good advantage. “She is so lonely there; how can you deny her a visit from the Outrider’s brother? For surely she thinks of little but her lost love? And why bore this fellow here with our academic pastimes, eh?”

  Sly argument, Crassmor conceded. It assured Combard that Willow was too dedicated to Sandur’s memory to be tempted and pointed out that Crassmor’s departure could thus be accomplished. It showed shrewd awareness on di Cagliostro’s part of how inclined Combard was to assume that others shared his single-minded grief. Too, it indicated a wily appreciation of Crassmor’s feelings for Willow; the count knew that nothing, even the worrisome doings in the adjoining room, would keep him from leaping at the chance to be with her again.

  Damn him! the knight fumed, seeing the count’s self-satisfied smile. But Crassmor knew too that Combard might still be stubborn about the visit. The knight compelled himself to play against the obvious. “Actually, sir, I have cultivated an interest in the occult arts. The opportunity to observe your operations would be most welcome, if you’ve no objection. Or you, father?” He saw from the count’s face that di Cagliostro u
nderstood that tactic and was impressed.

  Combard found himself between two unattractive alternatives. As always, his thoughts were with Sandur. “Our guest is right; our putterings hold no interest for you.” Then his brows knitted. “But mind: a quick greeting, then straight home.”

  Crassmor couldn’t resist a last dig. “Are you certain, then, that I can be of no—”

  “Go!” Combard shouted, with an impatient, shooing motion. “And look to your manners! And be back inside these walls by nightfall!”

  “A word first,” di Cagliostro put in. He indicated the golden band on Crassmor’s hand. “I wonder if I might presume to borrow that? It would be safe with me, on my life I swear it, and soon returned.”

  Of course, Crassmor thought. The heir’s ring would have strong ties to Sandur and might help the necromancer succeed. Even Combard was surprised by the request; it was almost an insult to ask such a thing. The old man made no comment, however; he was that committed to the enterprise. Crassmor saw from di Cagliostro’s face that the count considered this a part of the tacit bargain that had been struck over and around Combard. The choice didn’t take long.

  Crassmor compromised by slipping the ring off his finger—removing it with some effort—and pressing it into Combard’s palm. Di Cagliostro, pretending not to notice the implied slur, bowed his thanks. Combard regarded his son uncertainly.

  Not five minutes in his presence, and he’s gotten the heir’s ring off my hand already, Crassmor mulled, off to order up a fresh mount. He reflected on what an altogether keen and dangerous fellow was this wanderer-in from the Beyonds, this beguiler, this necromancer and opportunist, this di Cagliostro.

  Crassmor washed and changed at a dead run, leaving his armor but bearing Shhing. He found on his arrival that House Comullo had seen more change than had House Tarrant—the change of disrepair, decay and neglect.

  The Jade Dome itself was unaffected by time, a green hemisphere like a gem in its setting, surrounded by the more conventional architecture and fortifications of the place. Crassmor saw that the financial circumstances of House Comullo had fallen even lower than they’d been before the death of Teerse. There were only two guards at that little bailey, and only one to be seen walking the ramparts. These were all aging, decrepit retainers, not young, vigorous armsmen. Crassmor wondered how, as Bint had told him, di Cagliostro could have been so intimidated by them.