Innkeeper's Song

by Peter S. Beagle

  Turn him out? Turn him out? Oh, aye—Karsh, who hadn’t the stomach to order three women out of The Gaff and Slasher, Karsh is now to tell a wizard to take his custom somewhere else. Well, I have no shame in telling you that I smiled and nodded at him whenever I saw him, asked him if his room was comfortable enough, and sent him up better wine than Miss I’ve-killed-men-over-a-bad-vintage Lal ever wrinkled her nose at. He appreciated it, too—said so in her royal presence more than once. Even innkeepers have their moments.

  Yet nothing seemed to happen—nothing you could call happening, anyway, smells or no smells. The summer days creaked by, travelers came and went—Shadry’s wife ran off with one of them, the way she does most summers, just for the vacation from Shadry—horses got looked after, meals got cooked, dishes went on being washed, rooms were more or less swept out, carters lugged casks of red ale and Dragon’s Daughter into the taproom, and a family of Narsai tinkers left in the night without paying their score. My fault for not charging them in advance—my father was half-Narsai, and I know better than that.

  The three women behaved almost like ordinary guests, taking the sun and buying trinkets and antiquities at Corcorua Market; though why they stayed on, except to nurse their wizard friend, I couldn’t fathom. Tikat seemed to have given up running after that daft white one, Lukassa—hardly looked at her these days, except to move out of the way when she passed by, more like a little wandering ghost than ever, with those eyes eating up her face. I’d have kicked him out, just to be kicking someone, but he was more than earning his keep between the stable, the house, and the kitchen garden. A silent, grim-faced lad, with a south-country brogue to curdle beer, but a good worker, I’ll say that.

  In honesty, the only real complaint I could have mustered during that time had to do with the boy. And I couldn’t have put it in words, either, as well as I know him and myself. He was happy as bedamned to see those women back, of course—took on to unsettle your dinner, and was forever slipping off to see if any little chore of theirs wanted doing. Nothing new about that, certainly: no, what niggled at me was an idea that something was niggling at him, and growing worse by the day. Not that he said a word about it—not to me anyway, of course, he’d die first—but Gatti Jinni could have read that face, and that anxious way he was developing of looking quickly around him at odd moments, just as though he were sneaking off to bother Marinesha and heard me shouting for him. I thought it was the wizard then. I thought he’d taken to hanging after him, as he did with those women. It gave me a bit of a queer feeling.

  ROSSETH

  Part of it was the heat, surely. That part of the country, high as it is, turns hot as a forge in late summer. I grew up used to the weather, of course—I miss it now, to tell you the truth—but after the wizard arrived, every day felt stretched tight over a bed of white coals, as the people there scrape sheknath hides. The nights are usually a relief, because of the mountain breezes, but that summer they never came. Dogs and chickens lay in the dust and gasped; the horses hadn’t the energy to swish away flies; the guests sprawled in the taproom, keeping their gullets cool at any rate; and even Karsh stamped and roared a little less than usual, and had a few less orders for Tikat and me. Myself, I woke up sweat-soaked in the hayloft every smoldering dawn, already exhausted, with a head full of cinders. Nearly twenty years it’s been, and I can still recall exactly the strange, hopeless taste of those wakings.

  Because it wasn’t really the weather—not that taste, not that sense of being under a glass: a lens that was focusing the heat of someone’s attention on The Gaff and Slasher. It got even worse when Lal and Nyateneri returned: there was rarely a moment, asleep or awake, when I couldn’t feel myself watched more and more intensely by a cold considering that had nothing to do with me—me, Rosseth, or whoever I am—nor with anything I understood or loved in this world. Sometimes it seemed far away; at others, close enough to share my bed-straw and finger over my dreams. In either case, there was no avoiding it, and no fighting off the evil dreariness that always attended it, that kept me constantly frightened in a vague, dull way, and truly tired to death. Sad to death, I suppose you could say.

  If Tikat was suffering from the same complaint, I saw no sign of it. Not that I saw much of Tikat in those days: he had quietly taken over the nursing and guarding duties with which I had been entrusted, and now spent most of his free time with the old man upstairs, whom he called tafiya. I missed him sharply—until he came I’d never had a friend of almost my own age to work and talk with, mucking out stalls or lying awake in the loft—and I envied him terribly as well. Mainly, of course, because his closeness to the wizard brought him close to Lal, Nyateneri, and Lukassa every day; but I was jealous, too, that somebody valued his presence and asked for him often, which is different from being sent for. I could have gone on my own, I know that, but I didn’t, and there it is. I was very young.

  The women kept even more to themselves than they had done before, whether they rode out or stayed shut in their room, or in the old man’s room. When I saw them at all, I always saw them together, which wasn’t what I wanted. Most particularly I wished to tell Soukyan—who still looked and moved and smelled like Nyateneri—that I liked him no less for the deception, and that I was not avoiding him out of anger or shame. I wanted to ask Lal why and how they had returned so soon, and to tell her that I had looked after her wizard as well as I was permitted. (The third assassin never turned up, by the way—to this day I don’t know what became of him.) And I wanted to say to Lukassa that every time Tikat heard her voice or saw her in the stair or crossing the courtyard, his heart cracked in one more place. Oh, I had a speech ready for Lukassa, I certainly did. I used to practice it aloud on the horses.

  But none of all that ever happened, somehow: it was almost as though the three of them had never come riding around that bend beyond the spring, as though I had dreamed the trembling dimples in Lal’s shoulders, dreamed that I watched Nyateneri kill two killers singlehanded. All that was real was a loneliness I had never given name to before they came—that and the heat, and the fear.

  Once I asked Marinesha how the wizard was faring, because I would not ask Tikat. She answered, not in her usual starling chatter, but in a subdued, hesitant mumble, “Well enough, I suppose.” When I pressed her further, she bridled at first, and then began to weep—not in mim silence, like a lady, as she always tried to shed her tears, but with great honks and sniffs, wringing my best noserag to shreds. What I made out of her misery was that she had hardly seen the old man since Lal and Nyateneri’s return—“but I hear him every night, Rosseth, all night every night, marching up and down the room till dawn, talking and chanting and singing to himself. He can’t be sleeping at all…”

  I petted and quieted her as well as I could, saying, “Well then, he must sleep by day, that’s what it is. And he’s a wizard, Marinesha—wizards don’t need things like sleep and food and such, not the way we do.” But she pulled free of me and looked into my face, and there was a desperate sorrow in her eyes that I had never imagined they could show.

  “There are others,” she whispered. “Sometimes there are others, and they answer him. They sound like little children.” She ran away then, back to the inn, still crying, taking my nose-rag with her.

  Tikat knew nothing of any voices, and I believed him when he said so. I don’t think that gods, spirits, demons, monsters, or any of that lot will ever put in an appearance in Tikat’s presence. They’ll just wait patiently, as long as they have to, until he goes away. Karsh isn’t like that. You’d think he would be, if anyone would, but he isn’t. I will say that about Karsh—the monsters haven’t always waited for him to leave.

  It was a day or two after I spoke with Marinesha that he came looking for me in the kitchen. Tikat was patching the rotting horse trough once again, and our most recent potboy had disappeared—Shadry beats and bullies his way through a dozen in a year; the best you can say is that they often run away without even stopping to collect their wages. A
fter cursing Shadry for at least five minutes without once repeating himself, Karsh suddenly looked up as though noticing me by chance, as he always does, and grunted, “Outside. Wait.”

  I stood outside and waited for another five minutes before he came out, purple in the face and wiping his mouth—you’d have thought he had just eaten Shadry with a couple of side dishes. He stood there for a while, not looking at me, muttering to himself, “Bloody stupid, bloody stonefingered, dungmouthed imbecile, whoever gave him the goatfucking notion he was a bloody cook?” Presently, when it suited him, he said, “Rosseth.” I think of that often—the way Lal said my name, and the way he did. I can’t help it, I still do.

  “You told me to wait,” I said. Karsh nodded. He said, “Thank you.”

  I’ll not stand here and swear that that was the very first time Karsh ever said thank you to me. It may not have been. I can’t even be sure that I really heard it, strangled as he sounded. I’ll just tell you that it shocked me, as much as if he had begun to jig and spin in a circle with his finger on the top of his head. I stared at him. That made him angry, and he shouted, “What are you gawping for now? What’s the matter with you? Always gawping at everything, I never knew anybody like you for gawping, since the first day, first time I ever saw you.”

  He stopped there, coughing and spitting, but not taking his eyes off me. I waited, wondering whether he wanted to berate me about the drains again, or warn me to stop upsetting Marinesha. But he shook his head furiously, wiped his mouth, drew in a long breath, and said, “Rosseth. How are you?”

  I sputtered a bit myself, getting the words out. “How am I? I am well enough.” Karsh nodded several times, as solemnly as though I had just given him the answer to some riddle that had been itching him all his life. He muttered, “Good, that’s good,” and then, looking just past me, “Rosseth, been meaning to tell you something. A long time now.”

  I waited. Karsh said, “You were a… you weren’t a bad child. Didn’t cry much, didn’t get underfoot. You were a nice little boy.”

  The last words cost him so much effort that he had to roar them out, daring me to give him the lie. He stood there glaring at me, actually panting, his eyes that strange blue-black they go when he’s really furious. A moment only of that—then he turned and tramped back inside, yelling more insults at Shadry before he even had the door open. I stood where I was, under that scraped white sky, shaking numbly with wonderment and weariness and fear, and wishing I knew my own name.

  THE FOX

  Too hot. Too hot. Poor little fox, slipping and turning inside nasty draggly bag of wet fur. Man-shape has no fur, but Nyateneri threatens a dozen times death if she sees. So no man-shape, no nice red ale in the taproom, nothing but hot wind in the hot weeds under the tree where chickens sleep. Like eating old brooms. Poor fox.

  Day, night, on and on. Nothing to do but sleep. I can sleep a hundred years, if I want—eat nothing, drink nothing, wake if you think about me. But once I look up and there she is, looking down, Lukassa. Eyes so old in that face—as old as I am, almost. She says, “Fox, fox,” so softly. Bends down, picks me up, like the first night, tucks me against her shoulder, against her neck. I lick sweet salt, only a little little.

  “My fox,” she says. “Help him.”

  Him? Lukassa feels me growl, holds fast. “Oh, fox, he is kind man, he is kind to people.” Not to foxes. Lukassa: “And he is in such danger.” Good. Let that other one take him by scruff and tail, see how he likes it. I lick her throat again. Take man-shape now? But she squeezes me till I squeak, says, “You know them, the ones who come at night. I know you know them. You can make them go away.”

  Make magician go away, nicer. Lukassa: “He needs to die. It is his time, he needs to die.” I curl up in her arms, close eyes. Lukassa says, “But if he dies now—sick, sleepless, raging—then he will become like them, only worse, much worse. There is a word, but I forget.”

  Griga’ath, yes, too bad, who cares? Lukassa lifts my head, waits long for me to look back. “Fox, fox, I know there is nothing you can do to help me—but please, for him. I am asking you because we are friends.”

  Kisses nose, sets me down. “Go to him.” And stands there, all trust, all believing, waiting for me to trot right away, off to save wicked magician from night visitors. I lie down where I am, let my tongue hang out. Lukassa’s eyes bright with sadness. “Fox.” Waits, turns away. I yawn in the dust—any chickens having bad dreams, slipping off branches? No. My sadness. One eye awake for Nyateneri, one ear up for fat innkeeper, then back to sleep—no trouble in stupid griga’aths, not for foxes. Trouble is magicians.

  But, but. No sooner wriggled some comfort out of crackly weeds, here comes old nothing at me again. “Find out, find out. Too much restless, what is moving?” I know what is moving—stupid magicians, snatching at each other across the sky. Stupid, stupid magicians, no more, no less—but old nothing says, “Find out,” and there, no more sleeping for poor fox. So here I am after all, trotting right off to Lukassa’s wizard, hello, and is it bad voices keeping you awake, kind friend? How nice, some justice yet. Perhaps a fox can add a few words.

  Deep, hot dark. Inn door all locked and barred, but mice know a rotted board in the kitchen, and what mice know fox knows. Scrape, wriggle, shake, and here we are under Shadry’s great oven—still warm, too, fire snuggled down into ashes for the night, like the dirty small boy asleep on a couple of chairs in a corner. Not a sound, only my claws clicking across the stones.

  Up the stairs with the draft, down the hall with frightened beetles. Candlelight squirming under door of magician’s room, trying to get out of there, and no wonder. Oh yesyes, I do know those voices, I know smells. Smell like lightning, they do, smell like drains under bathhouse, like bloody snow where sheknath have been eating. For a moment my fur shivers for poor old magician, but it passes. Too many magicians in the world, no one knows like me.

  Outside the room, and as soon stay outside. No fear, but I do not like to be near them. Voices hurt my teeth. Old nothing: “In, fox.” Man-shape or this, which? Think about it, take the man-shape—why, who knows? Better to walk in on two legs, maybe. Easier to look through the keyhole.

  The room is full of them, maggots heaving in a dead thing, making it seem to breathe. Some with faces, some without, some with glass, fire, pulsing flowery guts where face should be. Some with no shape, no body—only a little shadow, little dark bending in the air. Some pretty as pigeons, rabbits—others, eyes refuse them, those others, even my eyes. They crouch on bedposts, sprawl on windowsill, scuttle this way, that way along the rafters. Never saw so many in one place. Most times, you have to look a special slanty way, close one eye, to see them at all. Other side of mirrors, they come from.

  Magician sees them. Hoho, magician sees them. He walks back and forth, back and forth, never looks at them, never sits down on bed. Must not stand still, must not rest, not with them. Gray once, white now he is—ash-white, burned white, like Lukassa. Lines raked down his face, clawmarks without blood. Back and forth he goes, head up, feet stamping, singing a bad song, a soldiers’ song:

  “Captain asks the corporal,

  brother, how’s your mum?

  Corporal says to captain,

  you can kiss my ruddy bum.

  And it’s left-right, one more mile,

  left-right, stop awhile,

  put down your packs and tell the captain,

  kiss my bum…”

  Over and over, wheezing it out in his burned voice, even Nyateneri doesn’t know that one. So many verses, too. If he stops, even once, they will be on him—oh, not with claws and teeth, though you’d think so to see them, but with eyes, voices, sweet slithering laughter, on him with old shames, old betrayals, old rotting secrets. Twist your memories, they can, wrench good dreams into shapes too wrong to bear, too real to bear. Have your soul hanging in ribbons that fast, I know.

  Magicians never lock their doors. I push it open, walk in, leaving just a crack in case of accidents. Hot e
verywhere else, cool as knives here. Jolly Grandfather man-shape gazes around, thumps magician’s shoulder, booms out, “Ah there, scoundrel, why didn’t you tell anyone you were having a party?” Eyes as big as coach wheels, eyes in dark wet bunches, eyes on the tips of tails and tentacles—all turn toward man-shape. Shouldn’t be there, shouldn’t be able to see them, bright-eyed Grandfather. Only magician never looks up, but trudges on, up and down the room, croaking away:

  “Captain asks the corporal,

  what’ll we do for tea?

  Corporal says to captain,

  piss in your hat and see.

  And it’s left-right, one more mile…”

  Tired, tired, tired he is, man-shape’s slap almost knocked him over. Lukassa would weep. Not me. I say to old nothing, This is what it is, what is moving, no more than that. Goodbye, thank you, fox can go now. But you never know with old nothing. “Stay. Watch. Too much power here, wild, wrong. Stay and see.”

  And there’s fair for you, there’s justice—nothing better for a fox to do than wait among nasty figments until morning comes or magician dies, either. Push in with them on the bed, on windowsill, must I, listen all night long to captain and corporal, all because old nothing thinks one magician is different from another? Nonono, not this time, not this fox, no fear. Too many chickens expecting me elsewhere.