by Andre Norton
And would I have allowed this furred creature whose destiny and movements he claims I control—would I have allowed him to come face to face with the one from whom I stole him?
No, I have no magic, I fear. And I have my doubts that even magic would be sufficient to control this creature. As I have stated before, Your Lordships, he is as independent as any human I have known, and I suspect he has followed me only because he recognizes in me a kindred soul, one who sups on the scraps the rest of the world discards and who yet finds occasional small reasons for rejoicing.
As for this man’s woes, which he claims with great bluster are the fault of my spell, I can do little but deny it. I have never been a merchant, though in years long past I have worked for such as he. Worked for them and then been cast aside, I would add, just as my four-footed friend seemed to have been cast aside, and often with equal roughness. His perfumes, he says, have lost their allure. Some even developed a scent more suitable to a gutter than to a gentle lady’s person, he says. If I were he, Your Lordships, as of course I am not, I would look not to some stray beggar glimpsed during a moment of anger, but to those from whom I obtain my ingredients. Or I would look to my instruments, whatever they might be, that I employ in the manufacture of what I sell. Or even to myself. There is, after all, the matter I alluded to earlier, Your Lordships, the fact that the fumes that emanate from the good Arkola’s mouth could not be fully disguised by the strongest of his perfumes. But, truly, I know nothing of such matters, and even less of magic.
Yes, I realize that, even as Your Lordships’ esteemed representatives came upon us, I was indeed chanting and cavorting and making strange gestures in the air, but I assure Your Lordships it was not what it seemed. I was simply defending myself to the best of my ability.
No, not by magic, Your Lordships, even though I under-stand that such a use is permitted under your gracious rules. What happened was this, if you will allow me to continue.
As I have already given account, this merchant who calls himself Arkola set upon me without warning. It seems that he had spied the animal his wife had expelled from their house a year past—expelled it over his objections, he now claims, although if that person I saw was indeed he, there seemed to be no love lost between himself and the animal. Nor, I daresay, between himself and his wife, who is, he claims, no longer with him. Whether he blames that on my sorcery as well, he has not said.
Very well, Your Lordships, I will continue apace. This gentleman spied the animal and recognized it as his own and then followed it as it made its way back to me. Then, with a grip so tight as to make my head spin, he told me this mad tale, of how I had, for no explicable reason, stolen the animal from him and, even as I ran, cast a spell upon him, a spell that soon brought his ruin.
I denied it, of course, as I deny it now to you, but he would not listen. He would have nothing but that I lift the spell. Which, as Your Lordships will easily apprehend, would be a most difficult task for one who has not so much as made the acquaintance of even the lowliest of wizards.
But what could I do? There was blood in his eye, and there would surely be blood on his hands—blood that had once coursed through my own veins—if I did not attempt what he commanded. To cry for help would have been less than useless, for who would take sides with one such as I? To resist, I had already discovered, was useless, for his strength was more than a match for mine. As I was dragged through the sleeping crowd and then past the shuttered stalls of the fair itself, I came to realize that my only chance to escape whole from this seeming madness was to pretend to acquiesce to his demands. I could not, of course, cause his perfumes to lose their stench, any more than I could remove the stench from his breath, but as long as I continued the pretense, I could at least count myself among the living.
Hence, once he deposited me in front of his own stall, its wares fully displayed and yet untouched by either purchaser or thief, I began my charade. Claiming that the removal of a spell was more time-consuming and more difficult than the casting, I took my time and studied his merchandise, even sampling those he said were the worst affected. And as I did, I took heart, for the odors did not, in truth, seem all that different from those that my nostrils had experienced in the past when fine ladies stepping down from their carriages paused to bestow upon me some small measure of largess.
Perhaps, I reasoned, the stench of which he so bitterly complained was not in his wares, but in his mind. And his own breath, which was no illusion, could surely have, driven prospective purchasers to flee, regardless of the quality of his merchandise. Or his own sharp tongue, if what had assaulted my ears in those few seconds on the steps of his home were typical of what it produced.
Therefore, if he could only be convinced that the spell had been lifted, when in truth it had never existed, the true aromas might once again become apparent to him. His other difficulties, if indeed they existed outside my own desperate imaginings, would not be remedied, but if he were enabled to once again apprehend the true scents, that might be enough to persuade him to release me in no more a battered state than I had already achieved.
Thus, as Your Lordships can well imagine, my performance lacked nothing in boldness. My hands wove arcane patterns in the torchlit darkness, and my voice called upon the Three Lordly Ones and Thotharn and all the others, both real and imagined, that my poor mind could summon up.
And that, Your Lordships, is the end of my tale and my defense, for that is where your esteemed representatives came upon us. I, for one, was overjoyed at their arrival, even though their manner was justifiably harsh and their accusations strong; for I knew that, once I was allowed to present my humble story to Your Lordships, justice and common sense would prevail, and I would have nothing to fear.
Ah, my friend, it is good to be beneath the open sky once again, is it not? And it is good that you still choose my company over those with which you disported yourself at the fair.
But might I ask you to be a trifle more wary in future times? I know it is foreign to your nature to bend to another’s will, but I feel we would both gain advantage were we to keep both the city of Audris and the person of Arkola at a modest distance. Even though Their Lordships appeared to believe my protestations of innocence, I doubt that the unfortunate Arkola was overly impressed. And, though he was declared outlaw and therefore fair prey for all who might feast upon him, I have little doubt that he will extricate himself in due time. And beyond the precincts of the fair, he may well, if given the chance, attempt to renew our acquaintance, a prospect I do not cherish in the slightest.
But tell me, my friend, is it possible there was a grain of truth buried in the good Arkola’s seeming madness? Not that I myself have come to believe in those foolish chatterings that spouted so volubly from my desperate tongue, nor do I truly attach any magical significance to the spastic gyrations with which my limbs sought to accompany them. No, those were indeed no more than what I told Their Lordships, chance inventions designed solely to preserve my own hide.
But you, my friend, you are perhaps a different matter. If the unfortunate Arkola is indeed the one whose wife pitched you into the street, and if his story of this last year is to be believed, then truly his fortunes have turned precipitously downward, beginning with that very day. And since I know that 1 was not the cause, I must look elsewhere—if, of course, a cause indeed exists.
And my own fortunes, though not to be compared with those of the estimable Arkola before your sudden departure, have certainly been much improved during those selfsame days and months. It seems that I have suffered fewer indignities than in previous years. Fewer indignities and fewer injuries offered by those who are offended by my mere presence or by my simple requests for the use of some small item for which they themselves no longer have need or use. Fewer nights when my belly has growled with hunger, certainly, unless my memory is playing me false.
And the way you peer at me now, I do not recall the like of such a gaze from other four-footed creatures, not even others of you
r own kind. Are you amused at my ramblings, my slow-wittedness?
Could you be a talisman of sorts, a living repository of minor magics bestowed upon you by your past associates, before the lamentable Arkola? Does luck travel with you, leaving its obverse in your wake?
Or could there be more? Could you be more knowing and more devious than I give you credit for? Your finding of your former companion, who was only one merchant lost among endless throngs of such men—was that sheer chance? And was it sheer chance that his eyes were so sharp as to spy you out in the shadows? Was it sheer chance that his feet were so swift and sure as to carry him unerring in your wake as you darted between legs and under tables and through stalls?
And was there an air of smugness even more pronounced than usual about your furred features when Their Lordships’ minions laid hands on us both? And do you think I did not observe your casual-seeming attention to Their Lordships while we stood before them, waiting for their judgment? Yours and that of your other friend that I spied peeping through the door more than once during the telling of my tale? Were those merely your normal disdainful observations of we lesser creatures with whom you deign to associate on occasion? Or were you perhaps . . .
Ah, I see you tire of this discussion. You are restless once again, as am I. And we should be on our way, true enough. The unfortunate Arkola, though declared outlaw by Their Lordships, will doubtless emerge with his life and more than sufficient strength to throttle either of us, were he ever to lay eye or hand upon us.
And do you have a preference as to the more attractive compass point? Away from the road to Audris, I have little doubt, but beyond that—
Ah, so that was the source of your restlessness, another struggling morsel you wish to lay at my feet? Is this your way of rewarding me for my part in the downfall of the miserable Arkola? Or perhaps your way of objecting to my worthless speculations, your way of proving that you are, after all, merely a cat?
Ah, well, it matters not. I have the feeling that, no matter what your true nature, we two may be bound together for some time yet to come. Bound by choice, I hasten to say, with which we are both so richly endowed, are we not, my friend?
Flarrin Red-chin
Flarrin Red-chin
Flarrin the basket-weaver fingered her purse solemnly as she watched the crowds stream past her stall. Since arriving at Ithkar she had three times reduced the price of her wares, but business continued to be slow. Most fairgoers, it seemed, had brought their own baskets with them. Flarrin noticed two nomad women strut past, balancing their loads on their heads. With a professional eye, she studied the graceful lines and the evident strength of their hampers. These dark-eyed women had no use for Flarrin’s cruder work.
A neatly dressed townsman slowed and approached the cookstand with which Flarrin shared space. The customer fumbled for his purse while trying to hold several bolts of cloth he had tucked under his arm. Flarrin wondered how he would juggle his purchases while he devoured his grilled sausage; surely he would not lay them on the muddy ground.
“Two coppers!” the young woman shouted suddenly while she held out a broad-mouthed basket. The townsman shrugged. “One and a half!” she suggested. To her relief, he nodded.
Better to sell at any price, she thought. She watched the satisfied customer licking grease from the fingers of both hands while his cloth rested safely in the basket at his feet. Then she glanced at the grizzled beard and tired eyes of her friend Jejnon as he stoked the fire under his grill. The two vendors had come down the Western Road together from their small mountain village, Jejnon because he made the trek every year, Flarrin because she was leaving her birthplace forever.
The basket-weaver turned to seek a new prospect in the crowd. Her voice was growing hoarse after a full ten-day at Ithkar. She smoothed her simple skirt, straightened her slim frame, and tried to put a cheerful expression on her face. “Two coppers!” she shouted again. A limping woman raised her eyebrows but walked on. “One and a half!” The woman was already out of earshot.
Flarrin’s chin began to itch in its customary painful manner, and she thought once more about the potion-makers and wizards who were known to frequent the fair. She had been waiting, counting her coins. If she could sell a few more baskets, she told herself, she would seek aid that very day. For she had come to Ithkar with two goals.
First, she would find someone to cure the affliction that forced her to scratch her small chin until it was raw. Minor though it seemed to others, this condition had caused her much suffering. She had beery taunted for it since childhood; in recent years, she blamed her diseased appearance for keeping away all suitors. For though she was not unattractive, what young man would express aloud an interest in Flarrin Red-chin?
Her parents were dead, and her peers knew her only by that horrid name. Why, she asked herself, should she remain in the mountains? Once she found the suitable salve or spell, her plan was to make her way downriver through the Ith Valley and settle in a town that needed a basket-weaver. In the absence of her affliction, or anyone who knew of it, she hoped to find a new life for herself.
Flarrin saw a young couple in the crowd, each carrying small household items. She touched her amulet for luck and cried out to them. The laden girl turned and smiled; her man nodded assent. Flarrin grinned as she made another sale. Again she felt the weight of her purse. Soon, she told herself.
By late afternoon, she had sold six more baskets; at last she felt ready to seek out her healer. Leaving the rest of her wares in Jejnon’s care, she hurried to join the fairgoers. The first days here she had been so tied to her stall that she had seen little beyond her baskets. Now she wandered past rows of weavers with their clacking looms, heard hammering cobblers, breathed the sawdust smell from cabinetmakers. Her village possessed simple artisans, but no craftsmen like these.
She passed stalls where men and women discussed goods she had never before seen. Of what use, she puzzled, was such elaborate cutlery? And why would one need so many kinds of drinking glasses? She shook her head and considered again her plans to settle in the lowlands. She had much to learn of town ways.
All the while she walked, she was heading away from the temple and toward the outskirts of the fair; she knew that the practitioners she sought were not welcomed by the fair-wards. Nonetheless, many potion-makers carried on a surreptitious business at Ithkar. She hoped that at least one of them knew more than the healer in her village.
Once more, her fingers found the amulet that hung from a thong about her neck. She lifted it out and gazed at the piece she had carried since childhood. Her father had been a fine carver; this birchwood swan with its outstretched wings seemed almost to have life. Flarrin touched the bird once to her lips, then let it slip back between her small breasts. Bring me the luck of the Three, she thought.
Skirting the displays of glassware and lamps, the basketmaker realized that she had reached the last of the booths. Behind them she came on a row where battered wagons stood in disorderly array. Here the ground was slimy with spilled slops and stank of men and animals. Tentcloth stretched on hoops concealed the wagons’ contents; she heard muffled voices from within speaking a tongue she could not comprehend. Was this the place Jejnon had told her about?
With her chin itching furiously and her arms covered with gooseflesh, she dared walk past the weathered wagons. What should she look for? There would not be a signboard. She peered into one opening and glimpsed a kneeling woman whose gray hair streamed down over her face. At once there was a shout, and someone raised a blanket to conceal whatever the woman was doing. Flarrin shuddered and hastened her steps. Perhaps she had misunderstood Jejnon’s directions.
“Come here, young lady. I have just what you need,” sounded a voice from within the hollows of the final wagon in the row. The lampmakers’ stalls, with their comfortingly familiar displays, were not far off. She could hurry back to them before the man spoke again.
“I can see your trouble from here,” said the deep voice. “Why d
on’t you let me help you?”
Flarrin hesitated. A hand emerged from the gloom, and then she saw a squat figure beckoning. Now the sun had fallen below the tips of the palings that bordered the fairground. The wagon was in shadow, and the young woman could discern only the speaker’s heavy brows and broad, thick lips. Overcome by curiosity, she stepped closer, until she could smell the heady odors of the dried herbs that hung within the wagon.
“Your problem . . .” the small man said with an accent she couldn’t place. “Tell Pino. The trouble, it is in your face, but I can’t tell you more.”
“It’s my cursed chin!” she shouted suddenly, unable to contain herself. “The itch won’t let me sleep, and the soreness gives me the look of someone afflicted.”
“Chin! Chin!” said Pino with surprising glee. “I am the specialist in chins here.”
Eager as she was, Flarrin did not believe her luck could be that good. She considered fleeing at once, but the man’s voice made her feel oddly safe.
“I am no horseleech,” Pino insisted, “but a serious student of the maladies that afflict us. Come. I charge nothing for a consultation. If my cure fails, you do not pay me.”
Flarrin nodded weakly and waited beside the wagon while the little man rummaged within. One part of her wanted nothing to do with this sordid place. And yet she had come so far to seek her cure. . . . If Pino could not help, then she did not know where else she might turn.
