by Andre Norton
Tamm made a guess. “You can see me?”
“Several of you, in fact,” said the old man. “Scorpion’s eyes are very interesting to look through. Sit down, sit down. Bring your food and talk with me for a while.”
“I noticed you this afternoon,” Tamm said, getting the fragments of pie and mug of ale. “Your begging place is just across the path from mine.”
“Yes, I know.”
The tinker put the last bite of pie into his mouth and licked the crumbs from his fingers. He watched, fascinated, while the old man broke off a small piece of bread and offered it to the scorpion.
“Small friend, thank you for your help,” he told it. “Now, go in peace. I have someone else who can guide me to my home.”
The scorpion took the bread in one of its front claws and climbed onto the old man’s outstretched palm. Tamm could have sworn he heard it purr. When the old man lowered it to the ground, the scorpion scuttled onto the packed earth and disappeared under the bench they were sitting on.
“I didn’t know they ate bread,” Tamm said. He shifted on the bench, drawing his feet out from the shadows. It wasn’t just the scorpion that troubled him. There was a strange, unsettling presence about this man.
“They don’t, no more than their cousins the spiders do,” the old man replied. “But bread will draw insects, which my friend will enjoy for his supper.”
Tamm shook his head. “That’s quite a trick.”
“No trick, tinker, for one who can commune with all the faces of nature.”
“Do you mind my asking . . .” Tamm whispered, looking around to see if anyone was nearby. “Are you a mage?” “No, not a mage. I am, or at least I was, a seer.”
“There have been hard times everywhere,” Tamm said.
The old man laughed. “But not for me. At least, not until recently. Can you imagine it? Once I was more powerful than any of these psalm-chanting fools who walk up and down in their velvet and gold, and wear those badges that give off sweet-smelling scents of oblivion. So much more powerful that the priests have no way of detecting it. You see, mine comes from the very forces of nature itself, and not from spells, potions, or twiddling fingers.”
“If you are so powerful,” Tamm said skeptically, “why are you now a beggar?”
The old power shaper sat without moving for a while. Sighing, he said, “I think you may be the one I’ve been waiting for for a long time.”
Tamm stiffened, hope suddenly alive in him. “What’s your name?” he asked.
“Mordecai.”
Tamm stared unseeing at the constant stream of passersby. “Mordecai, you have waited and I have searched, and long has been my seeking,” he said. The seer drew breath to speak, but Tamm rushed on. “I’ve been looking for a person such as you. Will you be my master?” He turned to the old man when he felt the seer’s hand fall onto his shoulder with a hard grip.
Mordecai stood. “You can begin by guiding me to my home. On the way I will tell you how I arrived at this state.” He took a deep breath. “Two fairings ago, I came to purchase some near-virgin gold,” Mordecai began in the tone of a storyteller.
“What—?”
“Gold that has been purified in the fire, yet not worked into any form. Now as I was saying, there was this goblet wench named Renilda . . .”
Renilda worked as a goblet wench. Her days were taken up with the drudgery of carrying heavy trays full of ale flagons and joints of mutton and avoiding the pinching fingers of the patrons; her nights were taken up with whatever she chose to do with her free hours. Sometimes those same patrons who had been slapped for their familiarity in the light of day found her much more agreeable once night had fallen. She preferred a softer bed than a tavern bench.
There was a certain patron she’d been watching. He was blind, but that didn’t bother her. He was clean and his clothes free from patches. Mordecai claimed to be a visiting seer. She didn’t believe him even though the fair-wards had investigated him, then let him alone when they discovered he never took money for seeing. They tolerated this activity as a harmless game and treated him as someone who was slightly soft in the head.
Renilda, however, noticed the old man always seemed to have plenty of coins with which to pay for his meals. She began to use the tricks of not-so-subtle seduction on him. She knew full well it was more than a warm bed he’d be sharing with her; she would have his coins as well. Renilda started by brushing past him so he could feel the outlines of her body. Sometimes she sat on the same bench with him, pretending to help him with his food, sitting so close he couldn’t move his arm without jostling her breasts. She made conversation and laughed with him, and occasionally she let him touch her hair. Finally she maneuvered him into asking her to accompany him to his tent.
“I’ll see for you,” he promised.
“Oh, aye,” she responded, laughing. “Some future I’ve got! Still, if it would please you to do it, I’ll agree.”
“Your presence pleases me,” he said.
She went with him when her work, day ended. His tent was nondescript on the outside. Inside, however, it was separated into two areas by a fine drape of lemon-colored silk. Thick furs and multihued pillows covered the hard-packed earth.
He bade her sit, then struck a flint, lighting a small lamp. The perfumed oil gave off a sharp, pleasing scent.
“I seldom use this, as you might imagine,” he said, smiling, “but you might enjoy some light.”
“Thank you,” she said. By lamplight Renilda examined the tent, her eyes picking out what might be good to steal. She’d learned through the years just what was safe to take and thus kept the fair-wards from her. She watched Mordecai pass through the curtain to the inner room. When he returned, he was carrying a beautifully carved chest.
Renilda sucked in her breath, trying to stifle her gasp of amazement. Not only was the box deeply and richly carved, but it was heavy with expensive brass inlays. Small jewels winked from the boss plate on the top. The box itself was worth a fortune; too bad she didn’t dare steal it. She fairly squirmed in her seat; she was on fire to see what it contained. Eagerly, she watched him open the box and take out two rather crudely molded raw clay goblets.
“What are those?” she asked. Anyone who would store raw clay in such a chest must be cloudy-headed.
“Tools of my trade. I am a seer, my dear, as I told you. These are my eyes, eyes by which I not only see the future, but which allow me to feel it as well,” he said, placing the empty goblets on a small folding table.
“Oh, yes,” she said, not truly paying attention.
Renilda wondered how much longer she’d have to wait until she could search through the chest and find the treasure he surely had hidden within. Treasure there must be, since the fool had adorned the clay.
There was a silver-and-gold chain connecting the vessels. The small gems, set on interlocking links, caught points of light from the glowing lamp. The chain fitted snugly around each stem and looked to be welded in place. She put a hand over her mouth to muffle her laugh. Welded or not, it wasn’t much protection; one hard pull and the raw clay would tear like bread dough. Oddly, the goblets were taking on a ruddy hue. The clay was slowly drying!
She blinked in surprise. The goblets now brimmed with water. Puzzled, Renilda looked for the pitcher or waterskin he must have used to pour from, but she saw nothing. He was bent over the vessels, and it seemed as if he were gazing into them. But, of course, that was impossible. Mordecai was blind.
“Now, Renilda, I will foresee for you.”
A cold chill ran through her, raising the fine hairs on her body. Maybe the old man wasn’t lying. “No!” she gasped, putting her hands out and backing away. Renilda knew only too well what the future held for her sort. She had no illusions about that! But she couldn’t bear to hear it voiced.
“Why, you’re afraid,” said Mordecai. “If you do not wish a seeing, I’ll put my eyes away.”
She shuddered. “No! It’s not for the likes of me.�
� She did notice when he put the goblets into the chest that the liquid had disappeared and the clay once more was raw. Well, she’d seen stranger happenings during fair time. Now that they were out of sight, she felt relief, and, laughing seductively, she approached him.
After Mordecai was truly asleep, Renilda crept from the bed and searched through the outer room until she located the treasure box. It was hidden in a far corner of the curtained alcove.
She laughed softly as she fumbled at the clasp of the box, barely able to make it out in the gloom. The old fool had been so grateful for the attention she had shown him! How he had prattled of her nonexistent beauty. She knew what she looked like—too thick in the waist, pockmarked, sallow-skinned. But her hips were wide and welcoming. She seldom had any complaints on that score.
Renilda felt no pangs of conscience about robbing him. No doubt this chest held his entire hoard of wealth in rubies, diamonds, or, perhaps, sapphires. It wasn’t heavy enough for gold.
She felt frustrated enough to scream by the time the catch finally gave. In the dim light, she could make out the contents only vaguely. Trusting more to her fingers than her eyes, she felt around inside. A rich fabric lined the box. It felt like samite, perhaps, or damask. She touched a smooth, rounded surface. It was so closely molded by the chest she had to work it loose. It was one of the goblets.
Curious, Renilda rubbed it and felt the cool, sensuous texture of raw clay. The chain connecting it to its mate rattled against the wood. Frightened, she grabbed it, silencing the small sound. Hardly breathing, she listened closely, but no sound came from the old man other than snores. Link by link, she traced the chain to the other vessel and lifted it out from its matching niche. Holding both in one hand, she rummaged through the chest. Nothing.
Nearly frantic, she rapidly searched the hollows the vessels had rested in. There must be a false compartment. Again, nothing. Not even a Lords-rotted copper piece for all her trouble.
Well, by the Three, she’d get something out of this! She took a goblet in each hand; she pulled, ripping the chain free from the soft clay. Warm water flowed over her fingers. At that instant the old man screamed, sounding as if his soul were being ripped from his living flesh.
“By the high priest’s left tit!” she exclaimed, dropping the ruined goblets and the chain. Renilda fell to her knees. Her hands shook, but she forced herself to seek the chain. The cold links tangled in her fingers, and she fumbled in the dark until she found the edge of the tent and crawled out. Behind her she heard the old man sobbing. What nightmares troubled the old fool, she neither knew nor cared. Barely she could make out a few words he was mumbling. Something about a curse, and flesh hanging from bones.
Long before dawn, Renilda had pawned the gold-and-silver chain, receiving more coins that she thought she would get. Wisely she kept the gems for a later time of need.
“And so, you see, without knowing what mischief she had done, Renilda made me truly blind.”
Following the old man’s directions, Tamm led him through the district where the “permanent” residents of Ithkar lived from one fair to the next. It was a place of twisted alleys, lined with shacks that were tossed together from the debris each fair inevitably left behind.
Tamm didn’t quite know what to make of Mordecai’s tale. He felt sure many things had not been explained. “Why,” asked Tamm, “if you are a mage, were you reduced to this state? It makes no sense if you have the power you say you have.”
The old man sighed heavily and said, “I am powerful, yes, but the eyes were not only the source of my seeing, through them I could also call on the forces of nature. Until they can be made whole and the water of seeing replaced, I am a doomed beggar. I knew, though, that someone would come and restore my sight sooner or later.”
“But I didn’t know myself until a few weeks ago that I would be at this year’s fair,” Tamm said.
Mordecai shrugged. “I asked for you. Or, if not for you specifically, then for someone like you.” The seer stopped. “This is my abode. Come and share a cup of ale with me, before you return to your pot mending.”
Pushing aside the old blanket that served as a door, the seer shook off Tamm’s hand. Striking flint, he lit an oil-soaked rag, then handed the tinker a small chest. “This is where I kept my eyes,” he said.
“But how am I to help you?” Tamm asked. “I came to you to learn, and you act as if I should know everything beforehand.”
Mordecai shrugged. “If you’re meant to be my apprentice, and I your master, then you will find the way. One thing only will I tell you, and that because of your ignorance. The clay must be reworked only with the tears of the one who ruined the cups.”
“But master—”
“That is all I will tell you,” Mordecai said firmly. “If you are truly intended to learn from me, then that is all you need to know. Now, return quickly to your tent before somebody steals your tools and materials.”
For the next handspan of days, Tamm worked as he had the first day, when he had met Mordecai. Each day, also, the old beggar took up his post outside the temple, receiving alms from the pilgrims and nodding pleasantly to Tamm when he spoke to him. He never asked how Tamm’s assigned task was progressing.
Fortunately for Tamm, he could mend pots and pans in his sleep, because he wasn’t far from that state. His mind was entirely preoccupied with the puzzle of how to prove his worth to his master.
“I’m no potter!” he told himself a dozen times a day. And yet—
He began to watch Valdorf at his work, hoping to learn some secret he could use. But the potter’s craft remained a mystery to him. He would have to draw from his own store of knowledge, inadequate though he felt it to be.
As he worried over the problem, slowly he began to see a possible way to solve it.
But nothing could be accomplished without Renilda. He searched for her in what free time he had, but without success. And then he had an idea. He started to chuckle. “Why not?” he said to himself. “Get the priests to do the seeking for me!”
Putting aside the knife he’d been sharpening, he went to the temple. Mordecai was sitting in his usual spot on the temple steps, and as Tamm passed him, he dropped a copper into his master’s bowl.
“Good day to you, sir,” Tamm said, and smiled at the seer, knowing full well the old man would be using the eyes of the small mouse he glimpsed half-hidden in the long gray hair.
“And to you,” Mordecai replied, nodding in his direction. Tamm nearly stumbled when a man grabbed his arm. “Halt!” said the man. Tamm looked up and saw a temple
guard. “You, tinker, can go no farther unless you’ve an
appointment with a temple priest.”
Tamm reached into his pouch and took out a copper coin. Unobtrusively he slipped it into the guard’s hand. “I would like an appointment.”
“State your business,” the man said.
“I’m looking for my cousin, Renilda, a goblet wench. She was working here three fair turns ago. I’ve had no luck locating her.”
“What do you want with her?” The man looked at him skeptically. “You say she’s your cousin?”
“Actually, my mother’s kinswoman. My mother is ill and needs help. She thought Renilda might return home with me.” Tamm felt guilty for the lies, then resolutely cast the feeling out.
The temple guard cleared his throat. Tamm saw the man glance at his pouch and raise an eyebrow. Tamm sighed, knowing what was expected. He dropped coppers, one by one, into the man’s outstretched hand. When the eyebrow lowered, six coppers had disappeared into the palm. Tatum closed his pouch.
“You’ll not be needin’ the priests for this,” the man said. “I’ll set fair-wards to the seekin’, and even if she’s dead, we’ll bring you word.”
It hadn’t occurred to him Renilda might be dead until the man he had spoken to suggested it. He’d been worried the two days it took them to find the goblet wench. Tamm followed the fair-ward who had come for him, wiping the sweat
from his brow. They walked a narrow path through a trash-ridden alley. The farther they went, the higher the stench. Tamm thought there had to be more decaying here than mere refuse. It smelled like death rot.
“Watch your step,” said the fair-ward, stepping over a pile of timber and rags. Tamm noticed he now held his staff in two hands instead of slung over his back. “This is where the wench lives, if you can call it that,” he said, pointing to a hovel that was nothing more than a few boards leaning up against what had to be the back wall of the temple. “This is not a place to be walking alone and unprotected. For a couple of coppers, I’ll wait for you.”
Tamm thought a moment, then nodded. “Here’s one. I’ll give you the other when I’m finished.” He hesitated, then pushed aside the rags serving as a doorway and stepped in. He nearly gagged. The place reeked of old vomit, ale, and a body that had repeatedly soiled itself. A woman huddled against the far wall. Tamm didn’t know what he had expected, but it wasn’t this. Her skin hung from her body in great folds, masking and yet revealing the shape of her bones. Never had he seen such a desolate human being. Mordecai lived like a prince in comparison. Pity moved him, and he knelt beside her.
“Renilda?”
“They told me I had a cousin seeking me. I have none.” Her voice was no louder than the rustle of paper being rolled up on its scroll, and he had to lean close to hear her.
“I know,” Tamm said, picking up one of her clawlike hands. “But I will help you nonetheless.” Her greed had brought her to this state, but even so, he couldn’t walk away from her.
“What do you want from me?”
“Your tears.”
Carefully, Tamm stoppered the glass vial. The goblet wench had wept enough to fill several vials while she told him her tale. He lifted the rag curtain. Surprisingly, the guard was still there.
“Here are three coppers,” Tamm said. “Would you fetch me a litter and bearers? I want my—my mother’s cousin taken to the healer’s tent.”
