Magic in Ithkar 3

by Andre Norton

  She squirmed. “Yes.”

  “Good, then it’s settled. You may start tomorrow.” Tomorrow. Keri’s joy was tempered. She started to speak

  but stopped herself. She did not want to seem presumptuous. “Well?”

  “What, sir?”

  “You were going to say?”

  “Just . . . that I haven’t eaten.”

  “I see.” He rummaged in the folds of his cloak but found nothing. “Zangels!” he said. “Wait there a moment.” He disappeared through the curtain that divided the tent, reappearing a moment later to throw some coppers on the table.

  “Buy yourself some food. I will meet you here at eventide. Now go away. I’ve patrons coming.” He waved his arms like a woman who has found a gaggle of geese loose in her kitchen. His long sleeves whipped through the air, releasing billows of dust that set him coughing. Both annoyed and amused with his method of dismissal, Keri hurried away from the tent.

  Keri was one whose feelings ran either hot or cold. But on this occasion she was as lukewarm as the meat pie she purchased. She took some comfort from the pie and from her familiar haunt below the seer’s wagon.

  She fingered the pouch of stones. “I have sold out,” she whispered to them. “But better that then selling you. At least Fyrl accepted me without asking to buy you—as all the others did. I will not part with you. Never.”

  She took the stones out and, calling, “Tomorrow,” cast them on the ground. Again the white pebble moved, slowly at first, then with increasing speed, until it passed perilously near the stone that stood for Mikan

  So intent was she on watching the pebble, she did not see the four legs that had stopped at the edge of her sanctuary. A head that wore a brass helmet appeared suddenly before her.

  “Here you, come out from under there.”

  Ken gathered her stones, but the fair wizard who had sniffed out her illegal magic snatched them from her. The fair-ward and the wizard took her by either arm. She started to protest that there was no black magic in the stones, but the wizard silenced her.

  “Save your explanations for tomorrow. You can tell your tale to the fair-court—at your trial.”

  By midday the fog had become a sickly green. Against it torches and braziers flamed, sputtering in the damp mist, but their meager light added little cheer to the dreary scene.

  The fetchingly bright hues of the hawkers’ tents seemed all a dishwater gray. In every section of the fair merchants’ wares suffered from the weather. Richly embroidered gowns, designed to lure silver from the pockets of the wealthy, drooped lifelessly from their wooden pegs. Brilliant jewels, covered with mist, lay like mere driplets of water on sodden velvet backgrounds.

  It was a day on which only innkeepers and harlots prospered. Even the fortune-tellers’ trade fell off, for the hearts of the fairgoers were heavy with the weather. Few were in a mood to have their futures read, lest the fog-dulled senses of the soothsayers cast them an ill fate.

  The dampness had its effect, too, on the ancient astrologer who had set his wagon by the outskirts of the temple complex, near the fortune-tellers’ sector. The plain oilcloth tent that extended as a canopy from the wagon’s back was indeed empty—but that was not the fog’s doing. The old man was betwixt patrons, having scheduled two clients every other day as was his wont. For years his patronage had been a constant. Only when one fell ill or died did he accept someone new. Thus his income was unaffected by the weather, but his bones were not.

  He sat hunched over the wagon’s lone table. With fingers stiff from damp-induced cramp, he updated his ledger. “Ceringh . . . 13 coppers,” he wrote. Then, leaving the journal open on the table, he withdrew an almost identical volume from a hidden drawer. “Ceringh . . . 7 gold.” He slid the book back in its hiding place. The fee to enter Ithkar Fair was one thing. Taxes in his homeland were quite another.

  Seven gold was the least that any patron had ever paid, but the ancient astrologer had taken pity on the boy. “Boy,” Aymar called him, although the youth was well into his nineteenth sunturn. Everyone under fifty was a boy to Aymar.

  Ceringh was going to lose his mother this year. The stars had predicted it. If Aymar lived to be a hundred—a thing the same stars told him was unlikely—he would never learn to handle the imminent death of a mother. Fathers? Fathers he could take. Mothers, no. Aymar had even been tempted to offer Ceringh an apprenticeship. But in the end, good sense prevailed. He sent the boy off with a warning to be kind to his mother and to have a care for her health. Ceringh, misty-eyed, understood.

  Aymar’s next client would indeed pay full price; perhaps, if he gave trouble, double price. Menahir Strone was the sort to give trouble—not of the usual kind, of course. Aymar had no patrons who were unbelievers, none who came just to test the old man. Menahir believed; had believed for the six years he had been coming to Ithkar. But the man was an imbecile. What he wanted, what the astrologer knew he wanted but wouldn’t give, was to be told what to do.

  Aymar sighed. He pulled the top three sheets of parchment from a neat stack on the table—Menahir’s chart, his progressed sunturn. A cough sounded from the doorway behind him.

  “You are early,” the astrologer said without looking up. “You are always early. Have a seat out there and let me look over this work. It’s been a ten-day since last I saw it. I tell you this every year, Menahir.”

  The cough repeated. It wasn’t Menahir.

  Aymar turned to see the brown cloak of a temple server, a worshiper of the Three Lordly Ones.

  As was his custom when in the presence of one who served the gods—any gods, for he was in no way prejudiced—Aymar rose. The newcomer smiled.

  “I have heard tales of you, Aymar Dorphus. I see at a glance that many must be true.” But it was more than a glance that the acolyte gave the wagon. He peered intently into the gloomy corners. Finding nothing, he continued, “I have been sent by my masters to inquire about a person of whom you may have knowledge. I am not asking, mind you, whether she seeks you as a patron, for I have been made aware that you do not violate a confidence.”

  “Correct. But a spy posted outside my tent would tell you soon enough who my patrons are. I have nothing to hide from the servants of the Sky Lords.” He motioned the man to sit, more for his own bones’ peace than the acolyte’s.

  No sooner had the young man lowered himself sufficiently for a lap to form than a squealing pink weight descended upon it. Cylute, Aymar’s pet pig, had been sleeping on a shelf above the cookstove and had taken the opportunity, the stove having gone cold, to avail himself of another warm resting place. It said something for the acolyte that the man did not flinch. Surprised he was, but charmed, too, and charming.

  “Ah, piglet, you do me great honor.” He stroked the animal soothingly. Cylute snorted his pleasure.

  It did not seem to Aymar that there was much honor in having a piglet nuzzling one’s crotch, but the acolyte’s simple act had told the astrologer much about the man. The ice was broken, and the two smiled at each other across the table.

  “Wine?” asked the astrologer.

  “I’ve no oath against it.”

  “Qlik! Some wine for my guest and myself.”

  In a moment, the woven hanging at the opposite end of the wagon parted, revealing a small creature of uncertain species.

  The few glimpses that patrons had had of Qlik produced the rumor that Aymar kept both a piglet and an ape. It was an honest mistake. Qlik was long-armed, bandy-legged, and impossibly hairy. He swung his legs wide when he walked and carried his burden only inches from the floor. Currently he carried two earthenware mugs of steaming apple wine. The acolyte glanced at the hot wine and then at the cold oven.

  “I’ve got a sweet-peat burner in the front,” Aymar explained. “We keep mugs on it in weather like this.”

  “Then this must be your wine, Qlik.” He raised his .mug. “I thank you greatly for it.”

  Qlik made the tongue sounds that gave him his name and departed. The stranger had
passed yet another test. Not surprisingly, he seemed to know it.

  “My name is Harrel-el-Alar.” He gazed down at his cup. “Master Dorphus, we grow the finest apples in my home-land. I’ve not tasted a cider so rich as this since first I came to Ithkar. Lords be exalted! I’m glad it’s me was chosen for this mission.”

  “And your mission?”

  Harrel leaned forward. “Know you a lass called Keri?” “Should I?”

  “Not for me to say, sir. She was arrested this morning. She’s been going about seeking apprenticeship amongst the astrologers.”

  ``Surely that is not a criminal offense.”

  “No. She was arrested for illegal use of magic. . . . Perhaps I should start from the beginning.”

  “A useful point, though somewhat lacking in imagination.”

  “I’ll take the usefulness; events are strange enough as they are. Last night, before the bulk of the fog hit the fairgrounds, long tendrils of mists were seen to enter the tents of those known to serve the god Thotharn. This morning there was a meeting. One of our own acolytes managed to overhear some of what was said. They are planning, it seems, to threaten Ithkar with a SunDark. They will exact tribute in the name of Thotharn.”

  “I see. But surely that is not a major threat. There is certainly no reason for the people to fear an eclipse. As for the beasts, I have already asked Garner to go amongst them tomorrow—for he seems able to talk with them—and calm them during the event. He and his kin will do their best.”

  “Then there will indeed be a SunDark?”

  “Yes, a double eclipse. Both moons will cover the sun.”

  Harrel frowned. “Many of the people would not fear the eclipse alone, although there are plain folk who have never understood a SunDark. But Thotharn will seem to control the weather as well as the skies, for the plan is to announce that the fog will withdraw just before the SunDark. And there is something more, something foretold by Keri’s stones. We of the temple cannot decipher it. That is why we have come to you. You have made a lifetime of studying the skies. Will you help us?”

  An eyebrow shot up. The temple servers had need of an astrologer? Aymar found the idea strange. He had certain notions as to the identity of the Three Lordly Ones—although to voice his beliefs would be certain death. Among the few things that the Sky Lords had left behind may (must) have been some astronomical lore. Aymar would love to get his hands on it. Perhaps this was to be his chance.

  “Does not your own lore predict heavenly events?”

  Harrel laughed. “I have been warned that you may want to conduct some . . . shall we say business?” He presented an empty mug.

  “Qlik!” Aymar called. Two more mugs appeared, not steaming, but warm enough. They were well into them be-fore Harrel made his proposition.

  “I will not have you believe this to be a small matter. If the people are held under sway of Thotharn, there is no telling the result. It is said that the great orator Gaulrue is here. He is reputed to have hypnotic ability—to sway crowds with his speech. Almost certainly the temple will be in danger. You yourself may be in danger. But we need a way to keep the people calm and to nullify Thotharn’s threat. If you will but help us with this, you will find your knowledge increased. The Sky Lords know how.”

  That was as firm an offer as Aymar could expect. He accepted it.

  There was absolutely no trace of fog on the temple grounds. But so dark was the cell in which they had cast her that Keri could not know the time of day or how long she had sat in the dank prison. Once, a man brought food and water. He did not speak to her.

  She did know that it was long past time for her appointment with Eldris Fyrl. Would he learn of her fate? Perhaps she should have told the fair-ward that she was an astrologer’s apprentice. But no. That would have served only to bring trouble to Eldris. Already he was light three coppers on her behalf.

  Keri did not really understand why she had been arrested. She knew well that all magic had to pass inspection at the gate—and indeed she had shown the wizard-of-the-gate her stones. The wizard had only laughed. Nothing magical about them, he had said. It had been a different wizard who had arrested her. At her trial, would they let her name the gate she had entered? Would the wizard admit his mistake? Probably not. Living these past days amongst the soothsayers had not given her an optimistic opinion of human nature.

  She was busy imagining the things that might happen to her, all of them unpleasant, when the cell door opened and a temple server entered. He was young, he was handsome, and he was smiling. This was not one of the things she had imagined.

  “Keri,” he said. “You are wanted in the council chamber. The high priestess awaits. Come along.”

  “Is it my trial already?” Her eyes widened.

  “No. Lords, no. It’s only just evening. Don’t worry. I think Dorphus has a plan for your freedom.”

  “Dorphus?”

  “You don’t know him?”

  Keri was hesitant. “Maybe. I’ve met so many folk these last days. Maybe I’ve met him.”

  The two walked through a maze of halls and tunnels. Their destination was a huge, vaulted room supported by enormous pillars. They approached a long table at which three women and a dozen men were seated.

  An old man in a dusk-gray robe sat between two of the women and across from the third. On the table before him, spread out in the next day’s pattern, were Keri’s stones. The white pebble was motionless.

  The man spoke. “I am Aymar Dorphus, and these”—he motioned to the rest of the table—“are members of the council of the Three Lordly Ones. We have need of your skills. Would you cast the stones for us? Specify tomorrow, please.”

  Keri gathered the stones with shaking hands. She wanted to run, but she saw that a guard was posted at each exit.

  Aymar had seen her glancing about the room. “Don’t worry so, child,” he whispered. “Just do as I say.”

  Keri cast the stones. As the white pebble streaked across the table, a mutter rippled through the council.

  “It is as I thought,” Aymar said. “I believe we can win this game Thotharn’s servants are playing.”

  “If you can do that, Master Dorphus, the great library within our walls will be open to you.” It was the woman opposite Aymar who spoke.

  Even from her position behind Aymar, Keri could feel his excitement. It must be a great boon indeed, freedom to roam the library.

  “Your offer is very kind. But, if I may, I had something else in mind—this young woman’s freedom.”

  Keri gasped. He was trading with her very life. Why?

  The woman who had spoken before—Keri thought it must be the high priestess, for only she could have made such an offer—rose. “I have the power to do many things, Master Dorphus, but not the power to break the law. Keri has smuggled unauthorized magic into the fairgrounds. She must stand trial for her offense. I can ask for leniency because she has helped us here, but that is all.”

  “If I may speak, madam?” Keri was amazed at the sound of her voice. It was that of a child.

  “Speak.”

  “I did present the stones at the gate. The wizard said there was no magic in them.”

  “Impossible. Our wizards do not err.”

  “He did not err, Your Excellency,” Aymar broke in. “There is no magic in the stones.”

  The woman was losing patience. “We saw them move. We all were witness.”

  “Yes, that is true. But those are not the stones that Keri brought to Ithkar. These”—he reached into his robe and brought out a pouch, dangling it dramatically over the table—“are her stones.”

  Keri looked closely at the stones she had thrown. They were similar to hers, but not the same. In the excitement she had not noticed the substitution.

  Keri looked up at the woman, expecting anger. A thin smile played on the priestess’s lips.

  “Throw the other stones, child.”

  Keri did so. They were her stones; they behaved as expected. “But . . . but
the false stones moved, too,” she objected. “I don’t understand.”

  It was the high priestess who answered. “It is simple, my dear. The magic is not in the stones. The magic is in the user. She looked down at Aymar. “You have ever been one for showmanship, Master Dorphus. But your point is well taken. If the child tried to present the stones at the gate, which seems probable, then no offense has been committed. She is free to go. But her freedom must not be your prize. The offer of the library still stands.” Her voice turned grave. “Do not fail us, my friend, or there will likely be no library to visit.”

  The temple server who had guided Ken to the council chamber cleared his throat. “My lady. It is not wise that Master Dorphus should leave the grounds. Surely if Thotharn’s men get wind of his plan, his life is endangered.”

  Aymar waved the problem aside. “I appreciate your concern, Harrel, but I am in need of my books. My timing tomorrow must be precise. Besides, I am too old to be sleeping in strange beds.”

  “Then let me go with you. I can offer at least a bit of protection for the night.”

  “If you do not mind my humble abode, your company would be most welcome.”

  The high priestess raised her hand in blessing. “I shall have my men posted throughout the grounds tonight and tomorrow—although what help they may be I cannot imagine. May the Lordly Ones be with you all.”

  The moment they set foot outside the temple gates, the fog enshrouded them. At last Keri found her voice. “I want to thank you, Master Dorphus, for . . . for defending me.”

  “You can thank me by spending the night in my wagon, Keri. I have further need of your stones, and your advice as well.”

  She sighed. “I cannot, sir. I am apprenticed to an astrologer named Eldris Fyrl. He is expecting me, or rather was expecting me, at eventide. I am pledged to meet him.”

  “Not a problem. It was Eldris himself who told me of your abilities. You can meet with him after the eclipse tomorrow. He will understand.”

  “Shouldn’t I at least stop at his tent and tell him where I’ll be?”