She accepted and started eating it at once. “Mm. Very tasty. Lemon?”
“I’d meant to flavor it saffron.”
“Well, I’ve just had citron on my tongue. The person who refined a high wizard’s new globe technique this morning calls a magician’s trick too complicated now?”
He shrugged. “Power half-trained.”
She started to say something, stopped, and ate the small cake before it turned back into a potato.
Torin was not sure why he had brought the marriage toy Sharys refused yesterday. Perhaps some lingering hope, or some reluctance to leave it guarded only by a charm when another marriage toy had disappeared last night from Valdart’s similarly charm-protected tent. He had not unpacked it. He had tucked it, rolled in his large carrying-bag, into the back corner of the cupboard’s lowest shelf.
“I know I have power for magicking,” he went on. “From both my parents, I suppose. It may seem wasteful not to use it. But crafting is a kind of working with transformations, too. Transformations that don’t unknit themselves. When you find you have two skills…” He paused. That thought began to sound vainglorious.
But she quietly finished it for him. “And only time in your life to concentrate on one skill, how can you choose, if not by what you most want to do?”
“Some poets say the more perfect path upwards is the one you like least.”
“Some poets climb in fog. You need some happiness to keep you climbing.”
He reached down for his carrying-bag, extracted the marriage toy, laid it on the table and slipped the pair of figures from their own small, padded bag.
She looked at them and shook her head. “No. Don’t animate those. Don’t craft magic on them.”
“I wasn’t going to. They’ve already been transformed by simple craftwork. From a length of cherrywood.” He slid them across the table to her. “Dilysin. How would you add a fourth syllable?”
She picked the figures up and moved them carefully as far as they would go. “They don’t come apart, do they? There’s no way of taking them apart without breaking them. Was that the way you carved them, or did it happen yesterday when you accidentally brought them to life?”
“It’s the way I carved them. From a single length.” He held the little padded bag out to her.
She considered it for a moment, as if she were feeling his thoughts. Then she took it, slipped the marriage toy inside, pulled the drawstrings tight and handed it back to him. “Sharys has first refusal.”
“I think she’s already given it.”
“You persuaded her to save her decision until the end of this fair.” The storyteller drank off the rest of her cider, swallowed hard, and blinked. “She might still show a few measures of good sense by tomorrow evening.” She stood. “And I think—I think you should wait that long before making your own decisions, Torin. Either of them.” She turned and left like someone hurrying across cracking ice.
Torin rested his face in his hands. His elbow scattered nutmeats that were turning back into parched corn, but fortunately missed his cup of watery milk. He wondered if he should tell them, Iris and Vathilda and the others, that he wanted an hour’s respite, or even that he wanted to stop playing at magic-craft for moneygems. But he knew he would stay. Even if it were not for his brother’s better comfort, he could hardly hope to make any decision for the rest of his life if he could not keep to what he had decided for a single rainy afternoon.
* * * *
Alrathe was studying the recopied food lists when brisk footsteps stopped outside the tent and a low-pitched, vaguely familiar voice said, “Cousin Judge?”
“My cords are unknotted.”
The newcomer entered, thin, tall, and dressed well but plainly, the costume’s only adornment being a line of yellow starbursts embroidered round the hem of the russet-brown festival cape. The clothing was almost over-typical for this neighborhood, as if its wearer tried too ardently to be anonymous in a crowd of individuals. Yet this person was memorable, not so much for any single remarkable feature as for the way they fit together. Other folk were so tall they had to stoop on entering tents, had equally dark skin, black hair silvering in streaks, slight indentations between cheekbones and jawline, shrewd but inward-looking eyes with perfect, blue-tinged whites. Other folk carried their bodies with equal poise and spoke with equally low-pitched, quiet voices. But few of these other folk seemed to wear all their traits like garments they might someday choose to change at will.
“I find it prudent always to call in, whether cords hang knotted or loose,” the newcomer remarked. “They say you came to my tent this morning looking for me.”
“Merchant Kara, is it? You’re not misinformed.”
“Do you suspect me of stealing Valdart’s orangestone and bluemetal token last night, Cousin Judge?”
“Perhaps,” said Alrathe, meeting candor with candor. “How did you hear of that theft?”
She shrugged. “Rumors.”
“Indeed? I have said nothing except to individuals known to be closely concerned, either with the trouble or with one another. I’d have trusted their discretion. Which of them has bleated, I wonder?”
“I don’t know. Valdart, I’d not be surprised. I have no special reason to protect whoever, but I heard it from Kasdan the meal-merchant, Elvar the music-crafter, and a child who wears the name, I think, of Ond. I doubt any of them is closely concerned. Elvar and the child also told me of your visit. May I sit?”
Alrathe nodded, and Kara sat on a cushion, folding her long legs gracefully.
“If you cannot tell me the source of those rumors you heard,” said the judge, “perhaps you can repeat their substance.”
“I have a short memory for rumors, Cousin Judge. I ignore whatever does not stir my own plans. They said Valdart’s pendant was stolen and gone. I meant to learn the truth or exaggeration of that from the adventurer himself this afternoon, because I had still hoped to buy the thing from him. What other details my three gossips added sieved through my brain without staining the mind-mesh.”
“Then they did not hint that I might suspect you?”
“I believe the music-crafter grinned.”
Alrathe could well imagine that Elvar’s grin, coupled with news of a judge’s visit, might raise apprehensive speculations. So, however, might awareness of guilt. “Elvar Music-crafter,” said the judge, “seems fond of pretending to think the worst of everyone. But I did not mention this business of Valdart’s orangestone when I asked which was your tent. If Elvar or young Ond coupled the two things, they did so in their own minds.”
“Then you want to question me about something else?” said Kara with no visible release of tension. But she had brought no visible tension with her, only relaxed wariness. If her explanation of rumors had been hastily devised to cover a nervous mistake, she seemed unlikely to slip again.
Alrathe sighed. Judges’ authority was limited over travelers born elsewhere, particularly travelers like this one. “Merchant Kara, we’ll sing no over-complicated duets. If I suspect you, it’s less on account of your actions than on account of your simple presence here.”
“I see. Elvar’s mind coupled the two things with some logic.”
“Eager logic, however,” said the judge.
“Am I suspected as one of many fairgoers, or as a stranger who visits your neighborhood one year in three?”
“Both. I suspect you because you’re a fairgoer here, but I seek you out early because you’re a strange traveling merchant.”
“And eventually you may work down to the local music-crafter.” Kara nodded. “But I always understood that your magic-mongers’ charms, knotted across someone’s door, kept out any meddler except perhaps other magic-mongers, and that they are professionally loath to meddle. Tell me if I’ve understood imperfectly. I left my own stock protected with such a charm.”
“The circumstances of Valdart’s pendant appear to be far from typical of our neighborhood. Your property should be safe.”
Alrathe rose and put the small kettle of water on the brazier. “Our local customs require host to offer guest refreshment, whatever the reason for the visit. Besides, we haven’t reached the first questions I wanted to ask you.”
Kara raised one eyebrow and glanced at the kettle. “I’ll stay to answer your questions, but I’d prefer cool wine to hot tea.”
“I have no wine. Cherry cordial?”
Kara turned her right palm up in what was clearly a gesture of assent, though seldom used hereabout. She waited until Alrathe had poured a small cup of cordial and put it into her hand before she spoke again. “Your questions, Cousin Judge?”
“By coincidence, they concern the fair prices of orangestone pendants, among other goods brought here from far away, such as citrons.”
“By coincidence,” Kara repeated, raising her eyebrow again.
And perhaps, thought the judge, by some providential economy of effort. Kara, if anyone, could have entered Valdart’s tent and exchanged citron for pendant smoothly while he slept. It was a temptation to accept her offered reimbursement without further probing, as implied confession combined with immediate correction. But if Kara were not guilty, it would be unjust to her, no matter how seemingly gentle a solution—unjust also to the true culprit, who would go uncorrected. And clues to other problems might hinge on the answer to this one. So Alrathe must avoid the temptation.
Chapter Ten
When Dilys left the Scholars’ Pavilion, she walked purposefully through fairgrounds into woods, sat down in the partial shelter of a huge old uprooted oak tree, and emptied herself of tears.
“I should have accepted his token,” she said half aloud. “I should have accepted it and let that little fool Sharys scrabble for someone else.”
But how well would we fit together? she wondered. Aye, as friends…we’re good friends. I think I’ve become a better friend to him than Valdart, no matter what friends they may have been as children. But Torinel mild and me temperish? As mated parents? With my hard edges? How well would we really fit each other?
She remembered the feel of those carved cherrywood figures so vividly that when she glanced down she saw her hands twitching as if they still played with the linkage. “His marriage toy,” she whispered again. “I should have accepted it when I had my chance.”
For some moments longer she sat, hearing the rain and examining possible futures as if she were crafting tales. Torinel as toycrafter, Torinel as magicker and high mage. She herself always as storyteller, but here helping turn wood as it seasoned, there dabbling in simple conjurers’ tricks to amuse their children. Always there were children, usually two, sometimes one. And when these offspring were grown—she calculated how old they would be then, she and Torinel, and found they should still have time to adventure for a few years, like his mother, if they chose. And at last to lie down somewhere beneath a great tree that would drop its seeds into the compost of their twined bodies. Or to put on harvest colors and settle again in their neighboring cottages. Always there were two cottages in her daydreams, with a third and fourth for their children as they grew old enough. Most families found it the smoothest way of living together, since time to be alone had always been among life’s essentials. It would be all the more essential for Torinel and Dilys, accustomed as they both were to fashion their craft materials in private, and determined as she was not to interfere with this choice he must remake, whether to craft toys or study magic.
Yes, she thought, stubborn-edged as I am and soft as young Sharys may look—would she live content with a crafter? Or would she try urging him back to magic? So I might be more tolerant with him, after all!
But if the young conjurer has more ambition than to tolerate a crafter, why is she about to accept an adventurer? And am I not trying to push him back toward toycrafting, whether I mean to or not? Maybe she thinks she wants Valdart because one hardly need feel much concern either way with the rank and syllables a man can earn who is absent most of the time.
But I’m no judge. And I’m trying to study real minds as I study the little people in my tales. Unjust. Unjust to them…maybe even to myself.
She sighed and blinked, but only a few more tears squeezed out. She was tired of crying, and in four or five hours she would have to climb the platform in the Storytellers’ Pavilion again for her evening session. She should have put on her drycharm before wandering about this afternoon. Despite the old fallen tree around her, her cloak was rain-wetted through, her hair and tunic damp to her skin. She got up, brushed off mud and leaf-crumbs as well as she could, and returned to her tent.
Shedding her clothes, she cocooned herself in bed and tried to nap, but quickly decided she was too restless. Her body would not cool (so that her blanket felt overwarm), her mind would not stop darting between Torinel and tonight’s stories, and her throat scratched. She hoped that last was imagination. She had worn her throat-charm, but sometimes hard weeping seemed to cancel out protective magic against chill and phlegm.
Kasdan the mealcrafter made an excellent, soothing posset of scalded milk, honey, strong brandy, and blended spices. That, with a plate of melted cheese, toasted bread, and candied fruit, was one prospect she could use to help her forget other things for half an hour. She rose and dressed in dry clothes. Her long cloak still wet, she had only her short autumn festival cape for outer wear, so she put on both spare tunics for added warmth.
Though this time she wore drycharm as well as throat disk, the day seemed chillier than she had noticed before, and she almost wished she had folded her blanket round her shoulders for a makeshift cloak, never mind how it looked. Fortunately, Kasdan had several braziers aglow in his small meal pavilion, and space was clear beside one of them. She told the mealcrafter what she wanted, paid for it, and settled down on the cushions, closing her eyes while she waited.
Kasdan had eight or nine other buyers besides Dilys, a decent crowd for so small a fair at an hour midway between common mealtimes. The weather was helping his custom, too. Populated mealshops did not tend to be the quietest places on rainy afternoons when folk liked to feel some need for warming liquors to supplement their protective charms. Several of this group seemed also to be feeling some need for loud voices, so Dilys thought it as well they had chosen Kasdan’s pavilion rather than the Storytellers’ or Scholars’.
Listening to other people’s conversations was a recommended tool of storycrafting, and more than one of these conversations was certainly loud enough to overhear with no rude strain. But in trying to sort one dialogue from another perhaps she dozed, for suddenly she realized that someone was repeating her name. She opened her eyes and saw Valdart standing above her.
“That’s right, Senior Storyteller.” He grinned. “Thought you were ignoring me.”
She shook her head. “Only drowsing. Your session’s over? How did it go?”
“Heavy enough.” He hoisted a small bag, pinching it to make the moneygems grind audibly within. “Aye, Storycrafter, I should be able to buy pretty Sharys another marriage token before tomorrow. Maybe not so fine as that orangestone, but it’s me she’ll be accepting. The token’s just a symbol, after all.”
“Don’t buy it from Torin.”
“From Tor? Not likely. You’re welcome to his whole stock. Well, Sister, I’ll leave you to your drowse.”
He turned away and she sighed in relief. Conversation with Valdart was not her idea of restful pastime, especially under present circumstances. But he seemed sincere in his grudge against the toymaker. She wondered, for Torin’s sake, whether this crack in their old friendship could ever mend, whether Valdart would c
ome to believe Torin’s innocence if no proof appeared. And she wondered if what she felt was so visible that Valdart had consciously teased her in welcoming her to Torin’s whole stock, or whether he had simply used a rhetorical “you.”
As she wondered, she heard him buy a cup of wine and begin a conversation with someone behind her.
“Well, Merchant,” said the adventurer, and Dilys thought she heard him grind his moneygems in their pouch again.
“Well, Adventurer? I…er…fear I’m not sure of your name.”
“You knew it well enough last fair. Trying to buy my last piece of beyond-ocean orangestone.”
“Orangestone?”
“My pendant. Your memory’s crumbly, Brother. I hope you keep careful lists of your own stock.”
“Ah, yes, yes!” said the merchant, whose voice Dilys had not yet quite connected with a face. “Orangestone and bluemetal. Nicely crafted. That was what I fancied most, not the stone.”
“Fancied? Came near tangling your tongue to buy it.”
“Yes. Well, strange coincidence, I found another fellow with one much like it. Anxious to sell it between fairs, he was. Now I think of it, could be two halves of a walnut with that one you had. In metalwork, at least. I can’t answer for the stone. Very common stuff beyond the ocean, I understand.”
“Not common here. You were lucky to find that other fellow, Brother. Anyone I might have shipped with?”
A pause, as if the merchant shrugged before he spoke again. “Tallish fellow. Strong shoulders.”
At Amberleaf Fair Page 10